CHRISTMAS.

Fully two years had now elapsed since my return from Fairmount, and during the interval I had been engaged in close and unremitting attention to the care of my flock, and I believe I may say, without undue exultation, that my labours had been blessed. I frequently corresponded with my country friends, and when, in the close of 18—, Mr. Stevens sent me a pressing invitation to spend the Christmas with him, I resolved, after securing a suitable substitute in my absence, to proceed to Watville, along with Mr. Llewellin, who was to accompany me on my visit. We left London by the stage coach on a fine frosty morning, the 23d of December, and as evening was closing in we reached Salisbury, where we were to pass the night, Mr. Llewellin having some business to transact there. Our journey was exceedingly pleasant. After emerging from the smoke and bustle of London, we passed through a beautiful country, attractive even in winter, the aspect of which was all the more delightful to me from my long previous confinement to a city. We travelled the greater part of the way with two young gentlemen, who were going home to spend the vacation. They were brothers, of nearly equal age—the one destined for the profession of the law, the other for the church. The elder boy was sprightly, the younger somewhat grave; both were very agreeable and intelligent. With the happy buoyancy of youth ere its day-dreams are dispelled by the sad experience of maturer years, the present was to them a joyous reality, only to be exceeded by the realization of the bright visions of the future. Their conversation was the complete overflow of youthful spirits, rejoicing in the release from school discipline, and the prospect of again meeting their friends, and returning for a time to all their country recreations. They also alluded to their prospects in life—of their success, in which no desponding thought had as yet ever crossed their minds; but, though thus sanguine in their anticipations, they possessed too much good sense to suppose that distinction could be attained without industry, or honour acquired without desert.

"I suppose, young gentlemen," said Mr. Llewellin, "you intend to devote your holidays to amusement."

"Not entirely," said the young lawyer; "I intend to read history at least two hours every morning;" "and I intend," said the young divine, "to con over the classics as long, and then, Sir, to amuse myself."

"I am happy to hear," added Mr. Llewellin, "that you have come to such a decision; while your recreations unbend your minds from the severity of close application, the adoption of such a habit will keep them in trim for future service."

"Very true," replied the lawyer; "if we wish to rise to eminence, we must redeem time, rather than suffer it to be wasted in indolence and inactivity."

The young clergyman, who was looking out of the window, suddenly exclaimed, "Here's old William standing at the gate with our horses, and yonder is papa coming on Smiler across the close."

The coach stopped, and out stepped our interesting companions, who, after bidding us adieu, left us to pursue our journey alone. We soon lost sight of them, but, in the space of a few minutes, a turn in the road revealed them again to our view; their father, alighting from his horse, joyfully embraced his children, after which they all mounted their steeds, and we watched them galloping off towards a beautiful country-seat, which we had been admiring before our young friends left us, but then had no idea that it was their destination.

The stage now drove on, and about five o'clock we were rattling through the streets of Salisbury, where, after refreshing ourselves at our inn, Mr. Llewellin sallied forth to transact the business matter which had led us to take this route, and I ensconced myself comfortably by the side of a blazing fire, where I commenced reading Cheever's Wanderings of a Pilgrim, then just published. The charms of the narrative entranced me, and I gradually lost myself, crossing the pass of the Grand St. Bernard to the charming Val d'Aoste, or sailing on the romantic Lake of Luzern. Mr. Llewellin was detained for several hours; I accordingly had time to traverse a considerable part of Switzerland in company with my pilgrim. He at length appeared, and we shortly afterwards retired to rest. On getting up in the morning I proposed a walk to the cathedral, as we had some time to spare before the coach started. On reaching it (the hour for morning service not having yet arrived) we found the attendants busy decking the cathedral with evergreens for the ensuing day. Though both Mr. Llewellin and myself were decided Dissenters, we could nevertheless well appreciate the majesty of the noble structure in which we were now standing, and feel even something of a religious awe as we gazed down the long aisles, and listened to the echo of our footsteps as they reverberated through the building.

"After all," observed Mr. Llewellin, "the simplest form of worship appears to me the most to be commended, where the mind runs no danger of mistaking the mere excitement of the imagination for a burst of devotional feeling."

"Certainly," I returned; "and I quite agree with Cheever's remark in his Wanderings, which I was reading last night, that it is generally the period of greatest spiritual declension where we find ecclesiastical architecture most magnificent. But hark!"

The organist had, unseen by us, ascended to the loft to practise; and at this moment pealed forth a majestic voluntary, which sublimely rolled away to the extremity of the building, and then returned in a softer strain through the re-echoing aisles. Another and another succeeded. We both stood for some moments rooted to the spot, surrendering ourselves to the overpowering influence of the sacred strain. The music ceased for a few moments, and, recovering myself, I exclaimed, "Let us haste from this bewitching influence, which I am afraid savours but too much of mere earthly excitement." "I think so too," rejoined Mr. Llewellin; "and, nevertheless, I can well understand the lines of the poet Gray:—

As our time was then nearly expired, we returned to our inn, and shortly afterwards started again in the coach; and after a journey of some hours, reached Watville, where we found Mr. Stevens' carriage waiting to convey us to Fairmount. It is needless to say how warmly we were welcomed by our friends, whom we had the pleasure of finding in excellent health. Soon after the first greetings were over, and we had arranged our toilet and made ourselves comfortable, Mrs. Stevens, with a peculiar smile on her countenance, which told tales, said to Mr. Llewellin, "Mr. and Miss Roscoe are engaged to spend the evening with us; no doubt this will be a gratification to you." This communication at once raised his spirits, which had been gradually sinking as we approached the end of our journey. I was no longer at a loss to account for the sighs which had occasionally made their escape from his breast during the short intervals of silence that took place in the course of conversation. His countenance now brightened up, and he seemed to be animated by a more than usual flow of spirits.

A storm of snow began now to descend as we gathered snugly around the cheerful fire, and for a time enjoyed ourselves in familiar converse by its uncertain light. Candles had been brought, and Mrs. Stevens was busying herself with the tea arrangements, when the bell rang, and Mr. Roscoe was ushered into the parlour; but he came alone. "I am sorry to inform you, Madam, that Sophia will not be able to be with you this evening, as she has caught a cold."

"I hope, Sir," said Mr. Llewellin, with a certain awkwardness of manner of which gentlemen are sometimes guilty when they feel too much to express, "that she is not materially affected by it."

"O no, Sir, it is only a slight cold, and she is unwilling to expose herself to the night-air, lest she should be incapable of going to church in the morning."

After tea our conversation turned upon the festivals of the church, and the propriety of observing those days which are set apart for the celebration of the great events which stand connected with the redemption of man. "I was once," said Mr. Roscoe, "superstitiously attached to these days, and regarded them with more reverence than I did the Sabbath; but I have now corrected the error into which I had fallen, and though I still reverence them more than the common days of the year, I do not look upon them as equal to the Sabbath in obligation or sanctity."

"Some Dissenters," said Mrs. Stevens, "who wish to get as far away from the church as they can, reprobate this observance as savouring of Popery. Is it not so, Mr. Llewellin?"

"Yes, aunt, they do; and in doing so, they go from one extreme to the other. Their aversion to superstition is so strong, that they cannot observe these commemorative days of Christianity with feelings of reverence and delight, because the zealous patrons of the church invest many of them with more sanctity than they attribute to the Sabbath. As time is the regular and unbroken succession of minutes, hours, days, months, and years, one portion of it cannot be more sacred than another, unless it derives a sanctity from the command of God; and since he has enjoined the observance of the Sabbath only, as that portion of time which we are to hold sacred, we feel ourselves under no obligation to keep the holidays which are set apart by mere human authority."

"But, Sir," interposed Mr. Roscoe, "though we do not exalt the holidays of our church to equal sanctity with the Christian Sabbath, yet as the recurrence of the anniversaries of great events in the history of man is known to impart to past transactions a degree of interest which is not so powerfully felt at other times, is there not a propriety in observing these commemorative days, if we are anxious to derive from past events the powerful lessons which they ought to teach?"

"Most certainly," returned Mr. Llewellin. "I do not object to these commemorative days, though some of my brethren do, but gladly avail myself of them, as a means of recalling to remembrance the great facts which stand inseparably connected with my redemption. I can go with you to church on a Christmas morning, to celebrate the birth of my Saviour—on a Good Friday, to commemorate his death—and on an Easter Sunday, to rejoice in his resurrection. And though some may censure this as a dereliction of principle, I do not so view it. It gives me greater pleasure to unite with my fellow-Christians, than to live in a state of alienation from them: and while I would condemn all superstitious attachment to these days, I would reprobate the spirit which treats them with contempt."

"I am happy to find," observed Mrs. Stevens, "that you have not lost your catholic spirit by associating with your brethren in the metropolis; and I hope you have been the means of diffusing its mellowing influence amongst them—softening down their prejudices, and bringing them over to a more friendly intimacy with their fellow-Christians of the Establishment."

"Since you left us," rejoined Mr. Roscoe, "I have examined some of the reasons which induce you to dissent from our Establishment: and though they have not produced the same effect on my mind which they have on yours, yet I think it right to confess, that they have convinced me of the impropriety of censuring you, and of the folly, not to use a stronger term, of allowing a difference of opinion on minor questions of religion to operate as a barrier to Christian fellowship."

"I am really happy to hear you make such a concession; it exactly accords with my own views:" and turning towards Mrs. Stevens, he said, "You seem to think, aunt, that all the bigotry of religion is on our side."

"Quite enough of it," she replied.

"Too much, I grant; but with all due deference, I think that you of the Establishment have the greatest share amongst yourselves."

"Bigotry amongst us! A libel! a libel!" Mrs. Stevens returned, with an expression of feigned indignation.

"I suppose, aunt, you are become a believer in the modern doctrine of libel; which teaches us, that the greater the truth, the greater the libel."

"Well, well, we won't contest this point; but rather regret that there should be still found amongst any of us a vestige of that anti-Christian spirit, which keeps asunder those who are united in the bonds of the everlasting covenant, and who look forward to dwell together in that heavenly world, where no discordant notes will ever break the harmony of holy fellowship."

"It is when we view religion," remarked Mr. Roscoe, "as connected with this world—as coming in contact with our prejudices, and our passions—as trespassing upon the sanctity of our opinions, and threatening to disturb them, that we imperceptibly imbibe an anti-Christian feeling towards those who differ from us: but when we view it as connected with eternity—as involving the glory of God in the transformation of the human character; and when we distinctly recognize the action of his power, in setting apart a peculiar people to display before the men of the world a palpable evidence of the unity of our essential faith, our mind becomes imperceptibly imbued with the spirit of the Redeemer, who loves no disciple more because he is a Churchman, and no disciple less because he is a Dissenter—having given his life a ransom for all who trust in him for salvation."

The conversation was here interrupted by the sweet voices of children singing a Christmas carol in front of the house. We listened for some minutes, when Mrs. Stevens proposed that the choir should be invited into the hall, where they would be sheltered from the snow which was drifting against them. I immediately opened the door, which threw them into some confusion, and they were on the eve of scampering away. I requested them to come in; and taking hold of the hand of the youngest girl, I brought her into the hall, when, after some backwardness and hesitation, the rest cheerfully followed her. Mrs. Stevens welcomed them, and was pleased to recognize in the young singers some of her own Sunday scholars, who, in spite of snow and drift, had carried out this plan of showing their attachment to her. Their bonnets and cloaks were taken off; and after they had had some refreshment and warmed themselves by the fire, Mr. Llewellin consented to play on the piano, and we all joined the youthful choristers in singing the praises of the Redeemer. Thus pleasantly passed away the hours of the evening, without entailing guilt or self-reproach; and having rewarded those who came to afford us gratification, we allowed them to depart, happy and contented.

On the following morning we rose at the usual hour, and after the devotions of the family were concluded we took breakfast. The ground was carpeted with the snow which had fallen last night, but the weather was clear and dry above, and we contrived to reach church without much inconvenience. On entering the sacred building, in which I had on past occasions listened with delight to the glad tidings of salvation, and where many who were then assembled had received the first impressions of truth on their hearts, my eye caught sight of the venerable Rector, who had just raised his face from its concealment under the folds of his surplice, having invoked in silent prayer the Divine blessing on himself and his congregation. The time that had elapsed since I had previously met with him had not passed lightly over his head, for he now bore evident marks of increasing age and infirmity. When the audience stood up, as he began the service, I thought of the venerable patriarch who, when addressing the tribes of Israel just before his departure, said—"I am an hundred and twenty years old this day; I can no more go out and come in." Though his hand shook, and his general appearance indicated great bodily weakness, yet his voice was strong, and he read the whole service with great impressiveness and solemnity. Having finished it he threw off the surplice, and ascended the pulpit; and looking around with a benignant smile on his crowded auditory, he once more knelt to pray to Him who rewards with the open manifestations of his grace the prayers of his faithful servants. He chose the following text:—"For Christ is not entered into the holy places made with hands, which are the figures of the true; but into heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God for us: nor yet that he should offer himself often, as the high-priest entereth into the holy place every year with blood of others; for then must he often have suffered since the foundation of the world: but now once, in the end of the world, hath he appeared, to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself" (Heb. ix. 24-26). After a few introductory observations, he said, "Allow me to call your attention to—

"I. The Saviour's appearance on earth. Mark,

"First. The time of his coming. It was in the end of the world; that is, at the conclusion of the Levitical dispensation.

"Second. The design of his appearance—to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself.

"Third. The perfection of the sacrifice which he offered—verses 25, 26.

"The Jewish sacrifices," said the venerable Rector, "removed ceremonial defilement, and the guilt of the sins which were committed against the political and ecclesiastical laws of the theocracy; but they could not expiate the guilt of the sins committed against God, nor restore peace to the conscience of the transgressor: and their perpetual repetition, during the succeeding periods of that dispensation, was an unequivocal proof of their inefficacy. But such was the efficacy of the sacrifice which Jesus Christ presented, when he offered up himself to God, that he made a full expiation for the sins of his people, and procured for them pardon, acceptance, and eternal life. When his enemies stood gazing on him, as the blood was flowing from his veins, they were unconscious of the great moral effects which that precious blood was actually producing. It was throwing back an influence on the ages which were past—cancelling the arrears which were due to the justice of God from the redeemed who had been pressing into the kingdom of heaven from the death of Abel to that hour; and it was extending forward to the end of time a source of merit, which would take away the guilt of all who should believe in him. And yet, my brethren, though the Scriptures declare, in the most decisive terms, that we have redemption through the blood of Christ, even the forgiveness of our sins, many impeach the efficacy of the atonement, and some would expunge it from the Christian system. But if they are disposed to mistrust its efficacy in relation to themselves, why not suffer it to remain for the benefit of others? Take away the atonement of Christ from the scheme of redemption, and you commit an act more cruel towards man than that of which a Levite would have been guilty had he, under cloud of night, carried off the brazen serpent, which was the only means of saving the people from the agonies of a lingering but certain death. Take away the atonement of Christ from the scheme of redemption, and you commit a deed more cruel than that of which the high-priest would have been guilty, had he drained off the waters of Bethesda the night before the descent of the angel, by whose mysterious power they became the means of healing the withered, the halt, and the blind. O, take not from the sanctuary of the Lord the blood of sprinkling that speaketh better things than the blood of Abel: it is the only voice that speaks the words of peace to man, when stung by remorse, or agitated by fear.

"II. The Saviour's appearance in heaven.

"First. Where does he appear? In heaven itself.

"Second. For whom does he appear? For us.

"Third. For what purpose does he appear?

"It hath pleased God," said the preacher, when illustrating this part of his subject, "in the conveyance of blessings to man, to appoint a regular system of agency and means as the medium through which they are given. To object to such an appointment is no less an insult to his authority, than an impeachment of his wisdom. It is but rarely, indeed, that such an act of folly and impiety is committed in relation to the minor gifts which he bestows. Life is preserved, not by a direct and arbitrary exertion of his power, but by the reception of food prepared by the labour and skill of man, and received according to the ordinance of his appointment. Evils which threaten our honour and happiness are averted, not by a visible interposition of his providence, but by the influence and exertions of our friends, who are employed under his direction. If, then, on this general principle the ordinary affairs of his wise and benevolent administration are conducted; and if this principle be admitted by us, and we feel its practical utility, why should we object to the adoption of it in reference to a more important and a more momentous course of procedure? Why refuse to admit that Jesus Christ is the medium through whom all the designs of mercy and grace, in relation to man, are accomplished? If it hath pleased the Father that in him all fulness should dwell, ought we to object to such an arrangement? Is it wise? Is it becoming? Is it safe? But, brethren, I hope better things of you, though I thus speak. You feel too deeply your obligations to the Redeemer, for laying down his life a ransom for you, to wish to rob him of the glory of your salvation—and are too deeply interested in the result of his appearance in the presence of God for you, to exclude him from your affections and confidence. He now appears in the presence of God to intercede for you; and on his intercession your present safety and happiness, and your future glory depend."

The looks, the tones, and the manner of the speaker showed that he was thoroughly impressed with the importance of his subject; and being earnest himself, an evident impression was produced on his audience.

On leaving church, I was walking a little behind Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, and Mr. Llewellin, and was much pleased to find my old friend, Farmer Pickford, and his wife, waiting on the roadside to speak to me.

"I am main glad, Sir, to see you back amongst us once more; and I hope you will come some day and take pot-luck with us."

"Yes, do, Sir," said Mrs. Pickford, "we shall be so glad to see you. Our eldest son often talks about you. We hope what you said, when reading the Bible, and your prayer, have been made a great blessing to his soul."

"He'll be a better man than his father, and no mistake. Why, Sir, he knows more of the Bible already than Parson Cole; he can say more varses than the Parson can; and he can tell the meaning of them too. I and my mistress often sit up a bit at night, after the rest are gone to bed, to hear his talk about the good things of the Bible."

"Have you established family prayer in your family?"

"Yes, Sir," said Mrs. Pickford. "Our son prays with the family every night."

"Aye, Sir, it would do your heart good to hear our Harry pray. He often makes me weep when I am hearkening to him. Why, at his age, and a longful while after, I was a wild, wicked man. I have sinned a main lot of sins in my time, the more's the pity; but now I know the blood of Christ cleanses from all sin. What a mercy! Things are changed amongst us for the better."

"Yes, Sir," rejoined his wife; "the wilderness is now a fruitful field. We have no swearing, or drunkenness, or Sabbath-breaking, amongst us now. We are so happy, and thankful to the Lord and to you."

"I suppose, farmer, you would not like to have things changed back again to their former state?"

"I would rather die first, and no mistake. What! swear again—and get drunk again—and break the Sabbath again—and be the same man I was when you gave us the first talk about the worth of the soul. The Lord, I hope, will never let that come to pass."

"My heart would burst to see it," exclaimed Mrs. Pickford. "Our Henry tells his father, that when the Lord begins the work of grace in the soul, he always goes on with it."

"The Lord has done a little for me, I do believe; because I should never have done it myself without him; but I can't get on in knowledge and in grace, like my mistress and our Harry. I am dullish like, except in the matter of farming. But I hate sin, love my Bible, trust in Christ for salvation; and I think at times it will be well with me at last. I am happy to tell you, Sir, we now all go to chapel at night."

"So then, farmer, you have got over your scruples, and go and hear my friend, Mr. Stevens, on a Sabbath evening."

"He's a wonderful man. I sometimes think he can preach better than our Rector; though he is a main good preacher. He is more simple and plain-like. Somehow or another, but I don't know how it is, what he says gets farther into my heart, and stays longer there than our Rector's sermons. I wish he would preach in the morning too. The youngsters like him best. Our Harry leads the singing at the chapel, and teaches in the school. He is a kind of a right-hand man amongst 'um."

"Keep steadily on, farmer, in the good way; avoid temptation; let no sin have dominion over you; read your Bible, be constantly coming by faith to Jesus Christ, to pardon, to purify, and save you, and I shall see you in heaven at last."

"The Lord grant it may be so. Will you speak to me then if you should happen to see me there?"

"Speak to you! yes; and hail you as a son of God, made perfect in knowledge and in purity."

"Well, I'll live in hope. You will come and take pot-luck with us before you leave Fairmount?"

"Yes, do, Sir," added Mrs. Pickford; "we shall all be so glad to see you, and so will dear Henry."

"I forgot to say one thing," observed the farmer, "which mainly you would like to know, Sir."

"And what is that, Mr. Pickford?"

"Why, my mistress and our Harry have set up a bit of a prayer meeting like, in our kitchen, on a Wednesday night. Our youngsters and sarvants, and some of the neighbours come to it, and fill it; and we have some good singing, and all the rest of it, as they have at Mr. Stevens' chapel."

"I am happy to hear this, farmer; but have you a sermon?"

"No, Sir, not always; but we have a sarmunt now and tan, when we can get hold of a preacher; and when we 'ant got one, our Harry says a few things from the Bible, and you would be main pleased to hear him. He puts out what he says in a plainish sort of a way, but we all see that what he says comes from his heart, and it gets into our hearts, and does us good. Will you come, Sir, some Wednesday night while you are here, and give us a prayer and a sarmunt? You shall have a full kitchen."

"Yes, do, Sir," said Mrs. P.; "we shall be so glad to see you and hear you. I'll invite all our neighbours."

"And if the kitchen be not big enough to hold them, I'll have the barn cleared out, and we'll go there."

"Very well. I'll be with you next Wednesday."

We then shook hands and parted, and I hastened to rejoin my friends, who I found, in the interval, had met with the Roscoes, including Miss Roscoe, who had now happily completely recovered from her cold, and consented, evidently to the satisfaction of Mr. Llewellin, to accompany her parents in the evening to Fairmount. I informed them of my conversation with Farmer Pickford, and how I had arranged to conduct a prayer meeting at his house on the ensuing Wednesday. We then proceeded homeward, discussing the topics of the sermon we had just heard, with, I trust, much mutual profit. Early in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Miss Roscoe, appeared, agreeably to their promise, and we spent a very pleasant Christmas evening together. The tranquil joy visible in the countenances of Mr. Llewellin and Miss Roscoe was especially manifest—our courting days, as Goldsmith remarks, being generally about the happiest in our lives. After tea we had a little sacred music, both Mr. Llewellin and Miss Roscoe being admirable performers on the pianoforte. We then all joined in singing together the Evening Hymn. Thus terminated our Christmas at Fairmount, during which we had all experienced how much better is the employment of the day in the purposes of devotion than in those of conviviality and mirth.

On Christmas Day, when the scattered members of a family are gathered together to enjoy, around the social hearth, the pleasures of social intercourse, those who are the avowed disciples of the Redeemer should be on their guard, lest they conform to the custom of the world, which too often celebrates his birth by indulging in the pleasures of eating and drinking, and thoughtless merriment, rather than by improving conversation and the interchange of devotional sentiments. We are required to set an example; and while I am no advocate for the exclusion of innocent recreations and indulgences from the domestic circle, I must enforce the imperative necessity of a dignified consistency of conduct on the part of those who profess to be wiser in their generation than the men of the world, and who contemplate, with wonder and with gratitude, the scheme of redemption, consummated by the appearance of the Saviour, on which many pour contempt, or look with unmoved indifference. You may have your family parties, and you may invite your friends to partake of your bounty, and you may assume and wear an air of cheerfulness and pleasantry; but no excess of eating, or of drinking, or of levity should be tolerated, as your profession has raised you to the summit of observation, and the irreligious, no less than your fellow-Christians, expect that you will let your moderation appear unto all men. Your children, if they are not decidedly pious, may wish, on this day of festivity, to trespass a little farther on the gravity of your domestic habits than they presume to do on ordinary occasions; and though I would not advise you to transfer the sanctity of the Sabbath to this day, as you have no authority for so doing, yet there is a propriety in observing it with decorum, as commemorating the birth of him who came to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself. The slightest reference to the design of his mission will suggest to your mind the importance of celebrating this day in a suitable manner, by offering "thanks unto God for his unspeakable gift," and by giving a practical proof that he came to save his people from their sins.

WINTER SCENES.

After walking briskly onward for a little distance, I determined, after some hesitation, to revisit the spot where, on a former occasion,[29] I had sat to feast myself on the enchanting scenery of the country, which was then clothed in its gayest summer dress; but now the scene was completely changed. The skeleton trees extended their leafless branches sprinkled with snow-flakes; many of the evergreens in the shrubbery presented a withered and scorched aspect, from the influence of the frost; while the little birds, who in the summer had delighted us with their music, were now roaming about the country in search of food, and some of them not unfrequently found dead on the roadside from hunger and cold.

As I stood viewing the change which the winter season had made in the appearance of nature, my mind reverted to the changes which as suddenly take place in the dispensations of Providence; and I recalled to my remembrance many who, during my short pilgrimage, had sunk from the heights of prosperity to the depths of adversity, and whose opening spring of plenty and of hope had been succeeded by the sterile and stormy winter—closing up the visions of their anticipated bliss in the gloom of disappointment and of woe. While thus musing on the mutations of nature and of Providence, I saw two lads approaching from a distant meadow, and when they drew near enough for me to trace their features, I recognized the children of the woodman whom I visited on the evening when his little daughter died.[30] They looked very sorrowful and dejected, and exclaimed, as soon as they recognized me, "O, Sir, we are again in trouble—we have lost father! Have you seen him, or heard of him? We have been walking about ever since daybreak, but we can't find him." They then gave me an account of the calamity which had befallen them.

After the interment of his daughter, he regained his usual flow of spirits, and felt resigned to the will of God; but within the last few weeks he had sunk into a low, desponding state, and often spoke of his decease as one who believed the hour of his departure was at hand; and yet health nerved his arm, and he was strong to labour. "Mother often told him," said the eldest son, "that he ought not to mistrust Providence, who had always provided food and raiment for us; nor yet to think that he was going to leave us. But she could not comfort him; for, after coming home at night, he would sit and weep, and talk to us till we all wept with him; and we knew not why, for we saw no danger coming. We were all well and happy except father."

He had gone to his work on the preceding day, at his usual hour, taking with him, in his bag and bottle, his refreshment, and was seen by his master about noon, walking away from the field in which he had been at work, with his dog by his side, but neither of them had been heard of since. "We fear, Sir," said the lad, who sobbed aloud as he spoke, wiping away at the same time the falling tears with the sleeve of his frock, "he has tumbled into some pit, and has perished in the snow; but, Sir, we cannot trace any marks of his footsteps, nor yet hear Trail bark nor howl. Farmer Pickford and his son have just been away searching for him in one direction, and we in another; and the whole village is up looking for him, but we can see nothing like him anywhere, and I feel assured that poor father is gone. O, Sir, if you could but come and speak a word of comfort to mother! She is so unhappy, she does nothing but wring her hands and cry, for she does not know what to do."

Having heard this tale of woe, I resolved to accompany the two lads to the cottage, and endeavour to soothe their mother's distress. The distracted wife was standing at the door, and, on seeing me, she clasped her hands in an agony of grief, and began to repeat to me the affecting tale. "I have thought, Sir, at times, he would not live long, for within the last two months his spirit and his prayer all seemed to prove that he was getting ripe for glory; but I did not expect to lose him so soon, nor in this way."

"You do not," I remarked, "suppose that he is murdered?"

"O no, Sir! He has tumbled into some pit and perished in the snow, which fell yesterday in larger and thicker flakes than I ever saw before; but I feared no danger, because he knows the parts so well. I expected him home sooner than usual, on account of the badness of the weather; and as I thought something warm would comfort him, I had got a stew ready, but"—she could add no more.

I was very much affected by the aspect of the interior of the cottage, which still showed the preparations made on the preceding evening for the poor woodman's return. The neat round table stood near the fire, covered with a clean cloth; a deep wooden trencher, with a spoon and salt-cellar made of the same material, were placed beside it; the oak chair was in readiness to receive its owner, and the small kettle was still hanging over the fire, which had been suffered to dwindle from the bright blaze into dying embers. I endeavoured to comfort her in this hour of her sorrow; but she was so overpowered with anguish, that words of consolation appeared to be of no avail; and after praying with her I left, with a promise that I would call again. The lines of the poet Thomson, with which I had been long familiar, now recurred to my recollection, and I could not repress the tear which their remembrance on the present occasion involuntarily caused:—

On my return to Fairmount, I found the Roscoes there; and, on entering the parlour, Mrs. Stevens said, "We have felt somewhat uneasy on your account. I hope nothing unpleasant has detained you."

"I have been, Madam, to the house of mourning, where grief is still raging unassuaged." I then narrated the melancholy tale, which deeply affected the whole party; and various plans were suggested for the recovery of the lost woodman.

"It will be impossible for us," said Mr. Roscoe, "to do anything in the way of searching for this poor man; but we may make some provision for the support of his widow, as I fear she may now too truly be termed, by commencing a subscription for her, which I think is no less our duty than our privilege."

"Very good," replied Mrs. Stevens, who immediately drew from her pocket-book a five pound note, which sum was increased to the amount of £17 by the donations of the rest of the party.

"How soon," remarked Mr. Stevens, "may a mysterious Providence lay waste the pleasant things of our possession, and leave us in a state of destitution and affliction! I saw the woodman and his family at church on Christmas morning; the bloom of health was on his countenance, and a fine glow of delight came over it when Mr. Ingleby was describing the effects which would be produced on the mind of a redeemed sinner when taking the first look at the Great High Priest of the heavenly temple. I have no doubt but he spent the evening of that day in the bosom of his family, blessing them with his prayers and instructions."

"At no season of the year," said Miss Roscoe, "am I so powerfully impressed by a sense of the Divine goodness, as during the inclement season of winter; when I am sheltered from the rude storm, which often beats through the shattered roof of the poor man's cottage—am warmed by the cheerful blaze, which seldom burns on his hearth—have extra clothing to cover me whenever I am exposed to the severity of the weather—and have all the comforts and conveniences of life, while many,

But why am I favoured with these mercies of which many others are deprived? I might have been doomed to work for my daily bread, or perhaps to beg it from door to door; or, looking at the fate of this poor woodman, such a calamity might quite as likely have befallen one of my dearest friends."

"If we wish to trace our mercies," said Mr. Lewellin, "to the source from whence they proceed, we must go to the fountain of all goodness, and acknowledge that 'every good and perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' No other reason can be assigned why we are so distinguished by the munificence of his kindness in preference to others, than the sovereignty of his will."

"And does it not," said Miss Roscoe, "enhance the value of our mercies, and tend to excite our gratitude to still higher degrees of ardour, when we receive them as coming from the fountain of all goodness through the mediation of our Redeemer, who gave himself for us!"

"And," remarked Mr. Stevens, "if we are distinguished in preference to others, when we can present no stronger claims on the Divine bounty, I think we ought to act an equally munificent part towards the more needy and afflicted of the human family. I am at a loss to conceive how any Christian can consent to be comfortably clothed and fed, while so many, even of the household of faith, are suffering all the evils attendant on a state of poverty. What we possess is intrusted to our care as stewards, not given to us as proprietors; and though we are allowed to partake of it, yet are we not commanded to distribute to the necessities of the saints?"

"I have no doubt," said Mr. Roscoe, "there are many pious and benevolent Christians who would distribute a much larger portion of their goods amongst the poor and the needy, if they knew the extent of their privations; but living apart from the suffering community by which they are surrounded, and seldom hearing of its woes, they have no conception of the prevalence of distress, and from ignorance rather than avarice, withhold the assistance they would otherwise most willingly afford. I have long entertained this opinion; for I generally find, that when any special case of distress becomes a subject of notoriety, or when any benevolent scheme is promulgated to promote the comfort of the poor, especially on any pressing occasion, contributions flow into the treasury of benevolence to a large amount."

"Yes, papa," answered his daughter; "when the public see the pallid and emaciated form of misery moving before their eye, or when they hear the mournful relation of its sufferings, the common sympathies of their nature are powerfully excited, and they cannot help affording some degree of assistance without doing violence to their Christian feelings; but is it not our duty, as the disciples of the Redeemer, to imitate his example in going about continually doing good? We are told that 'the poor shall never cease out of the land;' and can poverty exist unattended by its consequent evils? Would it not, on our part, be a profitable exercise, were we sometimes to leave our warm fireside, during the inclemency of the weather, and visit the huts and cottages of the poor, to examine for ourselves how they are clad, and how they are warmed and fed?"

"Certainly, my dear; and I think that those Christians who possess wealth to any extent beyond the immediate wants of their own family, who never pay such a visit to the poor man's dwelling, not only deprive themselves of one strong incitement to gratitude, but act a faithless part to him who has employed them in the capacity of stewards to distribute his bounties."

"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Lewellin, "in your opinion respecting the benevolence of the public when any case of distress, or when any scheme of charity becomes the subject of notoriety, but the benevolence which takes its rise from the mere sympathies of our nature, or that is stimulated to excitement by the example of others, is a defective principle, and essentially different from the pure benevolence of Christianity, which, taking its rise from the authority of the Divine law, proposes the example of the Redeemer as the pattern of its own conduct, going and distributing its donations in the unfrequented paths of misery, no less than in the open field of want."

"What you say, Sir," replied Mr. Roscoe, "is very true; and it possesses another property which you have forgotten to mention—it is less dependent on excitement, and consequently more steady in its exercise. I once heard of a lady of rank who rode out in her carriage one frosty morning, but having passed the suburbs of the city, felt the weather so intensely cold, that she ordered the coachman to drive home as fast as possible. Turning then to a friend who was with her, she said, 'I will immediately purchase twelve pairs of blankets for the poor, who must be nearly frozen to death.' In the afternoon, when reminded of her promise, she said, 'I think the weather is become so mild that they will not require the blankets.' 'Yes,' replied her friend, 'it is milder in this parlour than it was in the carriage, but it is equally severe in the open air.' In this case, as in many others, the intensity of the weather excited the benevolent feeling, and extorted the pledge; but as soon as the bitter cold outside was exchanged for the comfortable warmth within, the feeling gradually subsided, and the poor were left still to suffer without enjoying the benefit of relief."

"I was so much struck," said Mr. Stevens, "with the description of charity which I met with in the course of my reading some time since, that I transcribed it into my common-place book, and, by your permission, I will now read it:—

"'Charity is no intermittent thing that now and then breaks out into brilliant munificence, and then retires to slumber in the lap of indolence and selfish repose; that, like a burning mountain, emits occasional sparks and flashes of splendour, and then rolls forth nothing but smoke and darkness. It is a lamp that is always burning, sometimes with a brighter and sometimes with a fainter light, but is never extinguished. It is a vital principle—a generous life—the pulses of which are continually proceeding, now with stronger and now with more languid beats, but never come to a stand still. The life of a charitable man consists not merely of a few detached acts of desultory bounty, separated from each other by long intervals; his heart is an inexhaustible fountain, that supplies a current of kind attentions; that sends forth a stream of services to his fellow-creatures, few of which may be signal, but all of which are sincere, and which, though separately considered, may appear small, yet, collectively, are of great amount.'"

"But," said Mr. Lewellin, "we rarely find a pure and unremitting charity, except among those who are the real disciples of Jesus Christ; and the motive by which they are induced to cultivate it is very powerful. In the twenty-fifth chapter of the gospel by Matthew, our Lord has given us an impressive description of the solemnities of the future judgment; and when replying to the interrogation of the righteous, whom he had commended for their benevolence, he says, to explain the language he employed, 'Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' He thus teaches us that we are to perform our acts of beneficence and kindness, not merely because others set us the example, nor yet to gratify our own feelings of sympathy or vanity, but to express our gratitude and love to him for his love and compassion towards us. When we are governed by this motive, which the men of the world would deride as the figment of an enthusiastic imagination, our benevolence becomes one of the established laws of our moral system, which admits of no suspension or diversion, without occasioning a shock to our sense of right and wrong. And when we act on this principle, it is as if we addressed a poor person in the words which I lately read in an admired author:—'I relieve you in your distress, because of the near relation you bear to that blessed Person who has relieved me in all mine—my Friend, my Benefactor, my Saviour, my God. I, too, was an hungered, and he gave me the bread of life; I was thirsty, and he gave me the water of life; I was a stranger, not belonging to the fold, and he took me into it; I was naked, and he clothed me with the robe of righteousness; I was sick, and he visited me, and comforted me, and made me whole; I was in prison, and he came to me, loosed the bands of sin and death, and brought me forth unto light, liberty, and salvation. You come recommended to me as one of those whom he condescends to call his brethren. Accept, for his sake, what I can give you. I would it were more; all I have is too little.'"

"There is," observed Miss Roscoe, "a touching force in the language of our Lord which no real disciple can withstand; but there are many who have no ability to exemplify the influence which it assumes over them, for they have no wealth to distribute; and yet, if they do what they can to testify their love to him, they will be equally commended with the most munificent benefactors of their race. For he by whom actions are weighed and motives are judged—who gives to his servants what proportion of talents he pleases—often sees much given, where nothing is contributed; and will reward the benevolence which would gladly contribute if it possessed the means, no less than the munificence which commands the homage and respect of men. While, then, we are so highly favoured as to be exempted from the poverty of the poor and the selfishness of the rich, and profess to derive our motives from such a pure source, let us, in the stations in which we are placed, and according to the ability which we possess, endeavour to promote the comfort and happiness of others, remembering that where much is given, much is required; and that our Lord will receive every act of kindness which we perform to our poorer brethren, as an expression of our love to himself."

"I have occasionally noticed," said Mrs. Stevens, "a strange phenomenon in what may be called the religious world—a person holding rank as a devout disciple of Jesus Christ, ever ready to administer to the spiritual wants of the destitute, but systematically unwilling to help them in their temporal distresses."

"I, too," said Mr. Lewellin, "have known the same strange thing. I know a wealthy lady who will forward handsome contributions to the treasurer of a Bible, or Tract, or Missionary Society, but if applied to on behalf of a needy person, even though a fellow-member of the same church, she will put on such a scowling look, and speak in such harsh and repulsive tones, that few will venture to ask her for alms. Her own pastor, on one occasion, ventured to ask her for a small donation, to assist a poor worthy minister who was in the depth of poverty, and, by excess of importunity, he obtained a few shillings; but within a few weeks she sent £50 to the treasurer of a society for the support of aged and infirm ministers."

"How can we account for such strange conduct, which is so opposed to the injunctions of the Word of God?"

"Very easily, Madam," replied Mr. Roscoe. "These public societies will blazon the name of the munificent donor through the British dominions in their annual reports; and as such a lady wishes to be seen of men when performing her acts of charity, she is willing to pay the price which is demanded."

"How contemptible! A female Pharisee of the old school embalmed while living, and reserved as a specimen of the detestable order from which she is descended, that we may see broadly developed the meanness and odiousness of vanity, which gives liberally to the public institutions of Christianity for self-display and self-satisfaction."

In the morning we proceeded to the woodman's cottage, and on our way overtook the sad procession of his corpse brought home on a hurdle carried by some countrymen, his weeping children and his faithful dog walking alongside. He had been found in a pit near the edge of the wood; his dog was sitting beside it, and moaning the fate of his master, whom he was unwilling to leave, though nearly perishing with hunger and cold.

On the body being brought into the house, the spectacle of grief which was then exhibited became almost too much for us to endure. His wife wiped off the snow which was still hanging about his face and hair, and then kissed his cold black lips, bedewing them with her tears, while the children pressed around her, sobbing as they looked on the altered countenance of their father, and then turned away to mourn apart. Mr. Roscoe spoke kindly to her, which soothed her spirit, and he assured her that she should not want. "I know it, Sir," she replied, "because the Lord is my Shepherd, and he can spread a table for me, though my husband is not spared to bring me the provisions." He then informed her that a subscription would be raised for her support, which he had no doubt would be sufficient to enable her to bring up her family respectably. "O! Sir," said the two eldest boys, "mother shan't want while God gives us strength to work, nor shall the little ones." "Don't cry, mother!" said the youngest girl, who had just drawn back her finger from touching the face of her father; "father is gone to see Jemima. Don't cry, mother! for that won't make father speak to us again."