The Records of a Good Man's Life

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MTTOn, LENOX AND

T.'LOEN F0UNDATJ0N8.

R 1910 L

O Almighty God, who hait knit tookthkr -^
thine elect in one communion and fellow-
ship, in the mystical body of thy son
Christ our Lord ; grant us grace so to

FOLLOW THY BLESSED SaINTS IN ALL VIRTUOUS
AND GODLY LIVING, THAT WE MAY COME TO
THOSE UNSPEAKABLE JOYS, WHICH THOU HAST
PREPARED FOR THOSE WHO UNFEIGNEDLY LOVE
THEE, THROUGH JeSUS ChRIST OUR LoRD. —

Amen.

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\^^^tf=^^^^r~T O EVERY PER SO

THAT HAS UNDERTAKEN THE

RESPONSIBLE BUT BLESSEl]^ OFFICE

GODFATHER, OR GODMOTHER,

I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE

Z})1» Volume.

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THE RECORDS

A GOOD MAN'S LIFE,

<* I hare no other word, nor other ■acramenti to recommend to 700, than
tbeie that yon have used so long to nopurpoie ; only I would call yon fiomtlM
dead forma, to leek the living power of them, that you periah not."

LxioHTOir.

I HAVE been attendmg a funeral and a death-bed.
My revered and long-loved friend is gone. I am not
sad and wretched, though I have lost so much in los-
ino^ him. I feel now the truth of those blessed words
of the Psalmist, " Mark the perfect man and behold
the upright, for the end of that man is peace." The
events of the last fe^ weeks have not shocked me,
they have rather spread a solemn, soothing cahn over
my spirit, and, as I sit here alone, and thoughtful, I
can look forward without terror to the breaking up of
my own mortal frame, for, I thank God, the hope
that cheered his departure is mine also. There is to
us, " one Lord, and one Faith," tind he would have
added, " one baptism !"

The papers of my departed friend are lying before
me. On one packet is written, in his handwriting,

6 THB RECORDS OF

« I had thought of destrojring the mclosed manu-
scripts, but should my friend survive me, they may
possess some interest with him. I once thought to
please and perhaps edify my son by leaving these re-
cords of his father's life, but I am childless now. My
beloved friend will do what he pleases with them."
I have read the papers of Mr. Singleton, and I will
not destroy them. I may value them perhaps too
highly, but surely he did not value them sufficiently.
Having his permission to do with them as I please, I
shall lay before the public the records of this good
man's life. Many readers, I am well aware, will
close the book after perusing a few pages, for it is a
parson's bbbk ; but thete are some who may think
the life of a good country parsofi is ndt altogether
withoiit interest.

Let me give one or two of my reasons for making
these pages public.

The narrative exhibits the chamctier of a man who
was distinguished, not for talent, not for learning, but
for manly sincerity, or, to express myself plainly, for
being in earnest, and heartily endeavoring to live up
to his Christian profession. The narrative contains
the memoir of one with whom baptism was not a form,
but the commencement of a life of Christian faith.
Too many, indeed, regard the sacred ordinance as a
mere unprofitable observance, with no spiritual benefit
or privileges attached to it, while others seem to con-
sider that the ordmance, however unimproved, must
of itself work like a charm upon the character t)f the
baptized person ; and diey take it for granted^ that

A GOOD man's lite. 7

although he may possess no higher claim to Chris-
tianity than the name of Christian, ho' is a disciple of
Christ. During the whole course of his earthly
pilgrimage, the thoughts of Mr. Singleton seemed to
have turned at all times to the promise and vow made
at the commencement of the life of faith. The ques-
tion seemed to be continually asked, Is this consistent
with the holy engagement and obligation I am under ?
Can I do this and be faithful to my vow to renounce
worldly sins, sensual sins, and the author and mover
of all sin ? Can I be this, and at the same time be,
in spirit as well as profession, " a member of Curist,
the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of
Heaven ?" Such a rule, and such a course of life is
undoubtedly peculiar, and in many ways contrary to
the fashions of the day ; on that account it may be
as well to make these papers public ; for in the
Bible, Christians are spoken of as a peculiar people,
and it is said of them, that they are not conformed to
this world. Many, calling themselves Christians,
would do well to inquire if they are not committing a
grand and fearful mistake in the lives they lead. The
real Christian is one who is gradually transformed by
the renewing of his own fallen nature, and conformed
to the image of Him who did no sin, neither was
guile found in his mouth.

I may be thought in these pages to call the atten-
tion of the reader too often to baptism. I am well
aware also, that many excellent Dissenters are likely
to disapprove my opinions on the disputed point of in-
fant baptism, but I am not so anxious to prove that

8 TAB RECORDS OF

the Church of England is right in baptizing infants, as
to show what might be the effects of infant baptism if
followed up, according to the watchful discipline and
the holy Liturgy of the Church of England.

We all know that there would not be so many
objectors to infant baptism, and many other usages of
our venerable Church, if there were not so many
traitors within the camp, utterly insensible and care-
less as to the effect of their conduct upon those who
differ from them.

Would that all, who are such vehement advo-
cates for infant baptism, though not only so much of
the outward and visible sign or form in baptism, but
prayed without ceasing, watched without ceasing, and
diligently used all the means in their power in order that
the inward and spiritual grace of baptism might be seen
in their lives by all men, namely, a death unto sin, a new
birth unto righteousness ; for without the evidence of
that death unto sin, that new and heavenly birth of the
soul, how can it be known by any human creature
whether the child be not still, as it was at its natural
birth, the child of wrath ? 'Tis the most manly way
to say at once, that I am a decided advocate for in-
fant baptism ; though I respect the opinions of those
good men who are not : — ^nor do I bring forward the
subject to dispute with objectors, but rather to rouse
and exhort, and, if possible, to warn those who are
the promoters and defenders of the ordinance, and
yet unfaithful to their profession. The Church of
England will not fall from the attacks of its opposers ;
but if it fall, the blame and the guilt will rest with

A GOOD man's life.

those who have worn the uniform, but forsaken and
neglected the wise and holy discipline, of their party,
who have been perhaps men of loud and boasting
speech, but of a cold, unfruitful, faithless spirit, hav-
ing the form, but not the power of godliness.

A few words, however, I must speak for infant
baptism.

Consider the tender affection of our blessed
Lord to the little children that were brought unto
EGm ; how He blamed His disciples that would have
kept them from Him ; how He took them in His arms
and blessed them. Consider how He said, " Of such
is the kingdom of Heaven," and do not let us doubt,
but rather earnestly l)elieve that He favorably alloweth
the charitable work of ours in bringing our young
children to Him ; that He will embrace them in His
arms, the arms of His mercy ; that He will give unto
them the blessing of eternal life, and make them par-
takers of His everlasting kingdom. Let us in this
faith bring our children to the holy baptism of our
Lord ; let us not forget that in so domg we also en-
gage, as in the presence of God, that those infants
shall be taught, so soon as they are able to learn,
what a solemn vow, promise, and profession they have
made. Baptism does indeed represent unto us our
profession, which is to die from sin and to rise again
unto righteousness ; continually mortifying all our evil
and corrupt affections, and daily proceeding in all vir-
tue and godliness of living. Thus also the cross is
made upon the forehead of the feeble infant, in token
that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to confess the

10 THE RECORDS OF

faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under
His banner against sin, the world, and the devil ; and
to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto
his life's end.

The sacrament of baptism is neither an empty-
sign to them that believe, nor an effectual cause of
grace to them that believe not. Many years are pass-
ed since this remark was made, yet men have paid
but little heed to it, or to the words that follow — ^both
fi*om the pen of one of the best and holiest of our di-
vines, Archbishop Leighton. Baptism is very seldom
and slightly considered by many, even real Christians.
And so we are at a loss in that profit and comfort,
that increase of both holiness and faith,that the fi*equent
recollecting of it, after a spiritual manner, would no
doubt advance us to.

When I first came into this neighborhood, as curate
of Sandon, the adjoining parish of Kirkstone, Mr. Sin-
gleton was no longer a young man. I learnt that he
had known my father at college during the first visit
he was so kind as to make me ; indeed, he made the
discovery when he fixed his eyes upon a portrait of
my father, painted in his youth, which hung m my
study. From that first visit a friendship commenced
between us, ceasing only with his death. I preferred
his society to that of any firiend I ever knew, and he
became my counsellor and guide, and very often per-
mitted me to be his companion. I loved and ad-
mired Mr. Singleton with all my heart, for I never

A GOOD ^AS*9 Lirp. 11

met with a human being so full of charity towards bis
fellow-creatures. He bad generally something kind to
say of every one. I should say of him, that I have
met with many men more tolerant, but with none so
charitable. My reader will understand, I hope, that
I speak of charity, not in the limited worldly sense of
charity, but according to the meaning of the word in
Scripture — ^holy love. We are all apt to find out
what we cannot approve and agree with in another.
Mr. Singleton's first inquiry seemed to be, " How far
, can I agree with this man ? What is there I can ap-
prove and love in this my brother?" He had ene-
mies — ^who has jiot ?- — ^but he was the enemy of no
man, and those who hated or disliked him, mostly
came to love and respect him, when they knew him
well ; some of them indeed confessed, that the only
objection they ever had to him was on account of his
religion, and the manly, yet unobtruding way in
which that religion stood out at all times, and among
all persons.

The evenmg after the funeral of my revered
friend was over, I observed a person walking up and
down the broad walk which crosses the churchyard
of Kirkstone. He continued there for some time, and
firequently when he approached the spot where the
body of Mr. Singleton had been buried, he stopped,
and seemed to stand in thoughtful silence. I joined
him there with a sort of listless curiosity, feeling dis-
posed at that moment to love any one who had loved

13 TBB RECORDS OP

my venerable friend. I went forth from the now
desolate study which overlooks the churchyard, and
spoke with the man.

" You were acquainted with the good old minister,
who is no longer among us?" I said. The man
touched his hat respectfully.

"I was, indeed, sir," he replied. "I learned
from him what Christian forgiveness really is. I was
at one time his most insulting and bitter enemy. I
wish I could have told him before he died how very
sorry I have long felt for my wickedness, but I put it
off from time to time, from false shame, and the kind,
good old gentleman cannot hear me now."

When I learned the man's name, I remembered
that I had heard him mentioned several times by Mr.
Singleton, but always in terms of peculiar kindness.
This was ever his way : there seemed to be a watch-
ful anxiety about him to feel kindly toward those
persons who had displayed any thing like ill-will
toward him. He never lost an opportunity of doing
them a good turn, and with so sweet a grace, that
you could see no resentment found harbor in his
breast.

It was the constant habit of Mr. Singleton to
look upon this mortal life as a journey — ^mysterious,
and full of awful events, it doubtless was, but still it
was a journey, and the end of it home ! That home
was unseen, and the entrance into it would be at-
tended by a struggle, perhaps a conflict ; but he felt

A GOOD man's life. 13

no distrust towards his Master, the Lord of life and
death. He was assured that He who permitted the
trial, would give him a double portion of grace to
sustain it and to triumph over it. " The children of
this worid," he would say, "can go forth to the
deadly strife of the battle-field with powers of bold
and manly energy, with a stem, smiling aspect, witlj
an arm of new-strung vigor, all gathered firom their
own resources ; and shall the child of God tremble,
and wish to draw back from any conflict which his
Father has ordained, when his strength and his con-
fidence are given by the great God of heaven and
earth, the Almighty God of power ; when his very
armor and all his weapons are all provided and tem-
pered in the spiritual armory of heaven ; when the
sword of the Spirit is given, and the shield of faith,
the breastplate of righteousness, and for an helmet,
the hope of salvation? Besides, all through the
course of my journey, I have been clad as an armed
knight in the same panoply ; for an adversary has
been ever at my side, ready to profit by any lack of
watchfulness on my part ; and though I have sought
to walk in converse and fellowship with Him who
is my heavenly guide, 'my spiritual comforter and
firiend, yet often has that unresting, guilefiil enemy
dragged me away, or held me, alas! too willingly
yielding to his miserable flatteries. Shall I dread,
then, the last struggle, when in that struggle his
attacks will cease for ever ? His certainty of then
losing his victim for ever may increase his fury, but
my certainty of then escaping his snares for ever.

14 THE RECORDS OF

will surely revive and invigorate my spirit under
every assault."

'^ I think," he said to me one afternoon in last
October, when I called upon him, " I think, my dear
friend, that my journey is drawing towards its close."
We had been so used to converse together on the
subject, that I heard what he said with little aston-
ishment, though with a heavy heart. " I am very
weak and feeble," he continued, "and I feel this
weakness, this utter feebleness of bodily power, come
on more rapidly every day. It might be almost in-
credible to any one but myself," he said, smiling,
" who experience it, for I believe I do not look much
changed, and the powers of my mind are, blessed be
God! as vigorous as I ever knew them." As he
spoke thus, there came into his eyes, and over his
whole countenance, that expression of intellectual
ardor which I have often noticed ; that slight knitting
of the brows, that quick glancing of the eyes, with
that smile of peculiar sweetness on the lips, that I
have seen so admirably represented in some of the
angelic heads of Guido.

I shall not at present give any details of the last
hours of Mr. Singleton ; I will only say, that his pre-
paration, his waiting for death, (and the end of that
week cut short his earthly course,) Was as remarkable
as the rest of his life, for the absence of all aim at
display ; then, as ever till then, the reality and ear-
nestness of his conduct must have struck every
beholder — quiet manliness and good sense bearing
fellowship with faith, and a hope full of immortality.

u:.

A GOOD man's life. 15

I thought at one time, as the papers of my friend
in their present unconnected form are evidently unfit
for publication, that I would not let them appear, but
write from them myself the narrative of his life. I
have changed my plan ; he shall speak for himself,
that is, where he has written of himself, and I will,
as far as I am able, supply any incidents that the
story of his life may require, and that he has left
untold. I shall not, therefore, in this, the beginning
of the narrative, mention many circumstances which
happened after I became acquainted with Mr. Single-
ton, but introduce them according to the time and
place of theu: occurrence.

16 THE RECORDS OP

THE PAPERS.

THE REV. ERNEST SINGLETON,

WHO WAS, FOB MORE THAN HALF A CEITTURY, EECTOE OF XIRKSTONE,
IN THE COUNTY OP SUSSEX.

Religion does not suffer so much fix>m the at-
tacks of its avowed and open enemies, as fix)m the
hypocrisies and treacheries of those who profess to be
its friends, and are enlisted in the ranks of its defend-
ers. This fact has passed for a proverb. My father
felt this, and he determined, with the help of Him
who giveth wisdom and strength, that he would bring
up his children from their earliest years, in the love
of sincerity and truth ; that he would teach them to
be in earnest about whatsoever they undertook.

I have heard many parents say, " I can forgive
my boy any thing but a lie. I cannot excuse a lie ;
I beat him severely if he dare to tell me a lie."

My father took a more enlarged view of sincerity
and truth. He did not attend merely to a single
branch of Christian morality, he gave his unremitting
culture to the whole fair and spreading tree. He
would have said, " My son is called a Christian, he
has been admitted into a solemn covenant with God

A GOOD man's UFB. 17

at baptism. That sacred ordinance must not be
slighted, must not be left as if the mere form would
work of itself to cleanse the heart ; it must be im-
proved by watchfiihiess, and prayer, and exertion.
My son must learn, with God's help, to be true and
faithful to his solemn vow, or he will grow up, in
one awful sense, a hypocrite, an untrue and faithless
disciple to the kindest of Beings."

What cause have I to be grateful to such a fa-
ther !

Long years have passed away since my stream-
ing eyes took their last look of his calm, smiling coun-
tenance, calm and smiling in death ; but with every
thought of him blessings rise from my heart.

Both my parents were religious persons, but they,
and all their household, were remarkably cheerful;
the source of that cheerfulness was a spirit at peace
with God and with all mankind. From my earliest
childhood I saw religion and cheerfulness united.
My father and mother sought to adorn the doctrine of
Gori our Saviour, and to show that the obedience they
paid to their Lord was that of love and delight. I
have noticed in too many pious families an injudi-
cious, and I may almost say indecent familiarity with
divine things. My father guarded against this. He
led his children early to think of Him, and to seek
His presence, who hath made Himself known as the
shepherd of the lambs of His flock. Often would he
call upon me to repeat to him that short and simple
story, where with so much gentle condescension He
exclaims, " Suffer the little children to come unto me,

18 THE RSCOftDS OF

and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of
God." Yet we were not taught to spell over the
sacred pages of the New Testament till the letters
swam before bur eyes, and all our faculties were dead-
ened, and the leaves of the holy volume dirtied and
dog's-eared by our little heedless fingers. We were
not carried to church before we knew to what pur-
pose the holy building was dedicated, and made to
stand up on the seats of the pew and allowed to stare
about us, till the habit of staring about and amusing
ourselves idly and irreverently, with observing the
dress and behavior of the congregation, had rooted
itself among those deadly habits, which, when once
planted in childhood, are seldom totally eradicated
irom the human heart.

No, it was a day never to be forgotten, when my
father and mother first led us to church. I remember
walking, hand-in-hand, between them both, and en-
tering the sacred edifice with a heart fiiU of deep and
solemn emotions. I began at that early period to
feel that it was an honor and a privilege to be allowed
to kneel among the disciples of my God, and thus I
went to church with one simple purpose, to worship
God in the great congregation. The Bible was con-
stantly open before us, but it was never taken down
or opened as if it were a common book. "Let us
see what the message of God declares on this point,"
my father would say, when he had occasion to ad-
monish us, " for this Bible is the rule of life which
God hath given us ;" and thus was it with the doc-
trines, the promises, and the beautifiil narrations of

A 00<M> man's HI'S. 19

the inspked Volume : the pearls in that precbus cask-
et were always set before us as gems of rarest lustre,
and of inestimable value. My mother had a charm-
ing way with her : she had won my love long before
I was conscious of what she had dcme to possess it ;
but there was a grace (I csmnot find a better term)
about her, which made her not only the dearest, but
the most lovely and amiable of human beings in her
children's eyes. I can remember nothing beyond the
time when in my early childhood I lay a sickly help-
less child in her dear arms. She would sit perfectly
still for hours, watching every expression of my
wasted features, and sometimes she would lay her
soft cool cheek to mine, or whisper some little assur-
ance of a tenderness that spoke in every look and
action towards me. She was not an indulgent, fond-
ling mother ; there was a mixture of good sense and
judicious delicacy belonging to her character, which
showed itself in her behavior towards her children.
I began to understand this for the first time clearly,
when a relation of my father's was staying with us.
She was a mother with two children, and she was ac-
customed to fold them to her bosom several times in
the day, and to lavish a whole vocabulary of honied
epithets upon her darlings. Yet I saw that her chil-
dren did not love her as I loved my mother, and I,
felt that 1 should have been cloyed, as they were,
with so many sweetnesses.

I remember, when I was a very little fellow, sitting
on my father's knee in his §tudy, with my arm thrown

20 THB RBCOROB OF

fondly round his neck. He was very busy that morn-
ing, and I had interrupted him ; but he was always
kind and gentle, and willing to listen to me^ and an-
swer my questions.

" Father," I said, " will you tell me about a god-
father ; for Lisa tells me we are to have a visit fix>m
my godfather to-morrow? Now I know that my
uncle is coming here to-morrow, and so I told Lisa ;
but she said he is my godfather too, and that you will
teU me better than she can what a godfather is."

" I wished to hear you ask this question, my dear
Ernest," replied my father ; " for if I tell you what
you are curious to hear, I think my little thoughtless
boy is more likely to remember what I say than if I
speak of somethmg you are not curious about. Though
you love me, my dear child, by nature you do not
love God, who loves you, and sent his blessed Son to
die for you ; and if you were to grow up, and at last
die without loving God, you would not enter into
that beautiful and happy place, which is the home of
all who love Him. We have often spoken together
of that blessed home which is called Heaven.

" There God lives, and we shall see His face and
share His enjoyments ; no sorrow will be there, no
death, but joy and peace for ever and ever. Here
we are but travellers on our journey, and we must not
expect to have every thing just as we please, — just as
we should choose, on the way ; we must put up with
many unpleasant trials, and we must not be^ displeas-
ed with those trials, for we shall, if we simply take

A GOOD man's life. 21

God at his word,* get safely to that happy home at
last. Nay, we ought to be thankful for those unplea-
sant trials, for if we met them not, we might be drawn
to love this world too well, and believe it to be our
home, and make it so."

As my father spoke thus, I could not help some-
times turning my eyes from his fine countenance, so
expressive of tender affection, toward a large paint-
ing which hung upon the walls of his library. It was
by some unknown German painter, evidently a mas-
ter in his ait, though the character was in many re-
spects quaint and strange. The chief portion of the
canvass was occupied by a mass of pale rocks thrown
boldly together, and deepened in places by broad and
murky shadows ; almost at the base of them a spa-
cious cavern opened back into the very heart of the
rock, and by a troubled light many groups of gayly
dressed revellers were shown, drinking and rioting in
a wild intemperate manner. In the foreground was a
single figure, a tall and armed knight he seemeci,
though the gleam of his armor was almost hidden by
a pilgrim's cloak. He was evidently half spent by
fatigue, for he leaned against an ancient cross by the
wayside, and having filled his casque with water fixjm
a little crystal spring which gushed forth at the foot of
the cross, was raising the cool draught to his lips.
Beyond the summit of the rocks the painter had man-
aged an effect of light really extraordinary. It seem-
ed as if clear and golden day had risen there upon

* I think it was the written reply of a deaf and dumh hoy, when
asked, * What is it to believe in God?' — * To take God at his word.

23 THB EBCOEDS OF

regions receding mto a far, faint horizon, and beautiful
as the garden of Eden. Although the rest of the pio
ture lay in the duskiness of a dark twilight, one beam
of soft lustrous light fell from these radiant heights
full upon the head of the pilgrim knight, whose eyes
and whole countenance (and it was full of the noblest
expression') were raised towards the heights above
him, with the look of one whose home was there.
On the old dark frame were the following words in
quaint Saxon characters.

{iflatfrn of tte faftf) tu llmn€ti itxt
WCf fi TyfnteH mafl ztCn russet toeelis f' clatitr,
3D}e tuvnetjj) fcom loose mCrt]) \^l» Ustless ear>
2nti Iranetf) on t^e ctosse toCtj) aspect sati.
SSlusseli Itrs pnX% anti nartoto, anti beset
Wltl) pevfl, sorroto, anti temptatCon stronfl,
3Sut nrCt|)ec gentle lure» not Hfveful tfireat
Can taofn i)(m>to tbe baCne anil toanton ttronfl,
4^r totce ^(s teet from t^at strafgf^t patj) asDie
j^oUotoCnfl X1)z footsteps of ti)e crucCfieH.

«< Well, Ernest," he said, after watcKlng my attenv
tion to the picture for some minutes, " never mind tb^
picture now, but let me answer your question in ^,
very few words."

<* You have two names, Ernest"

« Yes, father."*

" And one is called your Christian name : do you
know why ?"

I could not tell why ; at least I felt that I could
not explain why.

A GOOD man's life. 23

^^ When that name was given you, a solemn promise
was made for you, and made in your name, that you
should live (God being your helper) an obedient and
loving child to your Heavenly Father. This promise
was made for you because you were then too young
to understand or speak any thing about it for yourself,
and it was made in the hope and in the trust, that
when you were old enough to know what had been
done (or you, you would be very glad; and you
would endeavor yourself to perform and keep it.

" Your godfathers and godmother are the friends
who went with us when w& took you to church, and
offered you up to the Lord, our Heavenly Father,
and they promised to see that you were brought up
to love and serve him." — He said more that I forget
now, and scarcely attended to then, for my eyes re-^
tumed again to the picture, which he explained to
me ; and though it tumed the subject of his conversa-
tion, it helped him out in fixing the subject of that
conversation on my mind, for the Christian course is
as the pilgrimage of an armed knight through the
world.

^This conversation took place soon after the birth
of my brother Charles, or, as he was called from his
cradle, Charley. A name of endearment it was m-
deed, for he was ever the most endearing creature to
us all. Charley ! (I feel my heart glow within me
as I write the name,) was the delight of our eyes, the
joy of every heart. I don't think I ever saw a coun-
tenance so beautiful, or heard so clear, so melodious
a laugh as that of my darling Charley. Every move-

I

24 THE RECORDS OF

ment of his elegant figure had an easy natural grace
about it. His manners had an untaught courteous-
ness and winningness that seldom failed to render him
a favorite with all who met him. I am wandering
away, however, firom Charley, a fair and dimpled
baby, to hb boyhood and manhood. My mother left
her room and came down among us with her new-
bom infant the day after my uncle arrived at South-
brook. He was very kind to me, and so was my
aunt Lucy, who came with him, though she was not
my godmother.

I might have forgotten mere words, but I could
scarcely fail to remember the parables my father
made use of (for parables they were) to fix on my
mind whatever he wished me to learn ; and after all
his anxious prayers, after owning in the humblest
manner, that except the grace and the blessing of the
Lord God were given, all would be fiiiitless, he
would put forth as cheerful and determined a vigor
to the work as if every thing depended on his own
exertions. I have already touched on the subject of
baptism. The vow^ and promises made by his chil-
dren at baptism seemed never absent fix>m his
thoughts, for he felt that the current of the world,
and its maxims, and its society, went onward in a di-
rection contrary to that pointed out by the Christian's
early vow.

I had a beautiftil little garden of my own ; at least
it seemed beautiful to me, for it was full of gay and
sweet-smelling flowers, and there was an arbor at one
end, m which my father and mother sometimes did

A GOOD man's life. 25

me the honor (for a high honor it was thought by me)
of sitting down while I worked there.

There were several fruit-trees in my garden, but,
among them, one which was a chief favorite with me
— a young apple-tree, which I was constantly watch-
ing over.

Another tree stood next it, and wfts equally tall
and vigorous. In the spring they had both been cov-
ered with blossoms, and my father desired me to make
both the trees my peculiar care, and when the apples
were ripe, to taste the firuit of both trees, and to bring
him as many apples as my basket would hold.

At length the time arrived. I ran with my basket
to one of the trees, and gathered the apples, and then
carried them in triumph to my father.

" They are fine, and as red as Jrour cheeks after
running, Ernest,*' he said, " but I see only one kind
of apple. Go back to your garden, and bring me
some from the other tree."

" I did not like to bring them father," I replied ;
" for I have tasted the finit of both the trees, and the
other apples are too sour to be eaten. You could not
eat them, father."

He took the basket of apples in one hand, and led
me by the other to the garden. We were soon stand-
ing before the two apple-trees : he pointed out a ridge
in the bark of the tree fix)m which I had gathered the
fine sweet fiiiit. " What is this ?" he said.

" Indeed, father, I do not know : I could only tejl
you that it is, what it appears to be, a mark, like a
scar on the bark of the tree, which looks as if the
3

96 THB RECORDS OF

Stem bad been broken or cut asunder, and had grown
agam."

" Is the fruit of this tree, Ernest, the same as the
fruit of the other ?"

" No, father, we know it is not : it is large, sweet,
and juicy ; but the fruit of the other tree is small, and
green, and very sour."

" But are the trees of the same nature ?"

" Surely, father, they cannot be."

" Be certain, before you reply," said my father.

I stood thinking for a moment, and then went up to
the sour apple-tree. "There is no mark or ridge
upon the bark of this tree, father."

" Very weU, Ernest. Now can you tell me how
that ridge was made, and whether it has any thmg to
do with the difference between the two fruits ?"

Again I looked at the fruit, and at the trees, and
in my father's face, and knit my brows with thought ;
but no, I could not tell any thing about the reason of
the difference in the two apple-trees.

" WeU then, my little Ernest," he said, " I will
do my best to make all this plain to you ;" and then
he led me to another part of the garden, where there
was a plantation of young trees, some of tbem wer
mere saplings.

"Look at this treie, Earnest," he said, and he
showed me an upright stem, the top of which was ^
covered entirely with a lump of yellowish clay, out of
which a slight slip or twig seemed to be growing, for
a few delicate leaves had come forth, and looked green
and fresh.

A eooo man's lifb. 27

** Does this little branch," I said (after examining
the tree attentively for some time), "grow out of the*
clay ?" My father did not answer, but turned to an-
other tree, with the same sort of stem and the same
ball of clay round the top, and the same little slip^
sticking up fiom the clay, only there were no green
leaves upon it, the little branch was bare and wither-
ed, and had no life in it. My father broke off the
hard crackling clay which hid the top of the tree, and
the lower end of the little dried-up branch, and I then
saw that a. notch had been made in the tree, and that
the little slip had been placed in that notch. " Now
I will explain all this to you," said my father, as I
turned my wondering eyes towards him with a stare,
as much as to say. What does all this mean ? — *« That
stem," he said, " nay, both these stems, and the stem
of your sweet apple-tree in your garden, are, in their
own nature, and would be, if they were left to them-
selves, the same as the other tree in your garden, with
the small, green, sour apples upon it. This little slip
is taken from a tree bearing large sweet apples, and
the top of th^ sour apple-tree being cut off, and a
notch made, the slip is placed in it, and then, to keep
them close and undisturbed, the clay is moistened and
stuck round the place where the stem and the branch
are joined, that they may grow together into one tree ;
and here is the fruit of such a tree, my dear Ernest."
My father pointed to the large rosy apples in the bas-
ket. " Had not the new graft been fixed upon the old
stock, the fiiiit would have been as green and sour as
that on the other tree ; the wild crab-tree it is called."

28 THE RECORDS OV

Lake the good and wise Philip Henry, my father
had drawn up a few lines, as a solemn renewal of the
vow and promise of baptism, which he wished his
children to read over at stated times every yekr. So
anxious was he that I should be able to read it for
myself, that he wrote the words in letters like those of a
printed book, and long before I could read writing, I
read my baptismal engagement with ease. Four
times in the year, in my dear father's study, the en-
gagement was renewed, and prayer was offered up
for the help of that Holt Spirit, without .whom we
can do nothing, that I might have the will and the
. power to keep it. This was the form of the engage-
ment:

" I am bound by my solemn promise, if I would
prove myself a member of Christ, the child of God,
and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, to watch
every first-rising of sin in my heart, and to pray for
the special grace of God to enable me to have the
wDl and the power to forsake and give up the sin of
the world, the sin of my own nature, and Satan, or
the devil, who is the cause and the spring of all sin
and wickedness. I do offer up my prayers also omly
in the name of Jesus Christ, my blessed Saviour,
for there is no other way to my Heavenly Father.
He is the way, and the truth, and the life ; and no
man cometh unto the Father but by him."

I would here remark, that it was the practical
effects of the baptismal promise upon which my fa-
ther dwelt so much. Thus, whatever might have
been his opinion on the point which has been often

A GOOD MAN'» LIFK. M

discussed, whether the inward and spiritual grace in-
variably accompanies the outward and visible sign, he
£d not express it to me ; but^he dwelt much on the
evidence we have, that Christ Himself will do all on
His part to bless the hearty endeavors of His disciples,
that he will never fail to assist those who seek Him
and His gracious help.

"Christ has died for you,'* he would say, "and
you are bound by a holy vow to die unto sin ; you
must strive to grow in grace." I understood these
things still better when my father took me to church
with him, at the christening of my brother Charley.

" I wish you to attend to this sacred service, my
dear boy," he said to me, as he led me apart for a lit-
tle while, leaving the rest of the company in the
vestry. He led me to the baptismal font, and said.
You cannot remember, Ernest, but, as I told you be-
fore, at the age of your little brother you were also
brought to this font, and solemnly dedi<:ated, or, to
use words that you can better understand, given up
to the care and service of your God. You shall join
with us in our prayers and praises to-day, when we
humbly offer your brother to the Lord our God, and
enter into a covenant for him, as we have already
done for you. There will be much that you cannot
understand in the service, but try to understand it ;
ask in prayer that you may be able to understand, and
I will endeavor to explain to you all you do not."

My father was one of a family high in earthly
rank and station, and I have heard him spoken of, by
some who were excellent judges, as one of the most

30 THB RECORDS OF

elegant men of his day. However, there was that
about him far above the poor earthly distinction of
rank and station. He was a Christian, a humble,
pious, straightforward man ; unaffectedly kind and
obliging to all around him. How well those beautiful
lines of Wordsworth apply to his character : —

" Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart :
Pure as the n^ed heavens, majestic, free,

********

So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay."

My father was a courtier, at least he was frequent-
ly about the person of our good king ; but it might
have been said of him also, that he was a nobleman
of a higher court — one who lived as constantly in the
high and holy presence of the King immortal, invisi-
ble, whose throne is in heaven.

Iii the year 17 — my father was appointed Eng-
lish ambassador to D n, and we were obliged to

leave our beautiful and quiet home at Southbrdok. I
was then about eight years of age, and I well remem-
ber the preparation made for our departure, and the
marriage of my orphan cousin Ellinor, to the Hon.
Mr. Hamilton, which took place the week before we
set out. She had lived with my father and mother
since her childhood. She regarded and loved them
as if they had been her own parents, and the parting
from us all was very trying to her. It was as trying
to us to go without her. We had scarcely resided

A GOOD man's LIFB. Zl

two years at D ^n, when alarming accounts were

brought us of EUmor's health. There seemed little
hopes of her recovering, and such an affecting de-
scription was given of her state, and of the anxiety
he expressed to see my father and my mother, particu-
larly the latter, before she died, and so tenderly was
she beloved by them both, that after some consulta-
tion on the subject, it was agreed that my mother
should set out to England at once, making one of a
party of some friends of ours then returning through

D-; n to England. I think nothing short of the

dangerous illness of their child EUinor would have
brought my mother and my father to consent to this
separation. How well I remember my mother turn-
ing to me the very morning of her departure, and look-
ing as she spoke on my dear father, who sat writing
at a table covered with paper. " Mind, Ernest, you
take great care of dear papa till I come back. I leave
him under your charge." She smiled, as she said
this, and held up her finger, but I considered her words
with a feeling of grave importance, not the less deep
for being in a child's bosom ; for on some occasions
children feel and think deeply.

When my mother had been gone about three
weeks there was a grand funeral of one of the royal
family, and my father was of course invited to attend-—
the ceremony was tediously long, and a heavy rain
poured the whole time. On coming home, my father
complained of sudden chills, and of pains in all his
limbs. He ought to have gone to bed, but the unex-
pected visit of the first minister of state, who was clos-

33 THB RBCOROB OF

eted with him for two hours on some secret consulta-
tion, prevented his even changbg his dress. At night
he was in a high fever, and his life in danger. His
sudden attack was inflammation on the chest. After
many hours of doubt and wretchedness to his whole
household, my beloved father was pronounced out of
danger. My sister and I went about the house sing-
ing and dancing for joy, till we were told, what we
had thoughtlessly forgotten, that any noise might dis-
turb our father, and make him very ill again. In a
week he left his chamber, and we thought him well.
He was far from well. A slight cold was again caught
and it hung upon him. However, he thought little of
it ; and seeing him cheerful, and no longer confined
to his chamber, we believed him almost, if not quite
well. He was in a rapid consumption, and did not
live to see my mother. She wrote in joyful spirits to
say that Ellinor was recovering, and would with her

husband accompany her back to D- ^n, and go

from thence through the Tyrol to Florence. They
arrived the day after my father's death.

I can never forget the last evening in which I
saw my father — ^I never wish to forget it. He sent
for me to his chamber. His words, his appearance,
the very chamber and its furniture, as it then appear-
ed m the mellow lamp-light, have all associated them-
selves together in the impression fixed upon' my
heart. How pale he was ! the red light of the fire
threw a glow over his face, but it did not deceive me.

A GOOD man's life. 33

His eyes were fixed upon a miniature portrait of my
mother, which lay upon the table before him. This
table had usually been covered with books and paper.
They were now all piled up and pushed aside, and
bis old quarto Bible (the same that always lies on the
desk in my study) lay open beside the miniature of
my mother. I sat down very quietly on the low stool
at his feet, fearful lest I should disturb the sweet peace
of his meditation. I say peace, for though the tears
were stealing down his cheeks, I never beheld such an
expression of holy peace on any countenance.

He placed his h^d fondly upon my head, as he
bad been wont to do when I was a little child, and
repeatedly stroked down my hair without speaking a
word, and then he bent his face and kissed my fore-
head — " Ernest," he said at length, as I looked up in
his face, " we must part for a little time." " Not part,
dear father," I replied, " for if you are obliged to
go away, may I not go with you, to wait upon you,
and do your biddbg, whatever it may be ?" " My
poor boy," he said, again placing his hand upon my
head with the same affectionate manner, '^ you do not
understand me. I am not going to travel in other
countries, nor to leave this chamber, till I am called
away by One, whose summons cannot be disobeyed.
I did not wish to grieve your young heart before, but
the time is come for you to be prepared. In all hu-
man probability I shall be called upon to leave this
infirm and wasted body, to die, not many days hence —
don't give way to such immoderate grief, my dear
2*

34 THB RECORDS OF

Ernest," he continued, having in vain endeavored to
soothe me.

" See how calm I am ! It is not so dreadfiil to die
as you may suppose. Our Heavenly Father will not
call me before His own good time, and then I shall
not murmur ; for I am quite convinced that His will is
the best. Liook at this emaciated frame, think of the
pains it has lately suffered, and tell me what reason I
have to love it."

Here, however, my father broke off from a subject
that made me so very wretched ; for I could not help
laying my head on his knee, and sobbing with a feel-
ing that my heart would break if I lost him. And
yet I look back now to those moments when I felt so
perfectly miserable, a^ to positive happiness, for his
hand was fondly placed on my head, I could feel its
gentle pressure, hear his voices and be certain that he
was with me.

" My dear Ernest," he said, when I had become
calmer, but still remained sitting on the low stool at
his feet, my face, however, partly raised ; for though
my cheek was still pressed to his knee, my eyes were
fixed on his countenance, and his dear hand clasped
between both of mine :

" My dear Ernest, promise me solemnly, that in
every trial, in every temptation, you will not look to
yourself, or to the world, for the help or comfort you
require, but that you will pray to your Heavenly Fa-
ther in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. First
of all promise me this, and think of what you are

A GOOD man's life. 35

about, when you promise." — ^I did think in silence for
some minutes, and then I said, kissing hb hand as I
spoke, << Father, I do promise, and I hope I shall
never forget my promise."

" My dear, very dear child," contmued my father,
" the thought of leaving your dear mother, and all of
you, makes my heart very heavy ; but at the same
time I am so well assured, that our Father in Hea*
ven loves us so much better than we love one
another, that I feel it would be sinful in me to com-
plain of the way in which it pleases Him to make us
happy! Yes, happy!" he repeated, while a faint
smile played over his features, - for I had looked up
witli astonishment as he pronounced the word — " hap-
py was what I meant to say — ^but I have more to say
to you, Ernest. You are my eldest son, my first-
bom child. You are very young and inexperienced ;
but I know that while you keep your promise, and
look above for help, you will never fail to receive it.
Young as you are, you must become the support and
protector, in my place, to your dearest mother and to
Lisa and Charley. What I say to you now you must
never forget. Wherever you are, in whatever place,
in whatever company, you must remember the last
words of your father. I have often reminded you of
the solemn promise and engagement made at your
baptism, I do so now for the last time. Listen to me
once more attentively.

" By the good providence of our blessed Lord,
you were bom in a Christian country — you were bom
of parents professing the Christian religion. In the

86 THB RBCORDt OF

midst of a Christian congregation the minister of
Christ took you in his arms, and after many prayers,
in which he and those aromid hkn joined, he solemn-
ly dedicated you to the Lord your God, he sprinkled
upon you the pure and cleansing element of water,
thus figuring the mystical washing away of sin, and
we all prayed that you might at the same time be
washed by the blood of Christ from erery stain and
spot of sin, or in other words, might be cleansed by
the inward and spiritual grace of baptism, of which
the water is the outward and visible sign. Baptism by
water being ordained, not by man, but by Christ him-
self, as a means whereby we receive the inward and
spiritual grace, and a pledge to assure us thereof.
Now this inward and sjnritual grace is thus described ;
it is a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteous-
ness ; and, although we are by nature bom in sin and
the children of wrath, it is by this inward and spirit-
ual grace that we are made the children of grace.

" My dear Earnest," he continued, after pausing
a little to take breath, and then speaking m a voice
scarcely louder than a whisper — " I am the more anx-
ious for you to attend to me, and to remember, if possi-
ble, every word I say to you, because, as you grow up,
you will find, as I have often told you, that the world
in general think carelessly, if at all, of the engage-
ments made by them, at what they profess to be the
beginning of their life as Christians, and (what makes
the case more dangerous) you will find your own
heart, whenever you neglect to watch and to pray,
taking part with the world against your best interests.

A GOOD man's life. 37

I leave you, therefore, hoping — spraying — ^I might
abo say (nay, I will humbly say it) believing, that
you will grow up a Christian gentleman, that you
will remember that all the day an4 all the night God
is present with you, though you cannot see Him;
and that in calling yourself a Christian, you do in
fact say, that you are a member of Christ, and
therefore as much with Him as this arm, or member
of yours, is with your head ; for Christians are called
in the Bible members of that body of which Chbist
is the head. Now he who feels and believes this,
must know that his religion is a reality : — ^but beware,
for it is possible to be for a time a member of Christ,
and to be a dead and withered member. You may
remember noticing a poor beggar at the great gates
of this house the last time we walked out together :
he had, to all appearance, two arms, but he told us
that the life of one of his arms was gone, and that it
was of no use to him. We soon witnessed the truth
of what he said, for while he was talking with much
animation to me, and did not see that you were offer-
ing money to him, yoU put the money into the hand
of the palsied arm ; and the fingers having no power
to close on it, or even to feel it, the coin fell at once
to the ground. Our Saviour himself speaks of this
sort of dead-membership with Him, when He says
at the 15th of St. John's Gospel, ' I am the vine and
my father is the husbandman ; every branch in me
(remark, in Him) that beareth not fruit he taketh
away.' " My dear father here looked very faint and
ill, and stopped again — ^when he recovered himself.

38 THB RECORDS OF

he said, << I must cut short what I had to say, Ernest ;
— ^Tell your mamma all that I have been saying to
you, all about this conversation, when she returns
home, and ask your mamma to teach you ; ask also
your godfathers and godmother. Above all, go to
the Book of God for instruction ; in it your Heaveiily
Father speaks His will to you. I need not tell you
to love your dearest mother; but you must try to
prove your love, by obeying her faithfully, and
gladly. Be a kind and true friend to Losa and
Charley : again \ ask you to try and supply my place
to them : and now go for them both and bring them
to me— I dare say they are not m bed yet; and
mind, Ernest," he added, calling me back before I
reached the door, " not a word to either of the chil-
dren to make them sad ; not a word of my going —
you know what I mean. I confide m you as my
fnend, for you are the eldest, and old enough to be
treated as my friend." In a few minutes I came
back to the room, leading in each hand my brother
and sister. Lisa was always gentle, and she knew
her father was very ill ; therefore she walked softly,
and without speaking, and when she came near to
my father, gently put her hand in his and stood beside
him smiling, but still not speaking. Charley, being
then almost an infant, was at first neither quiet nor
silent ; he soon espied a doll of Lisa's lying under one
of the chairs, where she had left it that morning, and
disengagmg his hand from mine, he ran to the prize
and seized upon it, and began to amuse himself by
bumping its wooden head upon the floor, singing and

A GOOD man's lifs. 39

shouting all the while. However, he was soon
quieted, for Lisa took a bunch of grapes from a bas-
ket near my father, and offering it in exchange for
the noisy doll, brought the merry little fellow to my
father, and he then sat down on the carpet, and
employed himself with perfect content in picking
grape after grape from the bunch till they all were
eaten. While Charley sat at his feet, and Lisa stood
beside him, my father desired me to take the written
form of our baptismal engagement from between the
leaves of his Bible, where he had placed it. He
desired me also to read it. I did so, and both Lisa
and I understood it. We then kneeled down before
him, first I, then Lisa, then Charley, at least we
showed him how to do so, and my father placed his
thin hands upon our heads and blessed us with a
faint voice, in the name of the Father, and of the
Son, and of the Holt Spirit. I led my brother
and sister away again, and * * * * that night, just
after midnight, my father departed this life.

I cannot describe the state of my poor mother

when she returned to D n. Her agony of

mind was very quiet, but deep, and it appeared set-
tled — so it conl^^i^ some days after her return.
The shock had b^n^almost too much for her intellect,
and she remained so long in one unchanging mood of
quiet stupefactbn, that we began to fear she would
never be herself again.

*' I don't know when I shall be able to repeat to
my mother all that my father desired me to t^ll her,"

40 THB RECORDS OF

I said one morning to my cousin Ellinor ; *^ she will
never be able to bear it."

Mr. Hamilton was in the room when I spoke,
and he said immediately, *^ I think, Ellinor, that Er-
nest ought to go to his dear mother, and tell her all,
her husband said at once. It might agitate her to
tears, and then rouse her to exertion."

At their desire I went at once to my mother. I
found her sitting, as usual, in the room that had been
my father's study, in the old arm-chair where he had
sat. Her arms were folded, and her eyes fixed in a
sort of dreamy gaze. I took my seat, as I had done
on that memorable evening, at the foot of that very
chair in which she was now sitting, and I began de-
scribing and narrating to her, with the most minute
exactness (as Mr. Hamilton and Ellinor had desired
me to do), every particular of my last interview and
conversation with him. I had spoken but a few
words, when she raised her head, and fixed on me a
look of the deepest attention ; her arms still remain-
ing folded, and her position otherwise unaltered. As
I continued speaking, she unfolded her arms, and
resting one elbow on the arm of the chair, she
clasped her forehead with her hkikdB and closed her
eyes.

I had all Ve while been lookmg up in her face,
and when L spoke of my bringing Lisa and Charley
to my father for the last time, I saw with delight the
bright quick tears suddenly pour fix)m her eyes. In
another moment I was in her arms — ^both my arms

A GOOD mam's LIFK. 41

thrown around her neck, and she was weeping with-
out restraint. When a little composed, she said,
" My dear Ernest, you must leave me alone for some
time. Go into the anteroom, and remain there, and
do not let any one disturb me. I am weak, wretch-
edly weak, as to spiritual strength, and I have been
very wrong to think so mifch of myself, and my own
loss. I must be alone with God, and ask for pardon
and for strength. Leave me, dear child, and shut the
door — ^I will call you when I wish you to come to
me again."

The time seemed very long in the anteroom, and
at last I began to think my mother had forgotten me,
when she opened the door of the inner room, and ap-
peared with a calm and almost smiling countenance.
I sprang towards her. and she returned into the room
with me. Again she made me narrate all that had
taken place during my last interview with my father,
and she listened attentively, and without agitation.
When I had done speaking, she said, '^ I feel the use
and b^iefit of prayer, Ernest. . There is but one Being
who could help and comfort me, and at length I have
sought Him. Remember, Ernest, what I tell you from
my experience of the benefit of prayer ; given, not
for my sake, but for the sake of Him in whose name
we pray. He is touched with the feeing of our in-
firmities, and always more ready to hear than we are
to pray. Promis0 me, as you did your father, that
you will seek your God with prayer in all your diffi-
culties."

From this time ray dear mother began to devote

43 THS RBCORDI OF

herself to her children, and to employ her time in
giving a diligent attention to all the duties of her
widowed state. She retired at times j6x)m us, but
never, I believe, to give way to selfish grief or la-
mentation, for she always came forth from the soli-
tude of her closet with the aspect of one who had
been listening to glad tiditfgs and receiving comfort.

We soon after left D n for England, and

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton went with us to Calais, where
we found my mother's brother and my godfather,
Colonel Nugent, waiting our arrival. He was rather
rough in his manners, and very downright and «blunt
in all his ways ; but with all his outside roughness,
he was full of kindly feelings, and gentle-hearted as a
woman.

On our return to England, we went to reside with
my mother's parents at Overton Hall, in Hampshire.
I thought my mother began to look happier, and that
the tone of her voice became more cheerful from^he
time the heavy old coach turned off the high road,
and entered the wide avenue leading to her father's
house. She took Charley on her knee, and pointed
out to him an old white pony she had been accus-
tomed to ride when a girl, and that stood with his
neck thrust over a gate, staring at the coach as it
passed along; and she spoke, and smiled as she
spoke, to the old servant, who opened the gate of the
garden-court before the house. My grandfather was
standing in the hall, evidently determined to receive
my dear mother cheerfully ; yet after he had held her
in his arms and kissed her, and she had passed him

A «ooD man's life. 43

and my dear aunt, going to the library, where my
grandmother was waiting her appearance, I saw him
take out his handkerchief and wipe away the tears
that filled his eyes.

My mother's conduct had all that sweet and dute-
ous reverence about it, that a daughter's should have
in her father's house. A stranger, seeing her with
either of her parents, would have told you at oncb in
what relation she stood to them. She was disposed
enough to have been silent and melancholy, for she had
lost a husband whom she loved as her own life ; but she
was graciously enabled to keep up a quiet happiness
of look and manner at all times. She felt that it
would have been cruel to have brought the gloom of
her grief into the dear and hospitable home of her
childhood, now again thrown opep to her. She gave
way to no selfish indulgence, but thought so much of
others, of her children, her parents, her brother, and
indeed of her poor neighbors, more especially the
widows and orphans among them, that little time was
left to thmk of herself, or, I should say, of self.

A few years passed away of calm, peacefiil enjoy-
ment, in that quiet, hospitable mansion. My grand-
father and grandmother seemed the kindest and hap-
piest old persons I ever met with. My uncle and
his sister, though utterly unlike, were equally beloved
by us. My mother lived the life of a modest Chris-
tian widow, retu-ed fix>m the world, devoted to her
children, as unforgetful of my father as in her early
widowhood, but meekly, nay, thankfully, resigned to
her separation from him ; for, walking by faith, and

44 THB RECORDS OF

not by sight, she looked forward to the blessed period
when she might be again united to him, in that home
of the Christian where there is neither marrying nor
parting, but where the pure and holy, who have
loved as she loved on earth, are as the angels of God
in heaven.

About a year after our return to England, I was
sent to school, and I believe no schoolboy ever suf-
fered more at leaving home than I did. What a mis-
take, what a downright untruth it is, ta say thatachool
days are the happiest period of a person's life ! My
tutor was a kind and truly excellent man ; I liked
my schoolfellows very well ; but when the day of my
leaving home drew nigh, then I began to be miser-
able. At times, notwithstanding all my endeavors
to forget, the subject was forced into my notice.
Some one would ask, in a pleasant way, *' Well,
Ernest, when do you go back to school ? the holi-
days are almost over, are they not?" The very or-
dering of the cake which I was to carry with me, and
which was intended to prove a sweet soother of my
troubles, put me in a tremble ; and when the house-
keeper turned to my mother for instruction as to the
size and richness of the cake, and whep my mother
looked at me, and smiled as she replied, the imagin-
ative powers of my appetite had sickened and died
within me. I could not smile. What made me still
more wretched, was the consciousness that I ought to
be ashamed, or rather that I was ashamed of being
so very, very sorry, and of weeping like a girl. The
morning of my departure brought with it fresh striv-

A QOOD ikAS'M Lirjc. 45

ings between misery and shame, and the feel of a
lump within my throat, that took away all my appe*
tite at breakfast, and seemed to choke me when I en-
deavored to speak. I can now hardly persuade my-
self that childhood was capable of feeling such intense
misery as I then suffered.

A circumstance occurred while I was at this
school, which I will not pass unnoticed, as it proved
to me the truth of that divine proverb ; ** A word
spoken in season, how good it is 1" I was one day
playing at some game or other, I forget what, in the
old walnut-close, which was our pky-ground. A
very warm discussion took place between another
boy and myself. "Upon my soul it was so !" he
cried out. I had often heard the same words ; nay,
once or twice, in my unguarded thoughtlessness, I
bad also used them. I heard them now with utter
unconcern ; but on another person they had a very
different effect. Oinr old master was sitting in a little
summer-house, not far from the spot where we stood.
We had not observed him, but suddenly calling us to
him, he said to my companion, " Are you aware, my
dear boy, about what you have been speaking in so
sinfully light and careless a manner ? Is your soul of
so little consequence — ^that part which raises you so
infinitely above the beasts that perish — ^that part of
you which cannot cease to exist for ever — ^that for
which your Saviour and your God poured out His
most precious blood in heart-broken agonies upon the
cross ? For His blessed sake, and for the sake of
that very soul of yours, let this be the last, quite the

46 TBB KBCORDI OF

last time, when out of mere trifling wantonness such
an expression shall ever come from your mouth !" The
awfiil, I may almost say holy, seriousness of his voice
and manner, and the grave, nay, sorrowfiil expression
of his countenance^ as the good man spoke, I have
never forgotten; from that moment, the expression
stood forth as a sin, a daring impiety, before me. I
have never spoken the forbidden words myself; I
have never heard another speak them without shud-
dering.

When I had been about three years at school, the
small-pox suddenly broke out there, and appeared to
spread so rapidly that most of the boys, at the desire
of the medical men, were sent home. One of my
grandfather's servants came for me, and brought me
back to Overton Hall, apparently in high health. At
the end of a week, however, I began to feel veiy un-
well, and it was soon evident that I was sickening
with the dreaded disease. Those who only know
the small-pox as it now commonly appears — a disease
of rare occurrence, and generally much mitigated,
where it is not wholly prevented, by the mild influence
of vaccination, or by a proper mode of treatment,
would scarcely believe the panic that seized on every
one in those days, when the disorder made its appear-
ance in a neighborhood.

My sister and brother were sent away at once
with my aunt Lucy, to a small farm of my grandfa-
ther's near the sea, and my mother was my constant
nurse. For days and nights she did not leave me.
No one foresaw any danger to her, except from fa-

A GOOD man'i life. 47

tigue and anxiety, for she had had the disorder when
a child. Oh, how kind and tender she was to me !
I was very ill indeed, and the disease seemed to
lengthen [and increase instead of leaving me, so that
ray life was considered in great danger ; but, notwith-
standing all my suffering, I felt soothed and happy
when I could open my heavy eyes, and see before
me my mother's sweet face, or hear the sound of her
gentle voice.

She had so many ways of showing her affection
which none but a mother, and such a mother ! could
have devised. At length, however, I ceased to notice
her or any one. I became delirious, or rather quietly
insensible, and continued so for many days. When I
began to wake up from this stupor (for the turn of the
disease was over, and my recovery was deemed high-
ly probable) I saw that my dear mother no longer
attended me. Some one was sitting near the fire-
place, and when I called out, " Are you there, dear
mother ?" the face that was turned to me was not my
mother's. "Bently," I said (for I saw that my
grandmother's maid was with me), "will you go to
my mother, and tell her I am awake, and should like
so very much to see her?" Bently left the room as if
to seek my mother, and returning soon after, told me
that my mother had not felt herself well, and had
gone to lie down : she added, that she was then
asleep, and that it would be cruel to disturb her after
she had been almost worn out with fatigue ; — " My
lady will come and see you, master Ernest," she said,
" when she wakes." However, my mother did not

48 THV RECORDS OF

come. Day after day passed, and she came not.
Sometimes my grandmother^ or my uncle, and at all
other times Mrs. Bently came to sit with me, bring-
ing very often messages from my mother. They told
me she was ill, and that the doctors thought she
ought not in her weak state to leave her chamber,
and that Charley and Lisa were ill with the small-
pox, and that the former was very fretful, and had
begged that my mother would go to him ; and they
told me that it was her wish, and her request to me,
that I should be patient, and wait without repining
till she could see me again. This last message had
great weight with me ;' it was so delightful to me to
obey any desire of hers, that I determined to watch
and pray against the impatient yeammg of my heart
toward her. One more question I asked of my grand-
mother, and that I believe was the last. As she was
leaving the room one evening, I said, " Is my mother
ill, grandmother ?" The old lady stood without seem-
ing to observe me for a little time, and then said
quietly, " Your dear mother, Ernest, cannot be bet-
ter than she now is."

I suppose that my illness in a manner stupified me,
for I have often wondered since, how I could remain
so long without a suspicion of the real reason why I
did not see my mother ; at last the truth burst upon
me. Mrs. Bently had been sitting with me all the
morning, and as I was better than usual, though still
confined to my bed, she had consented to read part
of the Pilgrim's Progress (a favorite book of mine) to
me. She had read but a few pages, when some one

A GOOD man's life. 49

tapped softly at the door of the chamber. Mrs. Bent-
ly opened the door and spoke in a whisper, and was
answered in a whisper. The door was then closed,
and she and her companion went down the stairs to-
gether. More than an hour seemed to pass away,
and no one came near me ; the whole house seemed
silent as at midnight ; then I thought I could hear an
indistinct sound of footsteps, — footsteps below, and no
other sound, not one voice. Again, a dead silence
continued for a time, broken at last by the sound of a
carriage moving slowly underneath the window ; it
seemed to pass on toward the firont of the house, and
then another slow-moving carriage seemed to pass
along in the same direction. I could not resist at-
tempting to discover what was going on. I rose out
of bed, but found qjyself so weak that I at once fell
back again. I tried again ; dragging a blanket from
the bed, and throwing it round me, I staggered to the
window — ^I looked down, and saw nothing but the old
white pony, my mother's pony, rolling over and over
again m the fresh springmg grass of the paddock. I
remained at the window some little time, and felt re-
vived and better. The lime trees that skirted the
lawn had burst in leaf since I last looked from that
window, and the blue-bells beneath them were in fall
flower. There was a soft quick rain falling, but fall-
ing through a golden blaze of sunshine, and making
every thing look fresh as well as bright. I had half
forgotten what brought me to the window, when sud-
denly a man ran quickly across the grass-plot immedi-
ately beneath me. He was in deep mourning, and

3

50 THE RECORDS OF

as he ran, a long hatband of black crape streamed
'upon the air. I cannot describe the effect the sight
of that man in black then had upon me. Something
is going on below, I thought to myself; something
that it will break my heart to know, but I must know
it. I went to the door of my room, unclosed it softly,
and looked down the passage — ^no one was in sight —
I listened, but heard nothmg. A door nearly oppo-
site me stood partly open ; it was the door of Bently's
room. From the window of that little chamber,
which was in a turret jutting out fix)m the fix)nt of the
house, I knew I could see if what I had guessed was
indeed taking place. I saw every thing — a hearse
with nodding plumes, and a cofSn brought out, and
lifted into the hearse. I saw the door of the mourn-
ing-coach opened, and two gentlemen in long black
cloaks come forth and enter it. The cof&n was not
that of a child ; whose could it be ? not that of my
grandmother, I had seen her the night before ; not that
of my grandfather, or of my uncle ; I had seen them
enter the mourning-coach. I felt certain whose fune-
ral was passing before me, but as if I was not to have
the wretched happiness of a doubt on the subject, my
eyes fell upon a small packet of black silk gloves
upon the window seat ; the packet was lying open,
but the white threads were still in the gloves — the bill
was with them.

" John Nugent, Esq.,

" To Christopher Simpson.
" To one dozen pair of black silk gloves for the fe-

A GOOD MAN^a LIFE, 51

male servants at the Hall, at the funeral of the Lady
Charles Singleton."

They found me in bed ; but I know not how I
got there. One or two persons entered the room, but
I shut my eyes as the door opened, and I turned my
face to the wall. I had no questions to ask — 1 wish-
ed to be alone and unnoticed, and after a while I was
left alone.

Then it was for the first time that I was taught
really to lean upon God, and to look to him as my
only unfailing friend and helper. I had believed in
Him, loved Him, sought Him before, but now I felt,
for the first time, that I was lost without Him. As I
lay in such utter wretchedness in that quiet chamber,
thinking that the world had become a dreary wilder-
ness to me, and feeling as if the strings of my heart
that held me to life were breaking, I recollected, some-
thing seemed to remind me, of my promise to my fa-
ther — a promise made so solemnly to him, and repeat-
ed so often to my dear, dear mother. Ill and weak
as I was, I rose up, and kneeled upon my knees on
the bed, and poured forth my very soul in prayer !
He is my Father, I thought within myself, and as a
child pours into a tender father's ear all his wishes
and complaints, as I had often done to my father and
my mother when they were with me, so I prayed un-
to my God. Will He hear me ? I thought in the
midst of my supplication ; I, who am so insignificant,
and so utterly unworthy ! and then a sudden thought
brought a flow of comfort over my heart ; my tears felt

52 TUB RECORDS OF

sweet as they flowed more softly over my cheeks.
For the sake of Jesus Christ, the Son of man who
had been also a child, and is touched with the feeling
of a child's sorrows and infirmities, for His gentle sake,
in His prevailing and most powerful name, I entreat-
ed my Father to hear me. I prayed to that kind and
compassionate Saviour also, and humbly begged them,
the Father and the Saviour, to send the Holt Spirit
to support, to teach, to comfort me. I remembered
also the conduct of my mother when she rose up fix)m
her torpid grief, and cried to God to help her ; the
good example she then set had its full effect upon me.
When I had done praying I smoothed the bed-
clothes as well as I could, and lay down again. Great
as the exertion had been to my body, it had a blessed
effect on my mind. In the midst of sweet and sooth-
ing thoughts I gently fell asleep, and slept for seven
or eight hours I believe without stirring, for on awak-
ing, I found myself in the same place and position as
when I dropped asleep.

I do not dwell upon the death of my mother. I
will merely mention, that, feeling I should give unne-
cessary pain if I allowed any of my family to break
to me what I already knew, I quietly told Bently
that I was well aware of my mother's death, and that
I had seen her funeral leave the house.

I found that she had died of the small-pox, having
caught it the second time, the disease being, as it gen-
erally is, when taken the second time, very virulent.

A GOOD man's life. 53

and attended with great danger. The sight of ray
orphan sister and brother affected me very much at
first. They had also been ill with the sam^ fearful
disease, but havmg been attacked less violently, the
day I went down stairs they came home from the
farm with aunt Lucy. My aunt had always seemed
to me a little like my mother, but now, some tones of
her voice, some expressions of her countenance, seem-
ed to me amazingly like^ perhaps this was owing to
my having unconsciously dismissed firom my mind all
hope that I should ever see any one that could be the
same as my mother to me on this side the grave.
What, therefore, was my delight to be able to account
for this strong likeness, by feeling that it was not a
mere chance resemblance, but produced by nearness
of relationship — ^that, in the likeness of my mother, I
saw her own sister, the child of my mother's own pa-
rents. The pure blood that glowed in her gentle
lips was the same that had given color to lips often
pressed to my cheek, often breathing forth a mother's
sweet instruction, a mother's pious, tender blessings.

The same likeness in a stranger could. not have
thus affected me.

One of the most firequent visitors at Overton was
Mr. Lovel, the minister of the parish, who was after-
wards the husband of my aunt Lucy. He had attend-
ed my dear mother during her short and sudden ill-
ness ; indeed she sent for him, hearing that he had
expressed a great desire to visit her. She had spoken
to him of her children, and appointed him as guardian
in her stead, for my father had left her the option of

54 THE RECORDS OF

appomting a guardian in case of her death. Mr. Le-
vel had always been kind to me, but I began to look
upon him, from this time, as one of the best and dear-
est friends I had in the world ; and Lisa and Charley
were very fond of him: they could not indeed be
otherwise, for he was a remarkably pleasing person,
and very kmd to them.

. Mr. Lovel allowed me to be his constant com-
panion ; and I may date my first preference to the holy
profession I afterwards entered upon, to my inter-
course with him.

It was in his society that I began to love and ad-
mire the life of a country parson before any other.
There I learned the ambition of being a lowly minis-
ter in the highest service ; and I may say from my
heart, after many years passed in that service, there is
none like it. I had rather be an unnoticed door-
keeper to the house of God, than be honored and
distinguished among the wisest and noblest of this
world. In the society of Mr. Lovel, also, I was won
from my deep sorrow by being drawn away from my-
sejf, from brooding over * self.' I soon discovered,
by my own close observation, that I was not the only
miserable being in the world. I had thought, as a
child might think, that no being was so wretched as
myself when I first accepted the kind invitation of
Mr. Lovel, and went with him a round of visits among
his parishioners. I felt interested by many families
whom we visited, but I was most interested, nay, I
was deeply aflFected, by a circumstance that occurred
while I was waiting for Mr. Lovel at the garden-gate

'A GOOD man's life. 55

of one of his cottages. He did not wish me to enter
with him, because the woman of the house was too ill
to bear the disturbance of my presence. Exactly op-
posite the place where I stood was a small white cot-
tage which had been evidently shut up for some little
time. Boards had been nailed over the casements,
and the unpruned shoots of the .vine had fallen in
places from the wall, for want of proper traming.
There were no crops coming up in the garden ; but
the dark mould of the beds, and the well-gravelled
walks were overgrown with rank weeds. At the end
of one of the walks, beside which many flowers were
slill m bright bloom, was an arbor formed entirely of
willow-branches, meeting and twining above a bank
of turf, shaped like a high step, with a board on the
lower shelf of it for a seat. But what gave such an
interest to this little desolate spot was the presence of
one who seemed to have a great love for every thing
about the house and garden : a little boy, perhaps a
year older than my brother Charley. He had a pleas-
ant open countenance, though I thought at first he
looked very sorrowful when he tried the latch of the
door and found it would not open, and peeped be-
tween the crevices of the boards that covered the win-
dows, as if he hoped to gain a view of the darkened
chambers within. He turned, however, to the garden,
and as he sauntered up and down the walks, and
gathered now and then some of the long-neglected
flowers, he began singing to himself with pleasure,
almost without knowing that he was pleased.

At length he entered the arbor, and laying down

56 TUB RECORDS OF

his nosegay on the upper ledge of the bank, he threw
himself at full length on the seat, and there he re-
mained still humming to himself with his clear voice,
till his careless song grew more and more faint, and
he dropped fast asleep. I wondered who this little
boy could be, and what his story was ; and longed
for Mr. Lovel to come out of the sick woman's room,
and tell me all I wished to know. The dress of the
little boy was ill made, and too large for him, and of
a dark heavy serge ; his hair was cut (I suppose I
may use a vulgar word, and say hogged) close to
his head, except that a fringe of bright curls were left
by the tasteless barber close round his face.

My attention, however, was soon turned to a stem-
looking man that had entered the garden from behind
the cottage. He looked about him on all sides, as if
searching for some one ; and when his eyes turned^
upon the arbor, he hastened toward it. In a moment
I heard the quick falling strokes of the cane, and the
loud cries of the little boy. I rushed into the garden,
leaping over the gate, and was soon at the arbor. Mr.
Lovel, who then appeared, followed me, and we were
in time to save the boy from receiving any more
blows. Mr: Lovel called the man to him, and they
turned down the walk together, while I remained in
the arbor with the little boy. When the man came
back he said to the little fellow, " Well, my man, I
suppose I must forgive you this time, but you know
it's against all rule to leave the poor-house, and to leave
work without leave."

"But I had done my work," said the boy, " and

A GOOD man's life. 57

you were not in the way, sir, and the afternoon was
so fine ! and the door was wide opeft, and I thought
I'd just come and 'take a peep at poor father and
mother's old place, and carry back a nosegay out of
the garden for Missis." " Ah, well, poor boy !" said
the man, and he looked very good-tempered, " 'tis
very natural — ^take your flowers to my wife ; only re-
member the next time to ask leave."

" That little boy," said Mr. Level, as we resumed
our walk, " is an orphan, without a friend in the world.
His father and mother were respectable hard-working
persons, but at their death (and they died of a fever
in a few days the one after the other) their only
child was obliged to be sent to the workhouse. You
see, Ernest, there are persons in the world, even chil-
dren, more afflicted and unhappy than yourself."

This remark set me thinking, and good Mr. Level
improved the opportunity thus given him, to point out
to me, that in all our troubles we have much to be
thankfiil for ; and he told me that even the case of
that little fnendless orphan was less wretched than
that of another person in the parish — a kind, tender
mother, whose son had despised all her advice, and
was then under sentence of death for a capital of-
- fence. The mother, he said, was at that time ahnost
broken-hearted, and must have altogether sunk under
her grief, had it not been that she was supported by
a hope above this world. And last of all he turned
all that he had said to real profit, by reminding me
of one who had suffered a weight of heart-breaking
anguish beyond all our conception, but who had been,
3*

58 THE RECOnDS OF

as no other sufferer ever was, all the while perfectly-
good, and innocent, and undeserving of one slightest
sorrow ; but who suffered for our iniquities, and the
chastisement oT our peace was upon Him : who was
satisfied to suffer for His enemies, for the guilty, the
miserable, and the lost.

A few days afterwards I went with Mr, Lovel to
the workhouse, and there we heard a very good char-
acter of Martin Wheeler, the little boy for whom I
had begun to feel such an interest, because he was an
orphan like myself, but far more destitute and friend-
less than I had ever been. I had soon after an op-
portunity of serving my poor little fiiend. The boy

at Overton, who went to F n for letters on the

pony, and was a sort of errand-boy to the house-
keeper and the gardener, outgrew his place both by-
age and self-importance, and I went to my grandfather
and begged him to take Martin Wheeler in his stead.
" But first tell me," said my grandfather, " who is
this Martin Wheeler ?" " O, he is very poor, and
in the workhouse ; his father and mother are both dead.
He has no grandfather, no relations, no friends !"
*< Bless you, my dear boy," he replied, with some
agitation, " I can feel with you for the poor orphan
child ; but perhaps you can tell us, Jones ?" he said,
turning to his old butler, who was waiting some orders
in the room. " Wheeler ! Wheeler ! I ought to
know the name !" " I should not wonder, sir, if he
is the grandson of Jonathan Wheeler," replied Jones,
" the steward at Overton some years back. I know
his son died some months ago in the village." " The

A GOOD man's life. 59

grandson of the man who deceived and ill-treated me
— and in distress ? Well then, that is an additional
reason for befriending the poor child. Love your
enemies ; that's the right maxim. Jones ! go down
to the workhouse and see about hiring the boy at
once," added my grandfather. " And in your way,"
I said, " pray call upon Mr. Lovel, Jones, and ask
him about Martin, for he likes him as well as I do ;
and, grandfather, when I'm a man, and can have a
servant, I'll take Martin off your hands, and thank
you, thank you, for being so kind and so good!"
" Very well, my little man," he replied, " Martm shall
be your servant, and you may give up half an hour
every day in teaching him to read his Bible ; but now
suppose you order the pony and my mare, and we'll

ride over to F n."

I give this little narrative because it contains an
account of my first meeting with my faithful servant,
Martin, now, like his master, a gray-headed, aged
man. He is an invaluable servant! I have every
reason to be grateful for his long-tried fidelity and at-
tachment. I know that, during his long residence in
my family, he has received frequent offers to live in
families of wealth and distinction, where his wages
would have been double what I paid him ; but he is
not one of the new sort of gentry who are always
seeking to better themselves, as they term it. He
never told me of these offers and his refusals, but the
report of them has always got round to me, sometimes
years after they were made.

The gladness and fresh beauty of that spring,

60 THfi RSCORDS OF

when all nature seemed to wake up mto smiles and
songs of delight, seemed to conspire together against
my grief. Perhaps hope was never so brightly pic-
tured as m the sights and sounds of a beautiful day
in spring, or rather when spring is changing hourly into
summer. In the day-time floods of sunshine, from a
deep blue sky, steepmg the vivid and feathery foliage
of the trees, the whole earth one carpet of bright em-
broidery, its glorious freshness still unsullied. The
air scented with balmy fragrance, and musical with
the warblings of the gay and sportive birds, and all
night the nightingale pouring forth her clear loud
melodies, as if the day was not long enough, or calm
enough, or solemn enough, for her deep joy ; and the
air smelling of lilacs and honeysuckles, the sweeter
for not being seen.

The gradual return of health to my enfeebled
firame, at that gracious season of the year, that season
of returning vigor and freshness to the earth, brought
with it a struggle after cheerfulness, that I should not
have felt, I think, had my recovery taken place at a
less joyful season of the year, in the autumn for in-
stance ; and though I could not at the time have said
that I enjoyed any thing, I look back to that period
as to a season of enjoyment^ The griefs I then experi-
enced were among those that are so finely described
by a poet of the present day,* as

" Griefs that lie in the heart like treasures,
Till time hath turned them to solemn pleasures."

* Sidney Walker, late Fellow of Trinity College.

A GOOD man's life. 61

Sometimes I accompanied my grandfather in his
slow and quiet rides upon the greensward by the
skirts of the old pine woods at Overton, or through
the sandy lanes, whose banks rose as high as those of
the Devonshire lanes on either side, in some places
sloping and green, and thickly set with blue-bell and
wood-anemonies, and more flowers than I have time
to enumerate ; in others, abrupt and cavemed, and
spread over with the old gnarled roots of the trees
that met above our heads.

Sometimes I joined my uncle in his delightful
gallop over the Southdowns, and received a lesson
from him how to sit gracefully and firmly on horse-
back ; and not unfirequently I remained at home as
the companion of my dear venerable grandmother,
reading to her and my aunt Lucy, in their favorite
room at the end of the long conservatory at Overton.
The entrance to this room was from the conservatory
itself, a hall of glass enclosing a little grove of myrtles
and orange-trees, and other flowering exotics of lofty
growth, down the whole length of which extended
a broad walk. At one end were the folding-doors of
this pleasant sitting-room, at the other a fountain of
limpid water, playing in front of a closely clipped
hedge of flowering myrtles, as high and almost as
solid as a wall. At the end of the summer I was
sent to Eton. My uncle Nugent, who was one of
my guardians, had been at Eton himself, and he
thought there was no school to be compared with it.
Mr. Lovel had been at Eton also, and he rather
opposed my going ; but my other guardian. Lord

62 THE RECORDS OF

Eresby, was appealed to ; he decided at once in
favor of Eton, and to Eton I was sent.

I must always look back with sorrow to the day
I was sent to school. Words and things which I
had never heard of m my father's house were brought
into dangerous familiarity with me ; words and things
deeply corrupting to the manly, no less than to the
Christian character. Such was the case also at Eton.
I was niade, as schoolboys generally are, wise in what
ought to be forbidden knowledge to a child. I can-
not say I was disgusted as I ought to have been.
My curiosity was awakened, and many seeds of
wickedness, that might have been destroyed in the
germ, were then drawn forth from my heart, and
fostered into fatal life.

The very studies of the place (I do not mean
of Eton alone, but of any school where the classics
are taught) have a degrading and debasing tendency,
and always will have, unless the master is decidedly
and avowedly a Christian teacher. All call them-
selves Christian teachers, but how few show the
spirit of a Christian in pointing out what is to be
condemned as pernicious in almost every sense !
The Christian youth is left to draw his own conclu-
sion. The indecent and even monstrous histories of
those who are the only gods of the profane world,
have a sort of charm with them from the deep
interest of the narrative, or the bright and glowing
language in which they are set before him. Thus
notions and ideas decidedly injurious to the Christian
mind, and to true manliness of character, are insen-

A GOOD man's life. 63

sibly acquired, and the mind is led to associate las-
civiousness and impurity with heroic virtue. It is
better to have a manly than a classic tone of mind,
if the one is to be acquired at the risk of the other.
Often and often, before I could read Latin and Greek,
have I turned over page after page of the dictionary
of classical biography that lay on my desk, or of the
English translation, (a copy lent me by one of my
schoolfellows,) that had its hiding place within the
desk, and found much pleasant amusement from
histories that never ought to have met the eyes of a
Christian boy.

I have naturally a high and impetuous spirit, and
no lack of false shame, and I met with many trials
and many lessons at Eton. I had so much to do,
and so much amusement, that I began to shorten the
time I had been accustomed to set apart for prayer,
and consequently I began to lose many of the sup-
ports and comforts of our holy religion. Oh ! if we
did but feel that when we neglect prayer — ^if we did
but feel that the injury to ourselves is far greater
than the dishonor done to God! We are not re-
quired to pray merely because prayer is God's
appointed means by which we are to receive His
blessings; but because by prayer a wise and holy
sense of our dependence on the Lord is kept up, in
hearts naturally disposed to assert a senseless and
most fatal independence of Him ; and because prayer,
or communion with God, is the season when man is
admitted to an interview with God, and converses *
with God } when the child returns to his Father's arms.

64 THE RECORDS OF

and speaks to his Father's ear the wants and sorrows
of his heavy heart ; when the lost, wretched sinner
sees, with the eye of faith, the clouds and thick dark-
ness pass away fix>m the home he seek^ in vain with
the eye of mortal sight ; when he sees that home in
Heaven, and in the midst, as his blessed and holy
assurance, a Lamb as it had been slam.

Alas ! alas ! notwithstanding all the mstruction I
received, it was long before I could comprehend the
real use and comfort of prayer and other blessed
means of grace. It was not the teaching of man,
but of the Spirit, through the experience of my own
heart, that made these things plain to me, that brought
home and, as it were, applied the holy instruction of
my human teacher in religion, and made me exclaim,
as I do now, when I neglect prayer — " O Lord ! I
am the loser when I seek thee not. Thou losest
only the homage of a wretched sinner, but I am
losing the light of Heaven, the glory of Heavenly
converse, the most blessed privilege of the Christian's
life on earth."

My thoughts of Eton are always associated with
a scene or two that happened soon after my first
entrance there.

Among the boys on the foundation was one very
unlike the others, named Eden. He was very quiet
and humble, and seemed to possess an uncommon
share of sweetness of temper, at least whenever any
thing occurred to provoke his temper, for he was
extremely silent and reserved. Often, when he had
been teased and bantered till one would have thought

A GOOD mam's life. 65

his patience must have been worn out, he would
raise his mild gray eyes, and with a smile that was
evidently genuine, he would make some remark
which showed almost as much of " the wisdom of the
serpent, as of the harmlessness of the dove." One
afternoon, when I was leaning out an open window,
at my dame's, several of the boys came under the
window, and Pendarvis, who was one of them, called
out in a loud yet listless voice, " I say, old fellow !
old Singleton ! we are all tired of doing nothing, and
we want to go on the water, and we want you to
steer, for we are one too little. Will you come ?"
" I don't thmk I can," I replied, " I have so much
to prepare for to-morrow, and I have been leaning
here I know not how long in as lazy a humor as
yourselves. I dare say the water is delicious to day,
and I have half a mind to go, if I might have an
oar instead of being steersman." " You shall have
my oar if you'll come," said a good-humored smiling
boy of the name of Smith. " Only come down at
once," cried a great sleepy fellow called Bolter, who
stood leaning against the opposite wall, yawning
with his hands in his pockets ; ^^ come at once, and
don't stand boring there, for here comes Carter's boy
about the boat." "Can't have the boat! all the
boats are out!" said Bolter in reply to the boy,
(repeating the words of the message ;) " you be
hanged, sir ! but I will have the boat : tell your
father that." " But the boat, and all the boats are
out of sight by this time, and father can't make a
boat, sir." " Father shall, you dolt !" said the lazy

C6 TUE RECORDS OF

Bolter. " Come— off with you, you young dog, and
see that I have a boat ready in* ten minutes. I give
you ten minutes — d'ye hear? Don't stand staring
there, and be hanged te you ;" and the lad ran off,
for Bolter here threw his hat with great violence at
him. " No boat to-day," said Smith, laughing, and
giving Bolter his hat ; " we may go to the river, but
no boat." " I told you so," said Pendarvis, " but it's
Bolter's own fault ; he would stop cramming at the
new pastry-cook's." " Till he made himself sick with
stuffing," said Dampier, " and us sick with looking
on." " Come, come, Dampier ! don't you speak ! you
got through three sausage rolls, hot, reeking, greasy
sausage rolls, in no time," said the merry Smith.
" And you look sick, and are sick, you brute," said
Bolter, in a coarse, brutal voice. Bolter was the
biggest of the party, and the bully of the party ; of
course not the bravest, for bullies are never brave.
He had plenty of money, and was always willing to
pay more than any one else, so that he could lay
down the law on all occasions. " Ho ! Ho !" he
cried suddenly. "Now for %ome sport. Here
comes the man of meekness ! A rare animal, is he
not ?" As he spoke, Eden turned the comer, and
appeared in sight. " Ah ! my little Puritan, my real
Simon Pure ! my Longface ! can't you look up ?" and
he clapped his hand flat on the crown of Eden's
haj, and forced it down over his face. " I can look up
if you wish it," said the boy, pushing back his hat,
and looking good-humoredly at Bolter, " and I can
walk on if you'll let me, for I'm rather in a hurry."

A GOUD man's life. 67

" Singleton," said Bolter to me, "FU show you some
rare fun. You- have never seen the little Puritan
baited. Eden !" he cried out, (vulgariy winking his
eye at me as he spoke,) " what do you call yourself?"
Eden still smiled good-humoredly. " You know my
name, Bolter." " Yes, but another name ! Are you
a sinner, or a saint ?" " More of the first than the
last I fear." " You fear !" said Bolter, in his brutal
voice : ** you like to be called both. Now listen to
me, my friend, I say positively that I will thrash you !
— Now for the sport, Singleton." Here all the party
laughed aloud. " Eden, I have said FU thrash you,"
continued Bolter, in a voice of mock kindness and
smoothness ; " What am I to do ? — Am I to break my
word, and sin ? My word is pledged, and if I do not
thrash you, there will be a lie upon my soul. Well,
Mr. Cantwell, what am I to do?"

A glow of deep crimson dyed for a moment the
pale meek face of Eden, and he looked perplexed and
troubled : but in a short time, he replied gravely and
firmly, yet rather timidly, "I would rather bear
your thrashing than be the cause of your telling a
lie !" Here another shout of laughter burst from the
party, at least irom all but Pendarvis, who had seated
himself on a bench at some distance, and seemed en-
tirely occupied in reading a novel. " Well then, as
I must not break my word," said the bully ; " how
shall I begin ? I beg your pardon, Eden !" but he
spoke in a tone of the most heartless taunting. He
clutched the shoulder of the quiet little fellow with
his large coarse hand, and tripping him up, Eden fell

68 TBE RECORDS OF

to the ground. " This by way of beginning. We
don't call this thrashing, but flooring," said the brute,
and again he laid his hand upon the boy. ^^ You
great cowardly brute !" I shouted from the window,
" touch him again at your peril ; at any rate you
shall first prove yourself my master." I dropped
firom the window in a moment, it was not more than
six feet from the ground. " Now, sir !" I cried,
hoarse I believe with passion, " touch him, touch but
a hair of his head, at your peril !" and I stood before
Bolter in an attitude of defiance. With a sneer of pity-
ing scorn the bully surveyed me from head to foot,
and then aimed a blow with all his force. I warded
off the blow, and rushed in upon him, but he was
large and strong, and I weak and in a passion. The
fight, however, was stopped in less than a minute.
Pendarvis, with his book in his hand, calmly stepped
between us. " Hands off that boy, sir! at once," he
said. " What a mean bullying fellow you are. Bolter !
How can you attack a boy so much younger and
smaller than yourself ? O, don't look so grand, sir !"
he added, shooting out his under lip, and doubling his
fist. *' You know, sir, what this is ! Though I am
not quite so tall, or quite so old, or quite so bulky as
yourself, you have felt the force of this argument
more than once."

Biit here, to my astonishment, the quiet little
Eden came forward. " Come, come !" he said, in a
manly, cheerfiil voice, and his manliness surprised
me, *^ really I am punished now ! A thrashing would
have been better for me than all this angry quarrelling

A GOOD MAN S LIFE.

among friends ! Really, Singleton — ^Pendarvis — I'm
very sorry to see this, and I was not hurt, and if I am
so positive and strange in my ways, I must leam to
put up with many more troubles than I have met with
in my own person to-day. Come, Bolter, shake
bands with me, and Singleton and Pendarvis shake
hands with Bolter. Really he did not hurt me much.
This is such an old joke. Bolter, that I niust outwit
you the next time you say you'll thrash me. I sup-
pose it does look odd, and I do look very like a fool,
to stand still and be beaten ! Let me see ? I have
thought of a way. I now declare before all, and
make my promise first of all, that I will never stand
still to be beaten again. I say this before any one
has pledged his word to thrash me; and the next
time, as I don't fight, (I give out that I don't fight,)
the next time I shall do as I do now — ^be off as fast
as I can."

" That's a fine little fellow ! with all his religion,"
said Pendarvis. " One must respect him. I only
wish he was not so over-religious. Why could he
not stand out and fight as another would have done ?
I cannot endure a Methodist !"

" He is religious !" I replied ; " and he desired to
prevent Bolter from telling a lie on Christian princi-
ples ; but the world might also impute his conduct to
mere morality, or to a high sense of honor ; for it was
not for any religious observance that he stood so
meekly and so bravely ; but simply for truth, simply
to prevent a lie being told. A mere man of honor
might have done the same, (so on your own principles

70 TRB RECORDS OF

of honor he acted nobly,) but none but a Christian
could have shown so lowly a spirit, and so sweet a tem-
per." " Well, I wish he would fight when necessary,"
said Pendarvis ; " I don't want him to be a boaster
or a forward fighter, but merely to stand his ground,
and show some spirit." " He thinks it wrong to do
so," I replied ; " and though we may not imitate his
conduct, we must feel some respect to his principles."

Some days after, Pendarvis came to me, and
said, " Well, Singleton ! I've changed my mind about
Eden ; queer as he is, and mistaken as I still tliink
him in some points, he is no coward. I was coming
down the town to-day ,*liaving been all the morning
in the Park, when, at the top of a narrow lane, I saw
the end of a desperate fight between a gown-boy and
a town-boy ; I could not think who the gown-boy was,
his face being literally disguised with blood and
bruises : the little fellow, however, was the conqueror,
and as I ran down the lane, I saw, that utterly regard-
less of himself, he had turned round to bestow his
care and attention, on — what do you think ?— on the
little boy at my dame's, and on my dog ; the latter
was almost as disfigured with mud as his defender.

" The story, I found out, was this : a common one
enough, but 'uncommon as having such a meek fel-
low for its hero as Eden. He found the little foot-
boy at my dame's vainly pursuing a troop of town-
boys that had tied an old saucepan to poor Rover's
tail, and almost driven him mad. Eden met the
whole party, and he knew the dog, and caught him
up ; and Rover, though inclined to bite at first, soon

A GOOD man's life. 71

knew him. With some difficulty, he cut or untied
(no matter which he did) the string at Rover's tail.
He had scarcely done so, when some one from behind
pushed him over as he stooped, and another made a
dart to seize poor Rover. Eden, however, held the
dog fast, and rising up, he threw his gown over the
dog. ' Come,' he cried out, ' the dog can't help him-
self, and it's a shame to touch him : let hun alone,
there's good fellows !' He put his hand in his pocket,
and threw down all the money he had. There was
a scramble for the money, about two shillings ; but
when the scramble was over several came up, saying,
* Some money for us too, young gown, or we'll have
the dog.' ' I've given all I have,' said Eden, but he
searched his pocket again. Here one of the town-
boys pushed those that were nearest Eden, and they
came with some violence upon him, and Rover growl-
ed and got his head from under the gown, and began
to bark. ' It's no use going on this way any longer,'
said Eden, and (as the little foot-boy described it) he
stood as stout and as bold as a lion. * That dog shall
not be touched, while I can stand up to defend him.
I have done what I can by fair means ; if you want
to strike, strike me.' Several sprang forw ard. ' No,
no,' said Eden, calmly, * one at a time ; fair play, if
you please !' and, * Very well ! fair play ! one at a
time !' was the general cry. Eden gave Rover to
the foot-boy ; he stood prepared for the attack, but de-
termined not to give the first blow. However, the
fight began, and the brave little fellow, as I told you
before, was the conqueror. There was some more

\

72 THE RECORDS OF

fighting when I came up, but G , (one of the

masters,) passing at that time, peace was restored.

G is a fine fellow, for though he set us both a

long imposition as soon as he spoke to us, when he
came to hear the rights of the story fix)m a woman that
stood there, he changed his mind, and he has invited
us both to bis house this evening."

Notwithstanding the account of Eden's valor, I
cannot say that I quite made up my mind to like his
standing still to be beaten, but 1 have been relating a
simple fact,* and now I am an old man, and have
seen through the whole course of Eden's useful, hum-
ble, holy life, from the time I became his schoolfellow
until the day I followed his corpse to the grave, and I
can bear my testimony to the consistent and manly
character he bore among all who knew him. He was
the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.
He had been the object of her prayers, and her anx-
ious, watchful care, from his birth. It might- have
been said of him as it was of the youthful Timothy —
" The unfeigned faith that is in thee, dwelt first in thy
mother Eunice," and " from a child thou hast known
the holy Scriptures, which are able to make thee wise
unto salvation, through faith which is in Chrkt
Jesus."

I must here insert a letter I received from my
other godfather, Mr. Shirley, while at Eton, and I
may £ts well put before it a former letter written to

* The fact was related of the late Rev. A a G ^n when at

school.

A GOOD man's life, 73

me not long before my mother's death. I have not
yet spoken of Mr. Shirley, for I had not seen him since
I was an unconscious infant. He had not forgotten,
however, tq think of me and to pmy for me.

My dear LlTTLfi FlUEND I

I call you my friend, because I was the friend of
your dear father and mother before you were bom, and
because I have loved you from my heart ever since
your birth. I must, however, tell you another reason
why I look upon you as my beloved friend, a reason
you are as well acquainted with. You are my god-
son ; you have been the child of my prayers since I
began to look upon myself as your godfather. I hope
very often to write fo you, and to receive letters from
you ; but I cannot better begin my conversations with
you by letter, than by explaining to you what is
meant by being a godson or goddaughter, and a god-
father. I hope you will pay attention to what I am
going to say, because I don't wish to write any thin^
dull. Still serious subjects are not play, and we
ought to attend quietly and seriously 16 them without
gloom ; , besides, our common sense will tell us that it
is silly to talk of names (such, for instance, as god-
father and godson), without knowing the meaning of
those names. A child loves by nature to have his
own will, yet that will is not God's will, btit inclined
to what is bad ; that is, " we are by nature bom in
sin." If this natural will be not changed and cor-
rected it will make us very unhappy, and bring down
upon qs the anger of God, therefore we are also call-

4

74 THE RECORDS OF

t

ed by nature, " the children of wrath." This being
the case, Gon wishes to make us good and happy
and to save us from punishment, and He expects pa-
rents to bring their Uttie children to Him to be bap- '
tized in the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holt Ghost. At this baptism. He en-
ters into a covenant or sacred agreement with them,
and promises to give them help in their hearts to con-
quer their infill and stubborn will, and to be as dear
children to Him.

The Lord also requires the little child to enter
into this covenant, and to promise to renounce or give
up every kind of wickedness ; and to believe God's
holy and beautiful book, the Bible, which is full of
sweet instruction, and to keep God's holy will and
commandments, and to live accordmg to the same all
the days of his life. Now you must be convinced
that no little baby can make all these promises, for a
baby cannot speak or scarcely notice any thing.
What is to be done then? for the child is to be
brought to God, and made good and happy, and to
be saved from punishment. The baby is brought —
you were brought to God— offered up to Him by
your father and your mother in God's sacred house,
and your godfathers and godmothers (as you were a
little helpless baby) took upon themselves to make
these promises for you, not doubting, but when you
were able to understand what they had done for you,
you would seek to be no longer the child of sin and
wrath, but thexjhild of God, a member of Christ,
and an inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven,

A €OOD man's life. 75

However, I have written enough for one letter.
I will tell you in my next what I mean by that last
sentence, which you will find in the Church Cate-
chism, particularly what I mean by the words, " a
member of Christ."

Don't rub your eyes, dear little Ernest, and say
" Oh, how very serious my godfather is." No, no,
you shall often find me very gay ; but this is a seri-
ous letter ; it comes also fix)m a heart that loves you
too well not to try to seek your real happiness ; be-
sides the letter is over at last. May God bless His
child, and my godchild.

Your afiectionate godfather,

William Shirley.

The next letter and one or two others are not
published, because the subject of them would be a
needless repetition of what has been already given in
the papers of Mr. Singleton. — Ed.

Mr. Shirley was a clergyman. He had been
tutor to my father, and to my uncle and other god-
father. Colonel Nugent, when at college, and was
married rather late in life to a cousin of my father's,
not many years younger than himself. Mrs. Shirley
was my godmother, and had been much respected
and beloved by my mother, though after the Shirleys'
marriage and removal to their parsonage in Suflfolk
they had seldom met.

The Christian instruction I received fit)m Colonel
Nugent was chiefly in conversation, and fit>m books

76 THE RFXORD9 OF

that be lent me to read : from Mr. and Mrs. Shirley
I received many letters at different times. Here is
another of them.

Mt 0KAR Ernest :

If a large estate had been left you. and cofl^rs fiill
of gold and jewels ; and if your father^ who left them^
had been a nobleman of die highest rank, whose titles
descended on his death to his son ; and if I had been
left his executor^ and your guardian — ^what would
you expect of me ? Should you diink me justified in
keeping back fiom you the knowledge of your de-
scent and calling, and reftising to employ so much of
your property as the law might allow and deem suffi-
cient for your education, in order that you might be
enabled to move with crecfit in that sphere to which
you belonged ? What would your feelings be, when
on coming to years of discretion you began to reflect
on my unwarranted conduct towards you, when you
saw before you the splendid assemblage of riches and
honors, your high inheritance, and felt yourself by
education and habit totally unfit to take possession
of them?

But what are earthly titles, or riches, or any such
extinction among men ? They are but for a time,'
the short time of a human life ; they enter not the
invisible and eternal world with the departing spirit ;
they enter not the coffin with the stark corrupting
corpse. There is a higher inheritance than that of
any earthly kingdom for the toiling laborer, nay, even

A «ooD man's life. 77

for the wayside beggar, if they are the children of
God. My, claim, therefcMre, upon you, my dear
Ernest, is of so far higher importance than that of
any guardian to an earthly great man, for your in^
heritance is described in God's holy Scriptures, as
(me that is '^ incorruptible, and undefiled, and that
fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you."*

The earthly father takes it lor granted that his
child would wish to inherit his titles and his property.
He has not a doubt an the subject, and it fcdlows as
a thing of course that his child is brou^t up to enter
upon the possession of the inheritance by the ap-
pomted guardians of that child. "We never heard of
a young nobleman who had become during his
minority well-bred, ,well-educated, and highly ac-
complished, tummg upon his guardian, and saying,
'^ I did not need the care that you have taken of me,
nor the education you have given me "«^nor does he
refuse to receive all that he considers he has a just
claim to on his fiither's account.

I take it for granted, my Ernest, that if you pos-
sess a just sense of the high importance of the great
and glorious things that are m reserve for such as love
Jesus Christ in sincerity, you will heartily thank
me for using all means in my power to induce you to
enjoy them. There is, alas ! this difference between
the heir of an earthly and a heavenly inheritance :
the former is naturally disposed to claim, to delight
in, and to secure his inheritance ; the latter is naturally

• IPeteri. 4.

78- TBm RBCORDS Of

indisposed to claim, to delight in, and to secure his
inheritance. The interest b the same in both cases,
but the heir sees his interest in one case, and in the
other case the heir is blind, careless, and insensible.
Here it is that, finding our own want of will and
power, we need the grace, or favor and help of Goi>,
firom whom all holy desires, and all just works do
proceed, to supply our need. Pray to Him, my
Ernest, pray fiom your heart, pray in the name of
the only living " Way " to the Father, and I do not
fear your prayers will be answered by His blessing.
Your affectionate friend and godfather,

William Shirlkt.

I have but a poor account to give of myself about
the time I went up to the University. As I began
to neglect walking near my God, religion began to
lose its charms to me. I never openly forsook the
faith I professed, but I began to know it rather by
its restraints, and consequently the temptations of the
world, of sight, and sense, began to be looked upon
and listened to. When self also was more frequently
studied, and the means of gratifying self without risk,
the object of my highest love was in a manner de-
throned from my heart. My inquiry too often was,
'^ How far can I indulge m this or that selfish and
earthly gratification without offending God, and dis-
gracing the profession I make ?" instead of seeking
with all my heart to know His pleasure, and find all
true delight in Him ; and while I continued in this

A GOOD man's life. 79

state, some dark and fearful temptation to ungodliness
of living and unbelief of heart would contmually arise
within me. All this time did I give dp the show of
religion ? — quite the contrary. I was at times shocked
and displeased at the want of religion in others. Lisa
I could not find fault with, but I used to lecture Char-
ley, and became remarkably quicksighted to the faults of
olliers, m proportion as I neglected to look into my own.

The renewal of my baptismal engagement I did
not neglect, but it became, alas ! little better than a
mere form at that time with me. While at school, I
was seldom able to read the words of the engagement
with my brother and sister, according to my promise ;
but I generally wrote to Lisa on the sulgect, and
sometimes added a few lines to Charley. I knew
also that my aunt Lucy, who was Lisa's godmother,
was accustomed to observe the stated times of con-
sidering and renewing their baptismal promises with
them. Alas ! I well know by experience what a
dangerous state we are in when we are well satisfied
with ourselves, and have an observant eye for the im-
perfections of others.

Sometimes I received a letter firom Mr. Shirley,
full of advice and holy instruction, or containmg a
string of catechetical questions. I did not find much
difficulty m writing to film on these questions, which
were remarkably plain and simple.

I was not, however, inclined to be benefited by the
remonstrances and counsels of my revered and Chris-
tian firiend ; and if I gave heed to him for a time, I soon
turned again to my foolish ways. I have since thought

80 THB BSCQRDV OF

that it might have been said of me at that time, ^ He
that observes lying vanities forsaketh his own mercy.'

The following is an extract from a letter I re^
ceived from him just before I attended at the sacred
ordinance of Confirmation. I was not confirmed till
I was eighteen years of age.

" Consider very seriously in what you ar^ about
to be confirmed, my dear &nest.

" Are you making a lukewarm, formal, self-satis-
fied profession ? and do you go to confirm yourself as
in the presence of God, and the Church of Christ
in such a profession ? Are you as on^ that hath put
his hand to the plough, and turned back, apd 4o you
go to confirm youn^lf 'm so wretched 4 service ? In
short, do you wish tp be confiornjed in any vaiA, fool-
ish, or sinfiil way ? Wqw is the ^w^ to think upon
these things.

" Do you, on th^ other hand, gp to confirm and
strengthen a sincere, but feeble faith ; to confirm your
own utter weakness, in the strength of Qop ? He
assures us it is made perfect in our weakness. When
we feel that weakness, when we feel assured that
without Christ we can do nothing^ then we ' can do
all things through Christ which itrengthenetfa ' us.
If it be thus with you, go, and 'lift up th^ hands
which hang down, and the feeble knees.'

" The promises made for you, by your sponsors,
you have been bound to observe ever since you have
been enabled to know right firom wrong. It is not
attending the rite of confirmation that fiist imposes
them on yo^, nor are your sins in any way laid

A GOOD man's life. 81

upon your sponsors. There is a deep responsibility
attached to their office ; but if their counsels are af-
fectionately given to you, and their prayers heartily
and constantly offered for you, they have perhaps
done their part in a sincere, though imperfect way.
Ck>nsider those promises, ^ Dost thou renounce the
devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of
this world, with all covetous desires of the same, and
the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not fol-
low, nor be led by them ? Dost thou steadfastly be-
lieve all the articles of the Christian faith, and if thou
dost believe, wilt thou then obediently keep God's
holy will and commandments, and walk in the same
all the days of thy life 7' The sponsor makes these
promises, but only in the name q]f the child. They
are really questions put to you. I'll tell you what I
feel whenever I see these solemn questions : I feel I
have no power to answer them satbfact(^y. Who
is sufficient for these things ? I am sure I am not.
I need the Holt Spirit to work in me both to will
and to do, according to God's good pleasure. Have
I received that Holt Spirit ? I know this, that if I
have not I have never been enabled to keep those
promises. Has baptism been to me the sign and seal
of that power, that new, supernatural, spiritual power
m the heart ? I trust it has ; for if I have in any
way kept my engagements^! have done so by no'
natural powers of my own. I would have you ask
yourself these questions, and find out what reply you
can make to them. If you put in any claim to the
benefits and privileges of the covenant, you must be

82 THE RECORDS OP

bound by the holy vows of the covenant. Are you
a perjured person with respect to those vows ; the
vows of a humble, holy, confiding faith ? You must
answer to this."

Agam, he says, " Give much holy meditation to
these words, which you have no doubt often heard in
the fine form of prayer that we offered for you,
when you were brought a little wailing baby to be
baptized : ' O merciful God, grant that the old Adam
in this child may be so buried, that the new man may
be raised up in him. Grant that all carnal affections
may die in him, and that all things belonging to the
Spirit may live and grow in him. Grant that he
may have power and strength to have victory, and to
triumph against the devil, the world, and the flesh.
Grant that whosoever is here dedicated to thee by our
office and ministry, may also be endued with heavenly
yirtues, and everlastingly rewarded, through thy mer-
cy, O blessed Lord God, who dost live and govern
ail things, world without end.' ^ Common-place ex-
pressions !' you may say, if you are well acquainted
with the Baptismal Service. * Inspiriting ! glorious
expressions!' I call them. Examine yourself by
them. Do they describe, do they apply to the life
you have been leading ? * No,' you will answer,
* they humble, they abash me.' 'Tis fit they should
abash and confound every son of man. But do you
aim, strive, pray, that the prayer may be accomplish-
ed in you, if but in some faint degree ? May I not
thank God that * to will is present with you?' "

In another letter he says, " Confirmation is the

▲ GOOD man's life. ' 83

solemn ratification, by the understanding youth, of the
vows and the professions made by the unconscious
infant. If the Christian hopes that he is receiving
any benefit fi'om the covenant of infant baptism, or, if
you please, firom being dedicated to the Lord fix)m
his earliest years, before his faculties were capable of
knowing the privileges of that divine ordinance, it is
indispensably to be required, that he should, so soon
as he has come to years of discretion, declare,^before ^
his God and his fellow-men, that his infant profession
has his full consent, his hearty approval ; and, indeed,
that he does acknowledge it with gratitude. He
comes forward, therefore, in public, to make his public
profession (fiiUy understanding what he is about) of
that engagement made by him when he was too young
to comprehend it. He comes not to any new pro-
fession, but to confirm the profession madQ before, in
one sense, without his consent ; not because he would
not, but only because he could not, by reason of his
tender age, declare it then. You are about to pre-
sent yourself before the Lord, making this glorious
claim upon him, — * Lord, I am Thine 1 Thine, not be-
cause I have sought Thee, not because I am worthy,
but because Thou hast sought me, died for me, freely
and graciously invited me by Thy Gospel, and called
me to a state of salvation. Thme, because Thy
vows are upon me ; because from my early childhood
I have been dedicated to Thee, and though already a
deserter from thy service, already a prodigal, a traitor
and abuser of Thy gifts, I would return with the help of
Thy Spirit, and renew the vows 1 have so little heeded.

84 TBS Hecords or

" < I am Thinel can I dare to say so much ? Ah
LoBD ! I speak it with trembling ; when I look to
myself, with trembling, laint, feeble, dismayed — when
I look to thee, with boldness ; for He b faithfiil that
hath promised. It b His gracious privilege to pardon
abundantly, to save to the uttermost. Not in fear,
but in fiiith, will I approach thee«' "

I had been advised by my kind friend and coun-
sellor, Mr. Lovel, to keep one object m view during
the whole of my residence at the university, namely,
that I went there to prepare myself, with God's grace,
for the humble office of a country clergyman. ^^ I
would have you,'' he said to me, '^ pay all due atten-^
tion to the studies of the place, and endeavor to pass
through the examinations there with credit ; and,
were you to aim at becoming a Tutor, or merely a
Fellow of any college, it might be desirable for you to
seek the highest honors of the place, for Tutors and
Fellows are generally required to direct the studies
and discipline of the university. But your future
sphere of action is to be perhaps in some quiet un-
known country parish, among busy, hard-^working,
worldly men — you are, as God's minister, to show
unto them the corruption of their hearts, the smiulness
of their lives, the value of their immortal souls — the
deep and awful responsibility of all men, more espe-*
cially of professed Christians — ^the fearful condemna->
tion hangbg over them ; and above all, the free grace
and tender mercy of the eternal Godhead in the Gos-

▲ GOOD man's life. 65

pel — a Father waiting to be gracious, a Saviour and
Mediator dymg on the earth for the ungodly, and
ever living in Heaven to make intercession ; and a
sanctifier and comforter in the Holy Spirit, the great
gift to man in the New Covenant of grace. In short,
you are to preach * a full Gospel to empty sinners,'
you are to preach, ' as a dying man to dying men.*
—Alas," he continued, " when we think of this,
must we not regret, with a celebrated writer,* * that so
many men become preachers before they are Chris-
tians, who are sanctified by dedication to the altar as
the priests of God, before they are sanctified by hearty
dedication as the disciples of Christ ; and so they
worship an unknown God, and preach an unknown
Christ, and pray through an unknown Spirit, and
recommend a state of holiness and communion with
God, and a glory and happiness that are all unknown^
He is like to be but a heartless preacher, that hath
not the Christ and grace that he preacheth in his
heartj;' and he continues, ' O that our students in our
universities would well consider this ! What a poor
business it is to themselves to spend their time in
acquiring some little knowledge of the works of God,
and of some of those names which the divided tongues
of the nations have imposed on them, and not to know
God himself, nor to be acquainted with that one re-
newing work that should make them happy ! They
do but walk in a vain show, and spend their lives like
dreaming men, while they busy their wits and tongues

* See • Baxter*!* Reformed Pastor.'

88 THB rkcords of

about abundance of names and notions, and are stran-
gers to God and the life of saints.' "

Alas ! it grieves me to consider how much ad-
vice I received during my youth, given in the very
spirit of holy wisdom and holy love, and to look back
and observe how little has been like good seed in an
honest heart. I see but the gleanings of the vintage.

I received a lesson which I could never, never
forget, firom attending, while at college, the close of
the life of one of the finest scholars there. How I
bless God that he has enabled me sometimes to profit
by such lessons, and not suffered me to harden my
heart against them ; for I have often seen that, if a
warning is neglected or unimproved, the next and the
next that come find the heart less and less disposed to
profit by them. When the gracious rain falls upon a
rock but thinly covered over with earth, the effect of
every successive shower is, not to fertilize, but to
harden ; for every shower that falls with a blessed in-
fluence upon a soft and genial soil, is only received to
wash away the thin surface of mould, till at last that
slight surface is quite gone and the rain falls upon the
bare hard rock ? or, according to the apostle's awfiiUy
striking remark, " The earth which drinketh in the
rain that cometh oft upon it, and bringeth forth herbs
meet for them by whom it is dressed, receiveth bless-
ing from God ; but that which beareth thorns and
briers (after the same sweet showers of rain) is reject-
ed, and is nigh unto cursing ; whose end is to be
burned."

Sutherland was in point of intellect one of the

A GOOD man's life. 87

most superior bemgs I have ever met with. His whole
career at college was one of splendid success. He had
given himself with the ardor of youthful genius to the
studies of the place, and with eager delight his mind
seemed to banquet on the accumulated stores of ages.
With all the quiet unwearied devotion of a real enthu-
siast, he said little, but scarcely ever turned away
from his beloved pursuit.

Now and then, for an hour or two, yet very sel-
dom, he would leave his books and come among the
few he distinguished with his friendship, with the fresh
simple manners of a child. Sutherland was indeed
a rare instance of genius and application united.
Young as he was in years, he had discovered that
nothmg is to be done to any good purpose without
trouble and exertion. He seemed to remember at all
times the saying of Newton, " that he owed almost
every thing to quiet, patient thought, antl unwearied
diligence."

The second year of my residence at Cambridge I
staid in college during the Christmas vacation. Suth-
erland was also in college preparatory to the examin-
ation for degrees, which takes place at the latter end
of that vacation. Our rooms were on the same stair-
case, and we met every evening as the clock struck
nine, generally in my rooms, to drink tea together :
sometimes he would linger a little while after the
time that he allowed himself, but generally at half-
past ten he started up and returned to his books. I
must own that at first I made u|^ of every mnocent
stratagem to cheat him of a longer time, not merely

88 THE RECORDS OF

/

for the sake of hb delightful conversation, but because
I saw, with deep concern, that his health was secretly-
giving way beneath his severe and constant studies.
I often left a volume of poetry open upon the table,
for I knew that he would seize upon it ; or I pro-
duced a portfolio of engravings, or I turned at times to
any subject that I thought likely to interest him.
Once I even put back the hands of the little clock
that stood on my book-case. However, I soon gave
up endeavoring to detain him beyond his allotted time,
for I dbcovered that he was regularly accustomed to
pay back the portion of time I had caused him to
lose, by taking it out of the few hours he gave to
sleep.

There are always several private examinations at
Trinity College, before the under-graduates go into
the Senate House to be examined for their degrees.
At one of these, Sutherland fell from his seat in a kind
of fainting-fit, and was carried senseless to his rooms.
I was crossing Neville's Court as they bore him along,
and went with them to his rooms. I determined at
once to remain with him as his nurse, and was not a
little gratified when I saw the smile with which he
looked on me when he unclosed his eyes. Some
medical men of eminence had been summoned.
They held a consultation on his case, and it was at
once agreed that he must give up all idea of entering
the Senate House, or undergoing any examination
whatever.

" I suppose," he said, smiling, " I should at once
forfeit all claim to good sense were I to dispute your '

A eOOD MAN S LIFB.

orders ; and I will therefore submit with as good a
grace as^possible, if I must submit. Only just till the
Senate House week is over," he continued, implor-
ingly turning to Dr. P , who was looking down

on hira with a countenance fall of compassion ; " will
you not give me leave till then ?" " Not a day, not an
hour longer,'' said the old physician. << I tell you what,
my dear fellow, I dare not give you leave, unless you
would have me huny you to your grave." " Well,
then, I will say no more about it," he replied, " and I
wilt try to forget mathematics altogether for the pres-
ent. I have had no rest fix)m them all night long for
many nights. Instead of sinking to sleep I have gen-
erally found myself wide awake, and deep in the
mazes of some problem or other." " You must not

talk now," said Dr. P ; "but to get rid of the

haunting presence of which you complain we shall
send you a composing draught for to-night. You are
Mr. Sutherland's friend, sir," he said with alow voice,
turning to me ; " will you see that he has a nurse to
sit up with him to-night ?" I sat up with Sutherland
myself, and he did not wake during the whole night ;
his sleep, however, was heavy and troubled, and he
awoke but little refreshed. He continued in a doubt-
ful ystate of health far many days, and his case seemed
to perplex the doctors.

At last, when I followed Dr. P out, after

(me of his visits, he said to me, " I am afraid, Mr.
Smgleton, that your friend is in a very dangerous
state. Yoii see his amendment makes no progress,
and all the while he is losing strength. I suspect

90 , THE RBCORDII OP

that the disorder is gaining secretly upon us, and
whatever it may be, will come on speedily in a short
time, and then he will sink under it. I frankly con-
fess to you that we are much perplexed, for his symp-
toms are at times most contradictory. The only
conclusion we have come to is, that the disease is
some internal derangement of the vital organs, brought
on by confinement and very sedentary habits. Still
this is, after all, but a mere supposition. I would
have you write to some of his relations, for really, sir,
we may have but little time to spare."

"What can make you look so grave, my dear
Singleton ?" said Sutherland. " I have been watch-
ing your countenance for the last five minutes. You
have heard some bad news, I fear."

Sutherland was lying on the sofa, and I thought
had been asleep when I returned to the room, his
eyes being then closed. " Has any thing happened
to you ?" he continued. I was still silent. " No, in-
deed, nothing," I replied, scarcely knowing what I
said, for I was very wretched. " Ah, it is about me
that you look so mberable, is it not. Singleton ? And

now I remember, you went out with Dr. P ,

Come, my kind fiiend, (and he held out his hand to
me,) what is the matter ? tell me what he said of me
— or shall I tell you what he said ? I can guess per-
haps ; indeed, I am even a better judge than himself
in this case, for, to tell you the truth, the agonies that
I suffer at times are indescribable. He thinks I may
recover, but that in all human probability I shall die.
Now I hope I may recover, I long to live, but though

A GOOD man's life. Ol

I cannot give myself up, I feel convinced, in the judg-
ment of my sober sense, I shall not live many
weeks.'*

I felt consoled as he went on speaking in so calm
and resigned a manner, but his words pierced to my
heart as he looked me in the face and said, m a voice
of deep melancholy, " Singleton, I am not prepared
to die. It is not the death of this body of mine I am
thinking about. I am not frightened about any thing
that can happen to it ; nothing can be much worse
than the pain I suffer in it. But I have been wasting
youth, strength, and time, for what ? for that which
appears to me now only too like the fruit of the tree
of knowledge— as wretchedly unsatisfying. God
grant it may not prove as fatal, as deadly to me — or
I should say, God grant in His infinite mercy, for the
sake of One whose amazing love, whose inestimable
sacrifice I have never valued till now, God grant that
I may have time."

I was deligl^ted to hear Sutherland speak in this
manner, for only the day before a kind-hearted man,
but one of mere worldly views, had been talking to
him in a very difierent strain. I was still more de-
lighted when he added, " I think I can depend on
you. Singleton, to help me to make the best use of
the time that is left. You will not speak to me as

Mr. D did yesterday. I do not want to be

complimented on the proper use I have made of time,
for I have not been wise for eternity."

There had not been a doubt that Sutherland
would have been Senior Wrangler had his health per-

M TBB RKCOBDt OF

mined him to undergo the examinadon; and Mr.

D 9 who was one of the moderators^ had called

upon him to say so, thinking that praise and commen-
dation would cheer him on his Sick bed.

*^ Perhaps I had better not talk any more at pres-
ent/' he said soon after, ^^ but you will read to me."
I rose up at once, and went to the book-case. What
book ? I asked, turning towards him. " The Bible/*
he replied at once, '^ no other book. I've had enough
of other books. I never knew the worth of that bless-
ed volume till now." I read to him at his desire,

and was reading when Mr. N entered the room :

he was a fellow of our college, and a man well in-
structed in Scripture. He was a very holy person,
and full of love to the souls of men. He had heard
of Sutherland's illness. Though slightly acquainted
with him he came to his sick-room. ^' I am very ill,
sir," said Sutherland, "and deplorably ignorant."
As he spoke, the crimson color mounted even to his
forehead. " Will you speak to me, my dear sir, as
you would speak to an ignorant child and to an un-
happy sinner. Deal faithfiilly with me, probe deeply.
You shall see how gratefully and how anxiously I
will receive your instructions." The healthful spirit
of God's grace and the continual dew of His blessing
seemed to go along with every word he uttered, and
in a short time the progress of my friend in the know-
ledge and love of Ae divine life was astonishing.

One Saturday, when I had quitted his rooms for a
few minutes, I found Sutherland on my return, not
■ where I had left him, lying as usual on the sofa, but

A GOOD MAN'iB LIFB. 93

standing against one of the muUioned windows, and
gazing upon the troops of students in their white sur-
plices, who were flocking across the court in their
way to the chapel. To my astonishment, Sutherland
was also in his surplice, but before I could speak, he
said, with a quiet smile, " Now, I dare say you have
a host of objections to urge ; but mdulge me, and let
me go to chapel to-night. I know I am very ill, apd
I know you might say I am not strong enough to go,
but I have set my heart on gomg : the night is mild
and pleasant, and I feel I shall be all the better for
going. How often have I hurried thither half unwill-
ingly as a task ; but since I have been confined to
these rooms- and unable to go, I have learned to feel
that I have been all the while slighting a high privi-
lege. It is, perhaps, the last time," he continued,
**and I wish once more to be with my fellow-students,
and to pray for them and for myself in the house of
prayer, and in the house of God." " Listen," he
said; and he threw open the casement: "what a
grand, solemn swell fix>m that magnificent organ.
Come, Smgleton ; we shall be too late if we do not
go immediately." He took my arm, and I did not
oppose his wishes. Once or twice, during divine
service, when I looked round at him, I saw the large
tears stealing down his face. He was unable to kneel,
but his thin hands were clasped together. Even in
every pause of the service, he seemed intently occu-
pied in prayer.

We lingered in the antechapel till the crowd was

94 THR RECORDS OF

gone, and while the chapel-clerk was putting out the
tapers in the chapel, Sutherland went and sat at a.
little distance firom the splendid statue of Sir Isaac
Newton. The ghost-like whiteness of the statue
stood out clear and distinct in the moonlight, and the
same soft light fell partially on the upraised counte-
nance of Sutherland, and the loose and flowing folds of
his surplice. His shining eyes were turned towards the
statue, and he seemed in deep thought. " I have been
thinking," he said, " that this (pointing to the statue)
" has been rather the god of my devotion, or I may say
of my idolatry, since my coming hither, than the eter-
nal Being to whom this house of prayer is consecrated."
Then, after a pause, he continued ; " The spirit that
possessed me lately would have made me lament, when
takmg my last look of this glorious statue, that sickness
was carrying me to an untimely grave, and that I should
die unknown and unnoticed, and be soon forgotten ;
but God has been very mercifiil, and given me a
better spirit, a spirit of content — ^may I not hope, that
sweet spirit of adoption of which you say the old
fathers of the Church of England often speak. I have
no such desponding feelings now. I lament no long-
er that I am forbidden to be distinguished, m this
world. There was not in me the humble mind of
the good and great man whose statue is before us.
Do not think, dear Singleton, that I would depreci-
ate the mighty efforts of genius, that I underrate the
wisdom of man ; but I had long forgotten the foun-
tain of all true wisdom. I had been satisfied with

A GOOD uan'h lifs. 95

the streams. Now, my friend, I thirst for that foun-
tain, the spring-head not only of wisdom^ but of hap-
pmess and life."

" My friend," he said that night, drawing aside
the curtain of his bed, an4 looking me in the face,
" I see clearly how the vilest sinner may be forgiv-
en !" I had been reading aloud to him the fifth of
Romans, that chapter in the glorious Epistle where
the remarkable assurance recurs so forcibly, ' when
we were yet without strength, in due time Christ
died for the ungodly.' Again, *God commendeth
his love towards us, in that while we were yet sin-
ners Christ died for us ;' and yet again, * If when
we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the
death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we
shall be saved by his life.'

" He will not surely turn from any one who is wil-
ling," said Sutherland ; " our utter destitution with-
out Christ, is a moving claim : 1l)ut am I willing ?
If I might trust to my feelings I should say, * As the
hart panteth for the water-brooks, so longeth my
soul after God— my soul is athirst for God ;' but is
this feeling of willingness to be depended on ?" he
added, for he was ever ready to question his own
heart, and to go deep into himself.

I only answered, ^^I think God has given you
the willingness in the day of his power." " Still,"
he added, with the simple look and manner of a
child, "I will not cease to pray that I may not build

96 THE BBCORDfl OP

on any false confidence, that the word of 6oi>, and
not any frames and feelings of my own, may be my
support." " And remember this, dear Sutheriand," I
continued, " that although we are expressly told — r
< No man can say that Jesus is the Lord but by the
Holt Ghost,' and that ^no man can come unto
Christ except the Father draw him,' yet the power
and sovereignty of God to save sinners never inter-
feres with His willingness. * What man is there
among you,' are the gracious words of Jesus himself,
' whom, if las son ask bread, will he give him a stone ?
and if men, being evil, know how to give good gifts
unto their children, how much more will my Heav-
enly Father give his Holy Spirit unto them that ask
Him.'"

The mother of Sutherland and his only brother
arrived at Cambridge about a week before be depart-
ed. They had a long journey to make to the west-
em highlands of Scotland, and the heavy snow of that
winter, 17**, detained them several days on the road.
I was with them all at the last. " Walter," he said,
turning to his brother, who was a lad of fifteen at the
time, ** you are very fond of books ; almost as fond as I
have been ; but my dear Walter, don't follow my exam-
ple in opening all other books but the Bible. I put it
off for a long while ; and it is only through the amazing
love of Him who so loved the world that He gave his
only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish but have everlasting life — ^it is only
on that account I am now able to rejoice. Take
that Bible, my Walter, as my last gift ; make it your

A <}eoD man's li^. 97

chief study, nay, < Let the word of Ci^MsiiuiaBttfiHdi
you richly in all wisdom.' — Mother, dear, dear mo-
ther,^' he said, '< may I rest my head on your bosom,
and there fall asdeep— not to sleep either,'' he added
with a iaint smile, *^ but to wake up in light and life.
I entreat you," he said, fixing his dim eyes on her
face, ^' not to mourn over me as dead, but as gone
a little before yourself to join our dear father. You
both took such care to teach me when a child, and
the seed has sprung up within the last week or two."
He diut his eyes, and r^nained irilent a short time.
Then again he spoke, " * Peace I leave with you ;
my peace I give unto you, not as the world giveth
give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled,
neither let it be afraid!' My own mother, I feel
the truth of this. The divine C<»nforter is with me
now. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ — " he
paused, and seemed to answer to himself — ^^ Yes ! —
the love of God— -God my Heavenly Father ? — Yes !
The fellowship of the Holt Spirit ? — Yes ! God
also will comfort you, my mother, my brother, my
friend ;" and he put out his hand to me— ^'my kind
and faithful friend ! Mother," and he gently turned
his head as a child when going to sleep, *' he fulfils
to me that promise—^ As one whom his mother com-
fortetfa, so will I comfort you.' " He did not speak
again.

The departure of Sutherland to the unseen wwld

had, as I have said, some effect on me. I should

have been strangely insensible had it not. It spoke

to my feelings, to my senses, to my imagination. I

5

96 THE RECORDS OT.

^as deeply impressed for a time. Still I do not
know that the Spirit of God spoke to me in that
event, more than m the ordinary mercies and warn-
ings of my life. I often see that the case of Elijah
is illustrated in God's dealings with the professors of
His religion. God is not in the whirlwind, nor in the
flame of fire, ncnr in the earthquake. He comes in
the still small voice. I do not date the change that
took place in my views, and, I trust, in myself, to
the time I sat by the bed-side of my dying fiiend, or
stood over Ins open grave at the foot of that statue
where he had spoken to me of the vanity of earthly
wisdom* I was becoming as cold and callous as
ever, with the same outward reverence for the faith I
profei^ed, when one evening, at a late hour, I knelt
down to my evening prayers in d small inner cham-
ber which I used as a study, beyond my sitting-room.
All the doors around me were closed, and a profound
stillness prevailed on every side. Nothing unusual
had occurred for several weeks. I was, as I had
been for a length of time before, rather careless and
unconcerned when kneeling down ; still I was kneel-
ing, with my Bible open before me, and I was seek-
mg with words and thoughts, though not with the
desire of a broken and a contrite heart, to be heard.
After a little while, my thoughts took a different di-
rection from my words. I was not praying with a
written form, but according to an arranged form,
which I had gradually made a dead form. I soon
discovered that my heart was occupied with a mere
worldly subject, and, vexed and displeased with my-

A GOOD man's life. 09

6elf> I endeavored to address myself in truth to the
Lord. This had often happened to me before, but I
had so often gone back to my usual state of self-ap-
proval. This evenbg I could not. I burst into
tears : a deep sense of the forbearance and love of
Him whom I had so often slighted, rushed over my
whole soul. I felt hopelessly wretched, and without
comfort, yet in a more softened state. I did not rise
from my knees; but I found neither thoughts nor
words for prayer ; I could only lay my head on my
clasped hands and weep. Gradually, one event after
another, in the whole course of what seemed to me a
long life, rose up tO my recollection and considera-
tion. I was again with my father and my mother,
lookbg up in their faces, listenmg to their words. I
remembered, particularly, one evening when I had
been spoken to seriously by my dear mother, after
behaving very ill : I had made many promises and
professions that same morning. ^^ This is the fiiiit,"
she said, " of your ready promises, of your boastftil
resolutions this mommg. I warned you, Ernest, but
I saw that you thought yourself very wise and very-
safe. You seemed to thmk that you had only to declare
your intention of amendment, and that your amendment
would follow of course. You have yet to learn, that of
yourself you can do nothing. How often have you
heard this fix)m your father and from myself: and now
again you come to me with promises ! You tell me
so solemnly that you will become good. Indeed, my
child, I have no power to make you good : I can punish
you forbad conduct, but God alone can make you good."

47yr;f>5

100 TBK RKCORB8 OF

As it had been with the child, so it had become
with the man. I had acted in the spirit that mj
mother condemned, ever since, without exactly know-
mg that I did so. I had indeed yet to learn, that of
myself I could do nothing 1 I had sometimes thought^
that because I had made some advance in the know-
ledge of spiritual things, I was become spiritually-
minded, and should remain so, resting safe in the
progress I had made. Alas ! as well might to-day
depend upon the light of yesterday, and say to the
sun, * I shall not need thy fresh beams every morning.*.
I had unconsciously trusted to the often repeated re-
newal of my baptismal engagement. In short, in
many ways I had been resting out of Christ, who
tells His disciples so plainly, John xv. — ^'Without
me, or, apart fix)m me, ye can do nothmg.'

I felt now suddenly driven out of all my strong-
holds, or I should say, those strongholds seemed all
to fall in ruins around me^ and t6 leave me defence-
less and unsheltered. In short, I felt more helpless
and more wretched than when I was first left a weep-
ing orphan in my childhood. The more I thought,
the more utterly wretched I became : but, blessed be
God ! I did not endeavor to escape from thought ; I
did not rise from my knees; and after some little
time I drew my open Bible near to me. " I won-
der what passage will meet my eyes ?'* I said to my-
self, for I had opened the Bible carelessly ; when I
knelt down I had not turned to any particular part
of the holy volume. However, I checked myself,
saying, " This is making God*s book a mere book of

A GOOD man's UFE. 101

fate/' I turned at once to a very searching and con-
victing page, to the Parable of the Taints ; and
considered it deeply ; and theu I hastened with fear-
fill eagerness to that of the Prodigal Son« Ajs I
knelt, passage after passage of Scripture came be-
fore me : well known they were in one sense, for I
had been instructed in the letter of the Bible» I
thought of the son who received his father's com-
mand to work in 'his vineyard^ and who answered so
readily, makbg the show and profession of obedience,
* I go, sir,' but went not — and fdt how infinitely pre-
ferable was the conduct of the other son, who refiised
at first to obey his father, but afii^n^ards repented^
and went. " Have I not been early called ?" I said
to myself: ^^but, O Lord! mightest not thou say to
me, ^ If then I be a father, where is my honor? and if
I be a master, where is my fear ?' "

I felt that I had begun to build a tower, without
counting the cost, without being aware that in myself
I had no resources to finish the edifice, and that it
was likely to turn out a Babel to me, a building of
confusion — ^I felt that I was going to war against a
powerful enemy, but that I was gobg forth as (me
against an army ; and yet there was a supernatural
power ofifered to me, whereby one might chase a
thousand and cast down Satan and his armies ; and
there was the whole armor of God to ffxd on over ray
exposed and defenceless person — the sword of the
Spirit for my right hand, the shield of faith 6x my
left — and, notwithstanding, I had been presumptu-
ously trustmg to an arm of flesh, ta that wtnch had

103 THE RECORDS OP

never yet been known to prevail against the adversa^
ries of man. The weapons of our warfare njust not
be carnal, simply because our adversary is the prince
of the powers of darkness, the chief of all spiritual
wickedness. It b altogether absurd for man to meet
him and his hosts in any strength buj that of the Lokd
of all power and might, before whom Satan has no
power but that which he is permitted to have, and
which is only for a season. I may date the com-
mencement of a Kfe of holy liberty, fix)m that night of
deep and solemn consideration, that night of heart-
broken grief and agony of spirit. Without any super-
stition or enthusiasm, but in my sober judgment, I
look upon that night as the time when God began to
take me in hand. I must attribute all to Him. I do
not mean to make myself out a saint fix>m that night
— ^far from it : I never felt so deeply impressed with
the fact that I was a smner. I do not say I became
all at once better — but my aim was at once higher —
my natural independence at once more cut down and
rooted out — a new dependence upon supernatural
help deeply implanted. , The end and object of my
future life seemed suddenly simplified. I felt in one
sense like the rumed man, who, sitting down upon a
hill from whence he could behold, on every side, the
rich and fertile fields that had once been the portion
of his forefathers and of himself, at once, but most de-
liberately, resolved that he would have but one ob-
ject in view for the rest of his life — ^that he would
never rest till he had regained the whole of those im-
mense possessions ; and who, accordingly, fix>m that

A QOOD man's life. 103

moment, left no means tmtried, stopped at notbmg,
till he had actually regained to himself the whole.
The man was a bad maU) but his singleness of object,
his unwearied perseverance is a fine rebuke to the
children of light.

Thus it was that I was enabled to awake out of
sleep, and indeed it was high time for me to do so.
As I say this, I cannot help remembering Leighton's
glorious address, — "Arise betimes, and being risen,
put on your beautifiil garments. Draw towards you,
with the hand of faith, the rich mantle of Christ's
righteousness. It is time to wake, ssjs the apostle ;
and presently after, 'Put ye on the Lobb Jesus
Christ.' And it is a wonder how a smner can rest
while he is out of this garment ; for there is none
other in heaven or in earth can make him shine to
God, and so shelter him fix)m the stroke of justice.
Put him on, then, and so shme ; being thus clothed,
thou shalt shine in justification, and likewise in sanc-
tity." — " In this state," I said, " let me put my hand
to the plough ;" and I rose the next morning with a
sense of liberty and cheerfulness, such as I had never
experienced before ; my dull duties seemed suddenly
steeped in light, and turned to privileges. I took out
the Uttle form of dedication to God which my father
had written for me, and in which I had been so long
accustomed to renew the solemn and holy engage-
ments of my baptism ; and I prayed most earnestly,
that those things which should have been for my
peace and safety, might be made no longer an occa-
sion of my fallinjg. " Baptism should indeed be," as

104 TUX BBCOBDfl OF

Archbishop Usher has well said, ^ of ccmdnnal use
through a Christian's whcde life : it is administered but
once, but is always lastmg m the Tirtoe and ^cacy
of it. Baptism loseth not its strength by time. Li
all thy fears and doubts," he c(mtinuea, *^ look back
to thy baptism, and the promiseB of God sealed up
unto thee there ; lay hold on diem by fitith, and thou
shalt have the actual ccmfast of dvy baptism, and feel
the elSect of it, though thou nerw saw it. la thy
failings, slips, and revolts, to recover Myself, have ie*
codrse to thy baptism. The oorrenant and seal of
Gob stands finn. He changeth not; oidy renew thy
repmtanee, renew thy iaith in those blessed premisee
of grac^ which weie sealed up uato ihee in thy bap*
tism!"

I have said bm little of my &tber^s brothmr^ Lerd
Eresby* I had seen but Ut^ of him^ w of my aunt ;
stiU less of my cousins, till the year beibre I went up
to college. I was at that time invited to pass some
weeks at Fonlaaaore, my unele^s seal in W*-«— . I
went ; but during the whqle of my stay the bouse
was full of company, and they were aU engaged about
the election of ray eldest couson, Lord Harold, for
the county. I was very ^d to get away 6om the
company and the bustle and to pass my time in the
library, a long old gallery, where every window down
the whole length of the room was in a recess, and
each recess furnished like a little chamber, with a
table and reading desk, and high-backed chairs.

A GOOD man's UFE. 105

There, more than once have I heard my name called
at the end of the library, and not wishmg to answer
the call} have remained undiscovered in one of those
receding window-chambers, intently occupied with
some delightful volume, I remember being found
there not long after my arrival at Fontmore, reading
at the top of the library-steps, exactly opposite the
lofty shelf from which I had taken the book that in-
terested me so deeply. I did not see my uncle and a
party of gentlemen, till they were standing just below ,
me. << And pray what book has such a charm about
it,'' said a venerable looking man, who had been con-
versing with Lord Eresby, <^ that you could not wait
till you came down the steps to read it ?" " The
Memoirs of Monsieur de St* Cyran," I replied, com-
ing down the steps, and presenting the book to the
stranger. "Ah! very good! very good!" he re-
plied, turning to my uncle, scarcely looking at the
volume ; " one of the worthies of Port Royal, and
the intimate friend and associate of Jansenius ; have
you more of those edifying memoirs ?" <^ I dare say
Ernest can tell you better than I, my lord," replied
my uncle ; and he introduced me at the same time

to the Bishop of N . " The eldest son of my

poor brother Charles," he said ; " you remember my
brother ?— quite an orphan !" " And what, my
lord," said the bishop, " is to be your nephew's pro-
fession?" "Oh! I suppose the Church," replied
my uncle ; " at least Ernest tells me so, and I see no
objection." During my stay at Fontmore the subject
was often mentioned ; indeed, before my departure
6*

106 THE RECORDS OF

my uncle spoke to me in private, and told me that he
highly approved my predilection for the sacred pro-
fession ; and said that he should make all the interest
he could to obtain a living for me from the Lord
Chancellor. "We were at Westminster together,"

he added ; " and so indeed were the Bishop of N

and myself. The family, living will of course go to
your cousin StralSbrd."

I thanked my uncle, but I could not help adding,
" I am sure I don't want a livbg. I ought not to
go into the Church for the sake of advancing myself
in this world." " I am sure you do not know what
you are talking about," he replied.

During the period of my college life, I sometimes
passed a few weeks with the Eresbys. I cannot say
that I ever came away the better for my visits. I
saw nothing grossly bad ; on the contrary, the whole
family were amiable, kind-heaited, liberal, and in the
worldly sense of the words, perfectly moral and virtu-
ous ; but had I never heard of religion, I certainly
should not have made the discovery that such a thing
existed there. I have the less scruple in saying this,
since the family at Fontmore have now been for
many years distinguished for th'feir unaffected piety.
Nothing can, perhaps, better justify the condemnation
of what they then were, than the contrast exhibited
in what they now are.

My aunt was a remarkably lovely person, ^ery

A GOOD man's life. 107

gentle and fascmating in her manners, but at the
same tune exceedingly proud. She was not haughty,
nor overbearing, nor unbending ; but, on the contrary,
ready to notice every body, and with a voice and look of
peculiar courteousness ; but if one whom the world
might have called an inferior presumed the least upon
this condescension, then there were looks and words too
palpable to be misunderstood, to throw the presuming
individual into the frigid zone of society, and to show
the immeasurable distance which in reality, in her
reality I should say, existed between them. Oh the
folly of pride ! the littleness of mind ! the most absurd
silliness of pride of rank ! how commonly is it con-
demned in words, yet in how few families will you
find the pitiful monster entirely banished ! It is aw-
fully sinfiil in persons who profess to separate them-
selves firom the sins and follies of mankind — ^yet what
is more conmion ? I know they give it other names :
He, who " resisteth the proud, and giveth grace unto
the humble," is not to be mocked by the apology of
a name. How often, in her later years, have I heard
Lady Eresby confess and lament that pride of hers !
I have seldom seen a more lovely character than she
became when her pride had been converted into low-
liness of spirit, and all that was before fair and gentle,
had been made far more fair and gentle, by the spirit
of Him who had no proud looks, who was altogether
lovely. Alas ! if we have not the spirit of Christ,
we are none of his. We shall be found not only
without a legal right, but without a personal fitness
for the kbgdom which the poor in spirit and the pure

108 TBB RBGOUM OF

m heart inherit, m right of the meekest Son of man,
the gh)rious and coyenant Head of HSa monben.

The time for faking my degree drew nbar. I
bad been all the we^ half stapled by poring oyer
mathematical books, and I hailed with delight a clear -
Sabbath morning, a» I crossed the great court of my
college fhxn chapd. *< This shall be a day of rest,"
I said to myself; ^^all books but one shall be forgot-
ten. Not many years hence, if it please God to
spare me so long, at this hour, on this day, I shall be
in the quiet study of a parsonage4iottse— of my par-
sonage house !"

When I entered my rooms, and was* sitting down
to Inreakfast, I saw a letter lying on the table. My
uncle's coronet and arms were on the seal. Alas ! I
found it yery difficult, after reading his letter, to keep
that day as a season of holy rest. He meant kindly
toward me, but he set a sharp trial before me.

Mt deab Erkest :

I'm hurried to day, but I write by this pest my
good news, that you may haye as much time as pos*-
sible befi»re you. Tou need feel no more anxiety
about the Church, fcnr eyery thing is settled in a much
better way for you. Lord Vallerton takes you as his
priyate secretary to Berlin, and he sets off in a fort-
night, so you see there is no time to be lost. He
had a great regard for your poor father, and has giyen
you the preference to the Duke of D 's nephew,

I y

A GOOD MAN'i UFE. 109

Mr. Bellask* I think you aiust. refo^nber meeting
Bellasis at my table last year. Really, Ernest, you
are a very lucky fellow ! As to the Church, I found
there was nothing to be done in that quarter,, among
fri^ids of my own, and I am not intimate with the new
Chancellor. You may draw on me for what money
you want above the check I send you, but do not
draw for more than a hundred pounds, without letting
me know, as I keep but little money at my banker's.
You had better devote the rest of this week to wind-
ing up all your college affairs, &c. ; but I beg you
will be in Grosvenor Square before next Tuesday, as
Lord and Lady Vallerton, and several of the embassy
dine here on that day. Juliana says she wants you
to go to the Opera on Saturday, with your aunt and
herself, as GabrieUi sings oa Uiat night for the first
time this season ; therefore you can come if you will.
For my part I do not care for the Opera smce Millico
has left it. 'Tis an odd circumstance, that your fa-
ther was attached to the English embassy at Berlin
at the time ypu were bom, and I have often heard

him speak of a Prince and Princess Ernest R ^1,

after wh(Hn you and Lisa were named, at their par-
ticular desire. The prince you will not see, for he
has been dead, Lc^d Vallerton tells me, some years ;
but the Princess, who has married again, is a great
favorite at court, and a very pleasant, agreeable wo-
man. Farewell, dear Ernest.

Your affectionate uncle,

Ebesbt.

no THB RECORDS OF

P. S. Your German letter is admirably writ-
ten. It decided Lord Vallerton to take you as his
secretary.

I saw at once the decbion my own judgment
would prompt me to make^ but I determined not
to write without serious consideration. And I pray-
ed to be guided to a right judgment. I did not ex-
pect or pray for any sign or omen, as one is too often
tempted to do, but simply for the right and healthfiil
use of those faculties which are given by the Foun-
tam of wisdom to His children ; faculties which He
dfiers not to set aside nor to supersede, but to quicken
with new life and to sanctify.

I wrote to say, that after a deep and serious con-
sideration, I declined relinquishbg diat holy profession
to which, with the consent of my guardians, I had
long dedicated myself. I endeavored to show much
respect and gratitude in my letter, and expressed my
willingness to receive the advice of all who were so
kind as to offer it, declaring, at the same time, that I
felt I ought to reserve to myself the privilege of decid-
ing according to my own judgment. I dwelt chiefly,
however, on this point, that, as I did not seek any
temporal advantage in becoming a minister of Christ,
so I could not see that I ought to give up holy orders
only because temporal advantage was now offered
me.

I received this reply from Lord Eresby :

^' Really, my dear Ernest, your letter b as pleasant

A GOOD man's UFE. Ill

a piece of absurdity as I ever remember to have met
with. No doubt you would call it respectfiil, and so
it is, as to words ; but it breathes the very spirit of
disrespect and disobedience. You tell me most de-
cidedly that you cannot avail yourself of the highly
advantageous appointment I have obtained for you ;
for * cannot ' I substitute * mU not J What on earth
makes you so wilfully positive in declaring that you
will have your own way ?

" Do you think yourself a saint, and too good for
fellowship with the common herd of us human crea-
tures ? I must o^ivn I do not clearly comprehend the
merit of disobedience to your elders and guardians.
You taunt me with having all along agreed to your
being brought up for the Church, but do you not see
that circumstances are changed now that I see no
prospect of Church preferment ? My friend, Lord

B , is no longer Chancellor, and the poor bishop

from whom I expected so much has had a fit of the
palsy ; his family are said to give away the livings as
they please ; this, however, in confidence, for ' on
dits' are not to be depended on. Who, in your
station, would think of going into the Church without
some reasonable prospect of obtaining a comfortable
living ? I think it best to be candid with you, and
to say very plainly, that the sooner you give up all
hopes in a certain quarter, the better. What I mean,
is this. I very much fear and suspect that, knowmg
the predilection of your cousin Strafford for the army,
you look forward to my offering the family living* of
Hatton and Barrowmere to yourself* Now this I

112 TBB RECORB8 OF

most decidedly declare shall neyer be. Lord Straf-
lord SingletOQ, and no other person, shaU be rector of
the afi}ff^iamed places, on dread of my unalterable dis-
pleasure ; indeed, were he to re&se them, you would
not be solicited to accept them ; there are others —
quite as deserving perhaps, though with less preten*
sions to sanctity.

<^ Lastly, Ernest, let me tell you, I give you a day
longer to consider. Write by the next day's post
after you receive this, and write like a s^isiUe young
man. If you do not decide as I wbh, and desire you
to do, pray let me have no more of your reasons. Do
as you please, but remember I wash my hands of you
and your affiurs altogether, if you give up this ap-
pdntment. At any rate, as the head of the family I
shall have done my duty by you. If you refuse my
fav(^ and set yourself up against me, the blame rests
with you. I should very much like to know the use
of writing so humbly, and acting with such determined
and rebellious obstmacy. Farewell.

" Yours, &c.

" Erbsby."

I remained at Cambridge and took my degree,
but for years I was out of favor with my uncle. The
mvitations which had been generally sent to me, were
suddenly transferred to my brother, who was then at
Eton. Lisa was also in disgrace at Fontmore, be-
cause she had expressed her intention of remaining
with her other guardian's family, the Lovels, (my

A GOOD man's life. 113

aunt Lucy was now the wife of Mr. Lovel.) Her
chief reason for not leaving the Lovels was, that her
grandmother was then in a declining state ; and i^he
and her aunt Lucy were anxious to be as much at
Overton as possible.

Charles was at first a little indignant that no in-
vitation came to ipe, but it was soon very evident that
he preferred the gayety and splendor in which the
Eresbys lived to the sober ways at Overton. We first
discovered thb fix>m a note in the same envelope with
one firom Lady Eresby, both to Lisa. Her aunt sent
her a pressdng invitation to Grosvenor Square, wish-
ing Ldsa to be presented at the drawmg-room with
her eldest daughter, and setting before her, at the
same time, the dazzling offer of a season in Londoii.

Charles wrote to his sister in rather a dictatorial
tone, and with expostulations and reasonmgs that were
evidently second-hand.

Three years have passed away since I took my
first degree at Cambridge. I have met with many
impediments to my entering the ministerial office, but
it has {leased the Disposer of all human affairs to
permit me to become a servant in His holy temple ;
at least I hope so ; for the time approaches when I
am to offer myself as a candidate for holy orders. I
have passed most of my time with the Lovels, or at
Overton with my venerable grandfather and grand-
mother, both of whom are enjoying, at this time, ex-
cellent health for their advanced age ; the latter hav-

114 THE aECOKDS OF

ing wonderfully revived during the last year. My
darling Lba has promised to reside with me at the
parsonage when I am settled as a parish priest.

And now the anxieties of my examinations and
ordination are past. With what a rejoicing spirit did
I quit the smoke, and the gloom, and the bustle of

the town of C , and the inn, where I remained

durmg the week, and tpok my way through scenes of
pastoral loveliness at the sweetest season of the year.
I threw down the windows of the chaise and leaned
forward, that the fresh and balmy breath of morning
might blow over my yet heated face and brow. The
trees were fully clothed with their light but luxuriant
foliage, then steeped with crystal dew. The fields
on either side were spread with verdure of the deepest
emerald green. Roses and all the common garden
flowers of early summer were blowing in the cottage
gardens by the road-side, and the doors and windows
of every humble dwelling were standing open, all
open, it seemed, to admit as much of the soft air and
pleasant sunshine as possible. In one place the road

crossed over the shallow ford of the river A ,

where little shoals of minnows fled merrily away in
every direction as we passed, while further down the
river, where the azure of the sky was calmly mirrored
in the stream, a herd of cows stood motionless in the
middle of the clear cold water. 1!*hese are but trifling
observations, but I love to pause among them and to
return to that happy, cheerful morning. During my

A GOOD man's life. 115

«

long and pleasant drive, I bad leisure to reflect upon
the happiness, and upon the goodness of Him, who
had so graciously heard my prayers and accepted me
as His minister.

I dined at a little country inn, for my journey was
chiefly across a part of the country where there is no
high road. At the beginning of a fine glowing even-
ing I reached my secluded village, then seen for the
first time. I cannot say with what a deep and tender
emotion I looked round upon the cottages of my flock,
and felt an i^terest rise in my heart for them. All
unknown as they then were, I came to pass, perhaps,
many years among them, to bring the message of
their Saviour's love and firee salvation to them, to
share in their troubles and their joys, to present their
young and helpless infants at the baptismal font,
praying there that a death unto sm, a new birth unto
righteousness might be accomplished m them, to pro-
nounce the blessing of the eternal Godhead over the
bride and bridegroom, to kneel beside the bed of the
dying, to visit the fatherless and widows in their
affliction, and (ah ! how* fervently I prayed that I
might be enabled to do so) to keep myself unspotted
fix>m the world.

I soon beheld the gray tower of my church, then
gilded with a broad flood of sunshine ; and farther on,
half-I^idden by the fine old trees which form so useful a
skreen fix)m the north-east winds, a low and venera-
ble dwelling, built, perchance, when those ancient
trees were planted. A slight female form was stand-
ing near the porch, busily employed in bmding up

116 THE aSCOROB OF

the waving tassels of z luxuriant honeysuckle whicli
spread half over the projecting gable of the house.
As the chaise stopped at the gate, a dear and well-
known face was turned towards me, and in a moment
my darling sister was in my arms.

How sweetly my beloved Lisa had anticipated
all my wishes in the arrangement of every thmg about
our new residence. Much of the well-known iiirni-
ture of our paternal dweUing which had not been
parted with met my view, and brought a thousand
old associations with it into our new residence. The
pcNiraits of my father and moth^ smiled upon me
from* the walls. The large Bible lay in its old place,
upon the study table, the two vases of Sevre porce-
lain, which I had remembered as long as I could re-
member any thing, were, as I had often seen them,
filled with roses, and stood on the same low ebony
cabinet where I had ever seen them, and beneath it
I perceived the little embroidered stool cm which I
had sat so often at my mother's feet.

I trembled with a deep and thrilling dehgbt, as,
for the first time in my new character, I opened the
book of God, to read fix)m it at our &mily devoticnis.
When I was alone that evening, alone in my own
chamber, my very happiness made me weep, and I
let my tears flow fireely. But how few will imder-
stand my feelings! only those who have struggled
through difficulties and opposition, led on by an ardent
desire to become a humble unnoticed parish priest,
even with that ardent desire in the heart which the
Psalmbt has so finely expressed, — ^^ I had rather be

A QOOD man's life. 117

a door-keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell
in the tents of the ungodly."

I had retired at an early hour to my chamber,
but not to bed. I put out my light, and throwing
opek the window, I looked out upon the quiet land-
scape beneath.

As I stood there,"! thought of Luther at his devo-
tions. I wondered not that he had loved to stand
at his devotions by an open window, as if, it seemed
to me, he could not bear to turn fixHn the pure light
and the free air of heaven — as if 'his eyes loved to
lock beyond the earth, over its distant horizons, and
upwards, upwards, into the clear unfathomable depths
of the mysterious sky.

The whole earth around me was hushed, and sleep-
ing in the quiet night ; no sound but that of the ever-
flowing river fell upon the ear ; but the wide dome of
the heavens was one glitter of radiant stars, so bright
and brilliant, that the earth seemed to have dwindled
down, or the sky to have descended lower ; and every
star seemed burning and glowing as intensfely as if
just lighted with new foes. As I stood there, I felt
the utter insignificance of all earthly concerns, as com-
pared with that eternal world in which the child of
eternity measures his existence; and there, on my
knees, I turned again to the renewal of my early
promises and engagements in my baptism. I hope the
form was then a true means of grace to my believing
soul.

My sister and I were very well pleased with many
of our neighbors, especially with the chief family

118 THE RECORDS OF

among them. We found unaffected good sense, and
unobtrusive piety in the kind-hearted domestic circle
of the Wentworths. Mr. Wentworth had several
daughters about Lisa's age, and they were continu-
ally endeavoring to draw Lisa away from her broth-
er's quiet parsonage. I must, however, do her the
justice to own, that she did refiise more than half
their invitations, and, pleased as she was with her
new associates, seemed always delighted to return to
me. At last there came a brother, and he — but
Lisa shall speak for herself. It was about a month
after this brother's arrival at Wentworth Hall, and a
few hours after he and I had met one another in our
morning ride, and that he had turned his horse's head
in the same direction with mine, and began a con-
versation which lasted more than an hour — ^it was on
the evening of that very day — ^I was sitting in the
little summer-house in the hanging wood behind my
garden, a book was in my hand, ' Herbert's Country
Parson :' I had scarcely turned over a single page,
my thoaghts were for ever idly wandering ; and yet
they carried away my senses with them, for I heard
not a light foot-fall on the steps of the summer house, I
saw not a slender form glide iil through the open door-
way. I did start, however, as a soft hand was placed
in mine. " Ah, Lisa ! is it you ? I thought I left you
writing in the house." " Yes, I have been, writing,"
she said, " but I could not please myself, so I tore
up my letter, and — " " Are you looking at my book ?"
I asked, observing that she did not well know how
to finish her sentence ; "/your eyes are fixed upon it.

A GOOD man's life. IIU

You knaw the litde volume, Lisa ? — ^ HeAert^s
Country Parson ?' I was beginning to ^read this
chapter. — ^By the by, my love," I said, laying down
the book, and smiling as I took her hand and looked
stead&stly in her face, " do you remember a half-
formed agreement made between you and me not
very long ago? — ^that we should never marry, but
continue to live together in our quiet parsonage, so
long as it might please God to let us continue on
earth ?" Lisa looked very grave, and blushing deeply,
confessed that she perfectly recollected the half-form-
ed agreement of which I spoke. " And who made
the first proposition, Lisa ?" " I did, dear Ernest,"
she replied, looking not only grave, but thoughtfiil.
" Well, my dear Lisa," I continued, " I have been
considering your proposition ; I find you a charming
housekeeper ! what if we were to ratify this agree-
ment ?" Lisa threw her arms around my neck, and
kissed me, but said nothing. " O yes ! I understand
you, my dearest girl, but I must have words, as well
as kisses fix)m your lips." Lisa blushed again, began
to speak, and hesitated : " You know how dearly I love
you, my darling^ brother ; I wished to speak to you ;
I came hither on purpose to do so. I could not say
what I wished in the letter I was trying to write."
" Answer me one question, Lisa," I said, interrupting
her ; " Do you still wish to live and die an old maid
in this old parsonage-house before us ?" She sat in
silence for some mmutes, becoming more and more
confused. At last her half-raised glances met mine.
A suspicion darted across her mind ; I could see it

120 THK RSCOKDB OF

did, for suddenly hear brow was slightly contracted,
and her eye spaikled, as a smile played round her
lips. " Suppose I should answer, ^ No, sir,' " she re-
plied, very archly ; ^< suppose I use my woman's
privilege and change my mmd, and " — ^^ Marry, Lisa,"
I said yeiy spitefully ; << that's the word which follows ;
aye, and I'll finish the sentence for you — ^ marry John
Wentworth.' " Fot an instant the color forsoc^ even
her cheek, and then back came a flood of the richest
crimson, sufiiismg her whole face with its glow, while
tears rose as suddenly into her eyes. ^< Forgive me,
my own Lisa," I said tenderly, " I have been too
abrupt." " Oh no, no ! Ernest," she replied, " what
must you think of me ? Forgive me — ^forgive me"
— and her head drooped on her bosom. She could
not speak for weeping. I was silly enough to weep
too, as I drew her nearer to my heart. " And now
Lisa," I said, as we wiped our eyes — and I laughed
to think what simpletons we both had been to cry —
" tell me, Lisa, was it not well done to bring out his
name at once, and put an end to all yoiir hesitations
and perplexities ? To be sure we have not escaped
a scene ; but that is nearly over now ; is it not ? you
have only to stop that tear which is stealing so slyly
over your cheek. I will confess to you, dearest girl,
that I was prepared to hear all about this affair from
yourself, having already listened patiently and atten-
tively to what Mr. Wentworth had to say on the
subject this morning. I assure you he talked, for
more than an hour !" " And you never told me till
now^ that you had met ""him, Ernest !" *^And you

A oooD man's life. 121

never told me till now, that he loved you, Lisa ; and
yoii have not yet told me what reply you have given
to his proposals." " Indeed, Ernest, I scarcely know
what I said to him." '^ But at least, you can answer
this question, Do you know whether you like him ?"
" I do not like to leave you,"she replied. " Thit is
no answer; what objections can you bring, firsts
against John Wentworth himself, secondly, against
your marriage with John Wentworth ? I suppose I
ought to say^ Major Wentworth."

. "Why certainly," she replied, with a gravity
highly amusing to me, " I see nothing objectionable
in Major Wentworth himself; but the idea of leaving
you, my best and kindest brother !" and here the eyes
of the silly, girl were again swimming with tears, and
her voice began to falter. " The idea of leavmg me !
suppose I should be pleased to fall in love, and to
marry also ? more improbable thmgs have come to
pass. And how do you know, Miss Lisa, but that I
am at this very time as great a simpleton as yourself
in some affair de coeur ?" " Ah ! I know what I
wish," said Lba, and a sigh escaped her lips with her
words. " Is your wish so very unattainable," I asked,
" that it brings a sigh with it ?" " Oh no, not by
any means unattainable," she cried, with much live*
liness ; " I only fear lest it should never occur to
either of you, how suited you are to each other."
" Either of you ! and pray. Miss Lisa, who may this
lady be with whose name you take such unwarranta-
ble liberty as to join it with minfe ? I am really as-
tonished at the progress you have made in these sub«

6

I9S THS BBCOKM OP

jmlB. But no I do not tell me, for you know what
you wish, and could tell me the person to whom you
would fain see me united — ^I do not quite know what
I wish at present, and will choose, as you have done,
without consultmg any one. I only hope, my own
dearest Lasa, that I may choose as well — ^that is, if I
were ever to marry."

" If I were ever to manry, she is the, wife I would
choose !" These words I repeated to myself one
evening after a long fit of musmg. I might call it a
brown study, for my desolate feelings plunged me
into it ; but its deep and dismal brown melted away
through many a gradual hue as one fair 'vision rose in
light upon me. I began also to think seriously of a
wife. I summoned iny counsellors — ^not my Lisa*
Oh no ! she had been married, and gone for ages-^
weeks, I should say. I called my counsellors from
my head and my heart. First came inclination from
my heart, pushing himself forward before all the others.
No, no ! I said, and shook my head. Stand back,
my friend, I must not hear you yet. So I beckoned
to an ugly fellow, who spoke very bluntly, but to my
surprise, he said, *< You might as well marry. You
have nnmey enough to support a wife. What's to
become of the school which Miss Lisa took such
pains with ? We want some one to go among the
poor wom^3 in the parish, and lend out the sets of
baby linen, and attend to many duties which a man
is not fitted for — ^I would have you propose for her ;

A «ooD man's life. 193

you will not easily find another so pious, so humble,
and so modest. Marry her, and let us hear you speak
again, and see you smile as when Miss Lisa ^as at
home. Marry her, and have done with your deep
sighs, and your long faces!" Here, however, the
consultation was broken up by the sudden entrance of
Mr. Wentworth and two-t)f his daughters. They
came to bid me join their evening walk, and to tell
me that if I would return to Wentworth Hall with
them that evening, I might perhaps find Lisa and her
husband there. They had announced, quite unex-
pectedly, that they were coming to the W^ntworths
on their way to London.

As I walked home in the quiet moonlight, think-
ing of the happy faces of my Lisa and her husband,
I held another consultation, in which inclination
spoke so very reasonably, that I found myself fully
disposed to trust him for once.

And now you may suppose very wisely, that I
am about to make my proposals to one of the fair
sisters-in-law of my Lisa. To say the truth, I rather
guessed that Lis^ wished me to do so, and therefore I
begged her not to name the object of her choice to
me. The daughters of Mr. Wentworth were very
charming, and would have made far better men than
me excellent wives ; but I had thought of another
person.

An Irish lady and her two daughters resided m a

134 THB RECORDS OF

« \

large farm-house, situated among the hills about two
miles bom my own village. They were, it was
thought, very poor ; but no one except the cottagers
seemed to know much about them. My acquaintance
with them began through my sister Lisa, who had met
them several times before she had an opportunity of
introducing me to them.

Mrs. Sulivan was, I soon discovered, quite as poor
as report had made her. She had barely sufficient to
hire a few rooms at the old farm-house, and to live in
the most frugal manner. I have no romantic account
to give of the first visit which Lisa and I paid to the
Sulivans. It was in the depth of winter ; a fire of turf
and heath was blazing on the hearth, and they were
busily employed at the poarsest plain work. The fur-
niture of the room was of the commonest description,
with the exception of a plain bookcase, in which were
a few volumes, and a portrait very finely painted, of
a young man whose expressive countenance bore a
striking resemblance to the youngest Miss Sulivan.
I soon found that I was in the company of no com-
mon-place persons. I do not mean that the Sulivans
were very superior in point of intellect ; but there was
jhat perfect sweetness and delicacy of manner about
the mother and daughters which can alone be called
lady-like, and which is the fair fiiiit of a humble Chris-
tian spirit. Mrs. Sulivan and her eldest daughter
were apparently as much alike in disposition as in
person ; they were quiet, and rather grave, but emi-
nently pleasing. Una Sulivan, the younger daughter,
was the most innocent, cheeriiil person I ever beheld.

A GOOD han's life. 125

The instant I saw her I thought of those two lines of
Ben Jonson :

*' Give me an air, give me a fiice,
That makes simplicity a grace."

But I may almost say, that humility was the peculiar
grace of her character ; perhaps no grace is more
lovely. There was about her a willingness to bear a
rebuke even from the unjust, a desire to learn even
from the most ignorant, to see in the kindest, the most
charitable pomt of view, the failings of others. I
always think that real humility is a proof of real wis-
dom. We generally find that where true wisdom is
in the mind, deep humility is in the heart. Thus
St. James speaks of ^' the meekness of wisdom," in
the person who is " wise and endued with know-
ledge."

Not long after I became first acquainted with
Mrs. Sulivan and her daughters, the elder Miss Suli-
van married a gentleman of considerable property, a
merchant. Una and her mother removed to London,
and we heard nothing of them for some years.

I often looked with regret on the little lattice
window of the room which had belonged to M^.
Sulivan and daughter, as I passed the solitary farm-
house. The shutters were generally closed, and the
little flower-beds beneath the window overgrown with
weeds. How was I astonished, then, on turning my
accustomed wistfiil look over the low wall which
divided the garden from the lane, to observe a young
female cleaning away the weeds firom the neglected

itO THE KVCORDS OF

flower-beds. I had stood silently regarding her for
some minutes, guessmg and doubting whether Una
Sulivan was really there, when a face of extreme
paleness was turned towards me. Had I not seen
her on the very spot to which my associations had
linked her image, I might not have recognized the
once blooming girl. She knew me instantly, and
came f(»ward at once with all her former frankness and
warmth of manner, smilmg as she held out her hand.
" Mamma will be so very happy to see you." They
were come down to the farm for a few weeks, and then
intended to go to Ireland and settle there. The hus-
band of the elder daughter had met with some heavy
losses, and had gone with his wife to Spain, where
the chief part of his property lay.

«' Shall I ask this delightful Una to be my wife ?"
was a question I soon put to myself. << She is the
one whom I have long loved» How often have I re*
gretted that she was gone, and that I could not ask
her? Shall I let her go agam without at least know-
ing that, if she is lost to me, it is not because I have
neglected to seek her love ?"

" She is mdeed the very wife I would have," I
sidd, as I turned over the leaves of a book lying upon
my study-table ; it was *Beveridge's Private Thoughts.'
I found the pagfe I looked for very soon, perhaps be-
cause I had so often found it -before when thinking of
gentle Una Sulivan.

A QOOD man's life. 127

*< I shall always endeavor to make choice of a
woman for my wife, who hath first' made choice ot
Christ as a spouse for herself; that none may be
made one flesh with me, who is not also made one
spirit with Christ my Saviour* For I look upon the
image of Christ as the best mai^ of beauty I can
behold in her, and the grace of God the best portion
I can receive with her. These are excellencies,
which, though not visible to carnal eyes, are neverthe-
less agreeable to a spiritual heart, and such as all
wise and good men cannot but be enamored with.
For my own part, they seem to me such necessary
qualifications that my heart trembles at the thought of
ever having a wife without them.

^'That this, therefore, may be my portion and
felicity, I firmly resolve, never to set upon a design,
before I have first solicited the Throne of Grace, and
begged of my Heavenly Father to honor me with the
partnership of one of his beloved children ; and shall
afterwards be as carefiil and cautious as I can, never
to fix my affections on any woman foca wife, till I am
thoroughly persuaded of the grounds I have to love
her as a true Christian.

*^ As, therefore, I desire to be happy, I must per-
form my duty b thb particular, and never aim at
any other end in the choice of a wife, nor expect
any other happiness in the enjoyment of her, but
what is founded in the principle of pure and inviolable
love. If I should court and marry a woman for
riches, then, whensoever they fail, or take their flight,
my love and my happiness must drop and vanish to-

128 THE ABCORl^S OF

gether with them. If I choose her for beauty only, I
shall love her no longer than while that continues,
which is only till age or sickness blasts it ; and then
farewell at once both duty and delight.

" But, Oh ! the happiness of that couple, whose
inclmations to each other are as ihutual as their duties,
whose affections as well as persons are linked togeth-
er with the same tie." * * * *.

I was reading on, when I heard a loud cough
close to me. I looked round, and saw my servant
standing close by me. '^ I beg pardon, sir," be said,
"but I have knocked once or twice and you didn*t
hear me — there's a poor person waiting to speak to
you, but may be you would have him wait a bit, for
you seem deep in your books just now."

I could not help smiling, for my elbows were on
the table, and both my hands supporting my head,
which was bent over my book, and my eyes intently
fixed upon the open volume. I had sunk, I suppose,
into a very deep reverie, but certainly I was not deep
m such dry studies as he might have supposed. I
shut up my book and shook off my pleasant dream
and went to speak to the man.

Afterwards, as there was no time to be lost, I
sauntered away to the hills where the dd farm-house
stood. Una Sulivan was not at homei, but her mother
was alone, and I took the opportunity to declare my
hopes to her.

"You may go and seek Una," said her mo-
ther ; " I promised to meet her at the end of the lane,
where the heath begins, and this is about the time

A GOOD man's life, 129

when I promised to set out. , You may tell her, if
you please, that you have my consent ; but I shall
leave my dear child to decide for herself." — I was
not rejected.

Una Sulivan soon recovered her cheerfulness in
the bracing air of our healthy country. I saw her often
in the cottage of the poor, often in her mother's society,
for I had now no idea of shunning one so charming,
one whom I began to look upon as my own wife, my
friend and cqmpanion also, not merely for time, but
for eternity. I loved her for being so perfectly wo-
manly. With all her Irish energy of character, her
enthusiasm, her glowing warmth of heart, she was
humble, meek, and without a thought of display. I
knew, fix>m almost every conversation with her, that
her chief anxiety was for the spiritual wants of the
poor she visited, but I generally found her attending
with the most delicate and gentle care to their bodily
complaints ; and she always reminded me of some
humble Soeur de la Charite. In fact, she never came
out of her sweet and lovely sphere, as a Christian
woman. She did not usurp the authority of the other
sex ; she [did not set herself up as, a dictator and
censor of ministers and all, but ever remembered that,
as Christ is the head of the man, so is the man the
head of the woman. How charming she was : I once
met her carrying a heavy pail of water for a very old
and feeble woman, whom she had found half sinking
under the burden ; her face was covered with blushes
when she saw me, and as she sJ:opped to speak to me,
and to rest, and push back the rich dishevelled ring-

6*

130 THE RirCORDS OF

lets that half hid her smiling eyes, and stood with
her delicate hand upon her hip, I thought her the most'
graceful creature I had ever seen.

I generally visited the village poor-house at stated
hours in the week ; but one morning, hearing sudden-
ly that one of the old women there was taken very
ill, I set off for the poor-house. I found Una there,
and I cannot resist describing the scene that I wit-
nessed.

By the side of the wide kitchen fire-place the
old woman was sitting, supported in a large arm-chair
by pillows ; she looked very ill, and very irritable ;
her voice was raised in a sort of scolding, wailing
tone, and all her scolding was then falling upon the
meek head of one who knelt before her : this was
Una, ray own gentle Una. She had taken off her
bonnet and cloak, and borrowed a large coarse apron
from the mistress of the poor-house : her sleeves were
tucked up far above her elbows, and she was in the
act of detaching a large plaster from a frightfully dis-
gusting sore on the leg of the sick woman. Oh, with
what tenderness did those small and delicate fingers
perform their loathsome office ! How sweetly, and
how soothingly did she speak and smile, and assure
the impatient woman that she would be very careful
and tender with her not to hurt her ! and how did
she^hrink, and seem to sufer herself, when obliged
to give pain ! and then she would stop, and say coax-
ingly, " Well, well, Mary ! I will wait a little while ;
I am not in a hurry. You must pray, my poor
Mary, for patience : I know you are very, very ill.

A GOOD man's life. tSl

and suffer su^ great pain, for your poor leg is
dreadfully mflamed, red, and boming with heat ; but I
have the sweet eool omtment spread and ready, and
when I have cleaned the wounds, I will put on the
fresh plaster sd very carefully •" More than once, as
she went on ibesskig the ulcerated woimds and look*
ed Up in the face of the suffering woman, the tean
stole down her own angelic £ice. ^^ After all, dear
Mary,'^ she said, when she had bound up the leg of
the poor old woman, and she stood beside her and
spoke very softly — " after all, the only way to bear
pain, or any trouble^ is to pray for the gentle and
heavenly patience ofour blessed Lord Jesus Christ ;
to pray that we may be partakers of His Spirit, and
follow His example ; for surely, * He hath borne our
griefi, and carried our sorrows ; He was wounded for
our transgressions. He was bruised for our ini^ities :
the chastisement of our peace was upon Him ; and
with His stripes we are healed.' " — She did not see
me tSl she turned to wash her hands ; but at my re-
quest she waited till I had read to pocn* Mary and
prayed with her.

" My Una," I said, as we left the house, " you
remind me of the words of my favorite, George Her-
bert, when he speaks of Uie wife fit for a country
parson. He says, ^ Instead of the qualities of the
world, he^requires only three in her ;' one of which I
see you possess already, — * a curing and healing of
all wounds and sores with her own hands :' tell me,
however, to-day, what made you undertake so dis-

m TBB mscoEOs or

gusting an office ?" << You do not think I liked it,"
she said artlessly ; '^once or twice I felt so ill, that I
thought I must have given it up, but the old nurse
has grown so blind that she hurts poor Mary ; and
the other w(»nan, Jane Matthews, who generally
takes nurse's place about Mary, was out for the day ;
and Mary herself, who is so very ill, had been^very
cross to me for not sending her a composing draught
last night, which she was sure I forgot, because she
sent a message to me, though I am quite sure I had
never received her message. In the midst of nurse's
bungling, and Mary's impatient scolding, the latter
looked up to me, and said, ^ Do, there's a darling lady,
dress that poor leg yourself; I see you know how it
ought to be done, by the directions you give to nurse
— Cleave me alone, nurse. I am sure she will do it
for me.'

^^ As she said this, and turned her pale wasted
face to me, her eyes sunk, and yet heavy for want of
sleep, and her cheek flushed in one burning spot with
pain and fever, I could not, with any thing like
common feeling, refuse her entreaties.

" What a proof it is, my dear Earnest, of the
corruption of our nature," continued Una, (as, lean-
ing on my arm, we conversed together of poor Mary,)
" that while the disease and corruption of the mor-
tal body is so offensive, so utterly loathsome to us,
sin in the immortal soul is so far from being naturally
offensive that it is often pleasing to us, oflen cherish-
ed and delighted m by us. Nay, we cannot loathe

A GOOD man's life. 133

and abhor it as we ought^ till we have been made
partakers of a new and holy nature. Let us con-
stantly seek to be renewed unto this new nature !"

We were married. My dear relations, the Lovels,
came to the wedding, and Mr. Lovel performed the
ceremony. My brother Charles^ and Lisa and her
husband, and the Wentworths, were present also.
Mr. Wentworth gave away the bride, and his daugh-
ters were the bridemaids.

I soon found that I had indeed a treasure in my
lovely wife. She won the love and admiration of all,
wherever she appeared. '

" Well, sij !" said my servant Martin to me, " we
begin to get more reconciled to parting with Miss
Lisa, smce you have brought our new mistress home.
We servants love her as if we had known her for
years ; and the poor people in the village say that they
never saw any one to compare with her but Miss Lisa.
She has such a kind humble way of speaking, that
many say they would rather have her find fault with
them than be praised by others." I soon met with
an instance in which the happy effect of her visits
among my poor parishioners was very apparent.
One evening, when I had been called to visit a dying
person at the extremity of my parish, a poor half-na-
ked woman opened the little garden-gate, and came up
to the wmdow where my wife was sitting at work ;

134 THE RSC0RB8 OF

she said nothing, but fixed her latge sunken eyes on a
great loaf of bread which had be^i placed with the
tea-things on the table beside which Una was sitting.
The poor creature was half-starved. Her brutal hus-
band had gone away and left her with two little sickly
children. Una put into her hand the very loaf which
she had eyed so greedily ; and, not kmg aft^ h^ de-
parture, ^e followed the woman to her wretched
lodging, to judge for herself as to the extent of h^:
distress, and, if necessary, to relieve it. She found the
mother and her children in the most deplorable state,
and on her return home she took care to send them the
relief they were in need of. But on her next visit,
and after some inquiries which she made, Una discov-
ered that it was not merely bodily succor that we
were called upon to supply. The wretched crea-
ture had been brought to such extreme distress by a
life of abandoned profligacy, and was in a fearful
state of ignorance and sin. My kind-hearted wife, on
hearing this, felt only more deeply interested in the
situation of the wretched woman. With my hearty
concurrence, she placed the two sickly children under
the care of a respectable widow woman, for their
mother was now confined to her bed, and quite una-
ble to attend to them. She hired a nurse to wait
upon her, and not a day passed in which she did not
herself administer to the wants of the dying woman.
I say * d3ring,' for our medical attendant had given no
hopes of her recovery. It was by the bedside of this
lost and wretched female that I first saw the real su-
periority of my wife's character. I had been occu-

A GOOD man's life. 136

^ pied during the chief part of the morning in visiting
, among the cottages at the uppet end of the village,
and in my way home I determined to call on the
dying woman of whom I have been speaking. The
room in which she lodged was one among many in a
large building, vperhaps some hundred years ago the
mansion of a person of some importance in our vil-
lage, but they were now let out in separate tene-
ments to the poor. As I waited slowly down the
long passage leading to the room I was about to en-
ter, I was surprised to perceive a young woman stand-
ing not far firom the door, apparently listening to what
passed within. She was leaning her head against the
wall. As I drew nearer, I heard the deep hollow
cough of the sick woman, but the young female in
the passage stirred not. Eith^ the cough was louder
thtin the sound of my footsteps, or (which I believe
was the fact) she was too deeply absorbed by her
own thoughts to notice my approach. 1 also paused,
and as the coughing ceased I also stood still to listen,
for I recognized the sweet tones of my wife's voiee. I
was astonished at the clear and simple wisdom with
which she spoke. I had oflen listened with delight
to the soft and winning sweetness in which she spoke
to the poor and sick of their bodily ailments in my
presence ; but she was now discoursing of the mes-
sage of the Redeemer to the lost and hopeless sinner,
and surely faithfiilness and truth were scarcely ever
tempered with so much of the tenderness of love.
The girl who stood before me seemed to listen with
serious and profound attention to every word, till at

136 TH£ RECORDS OP

kst she covered her eyes with her hand, and her
whole frame shook with a sudden burst of grief and
the endeavors she made to restrain it. I thought it
best to offer no interruption to what was passing, and
withdrew very silently, that the poor girl might not
know herself observed. About a fomight after, Una
was a little later than usual in her return home to
dinner ; she had been sent for in haste to the dying
woman of whom I have spoken. When she entered
the room she looked very pale and grave, and I could
see that she had been weeping. "It is all over,**
she replied to the inquiry which I made ; " the poor
creature is at last gone.

"The judgments of God are unsearchable and
His ways past finding out, and it is not for me to
declare that her death was without hope ; but, alas !
there was a deadness, a want of anxiety as to all but
her bodily comforts, about this wretched woman, that
has deeply shocked me. From the time that we first
visited her to the moment of her departure, she has
seemed utterly careless and unconcerned about her
eternal interest. Yet all is — ^must be right," she added
very meekly, after a short pause, in which she seem-
ed to be deep in thought. " God is always wisest
and kindest. Perhaps I was too confident that suc-
cess must attend my daily pleadings with the poor
woman, and that I should see the firuits of my prayers.
May it not be so, dear Ernest ?" she said, gently
clasping my hand and bending down her face, over
which the tears had begun again to flow. "The
ways of our God are indeed above our ways," I re-

A GOOD man's lifb. 137

plied; "and perhaps you litde think, my bumble,
pious love, bow much encouragement accompanies
the humbling lesson of which you speak ; for you
know not that while your exertions were unheeded by
her for whom you designed them, every little word
fell with the dew of God's blessing into the heart of
one who stood as it were by the way-side, unnoticed
and unknown by you. A young woman of abandon-
ed character, also a lodger in the house where your
poor charge has just expired, was drawn first of all
by impertinent curiosity to steal to the door of the
chamber which you visited, that she might amuse her-
self by listening to what passed within. She heard
you speak of sins, which she had committed ; of a
Saviour, whom she had rejected ; of that change of
heart of which she deeply felt her need. Every thing
that you said touched her to the quick, and whenever
you entered the chamber of that dying woman she
softly took her place by the door, with the faith and
repentance of the Magdalene of old, to listen for her
Saviour's words. One day I found her weeping, as
she listened before that door ; and this morning she
has sought me out, half broken-hearted, to ask for our
advice and assistance ; to entreat that we will befriend
her, and, if possible, find some way of enabling her to
remove firom this neighborhood, where she has little
hope of standing firm and faithful among^ her vile as-
sociates. Many of them begin already to jeer at her
new habits ; and she wisely dreads lest their taunts or
their flatteries should join with her own weak heart
to drive her back to the ways of sin and misery."

138 THE RECORDS OF

Many will understand what my feelings were
when the birth of my first child was expected, many
husbands and fathers will understand the trembling
fearfulness with which I longed for the news that my
darling wife was safe. Vainly did I reason with my-
self, vainly did I strive to re-assure myself, that there
was no wisdom or love equal to His ip whose hands
my Una was at that very time. Prayers came nat-
urally to my lips as I slowly paced my study, or
sometimes stood still, breathless, to catch every least
sound from the chamber above. At last the intelli-
gence was brought that my wife was the mother of a
boy. I locked the door to cbmmune with my own
heart, and to pour out the acknowledgment of my
gratitude to Him to whom I had prayed before witfi
such a weak and drooping faith.

From this moment, I said to myself, this infant
shall be the child of prayer and watchfulness. I will
not fear that God will turn from my prayers for him,
or refiise to bless the watchful exertions that I
make. I receive him as a child of promise. He is
to be nursed and brought up by us for the Lord his
Heavenly Father, and for a heavenly inheritance.
" Are you not full of anxiety and fear, now you are a
father?" I once said to a friend whom I value very
highly. He looked at me with an expression of bright
. cheerfulness on his countenance : " I am lull of faith
and hope," he replied ; " I will not doubt that the
grace and the blessing of God will be with me, if I
neglect neither prayer nor active exertion for my dar-
Img child. I trust I shall not cease to pray for him

A GOOD man's lifb. 139

as eamesdy-as if he needed only my prayers, and I

could do nothing for him, and to be as active in the

use of all human means as if all depended on what I

myself could do." I recalled the wise but simple

remark of my friend, now that I also was become

a father; and I det^mined with God's help to act

upon it.

" On parent's knee, a naked, new-born child.
Weeping thou sat'st, while All around thee smil'd :
So lire, that, sinking to thy last long sleep^
Calm thou ma3r*8t smile* while all aromid thee weep."

I know not the author of these lines, but I am
continually reminded of them whon I look upon my
little wailing infant.

Having found among the papers of my venerable
friend many detached remarks on various subjects, I
may occasionally lay them before the reader, some-
times many of them together, sometimes here and
there one. — Editor.

You area father— let me put a case before you.
Suppose you had given your child, at an age when he
was too young to remember you, to a person in whom
you hoped you could repose an entire trust. If, for
reasons best known to yourself, you had determmed
to leave your child under that person's care fer many
years, how would you feel, if, when the appointed
time came for you to receive back your child, to re-
ceive him to your own cheerful and beautiftil abode,

140 TBI RECOROB OF

you found him utterly without any desire to behold
you ; his conduct plainly declaring, that your very
name was strange to him, that he had never been
taught to think of you, or to love you ; that he had
grown up among ignorant and prejudiced persons ;
had been the bosom friend and companion of the
drunkard, the profligate, and the criminal ; that his
mind had been so neglected, his heart so corrupted,
as to give him no taste for your own intellectual so-
ciety, your own pure and honest pleasures ? Beware,
cruel parent ! all this may be the case between your
God, yourself, and your child. God is the rightful
Father — ^your child. His child — ^yourself, the guard-
ian of that child. Your responsibility is great, for
you now stand in God's stead to the child he has
given you.

My child, my first-bom son ! helpless and uncon-
scious as thou art, innocent as thou art, the most in-
nocent of all human beings in their natural state,
seeking nothing but the sweet food from thy mother's
gentle breast, thou art yet the child of wratb.
Thou wert bom in sin. Thou art a sinner. " How V^
some might exclaim, ^^ thisis a monstrous apd hor-
rid doctrine !" It is the doctrine of God's Holy Bi-
ble, and it is home out by the fact. What makes a
man a smner ? Is it the tongue that utters lies ? the
hand that steals ? is it not the heart within that
prompts the members to sin ? and is the child without
this heart ? Could we follow too much the devices
and desires of our own hearts, if those hearts were nat-
urally pure and holy ? My own child ! thou art not

A GOOD man's life. 141

only the child of wrath^ thou art the child of promise
also. What are sorrow and dbease, but the proof of
the ravages of sin upon that fair creation which was
once pronounced to be very good, by the lips of God
himself? My child, what must I do- with thee?
Jxsus answers, ^^ Suffer the little children to come
unto me, and forbid them not." The Church answers,
" There is Holy Baptism,'* — ^Thou must be bnried
by baptism m Christ. Thou must die in thine old
nature sacramentally, be buried sacramentally, rise
again sacramentally, and all with Christ ; and we
must see, we thy parents and sponsors, we the Church
of Christ, we must see to it, as Davenant says, that
what is done once sacramentally in thy baptism, be
always done really in thy life— for, as it is written,
Galatians iii. 27, "As many of you as have been
baptized into Christ, have put on Christ."

My child ! it is a melancholy thought to me that,
even if thy parents have received any supernatural
grace, they cannot impart it to thee. Thou receives^
our natural corruption, and if thy parents are believ-
ing parents, thou art, as far as the covenant goes,
sanctified ; thou wert at thy birth looked upon as in
some sort in covenant with God ; but the new birth
is the sole work of God : it b communicated from the
very sanctuary of God.*

Yet I carry thee in hope to the waters of baptism.

I am taught to look for a blessing on the most
simple observance of the ordinances of my holy reli-

* Much of thia is taken from > Matthew Henry on Baptism.'

143 TBB RBCORDS OF

gion. I will follow the holy directions of the Apostle
Peter, when speaking by the Spirit of God, he said,
^' Repent and be baptized eveiy one of you, in the
name of Jisus Christ, for the remission of sins, and
ye shall receiye the gift of the Holt Ghost." Here
the promise of the Spirit b promised to all who
obey the command and receive the ordinance in godly
sincerity, and I trust thou wilt evidence and follow
up thine infantine profession by repentance fix>m dead
works to serve the living God— -my Baptist ; for so I
name thee. I will bring thee constantly to God in
prayer. I will pray for the Holt Spirit for thee,
and teach thy lisping lips to do the same. The pro-
mise, I know, is to as many as the Lord shall call ;
and why should I not hope and believe, that by thee
the call may be heard ; for, if I live, I will bring thee
up in the use of all the means of grace, and in obedi-
ence to all the holy ordinances of God. May God
quicken them and tliee*-*tbem on thee, and thee by
tbem.

I had not seen my brother Charles for a veiy long
period. At the time of my ordmation he was still at
Eton; but he left school a few months after, and
wrote to me from Lord Eresby's, that his uncle had
given him a commission in the same regiment with
his cousin Strafford Singleton, and that they were un-
der marching orders for Ireland. I did not see this
beloved brother till my marriage was announced to
him. He came to Kirkstone about a week before ^e
wedding. Lisa and her husband were staying with
me to meet him. He was so altered, we should

▲ GOOD man's ufe. 143

scarcely have known him ; I think I never saw a
handsomer creature than he was at that time ; we
had feared> from the brevity and altered tone of his
letters, that he had become strangely altered, but we
were forced' to confess he was not. For a moment
we had doubted, just as he entered the room. There
was so much of the fine gentleman about his dress ;
his voice, figure, and face, were so unlike the Charley
we had last seen ! but when he rushed up to us, and
tenderly embraced his sister, and flung his arms round
my neck, as he had often done when quite a little fel-
low, and wept like a child not caring to hide his emo-
tion, we said to ourselves, '^ He is still all that he ever
was to us." He charmed every one that met him.
His winning courteousness of manners was quite unal-
tered, and there was now the high-bred finish and
ease which is seldom found out of the highest circles
— a finish and ease of Uttle worth, except when join-
ed to humility and sweetness of temper, but very
irresistible when found in such conjunction. My bro-
ther fell m at once with all those habits which many
fine gentlemen would have winced under: habits
which are, or ought to be, pecuUar, (I was going to
say, to every clergyman's family,) I ought to say, to
the family of every professed Christian ; habits which
are not found, however, in the generaUty of families
calling themselves Christians.

Lisa and I managed to be alone with him several
times, though we both thought he wished to avoid
being alone with either of us. We spoke to him with
much seriousness, and I believe .with as much afiec-

144 THB RECORDS OP

tion. We questioned him about his habits of life ;
we confessed to him our doubts and fears about him.
He owned at once, that he was no longer what he
had once been ; that he was careless and unccmcemed
about the one thing of real importance ; that he was
worldly-minded, attached to worldly society, guided
by worldly maxims ; that he seldom prayed ; that he
had long neglected the study, or even the perusal, of
the Holy Scriptures ; but he made not one excuse !
He agreed to all we said, agreed even with tears,
thanked us with tears ; made inany promises, before
we had asked him to make one ; and when we told
him, as we both did, that we dreaded the stability of
resolutions and promises made so readily, he assured
us earnestly, that he knew he could not keep them in
his own strength. He agreed, in short, to every
thing we said. After one of these interviews with me,
he left me, as I thought, seriously impressed. He had
confessed having lost, long before^ the little form of
baptismal renewal, which we had promised our beloved
parents to consider, at least four times in every year.
In the excitement of the moment I could not resist
giving him a copy that I always carried with me. It
was in the hand-writing of my mother, and since she
had written it for me, it had been constantly carried
about my person, fixed in some small ivory tablets that
I valued very highly, for they had been the gift of my
father to his wife when she was yet a bride. Charles
refused to take these tablets for some time ; at last,
with much emotioo, he thrust them into his waistcoat
pocket, and we separated. I went to a poor man's

A QooD man's lifb. 145

house, and he turned down a path that led through a
dark copse in the direction of the neighboring village

of '. '. — . The man whom I had expected to find

at home and ill, was gone, his wife told me, to work,
much better. After conversmg with her a few min-
utes, I left the cottage, and recollecting that my bro-
ther had taken the path through the copse, I thought
that hj walking fast I should overtake him, and we
might finish our walk together. As I entered the vil-
lage, however, hearing the sounds of laughter and
loud voices, and ill-played music, it suddenly occur-
red to me, that a fair was held that day on the village
green. " Poor Charles !" I said to myself, " I ought
to have warned him of this. How annoyed he would
feel in that state of sorrow and thoughtfiilness in which
he left me, to come at once upon this scene of pro-
line levity and folly ! Perhaps he has turned back
again, but I should have met or seen him," (for. I had
stood opposite the window of the cottage I had just
quitted.) When I came to the stile at the end of the
copse, and was about to descend the steep hill, at the
foot of which lay the green where the fair was held,
I paused for a moment- — ^in another moment I drew
back. In the firont of the village alehouse, five or six
bold young women were running a race, for the usual
prize on such occasions, in vulgar language, a smock.
In the midst of the spectators of the immodest sport,
laughing as -loudly as any, and shouting at .the top of
his voice, stood the very person who had just left one
in such an agitated state.

The race was just concluded, and as soon as it
7

146 THK teCORDS OF

was over, one of the girls, rubbing her heated iace
with her aim, and glancing with a bold and sidelong
look at die men breti&d her, came up to my brother,
and said something to him. I saw that he nodded
assent, and I understood to what, for I saw the young
woman cross the grtoD> to a booth, and another priae
purchased at that booth was soon after eleTated, and
another race was about to begm ; but heSate the race,
a scramble took place, Charles having flung down
the change that he received when the master of the
booth came to be paid after he had hung up the shift*
In this iscramblis the yoiinger people of the crowd,
uid indeed many of the elder ones, were seen tum-
bling and sprawling about, one over the other, the
tacing gills of Course among them. So well }deased,
however, was Charies, that I saw his hand again
thrust into his pocket, and another handful of silver
scattered before him. I sprung over the stile, but
reflecting before I {mceeded, I determined' to return
home at cmce. His back had been turned to me;
indeed, I had chiefly seen what passed finom the dark-
ened pathway of the copse-wood. At any other
time, I should have been heartily vexed to have seen
the son of my wise and holy parents the promoter of
such immodest and senseless levity. Now I was
deeply grieved.

That evening, as we were assemUing to fionily
prayer, the ringing of the bell called one of the
servants out. He came back with the little book of
ivory tablets in his hand, and handed it to me, saying
that my name was in the book ( I colored deeply ;

A QOOD man's upe. 147

but my brother came forward, and said careless-
ly, ''It ii mine! I did not know I had lost it.
You may give this to the person who found it," he
said, putting some money in the servant's hand;
then looking to me, he added, '' I am very glad we
have found it, Ernest ! ar'nt you ? I suppose I drop*
ped it oa Milford Green : there was a fiiir on the
Green to-day .''

After Charles left us, I had heard nothing of the
Efesby fiunily for a considerable time, when a short,
but rather pompous letter was brought me from my
uncle Eresby, announcing the approaching union of
bis bouse with the Lorimer fiimilyv4)y the marriage of
his third daughter, the Lady Helen Singleton, to the
Eail of Larimer. I knew that Lord Lorimer was
one of the highest and richest peers in the realm, so
I had no doubt that Lord and Lady Eresby were well
pleased with their daughter's prospects.

Una and I were sitting together some evenings
after I had received Lord Eresby's letter. I was
rea^g aloud while she worked at her needlework. I
laid down my book, for a carriage driving at a fiirious
rate stopped at the gate of the parsonage, and in a
few moments after, a gentleman, whom I soon dis-
covered to be my brother Charles, was seen leading a
young and very beautifol wtunan, almost as tall as him-
self, along the path that leads to ^e door. I went
out to meet them ; and hastening with me at once to
ibt room where I had left my dear wife, Charies

148 THE RBCORIM OP

closed the door, and presented to us his bride, Lady
Helen Singleton, our cousin Helen, who was to have
been married on that very day to Lord Lorimer. I
was, of course, not a litde vexed and astonished at
what had happened ; but when Charles said, '^ We
come to you for shelter : however you may condemn
us, I know that we are sure to meet with kindness and
protection here/' I felt that I could not refuse to be
kind to them, and to receive them. Charles left the
room to discharge the post-boys, and Una and I turned
at once to the young bride. She was standing just in the
place and position as when she entered, looking mel-
ancholy and pale, and quite worn out with fatigue—
a large cloak, and several long shawls hanging firom
her shoulders almost to her feet, but hanging so loose-
ly, that a dress of blue velvet deeply bordered with
silver flowers was seen beneath. The only covering
on her head was a large black veil, under which her
shinmg hair fell m long loose clusters, half uncurled
and tangled. Her grace even ipirpassed her beauty.
She sighed deeply, as Una tenderly took her hand,
and said very gravely, ^^ You are both ashamed of
me, and displeased with me ; and you are right to be
so. I am ashamed of myself. I have long wished
to know you both, but I little thought to make my
first appearance as I do now. StiU I must entreat
you," she added m a trembling voice, the tears trick-
ling down her &ce, ^< not to say much to me to-night. I
will go up stairs with you at once, my sister," she said
to Una, if you will permit me. ^^ I can sit in your
dressing-room till my chamber is ready for me ; and

A GOOD man's life. 149

you wfll tell Charley," she said to me, ^^ that I hope to
meet him much refreshed and recovered to-morrow."

Lady Helen had been brought up in the common,
worldly way of many worldly families. She had
received what the world would call all sorts of ad-
vantages: they might have been termed disadvan-
tages, to a young Christian female. But she had
naturally a fine mind, and a purity of tastQ superior
to those around her. We found an unworldly sim-
plicity m her quite astonishing ; and as this was united
to great propriety of manners, and to a remarkable
sweetness of temper, she became at once a favorite
with my wife and myself. She had been for some
years sincerely attached to my brother Charles : in-
deed, the attachment had been mutual. They had
made no secret of their preference the one for the
other. Helen had been always looked upon as her
cousin's favorite of the three sisters. He had always
sought her society, from the time he became an in-
mate of her father's house. They had never talked
about love till Lord Lorimer became avowedly the suitor
of Helen. He had been equally attentive to one of
her elder sisters, and Lady Mary supposed herself the
object of hi3 affections, when suddenly he proposed for
her sister. Lord Eresby, who prided himself on his
despotic rule over his whole household, and who
managed to inspire all of them with fear, if not with
awe, desired his daujghter Helen to accept the offer,^
and when she would have expostulated with him, po-

160 THE RBCORIW OP

fiitively refioed to hear any reasonings or objections
on the subject. She was simply told a few days
after, that consent had been given in her name, and
that she was to look upon Lord Lorimer as her fu-
ture husband. Her fiither himself assured Lord Lori-
mer in her presence (when he introduced him as h^
lorer), that he might consider his daughter's consent
as already given ; and Hden, timid and almost reck-
less, fix>m seeing no means of escape, betrayed
her dtsapi»obation rather by her manner, than her
words. Still she knew her sister's pr^rence for the
man who had declared himsdf her suitor ; and she
detemuned, if possible, to break off the ^[i^gement.
She went to her mother, and was in the midst of a
serious appeal to her, when Lord Eresiiy entered.
Her modier coldly referred to him. He sat down,
and listened to her objections, and overruled them
all, telling her that Ae was highly honored in b^g
the object of Lord Lorimer's preference ; that the less
said of her sister's attachment the better, as it was not
usual fin: young ladies to declare their choice ; and he
left her, desiring her mother to settie with her one
day in tiie course of the next month fix: her wed-
ding day.

Soon after this, Charles, who had been absent in
Ireland, came to Fontmore ; he had heard his couan's
intended marriage spcdcen of. He went straight to
Helen, and questioned her as to all that had passed,
and then declared his attachment to her. He then
went to her &ther, and many high words passed be-
tween tiiem. In shcnrt, Lord Eresby acted with great

A GOOD man's ufb. 151

severity, and forbade, as he had doae from the first, all
discussion on die proposed marriage in his presence,
saymg that there neither could, nor should be any ap-
peal from his deci^on. Charles and Helep sought, and
at length found an opportunity, after a splendid eot&t-
tainment in the neighborhood, of setting off tog^tber for
Scotland. Lady Helen was not missed till the bi»ak^t
hour the next morning, when she had been some f^purs
the wife of Charles Singleton, and was oa h^r way,
with all pos^ble speed, to our quiet parsonage.
Helen had written a letter, with a fijdl explanation
of her conduct, to Lord Lorimer, before die left her
father's house, and the day after her nmv^i at Kiik-
stone, she wrote to her father and to her mother; but
both her letters were returned unopened by returp of
post. In the envelope was written in her father's hand,
<^ The writer of the enclosed letters is no longer knpwn
at Fontmore."

Helen looked very wretched, bul said she had
written widi little or no hopes to be forgiven isq soon.
For several months they remidned witii us; jand then
(finding himself and his wife still neglected and dis-
owned, and partly at Helen's mtreaiy, that he y^oijdd
leave the army altogether) Charles sold his commis-
sion. With the money he thus obtained, and with
the little property that he ii^erited from his parents,
they were enabled to take a large and v^y comfort-
able cottage in the village not far firom the parsonage.
It was so(m fitted up with pliun but elegant fiimiture,
and Charles and bis servant set to work, and BOOn
iirougfat the garden into good ordier. jBvery day

163 THE RECORDS OP

added to our aflkction for Lady Helen, and our ad-
miration of her conduct. She gradually settled down
mto the most domestic and industrious wife. I say
industrious, for she was never unemployed ; attend-
ing to her little dury, feeding ^er poultry, woiking
in the flower-beds in fix>nt of her cottage, or sitting at
her needlework, with a large basket of coarse linen
before her.

On (me subject I began to feel deeply interested
about her; during all the time she had been at Kirk-
stone, I had never heard her make a remark on re-
ligion. She had been a regular attendant at church ;
she had never omitted, while at the parsonage, at-
tending with great devoutness of manner, our family
devotions ; she had gone with us occasionally to the
' cottages of some of our poor and pious neighbors :
still she had not made a smgle remark that showed
approval or dislike about that subject to which alone
Una and I attached any pre-eminent importance.
At last, her unaccountable reserve and silence gave
way., I found Lady Helen alone in our library : she
looked up fix>m the book she was reading, and begged
me to read aloud a passage there. It was this.

" I prefer an erroneous honest man before the
most orthodox knave in the world; and I would
rather convince a man that he has a soul to save,
and induce him to live up to that belief, than bring
him over to my opinion in whatever else beside.
^ Would to God that men were but as holy as they
might be in the worst of forms among us."

"And b this your opinion, Ernest, as well as the

A GOOD man's LIPE. 153

opinion of your fiivorite Leighton ?" she inquired. I
had left a volume of Leighton's works on the table.
<< This is indeed my opinion, dear Helen," I replied
at once, ^^ though that slightly incredulous look would
say, you doubt it." " Forgive the look," she said,
<< forgive it as freely as I would banish it. I begin
to understand your religion in a very difl^nt way
from what I did. I had imagined that you were dog-
matical and unnecessariiy strict; I did expect to
find you and my sweet sister Una kind, but very
gloomy, and I looked forward to a very dull, though
hospitable retreat in your family. I must own that
many of the doctrines I have heard from your pulpit
were long unpalatable to me, nay, utterly incompre-
hensible." " And are they so at present ?" I asked.
" No, dear Ernest," she replied. " At least I begin
to comprehend them, since I went with Una to a cot-
tage a few days ago ; that cottage at the end of the
village where the old man lives, who told you he had
been a fine scholar in his youth, and who had so much
to say about religion, while he had evidently never
known what, you described to him to be the real,
vital spirit of ^religion, and you referred him to the
secoad chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Corin-
thians, at the fourteenth verse, and bade him read
how ' the natural man receiveth not the things of the
Spirit of God,' and how a spiritual discernment is
needed in all who would rightly apprehend spiritual
things. I had often heard you urge the absdute ne-
cessity of seeking this spiritual discernment from your
pulpit, but I can scarcely tell why I had never given
7*

154 THE RBCORIW OF

the snfayect any coosidemtian before* I was thiaidiig
deeply on yrrbBt you hmd said, wheo we enteied
another cottage, and theie I saw, in a poor unl^tered
cteatuie, the blessed effect, of seeking and possessing
that spiritual discernment* There I began to feel for
the first time what an ignorant, wretched, sinful cfea-
tore I was, and am, with all my advantages of station
and education.

*^ I saw then the firuit of earnestness and prayer^
and I resolved to follow so holy, so blessed an exam-
^ple. I have begun lUt last (I hope I do not deceive
myself) to be in earnest. I have begun also to pray^
for I discover, that { have never prayed till now*
And you, Earnest, are after all, no bigot, I find. You
are not so very anxious to draw every one over to
holding your own opinions." " I wish to see every
one," i replied, ^< humble, and pure in heart, and up-
right in principle, and spiritually minded, and full of
holy love towards hir fellow-creatures ; and those
doctrines, which I wish to be the peculiar doctrines of
my preaching, simply because they are the peculiar
doctrines of the Gospel of Christ, nay, of the whole
sacred volume, are the means app(»ifted by God to
produce in the heart and conduct of man, the t^B^t
of which I speak; that is, to make man humble,
pure in heart, and thoroughly fumi^ed unto aH good
works ; in short, to make man happy." " But," said
Helen, gravely, "is such the effect? Surely experi-
ence does not always favor such a conclusion. How
many sects and parties there are, all differing one
from the other, and yet all declarbg that they take

A aoop man's ufe. 15&

their opinioBsfipiQ die Bible!" '^Xq thecfirstjplace/'
I replied, ^^ fhe doctrines ei which I spea(c as pro-
ducing such fiuit ;are xvot built up from ,the perveac^iion
of paitscular tiexls, or ev^ chapters^ ^ jtbe Sib|e.
The xf^qel deluded iaoibU^, the meanest wsorldiwig} nu^
twist and Koan^e the blessed words ,of life pQ &vor
^eir own unscripfiural views. Others noiy in ^ less
^eg[»e fisn^e the parts of truljbi to cpunien^oe heresy
jaAd ^xor, iMit the Scripture doctrines that I speak of,
aj:e those of the text and context. They are not the
opinions of man interpreting Scripture, but of Scripture
interpredng Scripture. They rise not ,hi spme obscure
comer of the sacred territory ajs a n^crow ill-built hov^el
of wood a«d stubble, or at best^ Babel, fix>m the
confused imagination of man. They rise a, broad and
glorious edifice of gold and silver and precious gems
upon the whole broad surfa^ of thfit holy ground ;
and as the magnificent temple of Gbn^ aod^it peo-
ple was built under die inspired direction of God
himself^ so are diey built up under the same guidance
of the same God, .even the Holt Spirtt ; and Jkho-
VAH himself dwelleth in them as m Ifis holy ten^eof
.old. In short, you recognize in those doctrines, which
alone I would preach, not the narrowness of a party,
but the compr^ensiveness of Scripture — no^ the gar-
bled and formal arrangement of ,a human system, but
sometiung iar above any human system, bearing the
outward impression and the internal evidence of the
holy and eternal Godhead."

166 TBS RECORDS OF

<<Here/' said Lady Helen, entering my stady
with an open letter in her hand, her countenance ra-
diant with smiles, ''here, my kind brother and sister,"
(Una was sitting at her needlework in the window of
my study,) '^ here, my beloved friends, is news that
will rejoice yon. My fiither and mother are at length
reconciled to us. That darling brother Harold said
he would never rest till he had prevailed on them to
forgive me, and here b a long letter from him, en-
closing a few lines, a very few lines, full of affection,
from my father. He desires us to meet him and the
whole family party at Fontmore next week, and he
invites dear Una and yourself to accompany us. His
invitation is so pressing, that I hope you will not re-
fuse to go. It would be so kind to me,'' she said,
taking Una's little hand in hers, and coverin'g it with
kisses. We all went to Lord Eresby's, and were re-
ceived with much kindness. It was soon after settled,
that Charles and Helen should reside entirely for
some years with their parents, and suits of rooms stt
Fontmore, and in the spacious town-house, were given
them.

The evening before the departure of Una and my-
self from Fontmore, I found Helen in my wife's dress-
ing-room. She was in tears, and had come, as she
told us, to ask my advice. " I have returned," were
her words, " to my father's house, with very different
sentiments from tliose with which I left it. I tremble
to think how soon I may be led into worldHness and
folly. Tell me what I am to do when 1 am away
from you both, for I fear I shall soon fall back."

A GOOD MAN*8 UFH. 167

<< That fear,'' I replied, '^ is m itself a preservative.
May He whom you will not fail to seek, keep alive
in you a holy fear, a childlike, not a slavish fear.
Neither of us, nor any human friend can after all be
of much essential service to you. If Jesus Christ
Himself, when in the flesh, said to his disciples, * It
is expedient for you that I go away, that the Com-
forter may come junto you,* are we not expressly
taught that it is not human support, or teaching, or
guidance, that we need, but spiritual support, spirituaL
teaching, spiritual guiding ? Not that man should say
unto us, < Know ye the Lord,' but that the will of
God may be put into our minds and written in the
heart. This is, in fact, the privilege of those who
live under the New and Christian Covenant. There
fore, my dear sister, strive to walk by faith, and not
by sight ; attend to personal religion, to the state of
your heart, and don't be dismayed if you find none
who love the Lord as you do, to whom you may
speak often. Who is sufficient for the things I am
expected to accomplish ? you may ask. Not yourself,
I answer, but God in you. Your sufficiency is of
God — ^we. are not sufficient of ourselves, to think any
thing as of ourselves."

We returned home, happy to leave Charles and
Helen restored to their parents' love. I cannot help
hoping that they will both live as the disciples of Him
whose name they bear. I have more fears for Charies
than for Helen. Yet how delightftil his society has

16B THB KBCORDS OF

lately beeo ; sdll I fear, fhmi what I have seen at
Fontmore, that lie is too apt to be wfaat bis asso-
ciates aie.

lajnagvna&tfaer. Mjr^weet Una has presented
me with a little girL I tnist we shall be enabled in
recttving these children, to nurse and tram them up
for God.

"The wind bloweth where it Usteth, and thou
hearest the sound thereof; but canst not tell whence
it Cometh, or whither it goeth : so is every ooe that
is bom of the Spirit." It is no argument for our
breathing the fresh, free air, that we cannot trace it
back to the place whence it ccnneth ; we shoujid faint
and die, our lungs would be useless witihout its ciicu-
lataon.

What a happy, quiet life we lived for several
years ! so happy, so quiet, that the tempti^tion was
often present with us to forget that we were pilgrims,
and that we bad, perhaps, many a weary mile to
travel before we entered into our rest Blessed be
God ! though often tried by thb temptation, we were
enabled to resist, satisfied with daily suppcxrt, and
content to leave the foture to Him who maketh all
things to work together for good to them that love
Him.

My two children, Baptbt and Lisa, were with me
in the summer-house at the end of the garden. I had
turned from my books to converse with Baptist.
" What is the meaning of the word ^ Baptisin ?' " be

A eooD ham's life. 159

Asked, for oar conrersation had turned to that subject.
^< Washing is the sob]^ meaning of the word/' I re-
plied. << And why was I baptised ?" he said* ^^ Why
are you washed ?" '' To make me clean." ^' Sup-
pose you were never washed, you would be in a very
dirty state ; bat is Imptism the same as washing ?" I
said. Baptist looked very thoughtfiil: <'I don't
know," he answered, " but you said it meant wash-
ing." <' So it does, but first tell me, who washes you
every morning ?" ^'I wash myself: Susan used to
wash me two years ago." :^' And did she wash your
body, or that part of you with which you think and
hope and rememb^ — ^the part you cannot see, but
which is your very self — can that part of you be
washed by water ? For instance, were you never
out of temper, when washed by Susan ? and do you
ever remember that the fair, firesh water with which
she bathed your skin, wa^d away that temper firom
your inward self? Have I not seen you come down
-stairs after that washing, without a speck of unclean-
ness on your fiice, with your hair in smooth and
isfaining order, and yet your spirit full of unkindness
and ill t^nper ? would that kind of washing with '
water ^deanse you inwardly?" ^'No, indeed it
-would not," he replied. " And now, my children,"
I said, for my little Lisa had risen from her stool, and
laid down her knitting,* and stood on the opposite side
of the table, leaning her cheek on h&t hand, and look-
ing earnestly in my face, ^^ we will try to understand
dearly about this washing, by taking the right way of
doing so ; that is, we wiU read together what God

100 THB RBCOHD8 OV

has siud b the Holy Bible." But fiist of all we
knelt down together, and asked our Hearenlj Father,
ht the sake of our Lord Jssus Chbist, to send down
the Holt Spirit to teach us in reading the word of
God. I always accustomed myself and my children
to this habit, for we must not read the Bible as we
read other books. We read together the first part of
the stoiy of Jesus and f the woman of Samaria at the
well of Jacob ; where it is written, that Jesus asked
the woman who came to draw water at the well; to
give him water to drink : and then we dwelt upon
those verses, ^' Jesus answered and said unto her. If
thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to
thee, * Give me to drink,' thou wouldst have asked of
Him, and He would have given thee living water.
The woman saith unto him, < Sir, thou hast nothing
to draw with, and the well is deep ; from whence
then hast thou that living water? art thou greats
than our father Jacob, who gave us the well, and
drank thereof himself, and his children, and his cat-
tle ?' Jesus answered, and said unto her, < Whosoever
drinketh of this water, shall thirst again ; but whoso-
ever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall
never thirst, but the water that I shall give him shall
be in him a well of water springing up into everlast-
ing life.' " Here, though drinking, and not washings
is spoken of, the same element, water, is the subject
of discourse. The woman did not understand what
He meant by this water: she [thought of nothbg but
quenching the thirst felt in the throat and mouth of
the body, and her thoughts were at the bottom of the

A oooo man's life. 161

wen of water, beside which she was then standing*
Some other water was spoken of by our Lord ;
water to be drank by the spiritual part of man, and
to wash clean the spiritual part of man. Now let us
see if the meanmg of this water is told us in the Bi-
ble. We then turned to the thirty-nmth verse of
the ninth chapter of John, where, after speaking of
the same living water, St. John says, ^^ This spake
He of the Spirit, which they that believe on Him
should receive." Now, if you look to the third
chapter of St. John, you will see that our Saviour says
in the plamest words, at the third verse, ^^ Elxcept a
man be bom again^ he cannot see the kingdom of
God." " You have been bom once, my children,
but what does this verse say ?" Baptist answered,
^^ That we must be born again." << But how ? read
— ^the fifth verse tells us that we must be bom of wa-
ter, and of the Spirit ; that is, of earthly water ;
and of the spiritual water. God bids us make use of
the water-washing which we can see with our eyes,
to show us that there must be a washing or cleansing
by the Spirit, whom we cannot see with our eyes ;
but who is this Spirit ? I will tell you : < God is a
Spirit, and they that worship Him must w(M:ship Him
in Spirit and in tmth.' What I wish you to under-
stand, then, is this : God tells us in the Bible that we
must be changed by the Hoi»t Spirit, and what He
tells us must be done, if we would be His children
here and in heaven, He offers to do. If then we
must be changed to what is good by being bora
again of the Hoi»t Spirit, what does that prove ua to

lOS THB RECORDS OP

hRve been before that change takes place? Tell
me, Lisa 1" Lisa only stared. ^^ What is the hand
that needs to be made clean hy washing, before it is
washed ?" *^ It b unclean," replied Lisa. ^< And if
we must be changed to what is good, we must have
been before, or by nature, bad. Of this change or
washing by the Spirit, washing by water is the sign.
CrOD tells us to be baptized, and He promises ^ His
Holt Spirit to all who ask hinti.'* We did ask Uk
Holt Spirit for you when we brought you to God
in baptism, and now I expect you both to pray con-
stantly for the Spirit."

Ldsa seemed as if she could not keep her attention
<Hi the stretch all the time. She looked rather wist-
fully toward the garden. <^ Dear Lisa," I said, <^go
to die window, and lo6k out over the flowers ; we can
smell their sweetness here as the soft pleasant air
comes flowing in : but do not forget, Lisa, what we
have been talking about."

<' Here b my mother coming," cried the meiry
child soon after, clapping her hands ; '^ she is com-
ing down the broad walk, but very slowly, because
every now and then she is gathering flowers, and fill-
ing the basket on her arm." We all went to the
window, and my gentle Una saw us, and beckoned,
as she looked up, holding up her basket of roses, and
saymg, ^^ My little merry girl may come to me if she
will." Lisa laughed with delight at the call, and was
off in a moment. Baptist and I still remained at the
window.

» Luke », 13. -

A «ooD man's lifk. 163

I could have stood a long while there, gazing up-
on her who was always lovely to my heart and to
my eyes ; but she passed under the window, and
disappeared through the gate in the wall opening to
the wood. She looked up again and smiled, but did
not speak. We turned to another window. Una
was seated under the tali trees, and when she saw us
again, she said, <^ I am waitmg here while lisa car*
ries my roses mto the house, and brings my bonnet,
for I have promised to take her to the school, and we
are gomg the long way through the wood. As she
sat there, m the dark soft gloom of the trees, in her
snow-white dress, her hair gathered up and knotted
with such (Tareless grace, a few of its silken waves
hanging lower than the rest, over h&t fair temples, I
remarked to myself that expression of modesty and
goodness which makes the plainest features pleasing,
and which gave perfect loveliness to her sweet fiijce ;
and I thought ol her whom she resembled m name,
the meek and heavenly Una of the poet Spencer.
Perhaps he took the name of his ' Holy Liadye ' fiom
the native country of my gentle wife; where he resided
so long, and where Unah or Una is still a common
name.

Baptist was probably struck, as I had been, with
the expression of goodness in his mother's lovely fece.

^^ My mother is always good, father," be said ;
" I wish I could be like her." " I hope she is good,"
I replied ; '< I think she is, as far as human and sinful
beings can be called good ; for there is none good
but one, that is God !" " And you are good too,"

164 THB RBCORDS OV

he continued ; ^' and so is my aunt Lisa.'' i< Only
in the way that I tell you, Bapdst. We are all by
nature sinfiil, and we have all constant and difficult
trouble with our own hearts, and we have nothing in
us or fipom ourselves to make or keep us good. The
Holt Spirit can alone make us good." That he
might understand me more clearly, I led him back
again to the window looking over the flower garden.
There was a large bed immediately beneath, filled
with roses and white lilies, and many other beautiful
and firagrant flowers, then in full bloom. The gar-
dener had been weedmg that bed, and putting it in the
neatest order the evening before. Not a dead leaf,
not a stone was to be seen. " Look at that flower-
bed," I said to Baptist. ^^How did it become so
bright with colors ? what made it smell so sweet ? the
little stems and branches of every plant, the very
earth beneath them, all are in such order and beauty,
that perhaps a bank of flowery in the Garden of Eden,
the paradise of our first parents when innocent, was
not more lovely% But what is the reason you behold
it as it now is ? has it been always thus ? has it been
left to cultivate itself. No, the flowers have been
brought from afar ; the barren soil has been enriched
till it became the dark and fertile mould we see ; and
even now watchfulness and care are constandy at
work, (X weeds would choke the ground, and outgrow
the flowers ; were it left to itself, all would be with-
out order or beauty."

My children left me, for Baptist begged that he
might accompany his mother and sister. I was left
alone to think of them, and to pray for them. The
thought of them was continually coming before me ;
and as I turned to the volume I had been reading
when Baptist began conversing with me, I found my-
self continually looking for what might bear some re-
ference to them. My book was Archbishop Usher's
" Body of Divinity," and I could not resist writmg
out these two passages that I met with there :

^^ When God affi>rdeth means, we must wait upon
Him for a blessing in them, and by them ; when He
doth not aflbrd means, we must not tie the working
of His grace to them. Some have the outward sign,
and not the inward grace, some have the inward grace,
but not the outward sign ; we must not commit idola-
try by deifying the outward element.

'^ Infants are brought to the sacrament of baptism
in their infancy, but are never by their parents taught
the doctrine of baptism when they come to years of
understanding : baptism is not made use of as it ought,
in the whole course of men's lives."

My one grand object m the educating of my two
children is to make them (God helpmg me) think it
a sort of impossibility to be otherwise tihan worthless,
unless their life and conduct agree with their profes-
sion. Half the evil in what is called the Christian
world, is caused by its being not only possible but
c(»nmon, for vast numbers to go on in a profession, to

166 THB RBCORDS OV

the principle laid practice of which they sddom give
a thought.

Into what a lamentable state the tradesmen of this
country would soon be thrown, if it w^re equally
common jfor them to have their callings written orer
their shop doors, and supposed nothmg more was re-
quired of them. Sitting down c(»itented with such a
state of things, is like sittmg down to the dmnet of the
Barmecide, who led his guest to a bare table and in-
vited him to taste of many rich and rare viands, about
which he spoke as if the table had been groaning be-
neath their weight. But, to effect this, they must be
brought to God continually ; not only brought to Gon
at baptism, not only brought to God as soon as they
are able to know the meaning of baptism, not only in
every ordinance of our holy religion, but the counsel,
the example of all who have any thing to do with
them, should also breathe of this principle, and the
prayers of all who love them should, as it were, con-
stantly bring them before God.

Alas ! how easy it is to say all thi^-^-those are
truly blessed who not only know these things, but do
them.

Bradford, the Reformer, says, in one of Ms letters,
<' A man that is regenerate is bom of God, (and
that every one of us be so, our baptism, the sacra-
ment of regeneratbn, requires under pain of damna-
tion.") I like the expression-^^^the sacrament of

A oooi> man's ufb. 167

regeneration.'^ It so plamly points out what ought
to be in the baptized man if he is a sound professor.

Is it strange that so much should be required of
the baptized person after receiving the sacrament of
baptism, when ordinances which are not sacraments
are not the less worthy in themselves, because they
who are bound by them, and might be benefited by
them, neglect the bond and despise the privilege ? Is
the ordinance of marriage, for instance, the less holy
because too many married persons are faithless to
their engagements ? Are the ordination vows of a
minister of Christ the less sacred in themselves, be-
cause they are kept so pro&nely by many ? There-
fore I agree with Bishop Hopkins, that " so long as
we live in a state of sin, we who have received bap-
tism live in peijury."

Mr. Singleton was the most uniformly cheerful
person I ever met with. His motto, like that of
Kishop Hackett, might have been, ^' Serve Gdn, and
be cheerful." Those who saw his calm, pleasant
countenance, which, though not handsome in the ac-
tual sense of the word, was made so by its happy ex-
pression, would have said that he had no iritds.

They little knew what deep and inward struggles
he was exjposed to. ^< I am very much of the opinion
of the venerable Bede," he <Mice said to me. " This
inward warfare, of which we have been speaking,
must last through life. In the resurrection every
thing shall be perfected. Jn the mean time it b a

168 THB RECORDS OV

great thmg to keep the field, and remain unconquei^d,
though not discharged from war." He was a man
much given to quiet musings, and deep searchings of
heart. He would be away for hours in the woods
and fields, and among the heathy hills, with the
small Bible that was his constant companion, and
come back reinvigorated and refreshed for more ac-
tive occupations and duties. The eye of faith might
have seen that he had been in the armory of the sanc-
tuary, buckling on the whole armor of God.

He would have agreed vnth the truly philosophi-
cal Coleridge, that " an hour of solitude passed in
sincere and earnest prayer, or the conflict with, and
the conquest over, a single passion and subtle bosom
sin, will teach us more of thought, will more effectu-
ally awaken the faculty, and form the habit of reflec-
tion, than a year's study in the schools (of the
learned) without them." — Editor*

The chief of sinners — ^yes. Lord, I am the chief
of sinners. I cannot accuse others, but this I must
say of myself. I judge of others by the outward ap-
pearance; I judge of myself by looking into the
depth of my own heart. I would not be always de-
claring my smfiilness to the careless world who would
not understand me: the silly and irreverent world
are sure to accuse those who make such confessions,
of committing gross and sinful actions, or of indulging
a morbid tone of feeling. The world is apt to prove
itself made up of blockheads when such points are

A GOOD bian's life. 169

touched upon. Where was the gross sinfulness q{
Job, one of the excellent among the moral and world-
ly, and yet what was the confession of his deeply
impressed spirit ? "I have heard of Thee with the
hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee,
wherefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and
ashes."

It is the sight of Gtod that brings the man who
strictly searches his heart to confess that he is
^^ wretched, and miserable, and poor,, and blind,, and
naked." Rev. iii. 17.

As a minister, Mr. Smgleton was often deeply
tried by a sense of sin. Gregory die first, an enlight-
ened and holy man, has left this striking remark:
" Generally, those who most excel in divine ccmtem-
platicm are most oppressed with temptation." We
need not wonder, then, to find Mr. Singleton exclaim-
ing, " Alas ! alas ! I cannot pray. I can only lie
prostrate on the ground before thee. Why cannot I
quit this body of sense, and sin, and selfishness ? I am
tied and bound by the chain of my sm. The heavy ^
links hang, clogging every limb, the galling yoke
presses heavily upon my neck ; I wince under it, but
I cannot get firee. I will use a form, as I have no
words of my own.

" I know my Bin that locks thine ears.

And binds thy hands ;
Out-crymg my requests, drowning my tears.
Or else the chilliness of my faint demands.
But as cold hands are angry with the fire

And mind it still,
So I do lay the want of my desire
Not on my sins or coldness, but thy will

170 TAB RKCOftDS OT

Yet htar, O God ! only for His blood ttker

Which pleads for me."

" Luther left a blessed consolation to the minister
of Christ, when he said, ^Prayer, meditation, and
temptatbn, make a minister/

*' It is mdeed a great consolatbn to me under
temptation, that I could not speak effectually of
temptation to my flock, had I not been deeply tried
myself. I now speak of temptation from my own
experience. Blessed be God for his mfinite Iove»
Jecus himself suffered, being tempted, and was tempt-
ed in all points like as we are, yet without sin. He
also, as the great Captain of our salvation, was made
perfect through sufferings. But how may I meet
temptation ? There is a way to be * more than a
conqueror, and it is through Him that loved us,''
through Him that said, * Without me ye can do
nothing!' Yes, Lord! but ^I can do all things
through Christ, that strengtheneth me.' What tru&
and rare beauty in these lines of the godly George
Herbert. I may echo them fjx)m the deep recesses of
my own breast.

'♦ * Ifoliness on the head.

Light and perfection on the breast.
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead.
To lead them unto life and rest ;
Thus are true Aarons drest

Profaneness in my head :

Defects and darkness in my breast ;
A noise of passions ringing me, for dead.

Unto a place where is no rest ;

foot Priest ! thus am I drest.

A GOOD man's life. 171

Only another head

I have ; another heart and hreast ;
Another music, making *live, not dead ; *

Without whom I could have no rest ;

In him I am well drest.

So, holy in my head ;

Perfect and light in my dear breast ;
My doctrine tun'd by Christ, who is not dead, ^

But lives in me, while I do rest.

Come people ; Aaron's drest.'"

A Prayer.

Blessed Lord ! I know, I confess, that my heart
consents to sin ; if it were not so, I should not need
Thy help.; but while I own my love to sin, I pray
from my heart that Thou wilt deliver me from the
slightest preference to it. While I own that I love
sin, I pray for pardon — ^for the cleansing blood of
Christ my Saviour — for the pure, strong, forceful
sword of the Spirit to strike, cut sharply and closely
off the sms that beset and would ruin me. If I per-
ish, let it not be in yielding, but in struggling. If I
am dragged down away from thy presence, let it be
with cries and strong agonies of prayer pouring from
my lips. But no— Thou art too gracious. Thou
lovest those who seek to be sincere. Thou despisest
not the broken heart — and there is one for whose
most gracious sake Thou wilt make me, who am in
myself a lost and miserable offender, a rich and joyful
heir of the inheritance of the saints in light. O grant
that He may be made of God unto me, wisdom and
righteousaess, and sanctification, and redemption.

172 THE RECOBDS OW

Sin comes to the heart — ^but I must not give way
to any thmg like a morbid feeling of misery ; if sin be
not encouraged or listened to, but resisted instantly hy
my being strong in the Lord and the power of his
might, it is still sin, but not my sin. It is temptation^
and I suffer being tempted, but I am rather to count
it all joy, being past, than to make myself miserable.
If the fiery darts meet the burnished surface of the
shield of faith, a shield of adamant, they fall bluntecl
and powerless.

Tnie and false Light.

There are many false lights in the world. There
is but one true light. 'Tis our nature to be drawn
forth and dazzled by those false lights, by worldly
ambition, carnal pleasure, uncertain riches. We seek
the sparkling but fatal deceit, we ^encircle it, hover
nearer and nearer. Wammgs are to stop us in our
deluded course. A kind hand would there often stop
us, often it is thrust between us aud the scorching
glare, too often with too many, in vain. They reach
the object of their desire, but it becomes their destruc-
tion. The true light, the source of life, and cheer-
fulness and peace, has shined in vain for them ; has
been shunned as if it were some horrible and pestilen-
tial meteor. Would you see the parable of this in
nature's volume ? See the moth drawn forth by the
glare of a mean and rank^smelling candle. Its red
and glowing flame proves only too attractive ; the
insect hovers neai^r and nearer, and the hand of the

A 600D man's UIFE. 173

observer is often thrust before the treacherous light :
how very often is the warning ofiered in vain, the
flame is reached, but with it, death. For the same
insect, the bright and glorious sun, the source of health
and life, has shined in vain ; the moth has shunned
it ; we seldom see it on the wing till the bright and
beautiful sun has come to its setting.

Christ's Merits and ours.

Christ died for us, not merely to supply by his
merits what is wanting in ours, not merely to patch
up a sort of righteousness for us. This is not only
mean, but an unscriptural view of the subject ; it not
only wants nobleness but truth to support it, though
man naturally loves and approves a system which as-
cribes as much merit and righteousness as possible to
himself. The Gospel plan is imperfect on such a
system. Such might have been the case had the plan
of our redemption stopped at the Cross. At least it
might have been a matter of opinion. Even then,
methinks, he who had any noble idea of the nature of
his God would not have been contented with so low
and poor an estimate of the great atonement. But
the plan of our redemption did not stop at the Cross.
Christ himself has shown us how his sufferings and
his departure in the body were to open upon us a
new part of th^ Gospel dispensation. The atone-
ment had been made for man on God's part. It had
not been applied to man. Man needed to be made
fit on his part to receive it, for the preparation of

174 THE RBC0RO8 OF

heart required is also from the Lord. '^ We have no
power of ourselves to help ourselves." Christ's
own words will best declare what I mean. " Marvel
not that I say unto you, ye must be bom again."
Be bom again. Surely this implies not partial work,
but something altogether new. We did not merely
need some new desires, but a renewed nature — ^not to
be set right in some points, but a new principle. We
are not told that our own righteousness will serve to
cover us. It is called " filthy rags," by which is
meant that it is, however pure among men, altogether
defiled before God. We are told that we must put
on the white robe of Christ's righteousness, and
robes that have been washed white in the blood <^
the Saints. In this view it seems clear and plain to
me, that Christ came not merely to supply what
was wanting in our merits, but wholly to substitute his
merits ; and then by the in-dwelling and in-working
presence of the Holt Spirit, wholly to change or
convert his children from their natural and sinful
state to the image of Christ.

Daily Light and Strength,

, In my blindness to have the light which I receive
sent from the very presence of God in the glorious
courts of Heaven ; in my weakness to think that the
strength I receive is the very strength of the great
God. This very morning, the instant before I re-
ceived it, it was with God in Heaven. Day by day
he gives it, as it were, fresh and firesh. Oh, who

A GOOD man's life. 175

would mourn, because only for the one day before U9
^8 receive the grace sufficient?

* I cannot help thinking, that many of the most
pious and holy of the present day want one lovely
grace to their edified and edifying characters. They
cannot, or do not, make allowance for the slow growth
of others. They do not see how impossible it is for
an individual, who has been brought up among per-
sons of worldly views, and yet of moral and honor-
able principles, to discover very quickly the radical
error of all that is merely moral, merely honorable, in
the professed disciples of Jesus Christ ; and How
very possible it is for such an individual to have made
great advancement, at least in sincerity of purpose
and spirituality of mind, without having gained any
acquaintance with the conventional terms and usages
of the religious world. It is at the same time fear-
fully easy for one brought up in a religious sect to ac-
quire the language, and indeed all that may be taught
by man of the religion he professes ; and the natural
effect and consequence of all such acquirement, with-
out the Spirit, is to create a feeling of self-approval ^
and of imaginary superiority over more spiritual but
less fluent professors.

Some of the most interesting characters I have
ever known, have been those that were brought up
away from a religious party ; and I have heard a very
holy man declare, that he ever felt deeply interested
in such persons, in assisting the formation and de«

176 THE RECORDS OF

vjelopment of their characters, in remomg the awk*
wardness of their spiritual gait, and correcting the
blunders of their mode of expressing themselves.
Besides, after all, nothing is more charming than ta
find a very holy and spiritual person without the cant
of conventional expressions.

I wish I could see in religious professors more of
the wionixig kindness that distinguished our only per-
fect exemplar. How constrained has many an in-
genuous and well-disposed person been made to feel,
by the manner which can speak as plainly as words,
in saying, you are not to be admitted to familiar in-
teccQurse with us, for you are not an initiated person !
Where is the love and condescension of our blessed
Lcx'd, who loved the young ruler, although he could
not consent to make the sacrifice that Christ re-
quired, and follow Him. «

How ought we to esteem those who have all the
amiable qualities of that young man, and are also
ready to give up all for their Lord, but who are,
alas 1 ignorant or inexperienced in the outward ex-
pression of the faith of Christ.

A sure proof that the religion of Jesus Christ is
in the heart, is not only to see a pure, holy, denying
spirit where self is concerned, not <Mily to find new
views, and new life, and new works ; but to find, also,
a lovely," never-failing charity toward others, toward

/

A GOOD man's life. 177

those even whom we think mistaken in doctrine, or
worse than mistaken in practice; to see that their
errors and transgressions are used tenderly and com-
passionately, rather than bitterly, so that by the com-
parison, if any be unconsciously made, self-approving
opinion is never generated, as that of the Pharisee ;
^^ Lord, I thank thee that I am not as other men
are, or even as this publican." O Lord ! enable
me to dread a notional religion. We know by many
fearful instances it is possible to hold the truth, or
something very like the truth, in ungodliness. What,
however, is unsanctified knowledge or unsanctified
wisdom ? The most distinguished among men either
in the one or in the other, stands like a babe, nay, a
very fool, beside him, who, though fallen, is an angel
fallen, who hath visited the secret chamber of every
human heart that ever existed ; through whose in-
fernal wiles it was, that the world by wisdom knew
not God.

I have often observed the transforming effect of
vital religion on a common-place character. It imr
parts at once a sort of intellectual originality, as well
as a moral superiority. M aily persons have I met
become, by the grace of God, holy believers and
faithful disciples of our Lord, persons whom I re-
membered as barely endurable in society, talking of
the weather, or politics, or the usages of society, or on
literary subjects, in a trite and even tamely wearying
manner ; the same persons whom I could sit and listen
8*

178 TBS RSCORD8 OF

to in delighted silence. Even humanly speaking, the
cause of this change may be easily traced : the intel-
lect has been expanded, the feelings simplified in the
man, by the grandeur and simplicity of the new ob-
ject to which the intellect afid the feelings have been
directed. — ^Lord ! I would be really wise, rouse me
from* my lukewarmness, and enable me to seek this
w'lsdom as silver, to search for her as for treasures ; for
then only shall I understand the fear of the Lord, and
find the knowledge of God. It is indeed by praying
and supplicating with diligence and perseverance, that
w^e attain this wisdom and abide in it, or all other at-
tempts will prove vain. How many poor souls, other-
wise weak and simple, hav^e by this means grown
exceedingly wise in the mystery of godliness !

To be humble before my God is, comparatively
speakmg, easy ; nay, it seems almost the natural im-
pulse of the heart for the worm, man, to bow down
humbly and with lowly* reverence before the great
Creator of the heavens and the earth. Alas, how
many of us are contented to be humble in this way,
to say to ourselves and to the world, " Yes, I will al-
low the great God to be more glorious and exalted
than myself; I will consent to confess myself inferior
to the Majesty of heaven, (for that is the humility of
too many.) I will be as humble as you please before
God, but here I stop ; I do not see why I am to hum-
ble myself before the apostate and insignificant pride
of my fellow-man." Here begins the difficult task,

A GOOD man's life. 179

at least I own, the task difficult to me. O Lord,
give me a bumble, lowly, patient spirit, teach me to
be bumbled in the dust, not only before Thy great
and glorious Majesty, but before and among my fel-
low-creatures ; let me be lowly and meek toward all,
make me to bow before all ; no, let there be not one
I exception of the vilest and most despicable. When I
could Jift up my head with conscious superiority;
when I feel that I could shoot out arrows of keen and
piercing sarcasm ; when I could merely by words,
pierce my insulting adversary through and through ;
when I am unjustly attacked ; when, having studied
not to give ofience, I am met with cool and system-
atic impertinence, the cowardly insolence of the low-
minded ; then. Lord, stand by my side and help me ;
let me not merely conceal my feelings, for that would
be but a refined hypocrisy ; let me, with Thy grace,
stifle them by prayer, till they fall down with all their
wicked vitality departed, and in their place, kind,
gracious, forgiving, gentle love, sit smiling. Silence
not merely my tongue, but destroy the evil spirit at
the root of that unruly member, and do not merely
confine in my throbbing, bursting heart, as in a prison-
house, the struggling fiend, but bind and bear a\isay
that furious inmate ; and may Thy dove-like Spirit
take its place ! Lord, in these times of trial lead me
forth far from my sinful self. If it be Thy blessed
will, lead me in spirit to the mountam where these
words were heard from Thine own gracious lips :
" Blessed are the poor m spirit, for theirs is the king-
dom of heaven;" or lead me in the spirit to that

180 THE EKCORD8 OF

common hall where Thou wert bound, and scouiged,
and blindfolded, and buffeted, and spit upon. Let
me see Thee in the trappings of the purple robe, and
the crown of thorns, and the fnul, bending reed as
the sceptre of Thy right hand ; let me see Thee with
the cup of gall and vinegar at Thy parched lips, and
let me see Thy meek, forgiving eyes, Thy sil^at lips.
Thy sweet, but sorrowful countenance ; let me see
Thee fainting beneath the ponderous cross, yet un-
complaining — ^transfixed and bleeding on the cross —
mocked and insulted there, yet uncomplaining ; let
me bear it ever in mind that when Thy cry of agony
burst, forth, it rose not against Thy persecutors ; the
horrible burden of our sins, the hidings of Thy Fa-
ther's countenance forced it from .Thee. The only
words that rose from Thy breast in answer to the
tauntmg and insulting cruelties of man, wei», " Fa-
ther, forgive them.'' Sin drew forth Thy complaints,
suffering drew forth Thy prayers and blessmgs. O,
Son of man ! lead me to Thy cross, and shame me
there, shame me for daring to complain under my
light burden. Wherefore should a living man com-
plain, a man for the punishment of his sins ? who is it
that has added, ^^ a sinner has no right, a sinner has
no reason ?"

Persons (some persons, I should say) wonder
that we can be so happy in our little unknown village :
they tell me that even a few months spent in such
a dull retirement, would make them melancholy. I

A GOOD man's life. 181

cannot help sndlmg at their wonder. I see nothing
to make me melancholy in waving woods, and green
pastures, and fields all golden with the ripening grain,
rejoicing with one consent in the favor of Him who giv-
eth the sweet rain and the warm and genial sunshine,
and all the blessed influences of regular and revolving
seasons. I see much to make any thinking man
melancholy when I enter the streets of a large city.
The profligacy of the rich, the vices of the poor, are
there continually forced upon otor notice : but melan-
choly in my little, happy village ! At least I cannot
feel so from any thing in the place itself. Every cot-
tage, every lane, every narrow field-path, has to me
some association dear to my heart, or pleasurable to
my feelings, for I have seen them under many aspects.

Among Mr. Singleton's papers there are many re-
lating merely to circumstances of too common-place a
character to be worth recording. There is, however,
an account of a poor woman, which may be thought
to possess a more than ordinary interest.

A fimeral came forth from the poor-house. The
sexton's man, a poor, lame, wretched-looking crea-
ture, limped before^ leading the mean procession;
then came four lazy listless men, idle inhabitants of
the poor-house, bearing on their strong shoulders a
rude shell. Two or three women, slatterns in their
dress and carriage, followed after, arm in arm, gos-
sipping in whispers together. The bearers put down
the coffin with a jerk, and so carelessly that, from the

182 THE RBC0R08 OP

inequality of the ground on which it rested, it nearly
turned over. The coffin was smeared with a dark
lead-colored water paint : there was no handle ; nor
even two of those poor little leaden letters which are
generally affixed to the coffins of the poor, just the bi-
tial letters ef the humble name. The men who stood
beside the grave, stretched themselves, gaped, or stared
about. The women looked on with vacant, heed-
less faces, silent only fix)m reverence to their minis-
ter. I could not help feeling deeply, nor could I
restrain a sigh as they let down the coffin into the
grave. The group separated, and left the sexton
flinging the earth into the grave. I never felt a deep-
'er and drearier sorrow for one whom I did not love,
than at the funeral of the poor woman whose, corpse
I had just buried. She was, by nature, one of those
dull, common-place creatures, whom no relative cir-
cumstances could have improved. At least, such
she seemed. She had no relations, no friends, not
an acquaintance who will miss her. I know not her
early history. I never felt a sufficient interest in her
to inquire into it. I have often spoke to her, but she
never seemed to trouble herself with taking much
heed of my words. She would sit with her arms
folded together, and her head and bosom huddled up
over her knees, staring with a look of perfect uncon-
cern, while I have been reading the fine affecting
stories of the New Testament. To my questions,
when I appealed to the truth and natural descriptions
of those stories, she would assent, but with careless
undistinguishable sounds ; they were scarcely words.

A GOOD man's life. 183

Her feelings and sympathies seemed confined within
a narrow circle of petty selfishness. The only time
I ever saw any thing like expression upon her coun-
tenance, was when she stopped me in the village
street, and asked me for a few halfpence to buy some
snuff with. She died suddenly, dropped bom her
chair seemingly half asleep, after having eaten a
hearty supper.

The grass will soon be green on the little mound
which covers her body. None will care to remember
the spot. She will be forgotten. I was joined by
Lady Helen and hiy wife, while standing in the
church porch, looking at the sexton, as he carelessly
threw in the earth to close the grave, and thinking all
the while of the wretched old creature whose body
had been laid in the grave. \ told them how
deeply I had been shocked. As I spoke about the
poor woman, " There, is one," said Helen, point-
ing to an elderly woman, who was sitting down on a
low tombstone, — " there is a woman who might sit for
the portrait of her whom you have described. Might
she not ? Did you ever see such a stupid, heartless-
looking being ?" " That woman !" said Una, " why
she is my curate. She is really one of the most
active and intelligent creatures in the parish !"

Lady Helen was indeed mistaken. Martha Fir-
man was a real heroine. I have seldom seen a per-
son whose appearance was not disgustingly ugly, so
extremely plain : her features were coarse, her eyes
dull and gray, her hair cut short upon^ her forehead,
her figure of rude proportions, her manner rough, her

184 THE RECORDS OF

voice loud and coarse as that of a man. Such was
the impression of her appearance at first upon the
mind ; but the respect her conduct inspired, soon as-
sociated her character and appearance together, and
the eye took a liking to the latter, fix>m the respect
which the heart bore to the former. In all she said
and did, she was in earnest. She took the plain,
straight-forward way of truth, and she did so with
an unaffected lowliness of spirit and a tenderness of
Christian love really extraordinary in one of her rank
in life. In her religion she evidently proved that she
knew nothing of the way of the world. She seemed
to keep the world in its proper place — out of her
heart. She did not forget that she had promised and
vowed, when early dedicated to God, to renounce the
world, because it is written,* that " the friendship of
the world is enmity with God." Her bodily strength
was as surprising as her mental courage and decision.
Once, in a fight, she threw herself between the two
combatants, and, with, astonishing dexterity and
strength, kept her ground till she forced them to listen
to her, and then she spoke to them with such artless
and energetic feeling, now touching on domestic cir-
cumstances, well known to each of them ; how bring-
ing before them the awful rebukes, and the affecting
appeals of the word of God with such eloquence, (a
^ by-stander declared, * a preacher could not have done
it better,') that her interference, and perhaps the ac-
knowledged influence of her character, prevailed ; one

* James iv. 4.

A GOOD man's life. 185

of the men half sullenly and half willingly held out
his hand to his antagonist, and the fight was nded.
She had sat by the bed-side of one of these men, and
constantly attended to his family, at a time when he
was supposed to be dying with a malignant fever,
and his house was shunned by every one.

Martha was sometimes of great use to me. She
would go quietly with her JBible to those who could
not read, and take a great deal of pains with them ;
indeed, where any office of kindness and assistance
was needed, there Martha .was sure to be. One day
as 1 was passing a cottage, the owners of which
were persons of notoriously bad character, I saw
Martha, to my astonishment, sitting on a rude, low
bench, near the open door, and a pretty looking girl
beside her. I had frequently called on the inhabit-
ants of that cottage, and met with as many rebufifs ;
still I had determined to go there again and again,
for we should never give up the most erring sheep in
our flock. A good opportunity now occurred for
another trial.

" How are you employing yourself, here ?" I said
to Martha. She answered immediately, " I am giv-
ing a look to my godchild, Susan. She has been
reading to me, and now I was questioning her a bit,
which is no more than my duty." The Word god-
child at once interested my heart.

"I have known Sarah Wickham, this child's
mother," she said, " since we were girls together ; and
when this child was born,, nothing would do but I
must stand godmother. I refused at first," she added

183 TH£ RBCORDS OF

looking expressively at me : "I had my reason ; but
Sarah said so much about it, that at last I consented,
on condition that I should speak both to child and
parents, when and as it pleased me. It did my
heart good, sir," she said, " to hear you go on as you
did last Sunday, about the way in which the duties of
the godfather and godmother are neglected now-a-
days : and your words came home to me, for I was
beginning to give it up as a bad job, coming here to
tell this child what a solemn promise and profession
she has made by me. But after all, sir," she added,
** the duty that God requires is generally plainly set
before us, and we have just to obey it, and leave the
event with God."

Martha's godchild grew up a sensible, modest
young woman, to the astonishment of every one who
knew her parents' characters, and the hat^its of her
family. Her sisters and brothers were bold and law-
less ; but Martha prevailed on a sister of hers, who
kept a little shop in the next village, to take Susan,
when about fourteen, to help in the house, and some-
times in the shop, and the customers and all the
neighbors soon gave the young girl an excellent
character. Martha would have taken Susan to live
with her, but she had brought up an orphan boy, the
son of another sister, and he was the last person she
wished Susan to see much of. This lad, James
Baker, had been long a source of great grief to her.
He had begun to neglect work and go out with the
game-keeper in the neighborhood, and from that time
(for this game-keeper was a man of very bad char-

A GOOD man's life. 187

acter) James Baker was rather a suspected person.
The game-keeper was turned away by his master
for dishonesty, and it was whispered about, that his
friend, James Baker, had been his accomplice in
many of his 4ransactions, particularly in carrying a
large basket weekly, to meet a London wagon at
the end of a lane which leads to the high road. The
wagon had been searcheS, and the basket, when
opened, was found to contain eight or more brace of
pheasants. Baker, after this discovery, became a
sort of careless idler, pretending that he could not get
work, though he had been known more than once to
refuse work when it was offered to him. He left his
aunt's house in a fit of sullen ill-humor, because she
objected to his being often out all night, and to his
keeping, almost in a secret way, a lurcher, which his
friend, the game-keeper, had given him ; this dog being
tied up all day in a shed behind the house, and, as
Martha suspected, taken out by his master at night.
He took a lodgbg with the Wickhams. Susan had
left home before he went to lodge at her father's
bouse ; but Baker had often seen her before with his
aunt, and had long thought of making her his wife ;
and one afternoon, when Susan came to see her
parents, he walked back with her to the shop, and
proposed to marry her. To hb astonishment, (for he
was a fine looking man, much admired by the dam-
sels of the neighborhood, and much more admired by
himself,) Susan refused him at once. He was not
to be easily repulsed ; but Susan, though kind and
gentle in her refusal, was very decided. She told

188 THE RB00RD8 OF

him frankly, that she never would have married so
idle a character as himself, or one so ungrateful as he
had proved to his aunt, and she added, that even bad
he been a steady person, he was not the man she
should have chosen for her husband. James Baker,
though deeply mortified, was not to be discouraged.
His pride and vanity were piqued by her refusal, and
he determined to obtain ber if possible. The first
thing he did was to go at once to bis aunt, ask
pardon for his ungrateful conduct, and beg to be
received into her house again. Martha forgave him
gladly, and received him as a son. She was the
better pleased, as nothing was said of the lurcher
but that he was given away. He said, as he had
often said before, that, as soon as he could get work,
he. should be very steady ; and to prove his anxiety
to be industrious, he set to work that very evening
in his aunt's garden, and in a few _days put every
part of it in order. He made Martha the confidant
of his attachment to her godchild, and earnestly
begged her to use her influence with Susan to
induce her to accept him. Martha told him at once,
that she saw no prospect of success for him with
Susan. It had been once, she said, the first wish of
her heart, to see the two beings she loved best in the
world united in marriage, but she had been forced to
confess, that he would not be a good husband to her
beloved Susan ; and she added, that she had even
given her advice to Susan to marry another man, who
had asked her to become his wife. This accepted
«uitor was George Woodman, the son of the new

A GOOD man's life. 189

game-keeper. Martha perceived that her nephew
was very angry when she' made this communication to
him, but they were sitting in the dull twilight of a
cloudy evening, over the embers of the fire, and she
did not see the look of deep and deadly rage that
came over his countenance. " I thought it best to
tell you this about young Woodman," she said, " be- .
cause, much as I have wished to see you Susan's hus-
band, I know 'tis no use your thinking of the young
woman^any longer." James made no answer, and soon
after Martha went up stairs to bed. She had been in
bed neariy an hour, when she heard James come up
the stairs and ^ter his bedroom. He was whistling
a merry tune. The next morning he was unusually
cheerful and good-humored. He told his aunt he was
going to try for some employment ; and when he
came in^ at night, for he did not return before, he
smiled and said, " You'll be surprised to hear who
has given me work for some weeks to come ? who do
you think, but Mr. Woodman, the new game-keeper
at the Priory, for I find he is steward as well as game-
keeper, having his two sons under him. Which is it
of the two brothers," he said in a tone of affected
carelessness, ^^ that is to have Susan for his wife, the
light or the dark man ? they are both fine young fel-
lows, only not over strong, I should think." " Susan
is to marry the light-haired one," said Martha,
"George Woodman." "And however steady the
light-haired one may be now," he muttered to him-
self, as he walked away, " I'll wager my life but mis-
tress Susan shall have as" bad a one in George Wood-

190 TDK RKCORDS OF

man, as she would have had in James Baker."
From this time, James Baker was to all appearance
very steady and diligent : he was constantly at his
work, and Martha began to think, (so indeed did
others,) that he was becoming a reformed character.
She spoke to me about him with much satisfaction,
saying, the only thing she did not like, was his con-
stant visits to a near neighbor of hers, named Willis.
He often passed his evenings with this man, and once
or twice had spent the night in his house. " Well,"
I replied, when I heard it, " I don't like your nephew
the worse for that ; no doubt he had been sitting up
with poor Willis, who we all know s^dom quits his
bed, for he has lost the use of his limbs." " Not of
his limbs," said Martha, bluntly, " for I've seen him
walking m his garden this very day, and on other
days too." *' But any one may see in what a deplo-
rable state the man is," I replied ; " his fingers are
like those of a dead hand, and were turned the wrong
way by his disease." " I know it, sir," said Martha,
" and no one felt for the poor creature more than I
did ; but I begin to suspect all is not right there. I
don't want to speak ill of him or any one, but- his
character is well known to you, sir ; and, though ever
since he came out of prison last time, he has 'K^om-
plained of his limbs, ^nd though his hands are in such
a state he cannot button a button of his clothes, or
even lift a spoon to his mouth, I fear all is not right
there." Martha had more reasons than she gave me
for speaking thus. I thought her (though usually re-
markably charitable in her opinbn of others) very

A GOOD man's life. 191

UDJust and harsh in her judgment of Willis. " It is
awful, sir," she continued, " if that poor, wretched
creature has not left off his bad practices. Pray speak
to him closely, sir, when you visit him, for I know
you are often with him. I often hear your voice of
prayer from the open window of his room." " And
he always seems very attentive and penitent," I re-
plied ; " still nothmg very satisfactory has taken place
during one of my visits. His wife generally holds
him up in bed, and he joins in a low voice in my
prayers, and thanks me over and over again for my
visits."

" His wife is a cousin of Susan Wickham's," said
Martha, ^^ and both Susan and I have offered scores
of times to sit up with Willis, but though they have
told me very often they would rather have me than
any one to be with them at their death-bed, to close
their eyes, they wont let me sit up one night with
him. I wonder at their preferring a young man in a
sick-chamber ! Other young men, too, and those not
improving ones, (as I hope my nephew now is,) are
often there, there at all hours, — ^bad company, sir, for
James, just as he's leaving off his idle habits."

A few weeks after this conversation George
Woodman and Susan were married; and Martha
and James her nephew went with the party to
church, and afterwards to dine at the steward's.
Susan and her husband went to live in a small but
pretty lodge at the end of a large wood foil of pheas-
ants, which being in rather a desolate part of our
neighborhood was often visited by poachers. James

102 TBB RB00RD8 OF

contmued constant to his work, still more frequently,
however, passing the evening with Willis, and often
sitting up all night with the sick man.

A circumstance happened about this time, which
I did not hear of till afterwards. Martha Firman had
received a message from her sister, to beg that she
would come and take charge of her shop for a few
days, as she was obliged to be absent ; and as Martha
had often done so before, she promised to be with
her sister that afternoon. It happened after Martha's
arrival, that her sister put aS her leavmg home for a
few days.

She pressed Martha, however, to stay a short time
with her, but, always wishing to be as much at home
as possible to attend to her nephew's comforts, Mar-
tha declined the invitation ; saying at the same time,
that she would spend the evening with them, and
walk home at night. The family were brewing that
evening, and Martha, who was famous for her skill in
brewing, insisted on lending a helping hand. '^It
matters not," she said, " at what hour I get home to-
night, though I should wish to be ready to get James
his breakfast to-morrow." " Shall one of the lads
walk with you ?" asked her sister, as Martha shut the
little gate in front of her sister's house. " O dear !
no," she replied, " I need no guard, for you know,
Mary, 1 have walked this way at all hours. Well,
God bless you all." " God bless you, kind, good
sister," said Mary. " I am sure," turning into the
house, and speaking to her husband, ** with all her
rough ways, there i9 no one like sister M^rtba^,. so

A eooD man's life, 193

kind and tbougfatful-like for every one ! How well
she thinks of that scape-grace James! I wish I
could think as well of him. I only know I am glad
he doesn't take to our lads. I saw him only yester^

day as drunk as ever, about the streets at F ,

though I did not like to tell Martha about him ; and
Mr. Coates told me those two villains, Clarke and-
CoUier, had been drinking with him all the morning
at the Dragon tap. Poor Martha thinks he was at
his work yesterday at the Priory." *^ Martha is a
downright good woman," replied the husbanid, " and
she loves the book of God, and strives to live to it.
How well she put in a word or two when we were
reading our chapter to-night ! I don't know that the
parson could have made better sense of it." " Ah,
well ! she has the holy angels to bear her company
of a dark night, and the Holt Spirit in her heart, I
trust, for to tell you the truth, master, I did not like
her going alone that dreary way to-night. If I mis-
take not, there's a tempest coming up from the south,
it looks so black there." " Bless you, child," said
the husband, ^^ Martha will be home before the tem-
pest ; but, if you please, William and I can go after
her." " No, no," said Mary, after standing in silence
some minutes, ^^ I think the storm is blowing over to
the other side, and if it reaches her at all it will be as
she enters her own door."

The storm, however, did overtake Martha, but
just as a shelter was nigh : she was crossing over the
hill on which Milsey church stands, and she quick-
ened her pace and reached the old wooden poreh just
9

194 TUB RS60RDS OF

before the violeiice of the storm came on. There
Martha remained, while the blast roared and the rain
rushed down in torrents, and peal after peal of thun-
der seemed to rend the heavens above her. Deeply
impressed, yet, in the midst of her awe, and perhaps
dread, wondering at the sublimity of His power who
rules the storm, there she contmued during a con-
siderable time, for the storm seemed to increase in
fury. Once or twice, as she sat calm and yet almost
breathless, she heard the shrill sound of a whistle in
the pause of the storm. She might have been mis^
taken, but she was not mistaken when, guided by a
broad and vivid flash of lightning, her eye fell on
several dark forms, all huddled together under the
thick boughs of the yew-trees opposite. The ^torm
abated, and as it abated two <^ three persons rushed
across fiom the yew-trees and entered the porch,
stamping with wet boots on the pavement, as if to
shake out some of the water, and then calling, ^^ Come
over to the porch, there's a better shelter here, and a
bench to sit down on."

The rest of the party came ; one of them, a large
heavy man, limping slowly along, and as he entered
crying in a drawling whining, voice, " Let me rest
myself, pray let me sit down, this will be the death
of me ; you said the night would be fine." A hoarse
and brutal laugh burst fit)m the rest of the party.
*« Come, sit down, old palsy," said one ; " but down
at once on the floor, if you will, only don't bundle
your fat carcass on me." While another slapped
him with no little force on^e back, and said, mimick-

A GOOD man's life. 195

ing the drawl of the man's voice, " Game to the last,
old buck ! the game bird does not fear a wetting."
" Very true, very true," he replied with a chuckling
laugh, " the game bird, as you say, does not fear a
sousing ! Well, well ! this is a comfortable place !
We'll muster here another night instead of meeting in
the open air. I find it cold enough, I can tell you,
sometimes, boys !" " No, no, the yard, not the
porch," said another in a loud whisper, " for who is
to see from the porch if any one is coming ? now in
the yard you may tell a hundred yards off." " I say
the porch," cried the old man in his whming voice ;
" but now, boys ! what has been done to-night ? How
did you get on at the green ? — at the white house
there ? they say the old man's warm ! and the cheese-
room window ! — ^you said there was no bar there !"
He had not said more, when voices were heard on
the hill. Several of the party hurried out of the
p(»:ch, and returned saying, " There are a party of
men with lanterns, shouting at the top of their voices."
The whole party stole out of the porch, the heavy,
limping man managing to get out as soon as any,
groaning as he went, for which he got a blow from
one of his comrades, and an oath. They crept silent-
ly round to the other side of the church, and in a few
minutes two men, each bearing a lantern, climbed
over the rails of the churchyard. Martha, by an ex-
traordinary providence, had either not been seen, or
in the darkness she had been mistaken for one of the
party, most of whom were in dark smock frocks.
Her presence of mind had not forsaken her icff a mo-

190 THB ftSCOADS OF

rnent) and now, as she saw the men advance with the
lanterns, and heard the voices of her brother-in-law
and nephew, she ran to meet them as fast but as
cautiously as she could ; ^< I am here,'' she whispered
to both of them, ^^ only don't speak now, and get
back into the lane. Never mind me, I will be over
the railings as quickly as you can be." When they
were over she said, (taking the arm of her brother-
in-law, who had come with his son to seek her,)
" Walk on fast, walk back to your house, but ask
me nothing now, and, if you please, put out your lan-
terns ; I'm sure we aU know the way, and the darker
it is the better." There was indeed no danger to be
feared that night; all the party that she had seen
enter the porch, after crawling round the church, had
hastened instieintly to a little dell in a field not far
from the churchyard, where they had often fled for
safety before. One person only beheld the meeting
of Martha with her two relations ; the limping, heavy
man had fallen over the graves, and he lay weeping
like an infant there till his attention was roused by the
gleam of the lanterns. He saw, instead of a party of
pursuers, two men only, who seemed to know nothing
of the gang. He checked his lamentation, and lis-
tened with bis chin raised above the mound, to catch,
if possible, some sound of words. As he looked and
listened, some one passed close to him, and he saw
distinctly three forms where two had been. He trem-
bled with fear long after they were gone, till life
almost forsook his diseased frame. Martha had made,
that night, a discovery that almost broke her heart, but

A GOOD man's uf%. 197

she was silent. They all walked slowly ^bg w^bottt-
speaking till they reached her sister's^ where she re-
mained all night. She had time to recover fix)m the
fear that she had felt on being so suddenly surrounded
by daring and wicked men.

" The white house on the green," she said to her-
self, " and the old man who is warm, or, as they
mean, rich. It is farmer Hotbam they meant, on
Stoke Green." His house had been entered that
night, and some property had been stolen, but no life
taken ; this was the news that Martha heard in the
morning.

There had been many robberies in the neighbor-
hood, and the existence of a desperate gang was
known. A few days afterward, a reward of some
hundred pounds was offered by the county to any one
who would bring the party of robbers to justice. Mar-
tha Firman knew that it was in her power to claim
the reward, but the mere thought of money obtained
at such a price was sickening to her. Still she might
not have hesitated to make a disclosure of all she had
witnessed in the porch of Milsey church, refusing at
the same time any reward, but one circumstance
sealed up her lips.

Martha knew not whether she had been discover-
ed or not as she left the churchyard ; but she had so
firm a trust in God, and so much personal courage,
that, after laying all her perplexities before the only
wise God, our Saviour, she determined to make the
best use of her own good sense. After some consid-
eration, it occurred to her that she ought to have seen

196 THB BVCOBDS OF

before the only mse and right way of acting. She
saw her nephew go as usual that evening to Willis,
soon after the hours of work were over in the village.
She soon followed him into the cottage and up stairs
into the sick man's room : she walked up to the win-
dow, which was open, and takmg her station there,
she turned and looked calmly and gravely at the two
men. They had evidently expected no visitor.
Willis was sitting up in bed intently occupied in
showing her nephew how to make what Martha saw
instantly was a gin for taking game ; an air-gun was
lying on the bed, and in a comer of the room, with a
ballad on the chair before her, and a pheasant which
she was quietly picking for her husband's supper, sat
Mrs. Willis, alternately looking over the ballad before
her and giving an eye to the pheasant. "I am
come," said Martha, looking Willis m the face, " as
a friend. I shan't mince matters, but tell you at
once, and in a plain, downright way, what Fm come
for. lam not the least afraid," she said, for she
saw that Willis's eyes, which were always very wink-
ing and restless in their glances, fell on the gun ; " I
am come without fear ; one scream of mine would
call John Mason, the constable over the way, and
Dick Truman next door, and a whole possy of neigh-
bors to my help. Remember that while I speak, and
remember I'm no coward, and could master you, and
your wife too, and perhaps Mister James also, if he
was to meddle with me." " I thought it best to be
resolute," she said, " not that I could have touched a
hair of Jem's head to hurt him," and, as Martha

A «ooD man's ufe. 19

spoke, for I heard part of this from her own lips, the
tears streamed down her brown cheeks. " I'm not
afraid of you, or any man or men I ever met with ;
but what I have to say is this ; I have known
a long while that you were poachers ; but a few
nights ago I was m the porch in Milsey church dur-
ing the storm, and I found out that you, both of you,
and some others, I knew you all, were robbers also,
part of the gang that has been fer the last few years
about these parts. I might have gone to the magis-
trate the next mommg (for I got safe home) and
^ven in the names of you all, and had every one of
you taken up, and claimed the reward that is offered
for you, or I might have kept my secret safe, for I
don't know that any of you saw me quit the porch."
Here Willis made an exclamation that betrayed him,
though he checked himself immediately. " You need
not check yourself," said Martha ; " you saw me, did
you ? Well, it matters not ; there I was, and could
swear to any and all of you ; and here I now aiiQ,
ready to promise, that if you will, with God's help,
leave off your bad practices, and break up your gang,
and try to get your bread in an honest way, nothing
shall ever force me to say a word to any creature of
what I saw or heard."

During the time that Martha was speaking, her
nephew looked very fierce and gloomy, and Mrs. Willis
seemed very uncomfortable ; but Willis composed
his face, and said, in a demure voice, yet with a man-
ner that was meant to look frank, " My good Mrs.
Firman, I see 'tis useless to have any concealments

900 THB RECORDS OF

fifom you, or, as you say, to mmce matters ; and we
might make it worth your while, my good fiiend, to
hold your tongue ; and as you are, like me, Mrs. Fir-
man, not so young as you once were, there are many
little comforts — many a bit of game—"

" I had no patience to bear the old villain speak,"
said Martha ; " I could not help crying out. Get thee
hence, Satan !" ^' Don't pretend to misunderstand
and wheedle me, you bad old man," she cried out.
" You it is, who have been the misery of half the
young men in these parts, and a black account you
will have to give after death, unless you pray God to
change your heart. But answer me at once, both of
you — ^Do you promise ? or do you not ? that's what
I am come to ask." The promise was made.

One evening, Martha, having waited some time for
her nephew to return home, was rakmg out her fire
and gobg to bed, when a quick knocking sounded on
the door. She opened it immediately, and George
Woodman came in. He had been running, and was
breathless, and he said, " I am so very sorry to disturb
you, Mrs. Firman, but my poor wife is monstrous bad
to-night — ^taken with such a faintness and a trembling-
like, and I'm afraid she may be put to bed before any
one can get to her. There b nobody at home but
my little sister Jane, and so I promised to come for
you ; indeed, she has often told me you were so good
as to say, that should she be taken bad, you would
come to her at any hour in the night." '^ Of course
I would," replied Martha, putting on her bonnet and
shawl as she spoke, and in a few minutes they were

A GOOD man's life. 201

on their way to the lodge m the wood. The path
"was narrow through the fields, and they walked
quickly forward one after the other. Martha asked
one or two questions, to which the replies of George
were short and vague, and she thought he had not
clearly understood what she said. At length they en-
tered a lane which wound by the side of a steep hill,
and here George offered his arm to Martha, and they
began to converse. "And how was she taken,
George ?" said his companion ; " about what hour ?"
"I really cannot exactly say.'' "Cannot exactly
say !" replied Martha ; " and yet you tell me you
came fix)m her !" George did not like to own that
he had not been at home since he left off work, but
had been sitting with a set of very bad and idle fel-
lows, over their cups, at the alehouse. " To tell you
the truth," he said, at last, with some hesitation, " I
have not seen Susan since the morning, when she was
pretty well ; but my little sister, it seems, met your
nephew, James Baker, as she was on her way to you,
(this is what James tells me,) and he sent Jane back
at once to her sister, and very good-naturedly he
came to me himself — nay, he would have gone on to
you with the message, only he had an engagement
just at that time, and he said that I should be sure to
find you at home, and ready to go with me to the
lodge." Martha was silent for a short time ; then she
clasped George's arm tightly, and said, " George, I
don't know what to make of this. I don't think Su-
san is ill — are you telling the truth ?" " I am, in-
deed," he answered very simply, " for what I know
9*

TBB RBCORD8 OP

to the contrary. You have been the kindest 6f
fi^ends, Mrs. Firman, to my wife and me, and I would
not deceive you for any one. I'll own to you, I am
not so steady as I was. I have got into bad company,
and I have had something to do with the poachers m
our woods and elsewhere. I feel that I have been led,
step by step, into what is wrong, and they are still
leading me, for I am very weak.'* " George," said
Martha agam, " is there nothing else to tell me ? Have
you nothing worse than this to say of yourself ?" " I
have," said he ; "I sold a sack of com, that father
sent me down from the granaries for the pheasants
only yesterday, to your nephew, who found that I was
out of money, and over-persuaded me." " And is
that all ?" still inquired Martha. '^ Is it not bad
enough ?" he answered. " Yes, it is bad enough, but
b there worse to tell ?" " No, not worse,'' he added ;
" and now that I have told you this " — " You will
confess to God, and ask pardon," said Martha, ^^ and
I will help you to pay back all the com to man.
George, I tremble for you, if you do not ask God's
help, and stop at once. You are in slippery ways.
But again I ask you — ^have you told me the worst ?
are you in a gang with others ?" " I am in no gang
— ^I don't know what you mean!" — "And Susan!"
continued Martha, " my Susan, does she know of your
keeping bad company, and of your bad ways ?"
" She knows little, but she fears a great deal, and she
has spoken to me more than once, and warned me
in her sweet, mild way." Martha sighed deeply,
and then she stopped, and 'turning to George, (the

A «ooD man's life. t03

oigbt was not dark^ but dull, and gray, and cloiidy,)
she said, " Listen ! surely I hear voices, George !"
and then after a pause, in which they both listened,
she said, " They are on the opposite hill behind us,
and that's the reason I hear them so plainly. They
are not so near as I thought ; they have the meadow
in the bottom and the copse to cross before they
come into this lane ; and now, one word more :
George !" she said, as they again went forward, and
she spoke almost in a whisper, ^^ did James Baker
say any thing about the path you should bring me ?"
" He did," said George, " and I wondered he should
tell me about the path to my own house : but he is
always fond of laying down the law, and having every
thmg done in his way. He said, ^ If you follow my
advice, you will take my aunt through the lane and
the farm-yard. She prefers that way, and you will
have her as cross as may be, if you take her straight
across the downs with the wind iu her face.' " «' I
had rather go over the downs," said Martha, in a faint
voice, ^' and xthere is no wmd to-night." " But we
have passed the turning," said George, " and there
.are persons behind us whom you seem to fear." " I
do fear them," she whispered. " My he^ misgives
me about thosfe voices, and about James Baker, and
his telling you that he wished you to take this path."
" Why should you fear any thing ?" he repKed, for he
felt her hand shaking on his arm. ^^ You don't know
all — you don't know what cause I have to fear," she
said in a low voice; but soon after she added,
^VGeorge, I was foolish to shake as I did just now,

9M THE ftBCOBDB OF

and be so fearful. Run on as fast as you can to Su-
san ; if she is reaUy ill, and perhaps she is, come
back to meet me. If she is not, and we have been
told a lie, take her and your sister that instant with
you, and leave them at your father's ; and then come
back into this path where we now are, with your fa-
ther, and your brother, and anyone else you like, and
see after me. 60 now, for Susan is of the first con-
sequence in her state, and I shall only flurry and
frighten her if she sees me, and has not sent for me ;
besides, in that case, I would not have any of us
found at that lode lodge to-night." ^< But all this is
so strange!'' said George. ^^I know what I am
about," she said sharply ; << I know what I fear ; go
at once, if you love your wife ; I can take care of
myself." George obeyed her. All this Martha had
spoken m a whisper, or in an under-tone, and she had
walked at a brisk rate. She now went on even faster,
till she reached the farm-yard just spoken of. It was
merely a bam and some^ hay-stacks, and stood far
away' fix)m any house ; the lodge where George
Woodman lived being the nearest habitation, and
nearly a mile further. She stood still and listened.
The air was perfectly still, and the same gray dusky
light still prevailed. Again she heard voices and even
footsteps sounding on the dry clay of the lane.
Scarcely knowing why, she looked around her, deter-
mined to find some hiding-place if possible. She hur-
ried to the hay-stacks, thinking sh_e might stand unob-
served in the dark shadow close under one of them ;
but when she reached it and stood in the shadow, and

A GOOD man's life. 205

saw eveiy thing so plamly> she felt that she might be
discovered there, and crept quietly round to the other
side. It happened that a short ladder had been left
against this side of the stack, great part of which had
been cut away. A sort of little platform was left on
the top of the side against which the ladder was
placed. Martha did not hesitate a moment. She
climbed up the ladder to this little platform, and then
drew the ladder up after her. Then quickly, and
without any nobe, she managed to hide herself and
the ladder under the loose hay. " They are gone on
quicker than I thought,^' were the first words Martha
distmguished, as the persons whose vcnces she had
heard entered the farm-yard. " It's owing to you,
you palsied fool ! You must always force yourself
along with us." "Not always; but to-night I am
wanted," said Willis, puffing and speaking with diffi-
culty ; *' 'tis but a little way to-night, and you want
an old hand among you, boys ! — Here's a comfortable
place," he said, "I shall sit down here;" and he
seated himself under the hay-stack, pulling out some
of the hay to sit upon, and resting his back against
the stack. "Well! what is to be done, since we
have missed them ? Let me see," continued Wil-
lis. "Two of you must go straight towards the
lodge, and two must go back, and take the turning,
and cross the downs to the lodge, and you may meet
them there, and let my fiiend James and another stay
with me." " And leave the young woman," cried a
voice, which Martha knew to be the voice of her
nephew. " Leave her," he said, in a careless tonew

306 THV EECORD8 OF

<^ Tie her hand and foot, if you choose. I'll go and
see about her afterwards ; but don't let the other two
slip." " And now," said Willis, " let us consider how
the thing may be best hid. One tongue must be si-
lenced to-night, or 'tis all over with us. We have no
time to lose, eh, James ! — ^Do as I tell you ; the
others will give you a helping hand when ' they come
back. I wish I could handle a mattock or a spade, I
would soon show you. Get the water out of part of
that pool — you said you found it shallow near the
bam — some of the clay will do it, with a few stones,
and here and there a bit of hay — don't forget to slope
the ground, and then set to work and dig as dei^p as
you can." There was a silence of perhaps a quarter
of an hour, broken only by the sound of the pickaxe
and spade, which were in the hands of the two men.
All this time Martha lay in a state of intense
anxiety and dread. Her own situation was trying
enough, but her chief fears were for Susan and her
husband. Had George disregarded h^r, or had Susan
hesitated to leave the lodge, or had they in any way
been delayed in their departure ? She trembled to
think what might have beenthe event when they
were in the midst of such lawless wretches ! Martha,
as Ibave said, possessed extraordinary courage — ^the
determined energy of a brave man, combined with
the calm enduring patience of a courageous woman.
She knew herself to be ahnost within the grasp of
wretches who, it was very evident, thirsted for h^
blood. She had not a doubt that the pit then dig-
ging was btended for the grave of herself, and per-

A €K>0!D man's lips. 207

iiaps of another. She was aware how soon the
horrible woric of death might be done, and even the
spot where her body was buried might be undiscov-
ered till generations had passed away. But in the
midst of her gloom, the sudden thought came like
light, she said, into her spirit : " My heavenly Father
is looking on all this dreary while, and without his
permission they cannot touch a hair of our heads. I
am called upon to walk by faith, and not by sight :
to mere sight nothmg can be more alarming than the
prospect around me ; but faith sees holy angels near
at hand, and Him, by whom the lions' mouths were
shut, and whose presence in the fiery iuroace pre-
vented even the smell of fire fi^om coming upon those
who put their trust in him." And thus, with her
eyes upturned every now and then to the heavens
above, where, a few pale stars began to appear as
the clouds cleared away, and with deep forcefiil
strivings in prayer, Martha became composed and
prepared with all her faculties and powers of mind
and body, for whatever might come to pass. " Praise
the Lord, O my soul !" she said to herself, " and
forget not, at this time, forget not all his benefits !
There are streams in the wilderness for the parched
with thirst — ^there is the shadow of a great rock iti
the scorching heat — ^there is a shelter and a refuge
fix>m the storm !"— Footsteps at length were heard,
and two of the men that had gone to the lodge re-
turned. " The old jade," said one of them, " has
been too deep for us, and for once has given us the
start ; and her blabbing tongue, instead of being at

908 TBB EBCOSD8 €¥

rest for ever, is, no doubt, giving its information
somewhere at this moment. There's not a soul in
the lodge. Nothmg but the old h6und that goes
about with George Woodman ; and when we burst
open the door I thought he would have torn us to
pieces ; but Collier has a way of coaxing dogs, and
we left the brute quiet enough." " I tell you what,"
said James Baker, throwmg down his spade, and
hunymg on hb coat which he had thrown off, ^< I
have no objection to a scuffle if you have all a mind
to stay, for I am no coward ; at the same time, I'd
have you remember, that the old dame may have found
out that we are a strong party, and she wont send one
or two after us. We run a fair chance of being taken,
if more than our number should come ; and, there-
fore, I think our best plan to-night would be to get
quietly, one by one, to our own homes. If they find
us at home, and a-bed, they'll have a hard matter to
prove we have been out to-night — and as for that old
blabbing wench ! there are ways nearer home of
stopping her tongue." As he said this, two other
men rushed into the farm-yard. Willis cried out in
a fiight, and the others were about to run, fancying
at first that their pursuers were near. The men,
however, were the other two of the party. " We
stole along toward old Woodman, the steward's
house," said one, gasping for breath as he spoke fiom
the swiftness with which he had been running ;
" there were lights moving about, and the door open-
ed and shut, and several men seemed }o be coming.'^
" Home, then, at once," said Collier ; and they were

A «ooi> man's life, 209

hastenbg away, when Wfllb cried — ^* Stop one mo-
ment, and hear what I have to say." Several stop-
ped, but with impatience. ^' What I have to say is
this — ^wait for me — help me up, or I am a. lost man.**
"What! is that all?" said Clarke; "do you stop
us for that ? Why, you managed to get as far as
this place, and you must get back again." " To be
sure," said Baker, " we are not going to hazard our
lives for you ; you wotdd come, you old villain ; and
'twas your halting and dawdling that has thrown us
out to-night. Get up yourself," and off he hurried*
" Only help me up, help me up," he roared out,
" for my limbs seem stiff; the hay was damp— I
can't stir— only just help me up, and I shall do well
enough."

One of them came back, and, with some diffi-
culty, assisted the man to rise. " I can't walk," he
cried, holding the arm of his companion ; "my limbs
are quite gone : help me on, for mercy's sake I" and
he grasped the arm of the man as well as he could,
making a violent effort to do so. The man tried to
shake him off, but Willis still held him, and then they
fell together. " You shall not leave me," he said ;
and dartmg forward his head, he caught the man's
clothes with his teeth, and, for almost a minute, held
him fast. In a fury of passion, the man at last
struck him down and rushed away. Willis began
to moan and sob ; but his grief was soon turned into
muttered curses of revenge. For a considerable time
Martha heard him endeavoring to rise up, but his
effi)rts were all in vain ; and now other perscms ap-

5210 THE RUCORDS OT

proached. Willb uttered a low moan, and Martha
ventured to lift up her head. She saw three men,
only three— Woodman and his two sons; and she
blessed God, that in his providence, the six ruf-
fians had been led to hasten away, for had they
stayed they would have been more than a match for
the Woodmans. Martha heard them speak ; but it
was evident they saw no one, for after looking about
(or a few minutes they were passing on. Willis sat
all the while under the stack perfectly motionless,
for though the sky was now clear and star-lit, the
shadow thrown by the hay-stack was even deeper
than it had been. Martha rose up, and let the lad-
der &11 heavily. The Woodmans came back from
the gate, against which they had been leaning, to
listen ; they had heard the sound df the ladder in the
dead stillness of the air. One of them walked round
the stack. " Holloa ! — ^who are you ?" he said, as
he nearly stumbled over Willis. He opened a dark
lantern that he had in his hand, and turning the light
fall in the man's face, "What! old Willis?" he
cried; "why, I thought you were too ill even to
leave your bed-^your wife came to the parish officers
only yesterday for relief for you, and told a miser-
able tale about your helpless state." Martha was
astonished at the readiness with which the man re-
plied, in a whining voice, " Yes, indeed, sir, indeed,
Mr. Woodman, I am very ill ! very helpless ! I can-
not even raise myself, for the life of me. I was just
going a little way to see a friend, a dear sister, on
the heath, over the downs, and we got a lift in a

A 600D man's life. 211

neighbor's cart, you see, at this early hour — ^this late
hour, I mean. The cart, you see — ^the cart came
up for some sacks of com in the barn, here. Farmer
King's an early man ! not like one of the new school,
Mr. Woodman ! always manages to be early with his
com in the market ; and we — ^that is, my wife and I,
thought I might crawl, with her help, the rest of the
way ; but I found I could not. I found how wrong
it was to leave a comfortable bed, even to see a
dying sister — a dying sister, Mr. Woodman ! and as
they set me down here — the carter did — and as I
found I could not stir — she, that's my wife, hastened
back to get another cart to carry me hom^ again, if
not to my sister's. I hope she'll be here soon, for
I'm suffering fearfully from the damp; the hay is
damp, you see, Mr. Woodman ! and I've been asleep
I suppose. Well ! I hope — ^Mrs. Willis has been
long enough ! I hope she'll come, for I shall perish
here if she does not. Perhaps, however, one of you
gentlemen would call and tell her how you found
me ; and that I'm waiting for her to bring some cart
or other— or perhaps," he said, with a wheedling
tone, *^ perhaps one, or both of you younger men,
would give me an arm, and help me to get home, for
I can't tell what is come to my mistress." .

" Strange, indeed !" said George Woodman, (his
brother and father were at the same time helping the
wretched Willis to rise ;) " have you seen nothing of
Martha Fimian ? — of Mrs. Firman ?" he inquired.
"I? O no!" replied Willis instantly, in a lively
voice. " What ! have not you seen her ?" " She

319 TBI RBCOSD8 OF

b here, safe and well," said Martha, who bad softly-
descended the ladder on the other side, and now
came forward. '^ I am, blessed be God ! unharmed ;
and you are preserved also, my dear friends. Had
you been here half an hour ago, the number might
have been too much for you." — ^At this moment
George Woodman was struck to the earth with a
bludgeon, and a voice exclaimed, ^^ Not so safe
either !" while two men, James Baker and Collier,
rushed upon the elder Woodman and his son. They '
had stolen back to see if they could manage to get
Willis home m safety, for they dreaded his tongue,
and then they found the mistake made by their party
in separating. At first they had thought of going
back to their comrades, but they were strong and fiiU
of animal courage, and they dreaded losing the
opportunity which now ofiFered, in which they had
at least a chance of getUng the mastery, as they
could rush upon the Woodmans unsuspected and un-
seen. Martha stopped for a few seccHids and looked
around her. With her usual presence of mind, she
saw at once that only two of the ruffians had come
back. Hastenmg to George Woodman, she lifted
him away m her arms, chafed his temples, loosened
his neckcloth, and all this in less than a minute.
<« Come, if possible," she said, and flew back to the
encounter herself. She found the contest still doubt-
ful : but soon the elder Woodman fell, and Collier
(she knew him by his height, as bebg a remarkably
short, thick set man) rushed down upon him. She
hesitated no longer. Her strength was, perhaps.

A GOOD man's life. 210

little inferior to that of any one present. By main
force she dragged back the murderous man, and the
elder Woodman being released, they succeeded, after
a severe struggle, in mastering, and even binding
Collier. In the mean time George had come to his
brother's assistance, who had already proved an over-
match for Baker, and the two brothers secured the
violent man. Leaving Willis in the farm-yard, the
Woodmans and Martha set ofiF instantly with their
prisoners to Mr. Wentworth, who is a magistrate,
and, notwithstanding the difficulty they had with
them, they at last brought Baker and Collier to the
Hall. A cart was then sent instantly for Willis.
The instant he arrived, he entreated hard to have a
private interview with the magistrate before any ex-
aminations were entered upon. The request was
complied with. Soon after, the other four men were
seized and brought to Wentworth Hall, but they
had arrived there some little time before the confer-
ence between Willis and Mr. Wentworth was over.

When the six prisoners were summoned to ap-
pear, the evidence against them was of course call-
ed. George Woodman bore witness to all he knew
of the events of the night, so did his father and
brother ; but even to the astonishment of the pris-
oners, nothing could be proved against them but a
violent assault, (and that not on the king's highway,)
on the part of Baker and Collier, against the three
Woodmans. There was abundant room for suspi-
cion, but no evidence in law against the other five>
« I fear," said the magistrate, « though suspicion is

214 TBS RBCOEDS OF

very strong as to what was intended to have been
done last night, if only from the half-dug open grave
which still remains in the farm-yard, with the water
of the pool there dammed up, that, had I no Airther
accusation against those four prisoners, I should be
obliged to let them be held to bail and dismissed."
He stopped a moment, and looked toward Martha.
The countenance of the poor woman, which is usual-*
ly without any expression, was now marked with such
strong workings, that Mr. Wentworth said he had sel-
dom seen deep grief more expressive, particularly
when she began to speak. Her rough voice, tremur-
lous at first, but very slow, gradually became firm,
and then its solemn slowness was almost awful. ^' I
dare not trust myself," she said, ^^ to look round upon
one whose wickedness has almost broken my heart.
No woman in her worst agonies of labor has suffered,
I thmk, even in bodily writhings, what I have suf-
fered this last night ; but were the sufferings of my
body, or I may say, of my soul, to be endured again
— aye, again and again, so that I might save that
young man, even from the eyes of men, I would re-
joice to bear them. But I am not to be led astray
by any such weakness as mine would be were I to
screen him. I would rather see him punished by the
severe hand of the law here, even if mine were the
only voice to witness against him, and to condenm
him. I see that his heart is set upon one dreadful
crime ; nay, more perhaps than one, though one is
enough to name. I speak, therefore, without reserve.
I speak to save him fix>m the crime of murder— -the

A «ooi> man's life. 215

murder of one who has been almost as a mother to
him, for he was brought to me when a babe, from
his dead mother's breast ; and he used to say his lit*
tie prayer at my knee, and he ha9 fondled me as a
child does his mother, with his baby-arms around my
neck, and his mouth corering my lips with kisses. I
have worked, slaved for him, hungered for him, passed
many, many a sleepless night, with him wailing in my
arms. I have prayed for him. Blessed be God !''
and here, as she spoke, her eyes and all her face
were lighted up^^^ I can still pray for him, do still
poray for him ; and yet I stand here to accuse him.
I have yet hope for him ; could I hope as I do now^
had that murder been committed ?'' Here she stopped,
and seemed to shudder, as if at the recollection of
some dreadful things that she had lately witnessed.
Some one came forward to support her. " No,'* she
said calmly, ^^I am not used to fits or faintings. I
shall be able to give my evidence presently, but I
beg for a little water. first, for my throat is dry, and
my words seem stopped and dry in my throat.'*
Some water was brought her, but, as she was about
to speak, Mr. Wentworth stopped her. " My good
fiiend," he said, " I have been considering deeply
upon all I know, as to the evidence you can give. I
thmk I am well aware how far it goes ; and I relin-
quish it the more readily because, though it goes
to criminate deeply all the prisoners now present, lit-
tle has been carried into effect that was evidently
proposed against you, and I fear against Mr. George
Woodman. However, I have full evidence that, will

H\6 THB RBCOROB OP

coniict and condemn all. Isaac Willis, at his own
anxious demand, has given me that proof. I warned
him as to what might possibly make his evidence
useless to himself; in fact, I set before him the law
on the subject. He still insisted on making a fiill
confession of the doings of the present gang ; and I
have been for two hours, nay, more, employed in
writing down his confession, to which his marie, as
he cannot write, has been affixed in the presence of
proper witnesses. In this written account, three of
the prisoners — not James Baker among them,'' he
said, turning his eye towards Martha Firman — ^^ are
accused of a murder committed lately on an old man
of large property at Haterleigh, in this county ; and
all are accused of housebreaking on several occasions
in the neighborhood, within the last few months."

Willis, with all his cunning, had over-reached
himself, and given evidence against his party. They
could not otherwise have received the sentence after-
ward pronounced agamst them. He had been as
deeply implicated as any one else; but though it
was evident to common sense, ^at he had been the
prime plotter and contriver of every offence, he had
managed, when ^e circumstances were related, to
save himself fiom the last punishment of the law. It
happened, however, ^at the wretched man was soon
cut off, for he died in the car that was bearing him
and several other prisoners to the transport-ship, in
which he was to have been taken to New South
Wales, his sentence being transportation for life.

A GOOD man's life. 217

I had been for some years a n^inister in the
Church of England. I was reading in an old copy
of " Baxter's Reformed Pastor," when I found these
words written in pencil on the margin of the book.
The volunifc had been taken, with several others,
from a trunk that was lying at a farm-house near
Southbrook, left there on the last visit of my father
to the Continent. The words were very feWj, but
they were full of delightful assurance and comfort to
me, after the opposition that had been made to my
becoming a minister of Christ.

"It was ever my first wish and choice to take
holy orders ; but my honored father did not consent
to my doing so. Still my heart often yearns to that
holy and honorable profession. I do not like to put
any constraint upon the wishes of my son Ernest, but
were I to point out a path of happiness to him, I
should say, ^Be a shepherd, even in the most se-
cluded valley, to guide the sheep of the great Shep-
herd to the green pastures and 'still waters of spiritual
peace. Seek not great things in a little and despicable
world : they are but vanity and vexation of spirit.
Do you consult my experience ? Do you ask my ad-^
vice ? Lay^side the occupations of worldly ambition,
and desire rather to be made the pastor of a few sheep
in the wilderness.' "

I did not look for this ; I could not have supposed
that I should ever have received the approval of my
departed father ; but iiow, after years had passed
away, his counsel, his recommendation, his approval,
suddenly met my sight.

218 TBB EB€0&D8 OF

I kndt dowB with the book in my bands, to thanl
Go0 that he had pennitted me to be a servant in the
sanctuary. I kissed the well-known handwriting of
my honored &lher, and have idnce gone fiurward re-
joicing with new joy. #

Doubtless we may hope that our pray^s, when
offered Arongh the only way, Jesus the Mediator,
will have their weight with our heavenly Father;
but we have the comfort of knowing, that the strong*
est appeal which can be made, is made by our lost
and wretched state, our exceeding sinfulness, our in-
ability to feel and know our need of His mercies, or
to ask finr His favor. Man had not offered a single
prayer, when die tender love of God moved the God*
head to unite in their counsel and in their perform*
ances. The same power which said, ^^ Let us make
man," die same wisdom which foresaw diat man
would be a sinner, the same love which said, ^^ Liot
us save man,'' is now watching over us, and caring
for us. And though prayer is the appointed means
of man's obtainbg the favor of his God, yet the same
mercy which saved before prayar was appointed, is
ready to supply out of its own iiilness, all that is m^
perfect in our prayers.

O LoBD, teach me to remember with a serious
and lowly spirit, that I am come even into Thy
presence, and let there be no thoughtlessness, qq

A 6O0]>. man's UF£» 319

levity, no hardness. o£ heart, no self-<;onceit within
me, now that I kneel down to pray. Fill my whole
sout with a holy reverence of Thy presence, and re-
strain me in* every natural inclmation which is con*
tnury to 'Eby will, tkat I may not be such a fool or
such a wretch, as to come before Thee only to mock
Thee by my careless words. Lord, while I kneel
before Thee, during that short season, make me in
thought, iob word, and in spirit, Thine. How awfiil,
that, event when I seek Thee, I pray as one that
prayeth notr--praise Thee as one that praiseth not !

O blessediLoBD I hear me now when sin is hateful,
to me, when I feel that I am thine m every desire ;
when Thy servant is l^ly in heart and purpose.
Hear me now, and grant that the prayers which I
now humbly oj&r up, which are the ardent and sin-
cere breathings of a contrite soul, of a spirit which is
covered 'with shame and confusion at its past wicked-
ness, and seems almost too weighed down by its
shame and ks pollution, to dare to rise and worship,
to dare to hope. Let these prayers still linger in
Thine ears, still remain in Thy presence, when I am
not, as now, prostrate at Thy feet, in all the anguish
of a contrite spirit. Hear these prayers when my own
natural infirmities, when the vain and sinful world,
have lifted me up to presumption and forgetfiilness of
Thee. When I join in the laughter of fools, and
stand up in the insolence of self-conceit, or when
Satan hath ftimg a girdle of winning loveliness over

/

220 TBE RECORDS OP .

the loathsome fonn of vice ; when the mask is on her
hideous features, and I am listening to her syren
voice, hear the prayers I now offer. Hear me then,
when I have neither the wish nor the power to help
myself. Hear me, for my Saviour's sake, who hath
been tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

In my prayers I would simply speak to (jod. I
remember how easily my words flow when I speak
to man, and I would speak to God : making that dif-
ference, I hope, that I ought, between God and man.
How often have I wearied myself, and wondered at
my weariness in prayer! I do think, because my
thoughts and words have always had to undergo a
sort of double process to become prayers, instead of
using my common sense, and plainly speaking my
natural feelings to the Lord. How often have I
given advice to others, saying, " You have no diffi-
culty in finding words when you speak to a fellow-
creature ; think of your wants, and simply lay them
before God, and in that manner pray." But it is one
thing to know this, and to feel it, and apply it, as,
God be praised, I have at last -been taught. I feel
that no power but the Spirit Himself could so have
cleared my perception, and enlightened my under-
standing, and so sanctified tny natural faculties, as to
make me practice, as I have done, this simple speak-
ing to God. Who would understand this that had
not been taught to feel it? Persons would say,
« Why, all this is plain, any one could understand

A oooD man's life. 221

it.*' They litde know that the difficulty lies in the
simplicity, in the very plainness of the duty.

In praying for others, I have often found the
enumerating so many names with thoughtful remem-
brance wearying, till I thought within ' myself, what
a comfort it was ev^ to be able to call around me, by
the power of thought and memory, the absent objects
of my love, many of whom I may not meet for many
long, long years. What a delight to know, that I can
follow them even to the most remote comers of the
world, with a daily remembrance, with an unforget-
ting affection, and that, whatever they may be em-
ployed about at that time when they are summoned
by memory before me, I am on my knees, praying
to our heavenly and common Father for them all.
Every day I see their dear faces as they rise before
me, and one after one, I beg the blessing of God
upon their heads. What can I do to serve them so
well as every day to add a humble claim to the many
which every human being has upon the Father of
Mercies, the blessed Mediator, the Sancti6er and
Comforter — ^to add a humble claim for more mercy,
and more pardon, and more holiness and peace to
rest upon them ?

Do I go on!

O Lord, teach me to ask myself, " Do I go on
daily in the paths of holiness and peace ?" Where
am I m the course of this earthly pilgrimage ? Can

TH« BBOOBM DP

I'belieye myself humbler, and holier, and happier^

to-^y than I was ytsterdayl shall I ha^e made any

improvement to-morrow? will any fruit on the tree

of my faith have been ripened with a ray of Thy

glorious light? Has any bud become a blossom?

has any blossom turned to fruit ? I can only tremble

and weep as I inquire. Ah, Lobd ! it is not for me

to say Aat I have advanced in holiness. It is only

for me to seek to do so, to press forward. O Lorb !

I count not myself to have apprehended. O teach

me to reach forth to those things which are before

me ; to press toward the maik for the:prize of the high

calling of God in Chust Jesus. My sinfolness is my

oum and his who is the enemy to all human souk.

My righteousness ! I would not have it my own, even

if that were possible. O let it be felt deeply by me,

that it is " of Thee," my Saviour. (Isaiah Uv. 17.)

O bring me more and more entirely under'the guidance

of that power which'worketh in Thy children, both (to

will and to do, of Thy :good pleasure. O let me never

strive to work out that work which thou hast given

unto all of us to be employed about/ even to work

out our own salvation, without feeling that fear and

trembling which is with me my great safeguard

against temptation. Every day teach me to pray for

a clean heart. Oh, how natural is it, if we did but

consider, that a clean heart should daily be required,

and daily sought ! Our outward man requires daily

washings, or it becomes unclean and offensive even to

ourselves; and can the inward man go on from day

to day, without needing aJso its daily oleansings?

A CK>OD MAN*6 LIFE.

Alas 1 the carnal and deceitful mind can perceive the
one, and forget to notice the other. The outside of
the cup and platter must be cleansed, but the vessel
may daily become more defiled within, and man
heedech it not. O wash and cleanse me with Thy
Spirit ! Sprinkle ^me daily with Thy hyssop, and I
shall be whiter than snow. Let me feel restless and
polluted daily, till on my knees I have sought to be
made " all glorious within," by Thy Spibit. O my
Saviour, I come unto Thee ; leave me not comfort-
less ; sanctify me, purify me wholly, in body, soul,
and spirit.

One of my flock has spoken against me ; how
must I reconcile tmy spirit to what I would bin be*
lieve an undeserved reproach? perhaps I. do not de-
serve it: deserve reproach I certainly do. Could he
but see my sinfulness, as thou, God, seest me, the
reproaches of my enemy might thai indeed be heavy.

tO LoBD, there is good in this, both to myself and
him who b an enemy to me. It has brought me on
my knees the oftener, to pray for him ; it has added
the prayers of another mdividual to those prayers
which are, I hope, offered up by bis own friends for
him. O my God, if my conduct has justly offdnded
him in any pomt, pardon me, and do Thou change
me in that point. If his malice or unkindness are
chiefly at fault, change that disposition in him. If
he has mistaken me in any thing, clear Thy minis-
ter, hb shepherd, in his sight. Let not this be laid to

024 THE RECORDS OP

his charge. Bless him with a softer heart, and a more
kind and Christian spirit.

UnwillingnesB to pray.

The carnal mind is at enmity with God. Carnal
and worldly thoughts came crowding thick upon me,
and I could not pray. Oh ! if this were tlie begin-
ning of the last hour I should live in time. Would
not my fearful spirit sweep away at once the multi-
tude of vain imaginations which now cumber my soul ?
Should I not perforce be fixed in every thought to one
absorbing thought of judgment to come ? Why should
it not be so now ? Why should this not be my last
hour ? O Lord, let it be as my last hour to me. Let
me not quench the little light of Thy Spirit which
has struggled through my foolish thoughts to whisper
what I now feel to my bewildered soul. O let my
heart be ready. O let my heart be fixed. Awake
up in Thy splendor before me, my glory. Fill all my
soul with thy grace. Spirit of Heavenly love ! Brood
over the dark chaos of my soul. Spirit of peacQ ! Say,
Let there be light, and all will be light. Make my
heart and mine eye single. Send Thy glory to this
polluted temple. Come, O blessed Jesus, even with
thy scourge, and drive away the thoughts of money-
changers, and worldliness, and sin : and teach in the
temple of my body : I am too unworthy to ask this,
but through Thy merits. But Thou dost never turn
from the prayer of the poor destitute. Be in me, and
let me be in Thee. Ah ! Lord God, if I might but
touch the hem of Thy garment, I should be whole.

— 1

A GOOD man's life. 225

Thy servant is not worthy that Thou shouldst enter
into his house. Speak but the word, and I shall be
healed.

I am very de6cient in the arrangement of my
time, and I have not sufficiently considered the right
employment of it as a religious duty. " Let every
thing be done decently and in order." I must remem-
ber to make this a subject of daily prayer, and vigor-
ous exertion. I am naturally averse to regular em-
ployment ; my constitution seems to me lethargic and
indisposed to constant active occupation.

Thy glorious face is never turned from thy poor
child : some grief may intervene and seem to hide it,
even as some passing cloud will, for a little time, veil
from our sight the radiant moon ; yet still upon the
heavens the orb is shining as before, and it never
hides itself, the cloud alone is the cause of the dark-
ness, and the cloud rises from the earth.

Walking in the country on an autumnal day is
like conversing with a friend whom we are about to
lose, whose death we know to be near. Every fall-
ing leaf is like the last words of those who will soon
speak to us no more.

10*

THB RKCOSIM OP

<^ This feeling of his own weakness was not weak-
ness, but strength. For it comes not from our cor-
ruption that we feel our corruption, but from God-s
grace. Though God doth find many things in us
that he likes not, yet He even loves and likes this
thing in us, that we do dislike and loathe that in our-
selves, which God dislikes." — From the-Funeral Ser-
man on Lord WUUafn Russell.

The sin of Adam in stealing die ap|de, se^ns to
me a picture to us of the small beginnmg by which
sin works in my heart. That act of disobedience,
which many look upon as a trifle, opened the gate by
which the enemy came in like a flood upon the world.
The temptation was slight, but principle to God was
concerned. Ah ! could we but remember this in our
daily thoughts and doings. By what a trifle (as men
deem it) sin entered the world ; by what a dight be-
ginning sin also liters the heart!

Prayer.

O ! Lord, shut out the world from me, so that no
thoughts may rise in my heart which are not a subject
for prayer.

Give me grace to remember, bring now to my
mind all those Scriptures which are suited to my wants
and temptations.

Let me be assured not only of Thy power, but of
Thy willingness to grant what I pray for, but let the

A GOOD bian's life. 227

purport of my prayer be, " Thy will be done." O
make that will my law m thought and word and deed.

O Holt Spibit ! take of the things of God, and
apply them to my soul.

O Holy Spibit ! accept my prayers and thanks-
givings, and apply to them the purifying blood of
Christ, and so washed and purified from the stains
and defilements of my sinful lips, and of my corrupt
heart, present them at the mercy-seat of my Heavenly
Father, the Lord God Almightt.

Should you rejoice to be rich in this way ? Sup-
pose if for an hour, nay, I will say a day, riches of
every sort were to be poured down around you, the
crown of a mighty monarchy placed upon your brow,
the sceptre of dominion given to your grasp, and
every pomp and pleasure, all that could gratify the
sense and kindle the imagbation of the natural man,
were spread in lavish profusion about you— -but only
for a day— only one single day.

Yet what on earth is ours by a more sure and cer-
tain right of tenure ? Who that holds such possession
of the things of time and sense can prove and keep
them hb ? perhaps the moment he deems himself most
possessed oi them, they slip for ever away, and he
finds the truth, though he chooses to despise the
warning of that sentence, ^^ Thou fool, this night
thy soul shall be required of thee !"

It is a well-known fact, that the pagan system of
religion, among the wisest heathens, was to leave th»

228 THE RECORDS OP

fables of the gods and goddesses for the poor and ig-
norant, while the higher classes deemed their religion
as merely of political importance, and looked upon it
with scorn.

It seems to me that our holy Gospel is considered
in the same light by many who are reckoned wise
men, and that they tolerate the Christian religion as
being of some political use, but fit only to be despised
by themselves.

Some characters are mere walking dictionaries,

they know nothing but words. Such is L ; what

does he not know? but can he apply or make use of
what he knows ? No, his knowledge stands in his
mind as the words do m a dictionary, in regular rows
of letters and words, useful as reference, nonsense if

read one after the other ; L is a dull companion ;

for who sits down to read a dictionary ? we use it as
a book of reference, and then throw it aside. The
dullest book which is not a dictionary is preferable.

" But, surely, B is no human dictionary. He is

full of quotation and anecdote !" Have you never
seen the quarto edition of Johnson's Dictionary, with
the quotations given after every word ? And is there
nothing of the dictionary, with the quotations given,
about B ?

The lowliness of the Christian is utterly different
from the mean and grdVelling lowliness of those who
live in the indulgence of any base or sordid grati6ca-
tion. It is a lowliness bom of glorious parentage.

A GOOD man's life. 229

growing, not like a sickly weed, at the bottom of
some dark and filthy dungeon, but rather like some
fresh, unnoticed herb upon a mountain's brow, cher-
ished by the sunbeams and the firee airs of heaven,
and the pure and shining dew. It has no enjoyment
in low and degrading attachments, but it delights to lean
meekly and confidingly upon His love, who " dwell-
eth not only in the high and holy place, but with him
also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive
the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the
contrite ones."

I love sometimes, in prayer, to remember even
the meanest stranger I have met on the public road,
with whom, perhaps, I have not exchanged a word ;
or to be urgent in my intercessions for some common
acquaintance, for whom I have otherwise never felt
any interest.'

It is delightful to remain longer upon my bended
knees, and to recall every individual to my thoughts,
every individual, without exception, seen during the
past day, and to pray for them, then to go still far-
ther, and pray for all connected with them, but
unknown to me. It seems to me, that our love ought
sometimes to take such extended sweeps as these, or
rather such extended embracings. Is there one we
would wish unsaved ? How can we tell, but some
for whom we prayed were in a state to need the
anxious prayers of all their brethren ? What a safe
act it is ! Who is there that our prayers can injure ?

230 THE RSCORDS OP

What a blessed act! Who is there our prayers
may not benefit? I know there is no merit in a. sin-
ner's prayers ; but I am sure my Heavenly Father
will look down with tender, forgiving approval upcm
those who love to bring him, as it were, many needy
creatures like themselves, asking no blessings, no
notice even, but for the sake of Him who died for
the finendless and the vile, as much as for the happy
and the holy.

Baptist had a favorite dog that used to follow
him every where, and was one of the most faithful
and sagacious creatures I ever met with. He usually

accompanied us to S , and though the town is

large, and was often crowded, we never felt any fear
of losing poor Sweetheart. At last, however, we
lost him. His fidelity was not in fault,, but we had
every reason to believe he had been stolen.

The streets were unusually crowded on one of

our walks to S , and we did not miss the dog till

after our return home. It was then too late to
recover him, but I heard that he had been seen
dragged along by some tramping beggars, with a
muzzle on his mouth, and his poor tail between hb
legs. Of course I gave him up for lost. Two or
three years passed away, yet Sweetheart was not
forgotten by either of my children. I often heard
conversations between them, at which I could not
resist smiling ; for, in the simplicity of their hearts,
they always spoke of the. great probability of recov-

A GOOD man's life. 281

ering poor Sweetheart, and of bringing the thieves to
justice.

During a yisit that we paid to my brother and
the Eresby family in London, Baptist and I were
walking in one of the streets near Soho, when our
path was stopped for a while by one of those crowds
often collected in the streets when any thing is to be
seen or heard. I was pushing my way forward, but
as I found Baptist was in no hurry I also stopped.
A man was turning the handle of an organ, and puff-
ing and blowing with a rapidly moving chin at the
pan-pipes that were stuck just below within his
waistcoat, and in the midst of a circle that had been
cleared by the mob were two dogs dancing. One
was attired as a lady, in a petticoat of scarlet cloth
ornamented with tarnished spangles, and a cap and
feather ; the other as a soldier, with a cocked bat,
and a very short-waisted jacket of blue cloth faced
with red, and a pair of pantaloons, through the back
of which his tail turned up. While the organ was
playing the dance continued, but when it stopped,
the dog in the soldier's dress took what seemed to be
the crown of an old beaver hat cut into a sort of
shallow dish from the organ-man, and, holding it in
his mouth, went round the crowd to beg. A few
halfpence were thrown into it. The dog came up
to Baptbt, who had managed to get among the fore-
most within the circle. He also put some halfpence
mto the hat, and as he did so said. Poor fellow ! poor
fellow ! The first sound of his voice had a magical
effect <m the dog : the hat and its contents dropped at

232 THE BECOROS OP

once, and, with a short joyful bark, the poor little
disguised dog leaped upon him and licked his hand,
'and seemed unable to express with sufficient liveli-
ness the joy he felt. " Father," cried the boy, in a
loud voice, " it is my dog, my own lost, faithful
Sweetheart, and he knows me ; 'tis my dog that was

stolen by the trampers at S ." The organ-man

came forward to seize the dog,, but Sweetheart — for
it was indeed the very lost Sweetheart — snarled and
growled, and even snapped at the man. '^ He is my
own dog," said Baptist, stooping down and caressing
poor Sweetheart, ^^ indeed he is, and no one shall
take him away from me. Judge between us," said
the boy, with an energy that surprised me, turning
and appealing to the mob, but holding Sweetheart
fast under his arm all the while. The by-standers
seemed almost as much interested as we were in all
that passed, and many of them came between the
angiy man (who seemed still determined to seize the
dog) and Baptist. Indeed, the fellow had slung his
organ behind him, and was coming forward with a
small whip, that he produced from his pocket, the
sight of which seemed to dash at once all the spirit
of poor Sweetheart. After much expostulation and
some threats, and at last on the offer of a piece of
gold, the man seemed to think that his best plan was
to give up the dog, and the whip was pocketed
again, while Baptist released his old favorite from his
military attire.

Once, several years after, Sweetheart was mbsed
by his young master at Oxford, and on turning the

A oooD man's life. 233

corner of the street to seek him, (which he did in-
stantly,) he found the dog on his hind legs, turning
round and round, and making a sort of slow pirouette
before an old man, who was very slowly grinding an
organ.

Baptist is ill — very ill. He came home from
Oxford with a cold, at least we thought it no more.
1 find that on his journey he was put in a damp bed

at W , and that he rose with aches and stiffness

in all his limbs the next morning. However, he en-
deavored to shake off the illness that seemed to have
seized him, and did not like, in his joy at seeing us
all and returning to Kirkstone, to say much about
what he felt. Martin Wheler, my excellent servant,
first suspected how ill he was, on going to his chamber
the morning after his return home.

I cannot say the state of stupefied agony in
which I first heard the opinion of the medical man
who came to visit Baptist. He begged that he

might call in a physician, and Dr. L , whom we

were slightly acquainted with, came with him the
next day. They soothed and pleased me, by the
deep interest they seemed to take in my poor boy ;
but after asking him a few questions, they begged to
be allowed to retire into an adjoining room, that they
might consult together. They remained away a
long time, so long a time that at last I determined to
go to them to see if any thing had happened to detain
them. When I reached the door, I stopped a mo-

334 TBB mscQUM or

ment; they were speakhig in tones of deep, load
earoestness! — they were evidently not agreed. 1
thought it better to wait, as my appearance just theo
might be unpleasant. I did not wish to let them
see me a witness of their not agreeing.

" I am convinced there can be but one safe way,'*
said the apothecary ; — ^I listened more attentively —
'< such corruptions must be cut off," (his phraseology
might be accounted for by his profesaon.) ^'Cut
off!" — ^'^ corruptions !" I said to myself, with honor.
I knew not of any such disease about my darling boy.
What horrid operation do they meditate ? The phy-
sician continued — '^ I tell you, my good sir, I de-
cidedly differ from you ; the mimsters are very right.
I had a letter the other day fiom my friend, Mr.
Shorter ; he is at the chancery bar, and he tells me
that the king will certainly give up the point — that
Mr. P was with him three hours and ** * *

<' This, then," said I to myself, *^ is the anxiety
of these gentlemen ! this is the deep consideration of
my poor son's case !" I withdrew softly and instant-
ly, sick at heart at what some might call very nat-
ural, but what seemed very heartless to me. They
soon after entered, with the same long faces they
wore on leaving the room. " Your son, my dear
sir," said the physician, (Baptist and his mother had
left the room,) " your son is, I am grieved to say, in
a state of great danger ; we have considered his case
long and attentively, and I heartily wish we bad bet-
ter news to give you. My dear sir, you must pre-
pare to lose him."—

A GOOD MAN*S LIFE. 5235

After years of calm domestic happiness, the storm
has burst upon us. Ah ! now I find it is one thing to
talk of sorrow, and another thing to be almost over-
'whelmed by it. Still I am not to walk by sight, but
by faith. I am to look with the adoring gaze of faith
upon things not seen, and not upon things that are
seen ; for the things that are seen are temporal, but
the things that are tnot seen are eternal. It hath
pleased Thee, Lord, to take from me my first-bom
child, my son. 'Tis no dream : he, that for the last
twenty years was my companion, my sweet familiar
firiend, is departed. Well ! my answer should be-—" It
is well !" I know it is ; and by and by I shall be
enabled to feel it. I must not repine. Are others to
be sufferers by death and grief, and am I to be ex-
empt? Are the sheep of the flock to suffer, and
shall not their shepherd suffer also ? I will rather re-
joice that he was so long lent to me ; and thank God,
thank God, I have :retumed him. — ^To God alone be
the: glory! — ^I have returned him, as &r as human
knowledge can say, ^ washed, sanctified, justified.'
The thought of his child-like love to me and to his
mother, even to the last, how "exquisitely tender, but
how agonizing, it is ! His arms around my neck ; his
blessed, patient head on my bosom : the smile irom
under those heavy eyelids, so languidly fixed upon
my face ; and then***** Why do I talk of him as
dead ? I might write on his tomb — " Gone before."
He departed : He did not die. The second death
hath no power over him. He is gone to live and reign
m glory. I remember a letter of Jeremy Taylor's, in

y

836 THE RVCORD8 OF

>vbich, when speaking consolation to a fHend, he asks
him, if he would have been very moumfiil had his
child been called to reign as a great prince in some
foreign land on earth ? Shall we grieve when the in-
heritance and the kingdom are not earthly, but heav-
enly ?

While we sat in the chamber of death, and the
sound of weeping was heard on every side, I could
not help thinking of those lines that occurred to me
when my child sat wailing on his mother's knee.

Then I little thought that I should survive him, to
see them again exemplified in the same beloved child.

" On parent's knee, a naked, new-bom child,
Weeping thou aat'st, while all around thee smil'd :
So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep.
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep."

To my astonishment, she, who I thought would
have sunk at once under the blow, rose up from her
grief to comfort me. She pointed to the expression
of beautiful and almost holy peace which remained
upon the lifeless face ; the same thought had risen in
her mind : '* Calm thou may'st smile," she said,
" while all around thee weep." " How much have we
to bless God for ! If it were possible to receive him
back to that pallid form, after God has declared his
will in taking him ; if he is with the Saviour whom he
loved on earth, I am sure you think, as I do, it would
be wrong to murmur, wrong to wish him even in our
arms again. He will not return to us, but we shall
go to him."

Her wretchedness during the illness of her son,

A GOOD man's life. 237

and the* trembling anxiety with which she watched
every look of his, and started at the sound of his deep
hollow cough, led me to expect that she would have
been even worse after his departure.

How well I remember one night, not long before
he was called away : I was sitting up with Baptist,
and she had left the room some time before, at his de-
sire ; he had entreated her to take a few hours'. rest,
and she was obliged to retire to please and quiet him.
Not a sound was to be heard in the perfect stillness
of the house, and I began to hope that my poor Una
was in a quiet sleep.

About three o'clock in the morning, the door of
the room, which was not shut, opened more widely,
and Una glided into the room — ^glided, I may well say,
for the noiseless footfall with which she entered was
not heard by the quick ear of my suffering child, who
was at that time disturbed by the faintest sound. My
first impulse was to rise and go to her, and entreat
her to retire to rest ; but I had not the heart to do so,
when I saw her raise her hands as if in prayer to me,
and beheld, by the lamp-light, a look of such meek
and piteous wretchedness appealing to me, and im-
ploring me to let her remain. Pale and thin, and
changed she was indeed, in the short time that had
passed since the return of Baptist, and though I was
miserable at permitting her to stay, looking so ill and
worn out as she did, it would almost have broken my
heart to have prevented her from remaining.

She sat motionless, with neither grief nor hope,
nor any other expression but that of lost thought and

938 THS SBOOEMt OF

lost feeling od her &ce ; and whm dayEgfat had fiillf
dawnedy she rose up and departed as DCMselessIy as
she had entered. I feUowed her to her chamber, and
there I found her in the same lost state, sitting near
the door, on the first chur she found, the door open,
and when I spoke to her, and drew her to my bosom,
she shivered, and her hands and cheek were very
cold. However, she awoke up at the soond of my
voice, and threw her arms around me, and wept long
on my bosom, and blessed me, and said, << Oh ! you
are indeed kind, my Ernest ! so very kind ! How
happy you have made me ! Perhaps another night,
and there will be only a cold, cold corpse in my
child's chamber : — but then," she added, seeing how
sorrowfiil I was, ^ then Ins spirit — ^himself, my Ernest
— ^he will be in those blessed abodes, where the wea-
ry are at rest."

We prayed together, and I returned to Baptist.
My poor wife consented to go to bed.

My sweet Una soon recovered her che^rfolness,
at least, a resignation so foil of hope, that it might be
called cheerfolness. She was always making some
exertion to win me from my deep sorrow ; and she
neglected no employment, no effort, to folfil as before
all the duties of her calling. I thought her resigna-
tion extraordinary ; and bad I not seen that every
thought and feeling was evidently referred to the only
spring of peace and happiness, I should have been
almost displeased to see her so soon reconciled to our

A CMDOD man's LIFE. 230

loss. How little' did I know the straggle that went
on within,, or the sacrifice that was so soon to be paid
for such extraordinary exertion ! The slight and deli«
cate frame was gradually sinking, and it gaye way at
last. Yet to the last, the^pirit was at peace, resign-
ed, eheeidiil, nay, rejoicing through faith and in hope.
" We shall meet again,'* she said, as, placing her
little wasted Band in mine, she closed her eyes, I
thought, even then, only in sleep, and a smile played
round h» lips. "You have always taught me, Ern-
est, that we nwist walk by faith, and not by sight. I
have learnt the sweet but once difficult lesson. I see
that path of faith opening up to glory now — ^now it is
like the shining Hght that shineth on toward the per-
fect day."

I cannot write more about this. — O Lord ! Thy
will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. I cannot
write more. I would rather lie prostrate and silent in
the dust. Thou hast cut off the desire of mine eyes
with a stroke. Thy rod, as well as thy staff, it com-
jEbrteth me — I will kiss it. I am sure that Thou art
love*

This morning, the first after my loss, when kneel-
ing at my regular morning prayers, I was surprised
into a burst of agony by the simplest occurrence.
Among the names of many loved ones, and among
the foremost of those names, my thoughts and lips,
fix)m a long, sweet usage, rested on two names, belong-
ingnow not to disembodied spirits^ but to the realm of

240 TBV ftKCORDS OP

memory. I rose from my knees comforted and re-
signed, for I do not sorrow, blessed be Goo ! as one
without hope.

There is no inscription but thb on the one grave-
stone which marks the spot where tlie bodies of the
two beloved rest in hope. It was written under their
names, and the date of their departure :

" They were lovely and pleasant in their lives,
and in their death they were not divided."

Mr. Singleton's narrative breaks off here.

" My mistress will be glad to see you in her dress-
ing-room." Mr. Singleton was shown into a small
sitting-room, very plainly furnished, so plainly, that
he was struck with the absence of all those ornaments
which are so common in a lady's boudoir. Helen
sprung up to meet him with eager and affectionate
delight : she had become extremely thin and delicate,
and was evidently much affected. He could not then
guess on what account. She was sitting on a low sofa,
and her little girl was with her. " I wished so very
much to see you, dear Ernest," said she, " and almost
at the wish you appear." " Mother," whispered her
littJe girl, " may I stay up a little longer to-night ?"
and then she looked round and smiled on him. " Not
to-night," replied Helen, stroking down the bright

A GOOD man's life. 5241

hair of the little girl, and kbsing her clear, open fore-
head. "You may kneel down to your evening
prayer, Fanny. Do not go, Ernest," she said, as he
rose up. " We need not ask your uncle to leave us
while you pray, as he is a minister of God.*' How-
ever, he took up a little Bible which lay open on the
table, for Fanny had been reading it to her mother,
and retired to another end of the room. He. was
much gratified by the way in which the little girl
prayed ; according to a plan he had recommended to
Helen, he heard her say, " Well, my Fanny, what
particular grace do you feel your need of to-day ?"

" Humility, mother." " Well, then, will you not
ask for the meek and lowly spirit of our blessed
Lord ?" She did not pray by rote, or according to
any set form; she tried to recollect the particular
faults, as well as the general faultiness of the day, and
then the confession of that faultiness, in untutored
words, followed ; prayer and praise were preceded by
the same quiet self-recollection, so that the child, on
rising up, found that she had not been performing a
dull, unsatisfymg duty. When she came to words
that were, however, often repeated, and never by rote
— " Pray, bless my dear father — " Helen gently and
quietly knelt beside her —

" Now, Ernest," said Lady Helen, after the door
had closed upon the child, and she spoke in a voice
faint firom agitation and alarm, " read this note" — (she
had kept it in her hand all the time.) " Here is the en-
velope," (she took it firom the table,) " directed and

n

343 THB ftBCORDS OP

meant for me, but the note intaaded for me has been
sent, as I conclude, by a most providential mistake, in
the other envelope, while this was intended for I
know not whom. Still you see its fearfiil purport, and
you will tell me what we can do." How wretched
she looked ! Mr. Singleton had thought her looking
pale and unwell as he entered, and he found after-
wards that she had long been so ; but now, the state
of nervous alarm in which she was, the expression of
wildness that he had observed, was accounted for.
The note was this : the acceptance of a challenge to
fight a duel on the following morning, In the hand-
writing of her husband ; iEind it concluded with these
words, << according to the time and place appoint-
ed — ^" not statbg particulars, name, or date, but
referring to the note before received.

" Do you know where this note was written ?'^ he
inquired. " In his dressing-room, not an hour ago,"
she said. " I am told that he wrote two letters, one
of which he took with him, telling his servant to join
him as usual-f-but I know not where-— unless at — ^^
here she hesitftted ; " the other he left fw me." « I
should like to go to his dressing-room," he said ; "on
such an occasion as the present, I should not scruple
to search for that other note."

The contrast of Colonel Singleton's dressing-room
to that of Lady Helen's was striking. Poor Charles
had indeed thought too much of himself.

The toilet was covered with the ornaments and
baubles of a dressing-case ; some of silver, not a few

A GOOD man's life. 5248

of gold. On the table was a row of superb snuff*
boxes, all indicating no common extravagance and
profusion of expense.

Charles and Hel^i were not then residing in
Grosvenor Square ; the former having quarrelled with
the Marquis of Eresby, they were living in a small
house of their own in Spring-gardens.

The room may be seen to this day, in which Mr.
Singleton found his brother. Colonel Singleton, bet-
ter known in these pages as Charley, showed that
room, or I may say, the suite of rooms, to me, not
many months ago. The door of a small private
house in Pall Mall was the entrance to these halls of
spl^did wretchedness, and beyond them two passa-
ges communicated widi several houses in some of the
back streets, now pulled down, but then leading into
the Haymarket. The rooms were then magnificently
fitted up, the fiimiture was very costly, and every
thing seemed cakidated to hide, even from the con-
stant inmates of those rooms, the purpose to which
they were devoted. The walls were covered with
mirrors and paintmgs. One thing alone was remark-
able ; there were no windows, except in the ceiling,
and those of ground glass. We could not ima-
gine how Mr. Smgleton gained an entrance into a
gambling-house. He told me once, when describing
a gambling-house that he had been in, (he made no
allusion to his brother,) that he was most struck with
finding that the men whom he saw had so little the
look of gamblers, that many of them were high-bred

344 THB RBCOEDt OP

young men, with a careless, unconcerned manner, ut-
terly at variance with their real feelings within.

Mr. Singleton, on entering, went up straight to
his brother, who was engaged in play, and requested
a private interview with him. '^ It is not possible,"
exclaimed a young man, who was sittmg at the same
table with him. '^ It must be possible," he replied
calmly, and soon after the brothers retired. '< I come,"
said Mr. Singleton, '< to stop, if possible, a duel which
you mean to fight to-morrow morning." His brother
was thrown off his guard. '^ It cannot be stopped,"
he said, and then recovering himself, he said, with a
careless look, and even with a smile, " hut, my good
fellow, who in the world told you any thing about a
duel?" '^Circumstances sometimes occur in real
day life," replied Mr. Singleton, ^^ that would seem
improbable in a novel. One of such circumstances
has happened to-day. You wrote two notes in your
dressing-room, and perhaps, Charles ! though you may
not like to confess it now, perhaps you were agitated
and confused when writmg them. But true enough it
is, that the note to your antagonist has been sent by
you m an envelope to your wife, and the former has
doubtless received the note intended for Lady Helen.
I found her this evening in a state of terror and anx-
iety that I cannot describe to you. She will not only
have to receive perhaps a corpse, perhaps a murderer,
to-morrow morning, but all this dreary night she is
suffering agonies, the agonies of doubt, suspense, and,
of what is far worse, a deep conviction that guilt and

A GOOD MAN^S LIFE. 45

blood will be on the head of her beloved husband, or
that he will be hurried away to the judgment-bar of
One whose mercy he has disregarded and despised."
Charles answered nothing, but felt quite confounded,
and smitmg his forehead, muttered to himself, ^< Dolt,
fool that I was, not to avoid such a mistake !" *^ I
entreat you," said his brother, '^ to endeavor to see all
this in its proper light. The mistake is to be blessed,
instead of cursed. It is the means used by the wise
and merciful One, to save you from guilt and misery.
You might have perished without again seeing your
wife, your children, and me, the friend of your whole
life." He did not reply at once, but after a long
pause, he came up to his brother — (he had been pacing
the room in silence and thoughtfulness)— " My own
kind Ernest," be said, and the tears were in his eyes,
** I see at once that you are right ; I have known all
the time that I am wrong. I have been rushing into
sin with my eyes wide open ; but, I am sorry to say,
the thing cannot be avoided : the duel must be
fought." "What is it grounded on?" asked his
brother. " Insults and insolence most insufferable."
" Must blood be paid as the price of the mere inso-
lence of man to man ?" " No, no," replied Charles ;
"we all know that we would willbgly not have
blood : but society could not exist in the right state,
if men were not obliged to be guarded in their words,
if such impertinence as that I complain of were to pass
unnoticed." " Society," said Mr. Singleton, " whkt
society do you speak of, Charles ?" " The society of
gentlemen." " The gentlemen, then," said the odier>

946 TBB RBCOEM OF

wery gravdyy '^ set aside the higher calling of Chris-
tians !" '^ My dear brother/' said Charles, laying his
hand on the arm of his brother, << I am no hand at
arguing. I have no reasons and words to match you
parsons with, I am well aware of that ; 'tis all very
right in you to cry shame, and sin, too, upon duek
and duellists : you ought to do so. But we men of
the world, we must foUow other rules ; and as I told
you, he that moves in the society of gentlemen and
soldiers, is disgraced if he refiises to fight a duel. Now,
I own to you, I decidedly disapprove of duels when I
think upon you and my father, and your odd, but
right noti<His ; but I tell you very plainly, I should be
set down and scouted as a coward, if I were to hang
back in this instance." <' And you are afiraid of being
set down as a coward ?" ^'I am !" "And so you
yield to one kind of fear, to avoid another. Do not
mistake me. I do not wish to use the common cant
of those who attack duellists, and say, that the man
who fights a duel is a greater coward than he who
fears to fight* I think and allow that the man who
fights a duel is, in one sense, very brave, horribly brave;
brave passively, and brave in daring action. He bears
all the inward tumults, and all the heart -sicknesses of
waiting hour after hour, with one thought lying like a
lump of lead upon his heart. I am p^aps looking
for the last time (he thmks to himself) on all this
busy w(Nrld-— on the faces of those I love. His mem-
ory runs back with him during the whole course of a
life marked with many delights, many calls for thank-
(ulness, many, many mercieSi which are, perhaps, to

A GOOD man's lifb. 347

be blotted out in blood, at least till he wakes in that
place, which, if he thinks at all, he must also fear to
visit, the place where the worm dieth not, and the fire
is not quenched. He braves, also, all the active pre-
paration for the encounter; he composes a counte-
nance paled by reflection, into a sort of stem cheer-
fulness ; he calls up all the mere physical man within
him, and steadies limbs and a frame that are, at least,
naturally disposed to tremble. He takes in a hand so
steadied the murderous pistol, and opposes a breast so*^
stea4ied to a murderous fire. All this calls for cour-
age, and a sort of courage is found for it ; and not
merely physical courage, but mental also ; for, after
all, if only the pain pf the wound was to be encoun-
tered, I don't see what there would be so very dread-
ful to the physical man in a duel. I dare say it is
more pamful to the bodily senses, tp baye a double
tooth wrenched out." -

Here he paused, and then taking the hand of his
brother, and looking in his face with a look grave,
and yet affectionate beyond all description, he said,
" My own brother, my younger brother, it is not by
the cant of any of those arguments that are commonly
brought forward against duelling, that I entreat you
to stop. We must not talk of the constituticm of so-
ciety ; we must not stumble at any notions of expedi-
ency. Are we professed Christians, or are we not ?
that is the simple question. We must give up every
claim, even to the mere name of Christian, or to any,
the least outward privileges of a Christian, if we
openly and daringly set ourselves against one of the

24B THK KKCORDt OF

plainest of God's laws. And as for the constitution
of society, or any notion whatever of expediency,
they all fall at once to the ground. Men in this
Christian country are professed Christians, or they
are not. If they are not professed Christians, they
may defend duelling; if they are professed Chris-
tians, there is notlimg to be said, they cannot defend
dueUing according to the plain rules of common sense
and common honesty ; but habit and the foolish laws
of society are apt to set aside and supersede both
honesty and common sense."

*^It is all true," said Charies, who had listened
attentively to every word his brother spoke. " And
you will give up this senseless duel, Charley ! You
will dare to be called a coward, rather than break
Helen's heart and mine, and destroy your own soul."

" It is all true, and yet I must and will fight,"
said Charies, bursting into loud and convulsive weep-
bg as he spoke. " I wish to die — ^to be cut off firom
thb hatefiil life. I would rather be brought home a
corpse to my Helen, and give her a burst of grief at
once, than go on as I do, making her daily more
miserable, and becoming daily more guilty. I shall
break your hearts at last, I know. I shall destroy
my own soul at last. I'd better die now before I get
worse, for worse I must get." " You may live to re-
pent, my brother," said Ernest. ^^ You might be cut
off to perish eternally."

At last the entreaties of Ernest prevailed : Charles
made the promise his brother required. " Go to my
wife," he said, ^^ and tell her not to fear ; I will be

A cooD man's life. 340

at home m an hour." Ernest, however, determbed
not to leave his brother till he had seen him with
Lady Helen. " I will sit down to write to the man
I was to meet," said Charles. " I will explain all

the mistake about the notes, and " " And you

will tell him that you decline fighting, and wish to be
bis firiend." Charles hesitated, but, at last, he ^said,
" I will. I have said I would ; indeed, I will."
Ernest was, after all, still uneasy, for he found that
bis brother still made several propositions to persuade
him to go first to Lady Helen. All these were over-
ruled ; Charles wrote his note, and as they went
down stairs, he said to one of the waiters, '^ Is my
servant here ?" " He is, sir." " I want him to take
a note for me ;" he added, *' you may call him, or,
no— -I will go with you, and speak to him myself: he
is m the farther lobby, I suppose ?" " He is, sir."
'* Wait a minute, iknest. Step mto this room, near
the door ; I will be with you directly." Ernest wait-
ed several minutes — ^half an hour — an hour. Charles
did not return. He rang violently. The same waiter
came. " Where is Colonel Singleton ?" " Colonel
Singleton, sir : is he not here ? I will go and inquire."
He returned ; '^ Colonel Singleton, sir, is not within."
** Not withm ! why, I have been standing here, before
the open door of this room the last hour, and he has
not passed ; I am quite certain he is within ; I insist
on seeing him." " You can look for him yourself, sir,
if you please," said the waiter coolly ; ** but I am sure
be is not in this house. One of the servants saw him
speaking to a gentleman, who came in about an hour

5t60 TBE RBCOBOS OP

and a half ago, and tbej went out ann m ami to-
gether by one of the other entrances. You did not
knowy perhaps, that there were other entrances."
Charles did not return. Ernest and Lady Helen
passed the night in a state of agonizbg suspense, the
burden of which they could only remove by continual
prayer. They were watching together when the gray
morning began to dawn, and one hour, two hours
after. At last a carriage drove up furiously, and a
loud knocking was heard at the door. Charles ap-
peared, gay, laughing, springbg forward to meet them.
They forgot 'they strangeness and levity of his man-
ner at first in the joy of meeting him. ^^ WeU," said
Earnest, at length, *^ this duel ! You have got rid of
it altogether." Helen raised her head fix)m her hus-
band's shoulder, and looked with tender earnestness
in his face. ** I have indeed got rid of it altogether,"
and he laughed. ** We fought this morning, and by
a strange good-luck, we were both untouched, and
are now as good friends as evior" . Helen withdrew
her hands and covered her face with them both.
^' Dear Helen, what's the matter ; are you not glad
to see me safe ?" " I am indeed ; a whole life de-
voted to God could not tell him half my gratitude."
^< But what if the matter, and with you, too, Ernest ;
you look as grave as you did last night ?'^ '< Because,"
said Ernest, ^^ though your life is safe, your sin is the
same. As far as you are concerned, all is as bad as
if blood was on that hand, at that now healthy frame
had been brought in lifeless. Our hearts may over-
A>w with gratitude, as watets act 6ae bom ihe ice of

A GOOD man's ufx. 461

winter, but we must mourn and lament the sin of one
who is, I fear, not only unstable as water, but who
has joined himself to those whose feet are swift to
shed blood." '^And my brother was very right in
his judgment of me," said Colonel Singleton. " I
was never more careless, nor more full of levity than
on that morning — ^for months, nay, years, that levity
continued. It is now, I hope, put to shame, and
my whole soul has been humbled and sobered with-
in me."

Many parts of Mr. Smgleton's histoiy, which re-
flected the greatest credit on his character, or, he
would have said, showed the effects of God's grace in
his unworthy creature, are scarcely glanced at m the
papers before me. It would not be possible, indeed,
for me to give a detailed history of his life.

Indeed, I became acquainted with him at a late
period, and knew little of his early history, beyond
what he has written in these papers. One circum-
stance, however, is so much a part of his history, that
if I do not give some explanation, the memoir of his
life, imperfect as it must still remain, would be unin-
telligible. The only account he gives of this portion
of his life, is a careless mention of a change of cir-
cumstances.

And here I might as well mention, that he came,
first of all, a curate to the parish of Kirkstone ; but
the incumbent, a son-in-law of Mr. Wentworth's,
coming into the possession of a large fortune, gave up

THE RECORDS OF

the living, and then Mr. Wentworth, in whose gift it ,
was, presented it to my venerable friend. This took
pkce a few years after the marriage of his sister Lisa
to Mr. Wentworth's son. Not long after the death
of the two bemgs so tenderly beloved by Mr. Single-
ton, his daughter Lisa received a message from him,
as she was waiting his appearance in the breakfast-
room. He sent Martin to request that she would as-
semble the servants to family prayers, and read and
pray that morning in his place. He begged also that
she would breakfast for once without him, and come
to him as soon after as she pleased. '' He desired
me to tell you," contmued Martin, '< that he is not ill,
but finds it necessary to be alone with his God for a
short time." ^' Has any one been with him this
morning ? has any thing happened ?" inquired Lisa.
" Has he received any letter ?" " He had a letter
brought him by the post," replied Martin; "nay,
there were several letters, but I was not with my
master at the time he opened them. When he sent
that message, he was standmg with his back towards
me, tummg over the leaves of his large Bible, and I
thought his hand seemed to shake a little, and to
make a rustling with the book, but his voice, though
low, was very calm."

Lisa obeyed her father's request ; she did not go
up'to him till after the breakfast things were removed.
She found that the door of his study was bolted f]x>m
within when she was about to enter, but at the sound
of her voice, he opened it immediately. She guessed,
from a slight mark of dust upon his knees, that he had

A GOOD man's life. 253

been kneeling in prayer ; and his countenance, calm
as it then was, betrayed that he had been suffering
from some deep and recent trial.

"I have often suffered, and suffered very lately,"
he said, at length, '^ and perhaps on that account I
feel a little broken now. My heart is very heavy,
dear child, for I think I can bear any thing better
than sin in those I love, and that, alas ! that," he ex-
claimed solemnly, yet with a look of vacancy, " I
have been called upon to suffer very lately, and must
suffer now, though not without strong cries for par-
don and grace for my dear and guilty one." He put
a packet of letters into her hands. " Poor Charles,"
he said, " how I pity him ; after all his promises, still
to go on in this wicked infatuation. I see how it is ;
he has returned to his habits of gambling." The let-
ters were from the lawyer of a man — another gambler,
I believe— to whom Colonel Singleton had lost a large
sum of money. The bills were drawn on Mr. Sin-
gleton, and they were little short of fraudulent. In-
deed, it was^evident that the claim must be acknow-
ledged and satisfied, or the character of his brother
lost.

By the next post, came a letter fix>m Colonel
Singleton, full of self-accusation, but giving a misera-
ble account of his affairs. An execution was in his
house, and he was in the King's Bench.

Mr. Singleton had no disposable fortune but the
proceeds of his livmg, for the little property he inher-
ited from his parents had been settled at his marriage
upon his wife, to revert after her death to his children.

264 THE RECORDS OF

Lisa, who was now the sole inheritor, offered to give
up the whole towards discharging the claim, but this
Mr. Singleton positively forbade. The Eresby fam-
ily had already advanced large sums, but were no
longw on terms with Colonel Smgleton. It was
found, also, that he had a second time sold hb com-
mission. His brother saw but CHie way of assisting
him ; and silently and secretly he set to work to do
so. He at once made arrangements {(St giving up the
income of his living into the hands of trustees, reserv-
ing for himself only the salary of a curate. The
whole of what remained was to be paid towards dis-
chargbg the debt of Colonel Singleton.

It was soon known in the neighborhood that a
change was about to take place in the establishment of
Mr. Singleton. The dismissal of several servants, and
the printed bilb and catalogues of the furniture, books,
and live and dead stock, at Kirkstone Rectory, affixed
to the doors of the principal inns of the neighborhood,
and on the walls and palings, set the whole neighbor-
hood wondering to what cause such events were at-
tributed. Many of the friends of Mr. Singleton call-
ed on him to ask for some explanation, and to offer
to assist him in his difficulties. He be;gged to be ex-
cused, declaring the cause of his difficulties ; and said,
that he believed he was adopting the only practicable
way of removing them. He declined receiving as-
sistance in money, which he should not be able to re-
pay ; and he told them, that after the inconvenience,
and the little unplejasantness of the sale, &c., were
pv^y he had qp doubt that Lisa wd Umself would be

255

as happy as ever. ^< And we are as happy, nay, much
happier than before," said Ldsa. ^'He had been
always kind, bis society always delightful to me, but
at times, after the death of my mother and Baptist, I
had seen him lay down his book, or his pen, and sink
into a fit of melancholy abstraction ; or I had heard a
very deep sigh steal unconsciously fix>m his lips ; but
when our days of privation began, he became cheer-
ful, and even gay. He would often rise up to per-
form some little attention to me, with such an elegant
courteousness, that I could hardly believe I was his
daughter, and accustomed, when we had many serv-
ants, to wait upon him." He even gave up the con-
stant habit of retiring to bis study, except when his
daughter could spend her morning with him there.
Li short, he not only did every thing in hb power to
prevent her feeling their change of circumstances, but
be endeavored to prove to her, that he himself was
not affected by the change.

There was a sale at the rectory. Every thing
that could be spared was sold : the carriage and
horses, the fiimiture of the chief rooms, the valuable
library of books — all was sold, but a few volumes
which, as a minister of religion, Mr. Singleton could
not well do without, and even these he had decided
to part with. He said that if they went, he should
never look into any book but the Bible, and that a
necessity of opening no other book would be both
sweet and blessed to him. lisa knew, however, that
he had long laid aside the study of any book but the
Bible^ and her playful threat to be fi>r pace di$pbe-

S5A THB EECOEOS OF

dient, and spend all her pocket-money in buying his
favorite works, induced him to consent that they
should not be put into the sale. Several of his
friends, however, who attended the sale for that pur-
pose, bought all the books he valued most, and those
pictures and pieces of furniture which they said it
would grieve them to see taken away from the rec-
* tory in his lifetime. On his return home, after the
sale, having passed the week at Wentworth Hall, he
found hb study almost as he left it; and all the
furniture that was really needed for the comfort of
his daughter and himself — ^much more than they had
thought necessary. '< We have much to be grateful
for," he said : " I did not expect — ^I did not wish to
find all this. However, I will receive the bounty of
my kind, my indulgent friends, and with as much
gladness as they have given." There was, mdeed,
no gloom about the rectory. It seemed with Mr.
Singleton, throughout the whole course of his life, as
if no earthly troubles could ever keep down, for more
than a sbort time, his determination to be happy —
but he possessed that peace which the world cannot
give, that hope which maketh not ashamed, that joy
with which the stranger intermeddleth not.

Some years after Mr. Singleton had given up the
proceeds of his living to pay the claim of his brother,
his cousin, the Marquis of Eresby, having succeeded
his father, who died at an advanced age, offered him
the two family livmgs which his uncle had accused
him of looking forward to. With little or no hesita-
tion, he declined them. ** I wish to end my days,"

A GOOD man's life. 257

he said, ^^ in this beloved spot. I wish to finish my
course among my children," for so he often called
his parishioners. " It has taken many years for us
to understand one another. Many of my plans for
their true happiness are now taking effect. When
Gop, who has graciously blessed me in them, and
perhaps I may say, them in me ; when God calls
me to another place, (I do not mean to another
earthly parish), I must depart ; but not, I trust, till
then." It was against his principles, also, to hold
two livings, or, indeed, to hold any, (when health
permitted a residence,) where he should not reside.
The instructions of the good pastor became more
valuable to his flock, as he advanced in years. It is
a homely comparison, but as it is said that all the
cream is in the last drops that are pressed in milking
firom the udder of the cow, so it might have been
said of him, that the sincere milk of the word which
flowed f]x>m his lips, was blessed with an increasing
richness of spiritual unction, as he drew near the
finishing of his course, and the time of his departure
was at hand.

Soon after he had declined accepting the two
livings I spoke of, I find among his papers these
remarks: "We must not trust to uncertain riches.
If I had accepted those livings, I could have done so
only to improve my worldly riches ; I might have
been trifling with the spiritual interests of my chil-
dren and myself. How I love that fine passage in
Baxter's Reformed Pastor :

Si8 THE RKCOROt OF

<< ^ I seldom see ministers strive so furiously who
shall go first to a poor man's cottage, to teach him
and his family the way to heaven ; or who shall first
endeavor the conversion of a sinner, or first become
the servant of all ! Strange, that notwithstanding all
the plain expressions of Christ, men wiU not under*
stand the nature of their office ! If they did, would
they strive who should be the pastor of a whole
county and more, when there are so many thousand
poor sinners in it that cry for help; and they are
neither able nor willbg to engage for their relief?
Nay, when they can patiently live in the house with
profane persons, and not foUow them seriously and
incessantly for their conversion! And that they
would have the name and honor of the work of a
county, who are unable to do all the work of a parish,
when the honor is but the appendage of the work !
Is it names and honor, or the work and end, that they
desire ? Oh ! if they would faithfiilly, humbly, and
self-denyingly, lay out themselves for Christ and
His Church, and never think of titles and reputations,
they should then have honor whether they would or
not ; but by gaping after it they lose it : for this is
the case of virtue's shadow ! ' Quod sequitur fugio,
quod fugit ipse sequor.'

- " * What an excellent privilege is it, to live in
studying and preaching Christ ! — to be continually
searching into his mysteries, or feeding on them ! — to
be daily employed in the consideration of the blessed
nature, works, and ways of God ! Others are glad
of the leisure of the Lord's day, and now and thpn of

A GOOD man's life. 259

an hour besides, i^hen they can lay hold upon it.
But we may keep a continual sabbath. We may do
almost nothing else, but study and talk of God and
glory, and engage in acts of prayer and praise, and
drink in his sacred saving truths. Our employment
is all high and spiritual. Whether we be alone or
in company, our business is for another world. O
that our hearts were more turned to this work !
What a 1)lessed, joyiiil life, should we then live!
How pleasant the pulpit ! and what delight would
our conference about spiritual and eternal things
afford us ! To live among such excellent helps as
our libraries afibrd — to have so many silent, wise
companions, whenever we please — all these, and
many other similar privileges of the ministry, bespeak
our unwearied diligence in the work.' "

Often in my seasons of deep dbtress have I com-
forted myself with these words : " If there be, there-
fore, any consolation in Christ, if any comfort of
love, if any fellowship of the spirit, if any bowels and
mercies." (PhiL ii. 1.) O blessed words ! If there
be any consolation ! Can I dare doubt the word of
Truth? RebeUious, presumptuous, thankless crea-
ture that I am ! If there be any !

Oh! what a tender strain of most persuasive
appealing.

Look to Chiust, O my soul ! to the inexhausti-
ble riches of glory in Christ Jssus ! I mourn ; I
can scarce hold up my head. It is thy privilege, O

THB EECOBD8 OP

foolish soul ! O thou of little faith ! look again to
that lovely passage of Scripture. A few verses be-
fore, the holy apostle assures his beloved Philippians
that '^ unto them is given, in behalf of Christ, not
only to believe m Him, but also to suffer for His
sake." And is it a privilege, you ask, to suffer for
Him, and with Him ? Judge for yourself. Suppose
you were to find your own mother in some foreign
land sittmg, a wretched, houseless creature, by the
way-side, forbidden to quit the miserable spot, would *
you not count it a privilege to sit down beside her,
and to support her droopmg head, and wipe away
her fast-falling tears; and when you find Christ
despised, Christ rejected, by bad and shameless
men, will you not deem it a privilege gladly to suifer
here with Christ? His love exceedeth even the
affection of a tender mother. The mother may for-
get the sucking child, that she should not have com-
passion on the son of her womb; yea, they may
forget ; yet will not I forget thee. Let me seek,
therefore, not merely to know Him, and the power
of His resurrection, but the fellowship of fiBs suffer-
bgs ; and this is our consolation, that ^' if we suffer
with Him, we shall also reign with Him."

What a cold, dull, senseless heart is mine, what
a dishonoring faith, what a mocking profession. I do
not boldly, joyfully, confess Christ. Do I dread to
be called Puritan, Methodist, Calvinist ? The world's
Christ must not do for me. The world's Christ is an

A «ooD man's lipb, 261

Antichrist. Christ must "be the sun of the system
to me, or I bad better deny him at once. To make
Him other than what He is, — ^'tis insulting Him ; 'tis lit-
tle less than askmg the world to say how much of the
work of salvation may be given up to Christ, how
much reverence may be shown to Him by man.

Thy mU be done.

We should learn to make our prayer, not that our
own desires may be granted, but that God's will may
be done. It is very difficult to push aside all our
own thick-coming hopes, all our own whispering and
restless fears, and to feel that God is sure to arrange
every event in the best and happiest way. No chas-
tening for the present time seemeth joyous, but griev-
ous. A man who is submitting to some painful ope-
ration, cannot feel the ^rial, while it continues, to be
pleasant : but he is assured that the rest of his life ^
will be gladdened by it, and in faith he endures the
unjoyous chastening, * rejoicing m hope.'

For thus saith the Lord, " Like as I have brought
all this great evil upon this people, so will T bring
upon them all the good I have promised them."
(Jerem. xxxii. 42.)

The testimony of the Lord is sure.

And we may know the truth of that word by our
own experience of it in part. The old man, for in-
stance, feels that thb word is truth. " .Yet is their
strength then but labor and sorrow ;" and having felt
that painful part of God's will and word to be true,
has he not a sure evidence that its joyous promises

9BSt TRB EBCOKIMI OF

are tko troth ? for as the predictions of what old age
is are fulfilled m this life, so will the promises of what
the peace and the glory of Heaven are be fulfilled in
another world.

We begin to lore the Bible, and know its value,
when we find we cannot do without it. When under
temptation firom any or either of our great adversaries,
we hasten to look into the annory of our spiritual
weapons for some sword of the Spirit, in and firom that
word of God, which may be found all-powerfiil
though in our feeble grasp. We know its value,
when, at the sight of some blessed assurance, or rich
promise, till then unheeded, if not unknown, our heart
leaps withb us, or is deeply melted with subduing
comfort : and tears of gratitude rise mto our eyes.
We know its value, when our path appears in its
pages plain and straight before us, after many doubts
and difficulties m ourselves.

It is not enough to talk in general terms of re-
nouncing the world. We must go into particulars,
and then inquire, Do I, as I have engaged and vowed
at my baptism, do I renounce the world ? Do I re-
nounce worldly honms and distinctions and worldly
riches ? woridly, wbdom — ^worldly society, if not alto-
gether, yet as much as possible, and always enter and
leave it with thoughts and feelings in a higher, holier,

A cooD man's lipb. 263

and yet humbler frame? Do I strive to live and
move in a higher atmosphere ?

Our WeaJcness — Our Help.

Is it true that all my exertions are useless, unless
I have assistance from above, for of myself I can do
nothbg ? I will answer that question, not by a posi-
tive yes or no, which I might do, but I will put the
case to you thus : — ^you have a great work to do, an
important end to attain — ^to work out your own salva-
tion, to enter into the kingdom of Heaven. That
blessed and mercifiil Being who gave I£s life to re-
deem your soul and body from the power of Satan,
sees your weakness ; sees that with the legal right
through His blood, you would be left desolate and
cheerless, with that right in your hand — ^the kingdom
of Heaven opened — ^but you, a poor, frail, hopeless
wanderer on earth; He pities your condition, and
feeling that your happiness must be but half gained,
if you are left to your own strength. He offers you the
all-powerfrd help of his Holy Spirit : seek that help
freely, use it largely, never consent to let it go ; he
gives, as it were, such counsel. The fellowship of the
Holt Spirit comes to your heart. Your fellowship
or union with your idols, is broken assunder. Ephraim
is no more joined to his idols, but you are joined to
Christ, as a living branch to a life-giving stem.

Must I turn to God if I would be saved ? Yes.
Can I turn to God by my own strength ? No.

Why, then, you leave me in a sad condition, in-
deed. I must turn or die ; but I have no power to turn.

964 THB RECOROt OF

Far fix>in it ; the teacher who tells you you must
turn or die, and that in yourself you have the power-^—
he leaves you in a sad condition.

He who informs you fix)m God's word of this
want of power in yourself, is your true friend ; be-
cause, first, he shows you your real state, and would
have you sit down and weigh the cost before you
attempt to build your tower ; because, secondly, he
will not fail to add that though God forewarns jou,
the power to turn is not in yourself. He does not
leave you despairing or deluded, but teaches you
where to seek and find all the help you need. More
than even you desire or deserve is to be obtained
from the fiilness of Christ: grace for grace ; grace
fireely offered and given, as fast as grace may be
needed.

To a Minister 0/ Christ in the Church ofEng"
land.

Think that, while you pray — ^while you read the
Scriptures — while you preach — ^your Saviour Jesus
Christ stands beside you, and that he locks even
into your heart.

Imagine that in the midst of your coldness and
carelessness, you see his face turned upon you, even
with such a look as that which he turned upon Peter,
when his confident disciple denied him.

Before every prayer in the rubric, before every
chapter you read, before the delivering of your text
and sermon, offer up a short and silent prayer, that
you may not wander in attention or spirit.

A GOOD man's live. QM

It is not enough to attend to every word in
prayers, nor to feel every word, but you must offer
up every word as a prayer.

Again, think upon your selfas the mouth of the
whole assembly around you, and remember that the
cause of every one with God is given into your hands
to plead, that when you are cold, your thoughts dis-
tracted, then their cause is neglected.

The great secret of pulpit eloquence is, to be
thoroughly in earnest, and to be sincere according to
the truth. When you enter the pulpit and look
around you, think within yourself, ^' Am I, are they
all, come hither, as a solemn mockery of God ? But
if they are not come to worship in spirit and truth|
their worship is mockery." Pray, also, that no feel-
ing of display, no affectation, no fear of man, no love
of praise, no temptation of any kind ; nothbg but the'
love of Chiust, and the love of the best int^ests of
your flock, may move you.

Look to the common sense of every thing — ^to
the meaning of every word. Do nothing, " of
course/^ or " by roteJ^

In worldly affairs, you cannot think of two things
at the same time, and pay a proper attention to one
of them. Remember this in the church, and do not
get into a habit of thinking of two things there. Be
assured that there, of all places, God will not consent
to share the heart, the thoughts, with Mammon.

It is often a good plan, from the moment you
enter the reading'^deskf to seal up your eyes to every
J2

9M TBB RBC0RO8 OF

object but the books before you — ^not to look, once
upon the congregation.

The Mediator.

On my knees it is that I so greatly feel the ne-
cessity and the blessmg of the Mediator. Remem-
bering there all my provocations, my repeated, daily
repeated, sins against my God, how should I have
the face to msult him by prayers against sins into
which I am again and again falling, did I not know
and feel that there is one who is touched with the
feelmgs of my infirmities, who has been tempted in
all points like as I am, yet without sin. My great
wotk and struggle is within. There it is that I am
ever, with God's grace, at work to keep innocence,
purity, love, faith — and, as temptations are constantly
arising against me on all these points, there it is that
I feel my need of one, who is man to feel for me,
and with me, and God, to help, and forgive, and re-
assure me.

Lord ! Lord ! Physician ! Shepherd ! Take me
as I am. I cannot wait till I get better — till I am
healed. Thou art the physician — ^there is none but
Thee. Whom have I but Thee ? whom can I desire
in preference to Thee ? I am a wandering sheep ;
Thou art the good Shepherd : seek me when I stray
—gently lead' me back. I cannot doubt Thy wil-
lingness to seek and save: Thou hast given thy life
for the sheep. I have hitherto takep, shsdl I hot cs^I

A BOOD man's life. 267

It, a wrong way for a minister of "the glad tidings of
great joy," when visiting the cottages of my parish-
ioners. I have talked to them of duties; I have
made every thing seem a duty. Ah ! how natural
it was for me to do so ; religion has seemed to me
too much a dry, a solemn, and a yet a glorious weight
of duties, I now see it in a far lovelier light. I now
see that I should have used a far holier, sweeter,
far more winning way. I should have spoken of
privileges, and shown that every Christian's duty is a
happy privilege. There is weariness and heaviness
in every earthly yoke ; sm is a hard master.

There seems to be an error in the faith of some.
I speak of it not as a mere point of doctrine, but as a
point that concerns their spiritual and practical ad-
vancement, their vital comfort and joy. They believe
it expedient for them, that the Holt Spirit should
come unto them, and dwell in theib, but there they
rest, and, as it were, lose Christ. They have as
indefinite an apprehension and view of God the
Spirit, as of God the Father, out of Christ. He
applies Christ, brings Christ into the soul. Of
Him, Christ is made unto us wisdom, and righteous-
ness, and sanctification, and redemption. They that
are temples of the Holt Spirit, are also members of
that body of which Christ is the head, branches of
that vine, which is Christ, living stones of that
buildmg of which Christ is the foundation and chief
comer-stone. Christ indeed is in us, or we are re-

TUS EXCORDt or

probates. Christ is the Alpha and Omega; the
Author and Finisher of our faith. O Lobd ! giye us
grace to receive the truth in the love of the truth —
in no other way.

^< Suffer the little children to come unto me." O
yes, it is my firm belief, if little children were brought
to Him early, if prayed over, watched over, mstructed
by degrees, as they are able to bear it, before the
seeds of sin in the heart have sprouted and blossomed,
and the fruit has been formed in the plant ; if sin was
pointed out to the child in its proper character, as a
noxious weed to be rooted up and cast away ; if the
rising and perplexing visions of this world were thrust
afar on this side, and on that ; and the Saviour was
shown in His real form and character, as altogether
lovely ; then, I cannot help believing, that our chil-
dren would grow up as olive branches, and be fair
and graceful (with Christian graces) as the polished
comers of the temple. -

Why is the gate straight ? Why is the path nar-
row 7 It is not that the fault, the unpleasantness lies
m the gate, or in the way. By the holy, humble,
upright man the straightness, the narrowness are not
noticed; but we are so cumbered with vanities, so
puffed up with self and with sin, that there is no room
for us to enter fiiU swing. Goo does not ask me to
repent in my strength, to find out a way of escape by

A GOOD man's life. 269

my own wisdom. " Without me you can do nothing,"
is His positive assurance. '' I can do all things through
Christ that strengtheneth me," was the experience
of Paul, who had proved and tried the experience of
that weakness without Christ.

Lord ! I do not say, draw mine enemies to love
me — ^let there be no presumption, no self-seeking in
any of my prayers ; but draw them to love Thee,
firsts above all^ and then they will not fail to feel
kindness and love to all their brethren, and to me
amongst them.

Lord ! I feel that it is of thy free grace, not on
account of any desert of mine, that I am brought to
Thee ; that I now lie at the foot of Thy cross in
tears. I know not if this be what men call Calvin-
ism, but I know that it is the experience of my heart,
and I find that experience borne out by the Holy
Scriptures. I know this also, I feel it, that if Thou
shouldst leave me for a moment, I must fall away
firom Thee. I cannot first be raised to stand with-
out Thee. Is there presumption in saying, that I
feel this, when I feel also that I cannot continue
standing without Thine arms are around me and sup-
porting me? Man, since the fall, is like a statue
thrown from its base, the balance of which has been
destroyed. He must lie in the dust till One (a mighty
One) raise him. He cannot stand, (his balance be-

370 Tus AXcoaiHi or

ing lost,) unless One (a never-forsaking One, One,
never quitting his hold) uphold and support him up-
right.

Jesus Christ came to seek and to save, to seek^
as well as to save. This I simply believe, that God
first called me, or I should not have sought Him:
that He keeps me faithful to Him, or I should yet
forsake Him.

We do not look upon temptation as we ought ;
it b not a sign and proof that God is displeased with
us, and would forsake us; but that God loves us,
and would suffer us to be tried, that we may know
more clearly the insufficiency of our own strength,
the msecurity of our strong holds, and more clearly,
also, the source of all power and might ; He would
weary us with temptation, to lead us to drink, like
one exhausted, at the crystal fountain-head of living
water. He would cut away every human support,
that the soul may cling for life to Him.

I do not wish to puzzle myself or others with my
opinions of predestination and election. I have been
a sinner from my earliest mfancy : (who has not ?) —
there is no health in me. ' My heart has been opened
to religious impressions. Christ is my only hope
of salvation. I pray without ceasing, for an interest
in His atonement — ^for a renewed nature, by the m-
dwellmg grace of the Holt Spirit, that I may walk

A eOOD MAS'U LIFE. 271

religiously in good works, through a union with
Christ : thus, as a branch in the vine, the believer
lives, and grows, and bears fruit. In this faith, this
life, this gradual sanctification, I find my happiness.
Now to whom do I owe this change in my views,
my heart, my action, my own very self? — to myself?
—Oh no, — ^not to myself, to no power of man.
What says the Scripture ? let it answer, — " Without
me (Christ) ye can do nothing." The change,
then, is God's effecting ; and if God worked it, was
it at my seeking ? Let me look back ! no, — His
warnings, promises, and encouragements, (insensibly,
if you will, though I could almost say sensibly^ fell
so powerfully upon me, that I am sure He might say
of me, "I was found of one who sought me not."
And not only while yet a sinner, Christ died for
me, but while yet careless, Christ revealed this to
my heart so impressively, that His love constrained
me to love him. Thus, I cannot dare to glory in
myself, or my happy, though too imperfect, change,
— ^the praise, the glory, is His, — and His let it be ; the
exceeding happiness and privilege is mine. Nay,
were the glory mine, I could not be so happy ; for
the sweet spring of gratitude to Him, who came to
seek and save me, would then be sealed. Are these
doctrines dangerous ? I would say with the holy
Bradford, ^' There is no reprobation but in sin.
There is no election but in Christ. Sanctification
is the seal of election."

37S THE BBCORD8 OF

Give me grace. Blessed, Enlightening, and Assist-
ing God 1 to live in one way out of the world, to
have part of myself ever in Thy presence, ever in
such communication with Thee, that I may live to
Thee, and with Thee, as if every worldly^ business
or amusement was an interruption to me ; an intemip*
tion cheerfiilly and sweetly borne with, and scarcely
perceived to be so by those around me ; but felt by
myself, and seen to be such by Thee. I, as tliy
mmister, must minister or wait upon Thee with more
readiness than any priest in a Heathen temple. Let
me be ever ready to attend to others, to those in the
world, but ever as if listening for a call to my service,
to the immediate presence.

May I come before thee, daily, as a pilgrim !
Lord ! for such I am, who, every mommg before he
girds himself up for his journey through the wilder-
ness, turns aside into some little, quiet valley, and
there thinks of his father's house to which he jour-
neys, there strengthens his resolutions agamst ev&rj
false and detaining pleasure on the way, by bringing
full before his view the joys, the blessings that await
him ; there opens his heart to the full tide of pure
and sacred affections towards his dear, dear home.

Thou that wakenest morning by mommg, waken
mme ear to hear as one learned in thy testimonies.

Oh ! for an IthuriePs spear, that I might touch

A GOOD BfAN's LIFE. 273

with it all my best and holiest virtues, and motives,
and endeavors, and see them, not as I do too often
with self-approval, not as they seem to me, but as
they are, that in every one the thought, the mixed
up, polluting, thought of sin might start forth and
shame me, and humble me before Him, who is alto-
gether lovely, pure, and holy. Blessed be God !
that weapon is mine ; the sword of the Spirit can
match with an Ithuriel's spear, piercing even to the
dividing asunder of the joints and the marrow, and
showing the exceeding sinfulness of sin ; and, blessed
be God ! He not only discovers the presence of sin ;
but, taking another form, He descends like a dove
into the heart, to bring purity and peace from the
sanctuary, where He dwells in glory.

When I have given license, or hearing, to an
evil thought or feeling, then would the tempter clothe
himself as an honest scruple, and say, '^ You must
not seek God ;- you cannot be easy in His presence '
after yielding to sin." It is true — and there' is no
grief or heaviness of heart like that felt after having
yielded even to the power of sin : but I would guard
against weak scruples, indeed, against any thing, as
seen and coming from the great author of sin, that
might keep me from my Father's presence and the
foot of my Saviour's cross. I would seek Thee,
Lord! even then, with my forehead in the dust,
with my heart broken by my own ingratitude and
Thy melting ccKnpassion ! O Thou friend of smners !

12»

374 . THB EECOaOB OF

The great misery of sin is, that it is the only tiling
that can keep me fix>m seeking communion with my
God* But, no— no, it must not do so— it must cast
me at His feet ; or rather. I must implore my Saviour
to empty me of self, and lay me there.

The man who deems sorrow for past sin, without
a newness of life following, to be repentance, is like
one who takes medicine for a disease without caring
to be restored to new health by it.

There may be a cloud witliout a rambow, but
but there cannot be a rainbow without a cloud.

Though deeply impressed with the awilil respon-
sibility of the holy office of a minister of Christ
fix>m the hour that I entered upon it, I had been-
many years in holy orders before I was enabled to
discover, what no clergyman can learn too early, that
the only way to bring my flock to Christian morality,
was to preach Christ in the simplest, plamest, most
scriptural manner.

The reason for this appears to me, not because
we may think it the wisest or best way ; but because
it is the way that God blesses ; for it b also the way
that God has appointed. And the most simple, and
what the world may deem the most foolish way, must
be better than what man may look upon as the wisest,

A GOOD man's life. ' 275

if unattended by God's blessing. Indeed tbe great
proof of the wisdom of this simple way is, the success
that invariably bears witness to tbe blessing. It is
Cecil's fine remark, that " Christ is God's Grand
Ordinance."

Corrupt Nature.

I need no stronger proof of the corruption of my
nature than the consideration of the privileges that I
have despised, that I am still neglecting. I may
hold communion with the Lord of life and death, and
am often utterly unconcerned to do so. I may be
saved from sin here, and hell hereafter, through the
death of God's dear Son ! and I hesitate ! — ^Where is
the hindrance to all that is best and most blessed for
me ? — where ? — ^in myself.

Every grace of the Christian character, every
right and holy temper, is supernatural, and must be
sought by humble prayer. I must not look to my
natural self, for one inherent virtue or one good dis-
position. I must pray to Him " from whom all holy
desires, all good counsels, and all just works do pro-
ceed." I would forgive an unkind, unjust person, and
be at peace in myself under a continuance of evident
unkindness and dislike. I wish to do so. I think I
do so ; but some little soreness, some disposition to
resent, or at least to show I despise such conduct,
rankles in my heart and disquiets me. I bring that
person before my God in prayer, beg for blessings and

t70 TBS RBCORDB OF

naeieies on that person. While I kneel, my disqui-
etude passes away, I can forgive irom my heart, and
bear the coDtinued annoyance cheerfully and kindly,
without the little pitiable feeling of resentment.

A Prayer.

Blessed Lobd, I know, I confess, that my heart
consents to sin. If it were not so, I should not need
thy help.

But while I own my love to sin, I pray from my
heart that Thou wilt deliver me from the slightest pre-
ference to it.

While I own that I love it, I pray for pardon, for
the cleansing blood of Christ my Saviour, for the
pure, strong, forcefiil sword of the Spirit to strike,
cut sharply and clearly off, the sin that besets and
would ruin me.

If I perish let it not be in yielding, but in strug-
gling. If I am dragged down, away from Thee, let
it be with prayer, and strong agonies of prayer, pour-
ing from my lips.

But no ! Thou art too gracious. Thou lovest
those who seek to be sincere. Thou despisest not
the broken and contrite spirit. And there is One for
whose sake Thou will make me who am in myself a
poor sinner, a rich and joyful heir of the inheritance
of Thy saints in light. May He be indeed made
" of God," to me and not to me alone, " wisdom,
and righteousness, and sanctification, and redemp-
tion."

A QOOD man's lifb. 377

You say that it b bard you should suffer for Ad-
am's sin ; now in one sense, as far as the condemna-
tion of God is concerned, Adam and Eve, the then
actual sinners, were the only sufferers ; and only for
a few moments condemnation hung over them, for
'twas only while God was pronouncing their sentence
that they could sink utterly hopeless under their con-
demnation; the next words that flowed from ths
Almighty's lips, were curses on their worst enemy,
and a prophecy, which, coming as it did fix)m God's
mouth, was also a promise : (** The seed of the wo-
man shall bruise the serpent's head.") Thus it was
plainly declared that the condemnation is, in one
sense, taken away, even before any of that seed is
bom into the world — taken from any who will seek
salvation in God's way. Thus the only hindrance
to our seeking salvation, is not m God's curse and
condemnation, but in the corruption of man's nature,
the corruption of which was not according to God's
will, but owing to man's wilfulness. Therefore, the
origin of evil to man and in man, was not from God's^
design, but irom man's thwarting the will of God.
Of course, God being omniscient, foreknew what
would happen, that man would sin ; and in case of
that sin, He declared that he was at once ready to
secure his salvation by a holier way, through humility,
and repentance, and faith. No sooner was one way
of happiness closed by man, than God opened an-
other, wiser and better and happier.

278 THB RBC0R08 OF

Lord, I thank Thee, not that I am better, holier,
than others. Alas ! alas ! Thou knowest all my
heart, and J, (from what I knoWy which is more thaa
any of my fellows know of this heart of mine,) I can
only smite upon my breast and confess, that I am less
than the least of Thy saints, less than the least of
Thy mercies, a worm and no man, that of myself
am not worthy to be called Thy son ! I may well
say with the apostle, "I am the chief of sinners ;"
for of others I know the outward character ; of my-
self I know my heart ; I know its corruption, its wil-
fulness, its heedlessness to light and teachmg, to op-
portunities and warnings, its ever-occurring and ag-
gravated offences under the pure eye of the heart-
searching God : but I thank Thee that I am happier
than so many, happier in the enjoyment of high at-
tachments and holy communings. I see so many
whose smiles spring only bom worldly amusement, at
least, in whose eye the dancing beam of joy is not
lighted from the brightness of Heaven. . They are
contented, pleased, delighted with the world, and the
things of the world ; and, perhaps, deem my hours
lonely and cheerless. Lord, I thank Thee that the
light that gladdens me is from above. ^ Lord, I thank
Thee that the fountams from which I draw are of
living water springing up into everlasting life.

The ark saved eight persons when the myriads of
a vast world were overwhelmed by the flood ; but
did the ark save Ham ?

A GOOD man's life. 279

Men will say, of what use is all this moral ma-
chinery in the mind, and in the heart, (for simple as
the Christian system is, those who know nothing
about its doctrines, will often look upon them as per-
plexing ;) of what use is all this, if we cai^ attain the
same ends without it. Let it be seen, then, that when
you insist on clear views of Christian doctrine, 'tis
only that Christian practice may be made tlie more
holy and excellent.

I have no power of myself against a sinful nature,
but the whole tenor of Scripture is to make me aware
of that sinful nature, and my own want of power, that
I may feel the positive, absolute need of seeking that
power which can assist me, which is freely ofiered,
and which would fain press Itself upon my accept-
ance.

Preaching.

The minister of Christ will do little by preach-
mg, to change the hearts of hb flock under God's
blessing, till he has learned to preach to himself at the
same time. He will not feel the need in others, of
the things he reconmiends, till he has first learned hb
own need. Blessed, blessed be my God ! that now
I do not, as in old times, give advice, or admonition
to others, and there stop. He has taught me in some
secret, convincing way, which I perceived not till I
found the habit wake into consciousness within me,
not to stop, but having warned others, to go on with

5180 TBI RECORDS OP

the admonition, and apply it to mjrself, to take it home
afterwards, as it were, to my own heart, and say, << My
heart! how does this suit thee? Mine eye ! b there
no beam to be removed in thee, as well as the little
mote in my brother's eye ?'' This habit, I am con-
vinced, can alone make a really effective, affectionate
preacher, for without it, he scarcely will be humbled,
and then he will be preaching with the passion and
temper of a proud man, one, at least, raised above his
hearers, by some feeling of superiority, or tempted to
feel so ; in the other case he will speak as one equally
sinfiil, as one weak in himself, as one who fears lest,
after all his preaching, he himself should be a cast-
away.

Mr. Singleton and I were sittbg one afternoon in
the summer-house at the end of the broad walk in the
rectory garden. The morning had been rainy, and the
sun came out from time to time, between heavy and
and fast-falling showers, making a day of true April
weather. The summer-house was at such times a
delightful retreat. I found the rector with his writing-
table and his books before him ; but as he smiled, and
held out his hand to me, he said, " I came here to de-
vote a few hours to quiet study, and I find that, in
spite of myself, I have been cheated into idleness by
the day-dreams of this lovely spring-tide. Like your
favorite poet, Coleridge, I may say^

' In this bower haye I not mark'd
Mtfek that haa lootk'd me— pale, beaaath tka blace.

A GOOD man'8 life. 281 .

Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd

Some broad and sunny leaf, and look'd to see

The shadow of the leaf and stem above,

Dappling its sunshine ! and that walnut-tree

Was riclily tinged, 4yd a deep radiance lay

Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps

Those fronting elms, and now with blackest mass

Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue

Through the late twilight : and though now the bat

Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters.

Yet still the solitary humble-bee

Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know

That nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure :

No plot so narrow, be but nature there.

No waste so vacant, but may well employ

Each faculty of sense, and keep the breast

Awake to love and beauty. ' "

There was something inexpressibly delightful in
the way that he repeated poetry or Scripture ; the ear
hung upon the last words as if music had ceased to
sound. The charm lay chiefly in his plain, clear ar-
ticulation, and in the absence of all effort to give
effect by laying a stress on particular words.

" By the way," he continued, " those Imes do not
exactly suit the hour of the day, at present, but the
spirit of them was very applicable to the mood in
which I have been indulging. Sit down at once, my
friend," he said, " or you will scare away the night-
ingales that have been singing to me. Talk as loud
as you will, they will remain, but moving about sends
them away at once : they have been fluttering among
the lower branches of those elms, almost as bold in
their approaches as the robins are m winter. Two of
them have been sbging at the same time, with such a

989 THE RBCORD8 OT

wild, rich, varied flow of song, that they brought be-
fore me Crawshaw's inimitable description of the con-
test between the nightingale and the lute-player. Then
this hedge of sweetbriar, now the wind blows over it,
and brings such fitful tides of refreshing fragrance, sent
me away to Chaucer's romance of the ' Flower and
the Leaf,' to the ^ Grasse so fresh of hew,' under the
* okes lade with leves new,' and to the pleasant ^ ar-
bor closed in with sicamour and eglantier,' and to the
exqubite lines, describing the rare scene of the eglan-
tier or sweetbriar. —

' And I that all this pleaaaunt sight see.
Thought sodainly I felt so sweet an aire
Of the eglantier, that certainely
There is no herte I deme in sach diq)aire,
Ne with thoughts froward and contraire.
So ouer laid, but it should soon haue bote
If it had ones felt this sauour sote/ "

" I have been studying the composition of a pic-
ture to be continued, or rather, settling within myself
that a fine painter is almost always the most faithful
copyist of nature. Just look at the picture," he con-
tinued, '^ set in the frame of that open window. How
few are the objects and the colors ! The stem of a
large oak standing out from the mass of soft, shadowy
foliage behind, the lower portion of it grown over by
the greenest moss, as close and glossy as rich velvet ;
a few long, slender shoots of ivy, dark, but delicately
veined, clinging and winding gracefully over the ash-
colored and rugged bark. Then the low-drooping

A GOOD man's life. 283

boughs of the old cedars, hanging like a pall before a
fairy bower : for the oak foliage and the light hazel
copse, and the grassy banks beyond, have made the
little nook like a bower. The very light is like the
glow of emeralds, except when the sunbeams shoot
like a star of gold through the leaves. And to com-
plete the picture, in that upper comer tl»ere is a patch
of the intense blue sky, bordered by a cloud, like
heaped-up fleecy snow. — ^But who have we here ?"
he said, interrupting himself. A beggar made his ap-
pearance from amongst the trees.

The man was evidently half-naked, and part of
the slight clothing he had oji was thrown aside,
that he might exhibit the most frightful sores. He
seemed to have a sort of gratification in making such
an exposure, notwithstanding our entreaties that he
would not, and the disgust expressed in our counte-
nances.

" This might be applied as a seasonable reproof
to some professors of the present day," said Mr. Sm-
gleton, when the man was gone. " It is a subject of
great rejoicing, nay, of daily thanksgiving with me,
that there should have been of late years such a re-
vival of the pure evangelical religion of Jesus Christ
throughout the kingdom. It passes, however, with
many, for a proof of genuine religion, if a person is
ready to make, what I might also call rather a pro-
fesaion, than a confession of great sinfulness. There
can be no vital religion, I allow, in that heart where
there is not also a deep consciousness of inbred and
indwelling sin; but that consciousness of which I

9B4 VflB RBCOED8 OF

speak, never serves the convicted sinner to make a
display with : he goes quietly with it, he retires into
himself, and his chief confession b made when alone
with his Saviour and his God. Such a profession of
sm resembles the uncovering the loathsome sores of
that filthy beggar, who did not seem so anxious for
the removal of his disease, as to attract our attention,
and so make the most of his veiy loathsomeness.''

If our flock would but come to our preachmg, as
they come for food, in order that they might grow
thereby, how different would preachmg be even to us,
preachers ! What life and liberty we should find !
And to them, even the poorest fare we could set be-
fore them, would be like angels' meat.

We have a man in Heaven at the right hand of
the Father, to plead for us.

We have a God, who hath come down to earth to
pour out His own blood for us.

If any man eat of thb bread, he shall live for ever.
This does not mean that merely once eating it shall
save him, (though were it God's ordinance that once
eating were sufficient, it would be ;) it seems to me
that in this the analogy between the appointed means
of natural and of spiritual liie holds good. It is not
one meal that will keep the body in life and health ;

▲ GOOD man's £irB. 285

were one meal eaten at the beginning of the year, and
only one, the body would soon perish.

Those who live by Chbist must also walk in'
Him ; they must not only be rooted, but built up in
Him : the perfect work must not only be begun, but
continued in them.

What a wretched mistake to imagine that the re-
ligion of the Gospel can drive any person into a state
of insanity.

Among those whom Jesus Christ restored to
health, lunatics are frequently mentioned.

Can he who casts out the spirit and plague of lu-
nacy, ever make his disciples mad ? And yet, too
much religion is dreaded as a sort of insanity. In-
deed, till Jesus has commanded the unclean spirit of
our sinful nature to depart, a man is not found clothed
in the only garment that his spirit needs, i. e. the
righteousness of Cheist, and in his right mmd, sitting
at the feet of Jesus.

Mr. Singleton may be said to have been evidently
much attached to forms : he certainly was ; but how
safely, in what a holy manner, did he use them ! he
never rested in them.

" After all," I have heard him say, " the holy Bible
is to many a mere form of words. If those words are
only words to us, and we rest in them, we shall be
tather the worse than otherwise, for readmg them ;

888 THE RBC0RD8 OT '

but if they lead us to the spiritual things which they
express, they stand forth as the visible shadows of
God's invisible perfections."

Some very unkind remarks had been made in the
presence of Mr. Singleton, about a Roman Catholic.
*^ I must own/' he said to me, '< that I do not agree
with these bitter censurers, who do not seem to un-
derstand very well what they are talking of. A deter-
mined, yet holy defence of the citadel is far before
those outcries about the mere outworks of the reform-
ed, yet ancient faith. And I find too often," he con-
tbued, " that many who are such eager and fiery
opposers of the mere pageantries and idle shows of
popery, are, in fact, papists themselves in the very
heart of the question. They hold very confiised and
unscriptural notions on the grand doctrine of justifi-
cation by faith, if they do not deny the doctrine alto-
gether. It was this that our great reformer, Luther,
stood forth to defend so manfully." He took down
Luther's commentary on the Galatians, and pointed
to the following passage : " This is the sink of all
evil, and the sin of sins, of the whole world, for gross
. sms and vices may be known, and so amended, or
else repressed, by the punishment of the magistrate ;
but this sin, to wit, man's opinion concerning his own
righteousness, will not only be counted no sin, but
also will be esteemed for an high religion and righte-
ousness. This pestilent sin, therefore, is the mighty
power of the devil over the whole world, the very head

-A GOOD man's life. S^7

of the serpent, and the snare whereby the devil en-
tangleth and holdeth all men captive." This is very-
strong language, I allow, but there is much truth in it,
and it applies, alas ! not only to the Church of Rome,
but to many in the Church of England. Thb is the
citadel to be attacked all over the world : it is the
popery of human nature.

" For our God is a consuming fire." Yes ; but
only out of Christ ; and we ought not to know him
but in Christ. How sweetly His anxiety to save ;
His delight in saving ; His invitation to salvation, is set
forth in the very Scripture that is thus summed up.

'Tis pleasant to look down the vista of a long life,
spent in Thy service. Lord ! It fills my heart with
adoring gratitude to mark the providential mercies,
the mercies of grace rising on every side like goodly
towers, and almost at the end, the gate of baptism. I
may say with George Herbert,

Since, Lokd, to Thee
A narrow way and little gate
Is all my passage ; on my infanqr
Thou did'st lay hold, and antedate

My faith in me.

Oh! let me still
Write Thee, great God, and me a child.
Let me be soft and supple to thy will.

Small to myself, to others mild.

288 TUB RECORDS OP

How many love to reduce the Bible to a system 1
I would wish to know nothmg of systems, if they are
to teach me to look upon God as the author of sin, or
as a respecter of persons, or as one whose ways are
unequal, or as a bemg to whom any human creature
is hateful ; oh ! what a perversion of the high mys-
teries of the Christian faith, to make them the subject
of carnal disputation. How impious, when justice
and mercy have been reconciled in the person of
Christ crucified, to preach a system, and call it the
Gospel, in which mercy is assured only to a few, and
offered to that few.

It has at length pleased God to call hence my
beloved and venerable fiiend. Without any illness,
without any apparent pain, he fell asleep.

His daughter waited for his appearance in the
breakfast room one morning, but after waiting some
time in vain, she questioned Martin about her father.
The old man-servant told her that he had taken some
warm water to his master at six o'clock, and had
found him already risen and partly dressed. He had
desired Martin to open the window, saying, that he
wanted air. Lisa went up to her father's study ; he
was dressed and sitting before the open wmdow. He
was unusually pale, and tears were stredming down
his face. " It is not sorrow, my child," he said, " and
yet it b. I have been looking back and considering
all benefits I have received, and the poor use I have
made of them, the poor return I have made* I am

▲ oooB man's life.

90 veiy weak, too, thb morning. I am glad td have
you with me now. This is what I wished" — he spoke
in a v(Mce low and faint as a whisper. << Come close
to me, my blessed child !" She came near to himi
and placing his hands upon her head, he blessed her.
<< And now sit down to the organ," he said, ^^ and
sing to me^-HSMig the morning hymn."

Trembling, but scarcely knowing why she trem-
bled, she obeyed him ; she began to smg, accom-
panyhig herself only with the softest notes of the
organ. Once or twice she heard her father's roiee
joimng with hei^. She beard it distkictly at those
beautiful Words,

'* Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart,
And with the angete bear thy part."

But not once agun did she hear it— the pauses-
there was a dead silence. She turned hear head, h€ir
fingers still on the keys. Her father's head had sunk
upon the side of the high arm*chair. Ste did not see
his face, but he seemed like one asleep. She beard
a faint sigh. Soon after the bell of the study rung
violently ; Martin hastened up. He found his young
mistress, he said, upon her knees, chafing the cold
white hands of her father, and lookiilg like one be-
wildered. His mastet was quite dead; and though
bis aged cheeks were wet with tears, smiles and sweet-
ness Were spread over the eyelids and Ifps, and tbi
whole countenance.

13

3M THE RBCORDS OF

I had ohea observed the quiet, and at times lat-
tertyy the abstracted manner of Mr. Singleton* With-
out showing any thbg like a severe, melancholy spirit,
his thoughts seemed to flow calmly in their own pure
channel, and never to mingle in the stream of vain or
fix>Ush conversation. If ever a man was prepared for
a sudden call to eternity, I should have said he was.
He had learnt to die daily unto sin.

At the fiineral of my holy JGriend and master in
Chbist, I could not help remarking what he had
often pointed out in other funerals. I saw the corpse
brought in at the door, passing the font at the entrance,
carried up to the marriage altar, and there turned and
brought back to the centre of the church, where the
noble service for the burial of the dead was read over
it; at last, committed to the dust whence it was
taken. And I thought of his holy and consistent course
from his birth to the grave ; entering the church by
baptism, and going through all its holy ordinances,
even till the last affecting, closing service, which an-
nounces that the dead which die in the Lobd are
blessed, and depart in sure and certain hope of the
resurrection to eternal life.

His was a sudden death, but it had not that aw-
ful character about it that the sudden deaths of many
individuals have. The news did not strike the hear-
er dumb with horror, while the conviction arose in his
inmost heart : It is thus a long-provoked and long-
suffering God at last cuts short the day of life and
grace together. The effect produced was not — ^^ Ah !
let me bethink myself, for vengeance may thus svid-*

A GOOD man's LIFE. 291

denly overtake me at an hour I know not of.'* No ;
those who stood around the' revered body of that low-
ly-minded and excellent man, who gazed upon that
countenance, calmed into the rigid composure of death,
so soon after they had beheld it beaming with light
and love in the midst of the great congregation — ^those
persons felt within themselves, "it is thus that God is
sometimes pleased to show to an ungodly world what
the nature and character of true religion is,"

The image presented to the mind when I heard
of his sudden dpath, was that of the faithful servant
found watching at the most unexpected time ; that of
the wise virgin hearing the cry at midnight : " Be-
hold, the bridegroom cometh ! go ye out to meet
him ;" and rising up at once, and trimming her lamp,
and so going forth to meet the bridegroom with a
bright and steady flame.

He walked by faith, and not by sight ; he walk-
ed with God, and was not, for God took him. " Let
me die the death of the righteous, and let my latter
end be like his." I saw in him the reality of the
Christian faith.

Among the very last of his papers, written in a
hand as clear and firm as ever, but dated only a day
or two before his departure, was the following : —

" * And now, remembering the vows and promises
of thy baptism, I exhort you, in the name of God, to
remember the profession which you made unto God
in your baptism.'*

* See Service for the Visitation of the Sick, in the Church of
England Liturgy.

998 TBS EKC0BD8 OF A GOOO MAN's LIFE.

** Answer me this, D my soul I or rather answer
to the great Ifigh Priest and ^epherd of that flock of
which thou art, after all, an erring and straying sheep !
What can I answer ? Lobd, I have erred and stray-
ed from Thy way like a lost sheep. I am unwcnrthy
to be called Thy son."

On this paper the little form of dedication to God,
renewed so regularly by him since the day he receiv-
ed it from his dying father, is copied out ; and it is
signed with his name ; the date is also affixed, and
immediately beneath is written : — " God^ be mercifiil
to me a sinner." I bless God, with the holy Rich-
ard Baxter, that ^^ such a form of words was left by
Chbist himself for the use and comfort of poor sin-

L^ENVOY.

And now, neither as Mr. Singleton, nor as his
friend, the editor of these records of his life, do I come
forward ; but in my own character a» the author of
the whole, — and I might as well say, that my object
has been, even by so slight a work, to rouse the pro-
fessing members of our blessed and beautiful Church
of England, to the consideration at least of the mean-
ing of the profession made by them, as members of
that Church.

The inimitable Pascal has said, " II y a plaisir
d'estre dans un vaisseau battu de I'orage lorsqu'on est
assure qu'il ne p6rira point. Les persecutions qui
travaillent I'Eglise sont de cette nature." This ap-
plies first and foremost to the Holy and Universal
Church of Christ. But without any sectarian spirit,
I would go on to say, that I think the fine image of
Pascal may suit the Church of England also.

I do not write in a spirit of controversy, not even
to assert my preference to the system of my Church,
but to show, if possible, what that system is, when
carried bto practice. How hard it is upon our
Church, that we, her professing members, will not do

13»

994 l'entot.

her the common justice of acting out her holy injunc-
tions. Of what use are works of controversy in her
defence, compared with the silent argument of a life
built up under the holy influence of her spiritual dis-
cipline, and her sound and simple ordinances. Let
Dissenters at least see us true to our callmg, and let
us not lead them, as we do, to make the common mis-
take of supposing that she is in fault, when her children
are false and treacherous to their common mother.
Among the many fair daughters of the Church of
Christ, there is none breathing a more pure and spirit-
ual mind — ^nonfe bearing herself with a more chaste and
dignified grace of demeanor, than the holy Church of
England, and if she falls, it will not be the attacks of
her avowed enemies that have brought her queen-like
'glories to the dust, but the lalse, false ways of her
avowed admirers and her professed defenders.

And now, what am I to say for having come for-
ward to defend her in a work of fiction ?

I am aware that this volume may be called a
novel, and I wish to say a word or two about novels.
I am ready to join with many Christian moralists in
their disapprobation of novels, for this reason, — many
of the best-written novels, and those abounding in the
bright display and high commendation of virtue,
ought to be objectionable in that which professes to
be the society of Christians, for they are almost cer-
tain to mislead, in a way not the less dangerous, be-
cause it wears all the specious show and coloring of
the firuits of holy principle. They describe persons
and characters^ who become more and more faultless.

l'entot. 295 •

and more and more happy as the history advances,
no one knows why, but because the author chooses
to make them so. They speak of positive and prac-
tical effects, as proceeding fix>m the motive of a mere
wish, or the principle of an idly-formed resolution,
made and kept in the might and constancy of man's
own strength, — or, I should say, they describe effects,
without showing the only spring of such effects.
They dress out a bramble with the rich and cluster-
ing fruit of the vine.

Dr. Chalmers has well said, ^^ So much for the
dream of fancy. Let us compare it with the walk-
ing images of truth. Walk from Dan to Beersheba,
and tell us, if without and beyond the operatTon of
Gospel motives, and Gospel principle, the reality of
life ever furnished you with a picture that is at all
like the elegance and perfection of this fictitious histo-
ry. Go to the finest specimen of such a family : take
your secret stand, and observe them in their more re-
tired and invisible movements. It is not enough to
pay them a ceremonious visit, and observe them in
the put-on manners and holiday dress of general com-
pany ; look at them when all this disguise and finery
are thrown aside. Yes, we have no doubt that you
will perceive some love, some tenderness, some vir-
tue ; but the rough and untutored honesty of truth
compels us to say, that along with all this, there are
at times mingled the bitterness of invective, the
growlings of discontent, the harpings of peevishness
and animosity, and all that train of angry, suspicious,
and discordant feelings, which embitter the heart of

' 396 l'bntot.

man, and make the reality of human life a very sober
afiir indeed, when compared with the high coloring
of romance, and the sentimental extravagance of po-
etry. Now what do we make of all this ? We infer,
that however much we may love perfection, and as-
pire after it, yet there is some want, some disease in
the constitution of man, which prevents his attainment
to it — ^that there is a feebleness of principle about him
— that the energy of his practice does not correspond
to the fair promises of his fancy — and however much
he may delight in an ideal scene of virtue and moral
excellence, there is some lurking malignity in his con-
stitution, which, without the operation of that mighty
power revealed to us in the Gospel, makes it vain to
wish, and hopeless to aspire after."

Thus, I may add, the reader is. misled. He
thinks a wish can make him happy, a resolution
virtuous. He is, perhaps, lull of the lively admira-
tion of virtue and excellence, but his admiration
evaporates with the mere glow of fine feeling. The
effect of this unsoundness in principle, is unsoundness
in practice. He is neither strengUiened, established,
nor settled, in what is right and good, but is (as
almost a sure consequence) inconsistent, and acquires
the reputation of being romantic and visionary, and
perhaps unfit for common life. — Either make the tree
sound and the fiiiit sweet, or the tree corrupt and
its fruit corrupt.

Now let an author show thing3 as they really
are — expose the flimsy character of such surface-
virtue ; let him allude continually to the exbtence of

l'entoy. \ ^ 297

principles. Let him show that there is Mlib pfeptan t^
that can bear the fruit which he describes. It is,
indeed, the luxuriant garlands of the vine alone, that
are hung with the beautiful and gladdening grape.
The temper and habits of the Christian are all from
one plant, and whatever the Father hath not planted
shall be rooted up.

Whatsoever thbgs.are. pure, whatsoever things
are honest, lovely, true, or of good report, all are
from one principle alone. What ! cannot we have
virtue, you say, lauded, and impressed, and recom-
mended, without religious principle always being
brought forward ? Yes, if you choose to give up
your profession of Christianity; but to Christian
readers, in a professed Christian world, surely never
such principles can be acknowledged. Let an author
remember this, and his readers will never be misled ;
and though I am by no means an advocate for the
too common practice of the present day, the very
frequent reading of works of fiction, even those works
which, without doing any moral injury to the heart,
must enervate the powers of the mind, and create a
distaste for deep and more manly reading — ^let an
author remember this, and, though a writer of poetry
or fiction, he may take his place with- humble confi-
dence among the real advocates of sound righteousness,
among the true benefactors of mankind.

Lastly, is there a human being who will say,

when reading any part of this volume, ^^ I have felt

thus !" Let him be assured that I have written, not

. for idle readers, but for him, and such as he, — that

296 l'bnvoy.

my heart claims a fellowship with his. I beseech
him to feel for me as for a dear and intimate friend !
to believe that I can prize deeply his friendship. I
know that many will thmk of me as one anxious to
catch the public eye, and hold the public feeling, as
an author. Let me be known in another character
to some few. A printed book is the only medium
by which we can meet. I shall indeed be blessed,
if a word that I have written may have a serious
impression, or be the means of awakening the
conscience of any man, and leading from sin to
repentance through Christ ; from repentance to holi-
ness through Christ ; from holiness to happiness
through Christ; and so on to eternal life. Nay,
turn away if you will, yet, at least, I will have tfiis
consolation, that my voice has been raised, even if in
vab, to warn my fellow-sinners ; to cry out to them
in the midst of their course. Stop, think, repent —
be holy, be happy. They talk of religious books,
our common-place, worldly people. They do not
approve the sort of thing! Is not this cant? the
cant of a silly and miserably diluted religion ?

Here is, I acknowledge, m appearance, a trifling
volume. It has no trifling end in view. May the
grace and the blessing of God go with it ! or may it
die at once !

THE END.

•i-'

^

r:.-;: