Once, indeed, during the latter part of that year, I was struck with her ready attention to my wishes. I had, agreeably to the plan above mentioned, sent her into the churchyard to commit to memory an epitaph which I admired. On her return she told me that, in addition to what I desired, she had also learned another, which was inscribed on an adjoining stone, adding, that she thought it a very pretty one.
I thought so too, and perhaps my readers will be of the same opinion. Little Jane, though dead, yet shall speak. While I transcribe the lines, I can powerfully imagine that I hear her voice repeating them. The idea is exceedingly gratifying to me.
EPITAPH ON MRS. A. B.Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tearThat mourns a thy exit from a world like this;Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss.No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,And trace thy journey to the realms of day.
EPITAPH ON MRS. A. B.
Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tearThat mourns a thy exit from a world like this;Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss.
No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,And trace thy journey to the realms of day.
The above was her appointed task; and the other, which she voluntarily learned and spoke of with pleasure, is this:—
EPITAPH ON THE STONE ADJOINING.It must be so—Our father Adam’s fall,And disobedience, brought this lot on all.All die in him—But, hopeless should we be,Blest Revelation! were it not for thee.Hail, glorious Gospel! heavenly light, wherebyWe live with comfort, and with comfort die;And view, beyond this gloomy scene the tombA life of endless happiness to come.
EPITAPH ON THE STONE ADJOINING.
It must be so—Our father Adam’s fall,And disobedience, brought this lot on all.All die in him—But, hopeless should we be,Blest Revelation! were it not for thee.Hail, glorious Gospel! heavenly light, wherebyWe live with comfort, and with comfort die;And view, beyond this gloomy scene the tombA life of endless happiness to come.
I afterwards discovered that the sentiment expressed in the latter epitaph had much affected her, but at the period of this little incident I knew nothing of her mind; I had comparatively overlooked her. I have often been sorry for it since. Conscience seemed to rebuke me when I afterwards discovered what the Lord had been doing for her soul, as if I had neglected her, yet it was not done designedly. She was unknown to us all, except that, as I since found out, her regularity and abstinence from the sins and follies of her young equals in age and station brought upon her many taunts and jeers from others, which she bore very meekly; but at that time I knew it not.
I was young myself in the ministry, and younger in Christian experience. My parochial plans had not as yet assumed such a principle of practical order and inquiry as to make me acquainted with the character and conduct of each family and individual in my flock.
I was then quite a learner, and had much to learn.
And what am I now? A learner still; and if I have learned anything, it is this, that I have every day more and more yet to learn. Of this I am certain, that my young scholar soon became my teacher. Ifirstsaw what true religion could accomplish in witnessing her experience of it. The Lord once “called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of his disciples” as an emblem and an illustration of his doctrine. But the Lord did more in the case of little Jane. He not only calledheras a child to show, by a similitude, what conversion means, but he also called her by his grace to be a vessel of mercy, and a living witness of that almighty power and love by which her own heart was turned to God.
There is no illustration of the nature and character of the Redeemer’s kingdom on earth which is more grateful to contemplation, than that of the shepherd and his flock. Imagination has been accustomed, from our earliest childhood, to wander amongst the fabled retreats of the Arcadian shepherds. We have probably often delighted ourselves in our own native country, by witnessing the interesting occupation of the pastoral scene. The shepherd, tending his flock on the side of some spacious hill, or in the hollow of a sequestered valley; folding them at night, and guarding them against all danger; leading them from one pasture to another, or for refreshment to the cooling waters. These objects have met and gratified our eyes, as we travelled through the fields, and sought out creation’s God, amidst creation’s beauties. The poet and the painter have each lent their aid to cherish our delight in these imaginations. Many a descriptive verse has strengthened our attachment to the pastoral scene, and many a well-wrought picture has occasioned it to glow like a reality in our ideas.
But far more impressively than these causes can possibly affect, has the word of God endeared the subject to our hearts, and sanctified it to Christian experience. Who does not look back with love and veneration to those days of holy simplicity, when patriarchs of the church of God lived in tents and watched their flocks? With what a strength and beauty of allusion do the prophets refer to the intercourse between the shepherd and flock for an illustration of the Saviour’s kingdom on earth! The Psalmist rejoiced in theconsideration that the Lord was his Shepherd, and that therefore he should not want. The Redeemer himself assumed this interesting title, and declared that “his sheep hear his voice, he knows them, and they follow him, and he gives unto them eternal life.”
Perhaps at no previous moment was this comparison ever expressed so powerfully, as when his risen Lord gave the pastoral charge to the lately offending but now penitent disciple, saying, “Feed my sheep.” Every principle of grace, mercy, and peace, met together on that occasion. Peter had thrice denied his Master: his Master now thrice asked him, “Lovest thou me?” Peter each time appealed to his own, or to his Lord’s consciousness of what he felt within his heart. As often Jesus commited to his care the flock which he had purchased with his blood. And that none might be forgotten, he not only said, “Feed my sheep,” but “Feed my lambs,” also.
May every instructor of the young keep this injunction enforced on his conscience and affections,—I return to little Jane.
It was about fifteen months from the first period of her attendance on my Saturday school, when I missed her from her customary place. Two or three weeks had gone by, without my making any particular inquiry respecting her. I was at length informed that she was not well; but apprehending no peculiar cause for alarm, nearly two months passed away without any further mention of her name being made.
At length a poor old woman in the village, of whose religious disposition I had formed a good opinion, came and said to me, “Sir, have you not missed Jane S--- at your house on Saturday afternoons?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I believe she is not well.”
“Nor ever will be, I fear,” said the woman.
“What! do you apprehend any danger in the case?”
“Sir, she is very poorly indeed, and I think is in a decline. She wants to see you, sir; but is afraid you would not come to see such a poor young child as she is.”
“Not go where poverty and sickness may call me? How can she imagine so? At which house does she live?”
“Sir, it is a poor place, and she is ashamed to ask you to come there. Her near neighbours are noisy wicked people, and her own father and mother are strange folks. They all make game at poor Jenny because she reads her Bible so much.”
“Do not tell me about poor places and wicked people: that is the very situation where a minister of the gospel is called to do the most good. I shall go to see her; you may let her know my intention.”
“I will, sir; I go in most days to speak to her, and it does one’s heart good to hear her talk.”
“Indeed!” said I, “what does she talk about?”
“Talk about, poor thing! why, nothing but good things, such as the Bible, and Jesus Christ, and life, and death, and her soul, and heaven, and hell, and your discourses, and the books you used to teach her, sir. Her father says he’ll have no such godly things in his house; and her own mother scoffs at her, and says she supposes Jenny counts herself better than other folks. But she does not mind all that. She will read her books, and then talk so pretty to her mother, and beg that she would think about her soul.”
“The Lord forgive me,” thought I, “for not being more attentive to this poor child’s case!” I seemed to feel theimportance of infantine instruction more than ever I had done before, and felt a rising hope that this girl might prove a kind of first-fruits of my labours.
I now recollected her quiet, orderly, diligent attendance on our little weekly meetings; and her marked approbation of the epitaph, as related in my last paper, rushed into my thoughts. “I hope, I really hope,” said I, “this dear child will prove a true child of God. And if so, what a mercy to her, and what a mercy for me!”
Little Jane’s Cottage
The next morning I went to see the child. Her dwelling was of the humblest kind. It stood against a high bank of earth, which formed a sort of garden behind it. It was so steep, that but little would grow in it; yet that little served to show not only, on the one hand, the poverty of its owners, but also to illustrate the happy truth, that even in the worst of circumstances the Lord does make a kind provision for the support of his creatures. The front aspect of the cottage was chiefly rendered pleasing by a honeysuckle, which luxuriantly climbed up the wall, enclosing the door, windows, and even the chimney, with its twining branches. As I entered the house-door, its flowers put forth a very sweet and refreshing smell. Intent on the object of my visit, I at the same moment offered up silent prayer to God, and entertained a hope, that the welcome fragrance of the shrub might be illustrative of that all-prevailing intercession of a Redeemer, which I trusted was, in the case of this little child, as “a sweet-smelling savour” to her heavenly Father. The very flowers and leaves of the garden and field are emblematical of higher things, when grace teaches us to make them so. Jane was in bed upstairs. I found no one in the housewith her except the woman who had brought me the message on the evening before. The instant I looked on the girl, I perceived a very marked change in her countenance: it had acquired the consumptive hue, both white and red. A delicacy unknown to it before quite surprised me, owing to the alteration it produced in her look. She received me first with a very sweet smile, and then instantly burst into a flood of tears, just sobbing out,—
“I am so glad to see you, sir!”
“I am very much concerned at your being so ill, my child, and grieved that I was not sooner aware of your state. But I hope the Lord designs it for your good.” Her eye, not her tongue, powerfully expressed, “I hope and think he does.”
“Well, my poor child, since you can no longer come to see me, I will come and see you, and we will talk over the subjects which I have been used to explain to you.”
“Indeed, sir, I shall be so glad!”
“That I believe she will,” said the woman; “for she loves to talk of nothing so much as what she has heard you say in your sermons, and in the books you have given her.”
“Are you really desirous, my dear child, to be a true Christian?”
“Oh, yes, yes, sir; I am sure I desire that above all things.”
I was astonished and delighted at the earnestness and simplicity with which she spoke these words.
“Sir,” added she, “I have been thinking, as I lay on my bed for many weeks past, how good you are to instruct us poor children; what must become of us without it!”
“I am truly glad to perceive that my instructions havenot been lost upon you, and pray God that this your present sickness may be an instrument of blessing in his hands to prove, humble, and sanctify you. My dear child, you have a soul, an immortal soul to think of; you remember what I have often said to you about the value of a soul: ‘What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”
“Yes, sir, I remember well you told us, that when our bodies are put into the grave, our souls will then go either to the good or the bad place.”
“And to which of these places do you think that, as a sinner in the sight of God, you deserve to go?”
“To the bad one, sir.”
“What! to everlasting destruction!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why so?”
“Because I am a great sinner.”
“And must all great sinners go to hell?”
“They all deserve it; and I am sure I do.”
“But is there no way of escape? Is there no way for a great sinner to be saved?”
“Yes, sir, Christ is the Saviour.”
“And whom does he save?”
“All believers.”
“And do you believe in Christ yourself?”
“I do not know, sir; I wish I did; but I feel that I love him.”
“What do you love him for?”
“Because he is good to poor children’s souls like mine.”
“What has he done for you?”
“He died for me, sir; and what could he do more?”
“And what do you hope to gain by his death?”
“A good place when I die, if I believe in him, and love him.”
“Have you felt any uneasiness on account of your soul?”
“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal. When you used to talk to us children on Saturdays, I often felt as if I could hardly bear it, and wondered that others could seem so careless. I thought I was not fit to die. I thought of all the bad things I had ever done and said, and believed God must be very angry with me; for you often told us, that God would not be mocked; and that Christ said, if we were not converted, we could not go to heaven. Sometimes I thought I was so young it did not signify: and then, again, it seemed to me a great sin to think so; for I knew I was old enough to see what was right and what was wrong; and so God had a just right to be angry when I did wrong. Besides, I could see that my heart was not right; and how could such a heart be fit for heaven? Indeed, sir, I used to feel very uneasy.”
“My dear Jenny, I wish I had known all this before. Why did you never tell me about it?”
“Sir, I durst not. Indeed, I could not well say what was the matter with me: and I thought you would look upon me as very bold, if I had spoke about myself to such a gentleman as you: yet I often wished that you knew what I felt and feared. Sometimes, as we went away from your house, I could not help crying; and then the other children laughed and jeered at me, and said I was going to be very good, they supposed, or at least to make people think so. Sometimes, sir, I fancied you did not think so well of me as of the rest, and that hurt me; yet I knew I deserved no particular favour, because I was the chief of sinners.”
“My dear, what made St. Paul say he was chief of sinners? In what verse of the Bible do you find this expression, ‘the chief of sinners;’ can you repeat it?”
“‘This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners;’—is not that right, sir?”
“Yes, my child, it is right; and I hope that the same conviction which St. Paul had at that moment has made you sensible of the same truth. Christ came into the world to save sinners: my dear child, remember now and for ever more, that Christ came into the world to save the chief of sinners.”
“Sir, I am so glad he did. It makes me hope that he will save me, though I am a poor sinful girl. Sir, I am very ill, and I do not think I shall ever get well again. I want to go to Christ if I die.”
“Go to Christ while you live, my dear child, and he will not cast you away when you die. He that said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ waits to be gracious to them, and forbids them not.”
“What made you first think so seriously about the state of your soul?”
“Your talking about the graves in the churchyard, and telling us how many young children were buried there. I remember you said, one day, near twelve months ago, ‘Children! where will you be a hundred years hence? Children! where do you think you shall go when you die? Children! if you were to die to-night, are you sure you should go to Christ and be happy?’ Sir, I never shall forget your saying, ‘Children,’ three times together in that solemn way.”
“Did you ever before that day feel any desire about your soul?”
“Yes, sir; I think I first had that desire almost as soon as you began to teach us on Saturday afternoons; but on that day I felt as I never did before. I shall never forget it. All the way as I went home, and all that night, these words were in my thoughts: ‘Children! where do you think you shall go when you die?’ I thought I must leave off all my bad ways, or where shall I go when I died?”
“And what effect did these thoughts produce in your mind?”
“Sir, I tried to live better, and I did leave off many bad ways; but the more I strove, the more difficult I found it, my heart seemed so hard: and then I could not tell any one my case.”
“Could not you tell it to the Lord, who hears and answers prayers?”
“My prayers (here she blushed and sighed) are very poor at the best, and at that time I scarcely knew how to pray at all as I ought. But I did sometimes ask the Lord for a better heart.”
There was a character in all this conversation which marked a truly sincere and enlightened state of mind. She spoke with all the simplicity of a child, and yet the seriousness of a Christian. I could scarcely persuade myself that she was the same girl I had been accustomed to see in past time. Her countenance was filled with interesting affections, and always spoke much more than her tongue could utter. At the same time she now possessed an ease and liberty in speaking, to which she had formerly been a stranger: nevertheless, she was modest, humble, and unassuming.Her readiness to converse was the result of spiritual anxiety, not childish forwardness. The marks of a Divine change were too prominent to be easily mistaken; and in this very child, I, for the first time, witnessed the evident testimonies of such a change. How encouraging, how profitable to my own soul!
“Sir,” continued little Jane, “I had one day been thinking that I was neither fit to live nor die: for I could find no comfort in this world, and I was sure I deserved none in the other. On that day you sent me to learn the verse on Mrs. B---’s headstone, and then I read that on the one next to it.”
“I very well remember it, Jenny; you came back, and repeated them both to me.”
“There were two lines in it which made me think and meditate a great deal.”
“Which were they?”
“‘Hail Glorious gospel! heavenly light, wherebyWe live with comfort, and with comfort die.’
“‘Hail Glorious gospel! heavenly light, wherebyWe live with comfort, and with comfort die.’
I wished that glorious gospel was mine, that I might live and die with comfort; and it seemed as if I thought it would be so. I never felt so happy in all my life before. The words were often in my thoughts,—
‘Live with comfort, and with comfort die.’
‘Live with comfort, and with comfort die.’
Glorious gospel, indeed! I thought.”
“My dear child, what is the meaning of the word gospel?”
“Good news.”
“Good news for whom?”
“For wicked sinners, sir.”
“Who sends this good news for wicked sinners?”
“The Lord Almighty.”
“And who brings this good news?”
“Sir,youbrought it tome.”
Here my soul melted in an instant, and I could not repress the tears which the emotion excited. The last answer was equally unexpected and affecting. I felt a father’s tenderness and gratitude for a new and first-born child.
Jane wept likewise.
After a little pause she said,—
“O sir! I wish you would speak to my father, and mother, and little brother; for I am afraid they are going on very badly.”
“How so?”
“Sir, they drink, and swear, and quarrel, and do not like what is good; and it does grieve me so, I cannot bear it. If I speak a word to them about it, they are very angry, and laugh, and bid me be quiet, and not set up for their teacher. Sir, I am ashamed to tell you this of them, but I hope it is not wrong; I mean it for their good.”
“I wish your prayers and endeavours for their sake may be blessed; I will also do what I can.”
I then prayed with the child, and promised to visit her constantly.
As I returned home, my heart was filled with thankfulness for what I had seen and heard. Little Jane appeared to be a first-fruits of my parochial and spiritual harvest. This thought greatly comforted and strengthened me in my ministerial prospects.
My partiality to the memory of little Jane will probably induce me to lay some further particulars before the reader.
Divine grace educates the reasoning faculties of the soul, as well as the best affections of the heart; and happily consecrates them both to the glory of the Redeemer. Neither the disadvantages of poverty, nor the inexperience of childhood, are barriers able to resist the mighty influences of the Spirit of God, when “he goeth forth where he listeth.”
“God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty.” The truth of this scriptural assertion was peculiarly evident in the case of my young parishioner.
Little Jane’s illness was of a lingering nature. I often visited her. The soul of this young Christian was gradually, but effectually, preparing for heaven. I have seldom witnessed in any older person, under similar circumstances, stronger marks of earnest inquiry, continual seriousness, and holy affections. One morning, as I was walking through the church-yard, in my way to visit her, I stopped to look at the epitaph which had made such a deep impression on her mind. I was struck with the reflection of the important consequences which might result from a more frequent and judicious attention to the inscriptions placed in our burying-grounds, as memorials of the departed. The idea occurred to my thoughts, that as the two stone tables given by God to Moses were once a means of communicating to the Jews, from age to age, the revelation of God’s will as concerning the law; so these funeral tables of stone may, under a better dispensation, bear a never-failing proclamationof God’s will to sinners as revealed in the gospel of his grace, from generation to generation. I have often lamented, when indulging a contemplation among the graves, that some of the inscriptions were coarse and ridiculous; others, absurdly flattering; many, expressive of sentiments at variance with the true principles of the word of God; not a few, barren and unaccompanied with a single word of useful instruction to the reader. Thus a very important opportunity of conveying scriptural admonition is lost. I wish that every grave-stone might not only record the name of our deceased friends, but also proclaim the name of Jesus, as the only name given under heaven whereby men can be saved. Perhaps, if the ministers of religion were to interest themselves in this matter, and accustom their people to consult them as to the nature of the monumental inscriptions which they wish to introduce into churches and church-yards, a gradual improvement would take place in this respect. What is offensive, useless, or erroneous, would no longer find admittance, and a succession of valuable warning and consolation to the living would perpetuate the memory of the dead.
What can be more disgusting than the too common spectacle of trifling licentious travellers, wandering about the church-yards of the different places through which they pass, in search of rude, ungrammatical, ill-spelt, and absurd verses among the grave-stones; and this for the gratification of their unholy scorn and ridicule! And yet how much is it to be deplored that such persons are seldom disappointed in finding many instances which too readily afford them the unfeeling satisfaction which they seek! I therefore offer this suggestion to my reverend brethren, that as no monument or stone can be placed in a church or church-yardwithout their express consent or approbation, whether one condition of that consent being granted, should not be a previous inspection and approval of every inscription which may be so placed within the precincts of the sanctuary?
The reader will pardon this digression, which evidently arose from the peculiar connection established in little Jane’s history, between an epitaph inscribed on a grave-stone, and the word of God inscribed on her heart. When I arrived at Jane’s cottage, I found her in bed, reading Dr. Watts’ Hymns for Children, in which she took great pleasure.
“What are you reading this morning, Jane?”
“Sir, I have been thinking very much about some verses in my little book. Here they are,—
‘There is an hour when I must die,Nor do I know how soon ’twill come;A thousand children young as IAre called by death to hear their doom.Let me improve the hours I have,Before the day of grace is fled;There’s no repentance in the grave,Nor pardon offered to the dead.’
‘There is an hour when I must die,Nor do I know how soon ’twill come;A thousand children young as IAre called by death to hear their doom.
Let me improve the hours I have,Before the day of grace is fled;There’s no repentance in the grave,Nor pardon offered to the dead.’
“Sir, I feel all that to be very true, and I am afraid I do not improve the hours I have, as I ought to do. I think I shall not live very long; and when I remember my sins, I say,—
‘Lord, at thy feet ashamed I lie,Upward I dare not look;Pardon my sins before I die,And blot them from thy book.’
‘Lord, at thy feet ashamed I lie,Upward I dare not look;Pardon my sins before I die,And blot them from thy book.’
Do you think he will pardon me, sir?”
“My dear child, I have great hopes that hehaspardonedyou; that he has heard your prayers, and put you into the number of his true children already. You have had strong proofs of his mercy to your soul.”
“Yes, sir, I have, and I wish to love and bless him for it. He is good,verygood.”
It had for some time past occurred to my mind that a course ofregulatedconversations on the first principles of religion would be very desirable from time to time, for this interesting child’s sake: and I thought the Church Catechism would be the best groundwork for that purpose.
“Jenny,” said I, “you can repeat the Catechism?”
“Yes, sir; but I think that has been one of my sins in the sight of God.”
“What! repeating your Catechism?”
“Yes, sir, in such a way as I used to do it.”
“How was that?”
“Very carelessly indeed. I never thought about the meaning of the words, and that must be very wrong. Sir, the Catechism is full of good things; I wish I understood them better.”
“Well, then, my child, we will talk a little about those good things which, as you truly say, are contained in the Catechism. Did you ever consider what it is to be a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven?”
“I think, sir, I have lately considered it a good deal; and I want to be such, not only in name, but in deed and in truth. You once told me, sir, that ‘as the branch is to the vine, and the stone to the building, and the limb to the body and the head, so is a true believer to the Lord Jesus Christ.’ But how am I to know that I belong to Christ as atruemember, which, you said one day in the church, means the same as alimbof the body, such as a leg or an arm?”
“Do you love Christ now in a way you never used to do before?”
“Yes, I think so indeed.”
“Why do you love him?”
“Because he first loved me.”
“How do you know that he first loved you?”
“Because he sent me instruction, and made me feel the sin of my heart, and taught me to pray for pardon, and love his ways; he sent you to teach me, sir, and to show me the way to be saved; and now I want to be saved in that way that he pleases. Sometimes I feel as if I loved all that he has said and done, so much, that I wish never to think about anything else. I know I did not use to feel so; and I think if he had not loved me first, my wicked heart would never have cared about him. I once loved anything better than religion, but now it is everything to me.”
“Do you believe in your heart that Christ is able and willing to save the chief of sinners?”
“I do.”
“And what are you?”
“A young, but a great sinner.”
“Is it not of his mercy that you know and feel yourself to be a sinner?”
“Certainly; yes, it must be so.”
“Do you earnestly desire to forsake all sin?”
“If I know myself, I do.”
“Do you feel a spirit within you resisting sin, and making you hate it?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Who gave you that spirit? Were you always so?”
“It must be Christ, who loved me, and gave himself for me. I was quite different once.”
“Now, then, my dear Jane, does not all this show a connection between the Lord Jesus Christ and your soul? Does it not seem as if you lived, and moved, and had a spiritual being from him? Just as a limb is connected with your body, and so with your head, and thereby gets power to live and move through the flowing of the blood from the one to the other; so are you spiritually a limb or member of Christ, if you believe in him, and thus obtain, through faith, a power to love him, and live to his praise and glory. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do; and it is very comfortable to my thoughts to look up to Christ as a living Head, and to consider myself as the least and lowest of all his members.”
“Now tell me what your thoughts are as to being a child of God.”
“I am sure, sir, I do not deserve to be called his child.”
“Can you tell me whodoesdeserve it?”
“No one, sir.”
“How, then, comes any one to be a child of God, when by nature we are children of wrath?”
“By God’s grace, sir.”
“What does grace mean?”
“Favour; free favour to sinners.”
“Right; and what does God bestow upon the children of wrath, when he makes them children of grace?”
“A death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness; is it not, sir?”
“Yes, this is the fruit of Christ’s redeeming love; and Ihopeyouare a partaker of the blessing. The family of God is named after him, and he is the first-born of many brethren. What a mercy that Christ calls himself ‘aBrother!’ My little girl, he isyourBrother; and will not be ashamed to own you, and present you to his Father at the last day, as one that he has purchased with his blood.”
“I wish I could love my Father and my Brother which are in heaven better than I do. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! I think, sir, if I am a child of God, I am often a rebellious one. He shows kindness to me beyond others, and yet I make a very poor return.
‘Are these thy favours day by day,To me above the rest?Then let me love thee more than they,And strive to serve thee best.’”
‘Are these thy favours day by day,To me above the rest?Then let me love thee more than they,And strive to serve thee best.’”
“That will be the best way to approve yourself a real child of God. Show your love and thankfulness to such a Father, who hath prepared for you an inheritance among the saints in light, and made you ‘an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, as well as a member of Christ, and a child of God.’ Do you know what ‘the kingdom of heaven’ means?”
Just at that instant her mother entered the house below, and began to speak to a younger child in a passionate, scolding tone of voice, accompanied by some very offensive language; but quickly stopped on hearing us in conversation up stairs.
“Ah, my poor mother!” said the girl, “you would not have stopped so short, if Mr. --- had not been here. Sir, you hear how my mother swears; pray say something to her; she will not hear me.”
I went towards the stair-head, and called to the woman; but ashamed at the thought of my having probably overheard her expressions, she suddenly left the house, and for that time escaped reproof.
“Sir,” said little Jane, “I am so afraid, if I go to heaven I shall never see my poor mother there. I wish I may, but she does swear so, and keep such bad company. As I lie here a-bed, sir, for hours together, there is often so much wickedness, and noise, and quarrelling down below, that I do not know how to bear it. It comes very near, sir, when one’s father and mother go on so. I want them all to turn to the Lord, and go to heaven.—Tell me now, sir, something about being an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.”
“You may remember, my child, what I have told you when explaining the Catechism in the church, that the ‘kingdom of heaven’ in the Scripture means the church of Christ upon earth, as well as the state of glory in heaven. The one is a preparation for the other. All true Christians are heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ, and shall inherit the glory and happiness of his kingdom, and live with Christ and be with him for ever. This is the free gift of God to his adopted children; and all that believe aright in Christ shall experience the truth of that promise, ‘It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ You are a poor girl now, but I trust ‘an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.’ You suffer now; but are you not willing to suffer for his sake, and to bear patiently those things to which he calls you?”
“Oh yes, very willing; I would not complain. It is all right.”
“Then, my dear, you shall reign with him. Through much tribulation you may, perhaps, enter into the kingdom of God; but tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope. As a true ‘member of Christ,’ show yourself to be a dutiful ‘child of God,’ and your portion will be that of an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven. Faithful is He that hath promised. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.”
“Thank you, sir, I do so love to hear of these things. And I think, sir, I should not love them so much if I had no part in them. Sir, there is one thing I want to ask you. It is a great thing, and I may be wrong—I am so young—and yet I hope I mean right—”
Here she hesitated and paused.
“What is it? Do not be fearful of mentioning it.” A tear rolled down her cheek—a slight blush coloured her countenance. She lifted up her eyes to heaven for a moment, and then, fixing them on me with a solemn, affecting look, said,—
“May so young a poor child as I am be admitted to the Lord’s Supper? I have for some time wished it, but dared not to mention it, for fear you should think it wrong.”
“My dear Jenny, I have no doubt respecting it, and shall be very glad to converse with you on the subject, and hope that He who has given you the desire, will bless his own ordinance to your soul. Would you wish it now or to-morrow?”
“To-morrow, if you please, sir;—will you come to-morrow and talk to me about it? and if you think it proper, I shallbe thankful. I am growing faint now—I hope to be better when you come again.”
I was much pleased with her proposal, and rejoiced in the prospect of seeing so young and sincere a Christian thus devote herself to the Lord, and receive the sacramental seal of a Saviour’s love to her soul.
Disease was making rapid inroads upon her constitution, and she was aware of it. But as the outward man decayed, she was strengthened with might, by God’s Spirit in the inner man. She was evidently ripening fast for a better world.
I remember these things with affectionate pleasure; they revive my earlier associations, and I hope the recollection does me good. I wish them to do good to thee likewise, my reader; and therefore I write them down.
May the simplicity that is in Christ render
“The short and simple annals of the poor”
“The short and simple annals of the poor”
a mean of grace and blessing to thy soul! Out of the mouth of this babe and suckling may God ordain thee strength! If thou art willing, thou mayest perchance hear something further respecting her.
I was so much affected with my last visit to little Jane, and particularly with her tender anxiety respecting the Lord’s Supper, that it formed the chief subject of my thoughts for the remainder of the day. I rode in the afternoon to a favourite spot, where I sometimesindulged in solitary meditation; where I wished to reflect on the interesting case of my little disciple.
It was a place well suited for such a purpose.
In the widely sweeping curve of a beautiful bay, there is a kind of chasm or opening in one of the lofty cliffs which bound it. This produces a very romantic and striking effect. The steep descending sides of this opening in the cliff are covered with trees, bushes, wild flowers, fern, wormwood, and many other herbs, here and there contrasted with bold masses of rock or brown earth.
In the higher part of one of those declivities two or three picturesque cottages are fixed, and seem half suspended in the air.
From the upper extremity of this great fissure, or opening in the cliff, a small stream of water enters by a cascade, flows through the bottom, winding in a varied course of about a quarter of a mile in length; and then runs into the sea across a smooth expanse of firm, hard sand, at the lower extremity of the chasm. At this point, the sides of the woody banks are very lofty, and, to a spectator from the bottom, exhibit a mixture of the grand and beautiful not often exceeded.
Near the mouth of this opening was a little hollow recess, or cave in the cliff, from whence, on one hand, I could see the above-described romantic scene; on the other, a long train of perpendicular cliffs, terminating in a bold and wild-shaped promontory, which closed the bay at one end, while a conspicuous white cliff stood directly opposite, about four miles distant, at the further point of the bay.
The shore, between the different cliffs and the edge of the waves, was in some parts covered with stones and shingle;in some, with firm sand; and in others, with irregular heaps of little rocks fringed with sea-weed, and ornamented with small yellow shells.
The cliffs themselves were diversified with strata of various-coloured earth, black, yellow, brown, and orange. The effects of iron ore, producing very manifest changes of hue, were everywhere seen in trickling drops and streamlets down the sides.
The huts in which the fishermen kept their baskets, nets, boats, and other implements, occupied a few retired spots on the shore.
The open sea, in full magnificence, occupied the centre of the prospect; bounded, indeed, in one small part, by a very distant shore, on the rising ascent from which the rays of the sun rendered visible a cathedral church, with its towering spire, at near thirty miles’ distance. Everywhere else the sea beyond was limited only by the sky.
A frigate was standing into the bay, not very far from my recess; other vessels of every size, sailing in many directions, varied the scene, and furnished matter for a thousand sources of contemplation.
At my feet the little rivulet, gently rippling over pebbles, soon mingled with the sand, and was lost in the waters of the mighty ocean. The murmuring of the waves, as the tide ebbed or flowed, on the sand; their dashing against some more distant rocks, which were covered fantastically with sea-weed and shells; sea-birds floating in the air aloft, or occasionally screaming from their holes in the cliffs; the hum of human voices in the ships and boats, borne along the water: all these sounds served to promote, rather than interrupt, meditation. They were soothingly blendedtogether, and entered the ear in a kind of natural harmony.
In the quiet enjoyment of a scene like this, the lover of nature’s beauties will easily find scope for spiritual illustration.
Here I sat and mused over the interesting character and circumstances of little Jane. Here I prayed that God would effectually teach me those truths which I ought to teach her.
When I thought of her youth, I blushed to think how superior she was to what I well remember myself to have been at the same age; nay, how far my superior at that very time. I earnestly desired to catch something of the spirit which appeared so lovely in her; for, simple, teachable, meek, humble yet earnest in her demeanour, she bore living marks of heavenly teaching.
“The Lord,” thought I, “has called this little child, and set her in the midst of us, as a parable, a pattern, an emblem. And he saith, ‘Verily, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.’ Oh that I may be humble as this little child!”
I was thus led into a deep self-examination, and was severely exercised with fear and apprehension, whether I was myself a real partaker of those divine influences which I could so evidently discover in her. Sin appeared to me just then to be more than ever “exceeding sinful.” Inward and inbred corruptions made me tremble. The danger of self-deception in so great a matter alarmed me. I was a teacher of others; but was I indeed spiritually taught myself?
A spirit of anxious inquiry ran through every thought: I looked at the manifold works of creation around me; I perceived the greatest marks of regularity and order; butwithinI felt confusion and disorder.
“The waves of the sea,” thought I, “ebb and flow in exact obedience to the law of their Creator. Thus far they come, and no further—they retire again to their accustomed bounds; and so maintain a regulated succession of effects.
“But, alas! the waves of passion and affection in the human breast manifest more of the wild confusion of a storm, than the orderly regularity of a tide. Grace only can subdue them.
“What peaceful harmony subsists throughout all this lovely landscape! These majestic cliffs, some clothed with trees and shrubs; others bare and unadorned with herbage, yet variegated with many-coloured earths; these are not only sublime and delightful to behold, but they are answering the end of their creation, and serve as a barrier to stop the progress of the waves.
“But how little peace and harmony can I comparatively see in my own heart! The landscapewithinis marred by dreary, barren wilds, and wants that engaging character which the various parts of this prospect before me so happily preserve. Sin, sin is the bane of mortality, and heaps confusion upon confusion, wherever it prevails.
“Yet, saith the voice of Promise, ‘Sin shall not have dominion over you.’ Oh, then, ‘may I yield myself unto God, as one that am alive from the dead, and my members as instruments of righteousness unto God!’ And thus may I become an able and willing minister of the New Testament!
“I wish I were like this little stream of water. It takes its first rise scarcely a mile off; yet it has done good even in that short course. It has passed by several cottages in its way, and afforded life and health to the inhabitants; it has watered their little gardens as it flows, and enriched the meadows near its banks. It has satisfied the thirst of the flocks that are feeding aloft on the hills, and perhaps refreshed the shepherd’s boy who sits watching his master’s sheep hard by. It then quietly finishes its current in this secluded dell, and, agreeably to the design of its Creator, quickly vanishes in the ocean.
“Maymycourse be like unto thine, thou little rivulet! Though short be my span of life, yet may I be useful to my fellow-sinners as I travel onwards! Let me be a dispenser of spiritual support and health to many! Like this stream, may I prove ‘the poor man’s friend’ by the way, and water the souls that thirst for the river of life, wherever I meet them! And if it please thee, O my God, let me in my latter end be like this brook. It calmly, though not quite silently, flows through this scene of peace and loveliness, just before it enters the sea. Let me thus gently close my days likewise; and may I not unusefully tell to others of the goodness and mercy of our Saviour, till I arrive at the vast ocean of eternity!
“Thither,” thought I, “little Jane is fast hastening. Short, but not useless, has beenhercourse. I feel the great importance of it in my own soul at this moment. I view a work of mercythere, to which I do hope I am not quite a stranger in the experience of my own heart. The thought enlivens my spirit, and leads me to see that, great as is the power of sin the power of Jesus is greater; and, throughgrace, Imaymeet my dear young disciple, my child in the gospel, my sister in the faith, in a brighter, a better world hereafter.”
There was something in the whole of this meditation which calmed and prepared my mind for my promised visit the next day. I looked forward to it with affectionate anxiety.
It was now time to return homewards. The sun was setting. The lengthened shadows of the cliffs, and of the hills towering again far above them, cast a brown but not unpleasing tint over the waters of the bay. Further on the beams of the sun still maintained their splendour. Some of the sails of the distant ships, enlivened by its rays, appeared like white spots in the blue horizon, and seemed to attract my notice, as if to claim at least the passing prayer, “God speed the mariners on their voyage.”
I quitted my retreat in the cliff with some reluctance; but with a state of mind, as I hoped, solemnized by reflection, and animated to fresh exertion.
I walked up by a steep pathway, that winded through the trees and shrubs on the sides of one of the precipices. At every step the extent of prospect enlarged, and acquired a new and varying character, by being seen through the trees on each side. Climbing up a kind of rude, inartificial set of stone stairs in the bank, I passed by the singularly situated cottages which I had viewed from beneath; received and returned the evening salutation of the inhabitants, sitting at their doors, and just come home from labour; till I arrived at the top of the precipice, where I had left my horse tied to a gate.
Couldhehave enjoyed it, he had a noble prospect aroundhim in every direction from this elevated point of view, where he had been stationed while I was on the shore below. But wherein he most probably failed I think his rider did not. The landscape, taken in connection with my recent train of thought about myself and little Jane, inspired devotion.
The sun was now set: the bright colours of the western clouds, faintly reflected from the south-eastern hills, that were unseen from my retreat in the cliff, or only perceived by their evening shadows on the sea, now added to the beauty of the prospect on the south and west. Every element contributed to the interesting effect of the scenery. Theearthwas diversified in shape and ornament. Thewatersof the ocean presented a noble feature in the landscape. Theairwas serene, or only ruffled by a refreshing breeze from the shore. And the sun’sfierybeams, though departing for the night, still preserved such a portion of light and warmth as rendered all the rest delightful to an evening traveller. From this point the abyss, occasioned by the great fissure in the cliff, appeared grand and interesting. Trees hung over it on each side, projecting not only their branches, but many of their roots in wild and fantastic forms. Masses of earth had recently fallen from the upper to the lower parts of the precipice, carrying trees and plants down the steep descent. The character of the soil and the unceasing influence of the stream at the bottom, seemed to threaten further slips of the land from the summit. From hence the gentle murmur of the cascade at the head of the chine stole upon the ear without much interruption to the quietness of the scene. A fine rocky cliff, half buried in trees, stood erect on the land side about a mile distant, andseemed to vie with those on the shore in challenging the passenger’s attention. In the distance stood a noble ash-tree, which, on a considerable height, majestically reigned as the patriarch of the grove near which it grew. Every object combined to please the eye and direct the traveller’s heart to admire and love the Author and Creator of all that is beautiful to sense and edifying to the soul.
The next morning I went to Jane’s cottage. On entering the door, the woman, who so frequently visited her, met me, and said:—
“Perhaps, sir, you will not wake her just yet; for she has dropped asleep, and she seldom gets much rest, pool girl!”
I went gently up stairs.
The child was in a half-sitting posture, leaning her head upon her right hand, with her Bible open before her. She had evidently fallen asleep while reading. Her countenance was beautifully composed and tranquil. A few tears had rolled down her cheek, and (probably unknown to her) dropped upon the pages of her book.
I looked around me for a moment. The room was outwardly comfortless and uninviting: the walls out of repair; the sloping roof somewhat shattered; the floor broken and uneven; no furniture but two tottering bedsteads, a three-legged stool, and an old oak chest; the window broken in many places, and mended with patches of paper. A little shelf against the wall, over the bedstead where Jane lay, served for her physic, her food, and her books.
“Yethere,” I said to myself, “lies an heir of glory, waiting for a happy dismissal. Her earthly home is poor, indeed; but she has a house not made with hands, eternal in theheavens. She has little to attach her to this world; but what a weight of glory in the world to come! This mean, despised chamber is a palace in the eye of faith, for it contains one that is inheritor of a crown.”
I approached without waking her, and observed that she had been reading the twenty-third chapter of St. Luke. The finger of her left hand lay upon the book, pointing to the words, as if she had been using it to guide her eye whilst she read.
I looked at the place, and was pleased at the apparently casual circumstance of her finger pointing at these words:—
“Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”
“Is this casual or designed?” thought I. “Either way it is remarkable.”
But in another moment I discovered that her finger was indeed an index to the thoughts of her heart.
She half awoke from her dozing state, but not sufficiently so to perceive that any person was present, and said in a kind of whisper:—
“Lord, remember me—remember me—remember—remember a poor child—Lord, remember me—”
She then suddenly started and perceived me, as she became fully awake. A faint blush overspread her cheeks for a moment, and then disappeared.
“Dame K---, how long have I been asleep?—Sir, I am very sorry—”
“And I am very glad to find you thus,” I replied. “You may say with David, ‘I laid me down and slept: I awaked, for the Lord sustained me.’ What were you reading?”
“The history of the crucifying of Jesus, sir.”
“How far had you read when you fell asleep?”
“To the prayer of the thief that was crucified with him; and when I came to that place I stopped, and thought what a mercy it would be if the Lord Jesus, should remember me likewise—and so I fell asleep; and I fancied in my dream that I saw Christ upon the cross; and I thought I said, ‘Lord, remember me;’ and I am sure he did not look angry upon me—and then I awoke.”
All this seemed to be a sweet commentary on the text, and a most suitable forerunner of our intended sacramental service.
“Well, my dear child, I am come, as you wished me, to administer the sacrament of the body and blood of our blessed Saviour to you; and I daresay neighbour K--- will be glad to join us.”
“Talk to me a little about it first, sir, if you please.”
“You remember what you have learned in your Catechism about it. Let us consider. A sacrament, you know, is ‘an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, given unto us, ordained by Christ himself, as a means whereby we receive the same, and a pledge to assure us thereof.’ Now the Lord has ordained bread and wine in the holy supper, as the outward mark, which we behold with our eyes. It is a sign, a token, a seal of his love, grace, and blessing, which he promises to, and bestows on, all who receive it, rightly believing on his name and work. He in this manner preserves amongst us a ‘continual remembrance of his death, and of the benefits which we receive thereby.’”
“What do you believe respecting the death of Christ, Jenny?”
“That because he died, sir, we live.”
“What life do we live thereby?”
“The life of grace and mercynow, and the life of glory and happiness hereafter; is it not, sir?”
“Yes, assuredly: this is the fruit of the death of Christ, and thus he ‘opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers.’ As bread and wine strengthen and refresh your poor, weak, fainting body in this very sickness, so does the blessing of his body and blood strengthen and refresh the souls of all that repose their faith, hope, and affections on him who loved us and gave himself for us.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she said,—
“Oh, what a Saviour! Oh, what a sinner! How kind! how good! And is this for me?”
“Fear not, dear child. He that has made you to love him thus, loves you too well to deny you. He will in no wise cast out any that come to him.”
“Sir,” said the girl, “I can never think about Jesus and his love to sinners, without wondering how it can be. I deserve nothing but his anger on account of my sins. Why then does he love me? My heart is evil. Why then does he love me? I continually forget all his goodness. Why then does he love me? I neither pray to him, nor thank him, nor do anything as I ought to do. Why then such love to me?”
“How plain it is that all is mercy from first to last! and that sweetens the blessing, my child. Are you not willing to give Christ all the honour of your salvation, and to take all the blame of your sins on your own self?”
“Yes, indeed, sir, I am. My hymn says,—
‘Blest be the Lord, that sent his SonTo take our flesh and blood;He for our lives gave up his own,To make our peace with God.‘He honoured all his Father’s laws,Which we have disobeyed;He bore our sins upon the cross,And our full ransom paid.’”
‘Blest be the Lord, that sent his SonTo take our flesh and blood;He for our lives gave up his own,To make our peace with God.
‘He honoured all his Father’s laws,Which we have disobeyed;He bore our sins upon the cross,And our full ransom paid.’”
“I am glad you remember your hymns so well, Jenny.”
“Sir, you don’t know what pleasure they give me. I am very glad you gave me that little book of Hymns for Children.”
A severe fit of coughing interrupted her speech for a while. The woman held her head. It was distressing to observe her struggle for breath, and almost, as it were, for life.
“Poor dear!” said the woman; “I wish I could help thee, and ease thy pains; but they will not last for ever.”
“God helps me,” said the girl, recovering her breath; “God helps me—he will carry me through. Sir, you look frightened. I am not afraid—this is nothing—I am better now. Thank you, dame, thank you. I am very troublesome; but the Lord will bless you for this and all your kindness to me: yes, sir, and yours too. Now talk to me again about the sacrament.”
“What is required, Jenny, of them who come to the Lord’s Supper? There are five things named in the Catechism; do you remember what is the first?”
She paused, and then said, with a solemn and intelligent look,—
“To examine themselves whether they repent them truly of their former sins.”
“I hope and think that you know what this means,Jenny. The Lord has given you the spirit of repentance.”
“No one knows, sir, what the thoughts of past sin have been to me. Yes, the Lord knows, and that is enough; and I hope he forgives me for Christ’s sake. His blood cleanseth from all sin. Sir, I sometimes think of my sins till I tremble, and it makes me cry to think that I have offended such a God; and then he comforts me again with sweet thoughts about Christ.”
“It is well, my child—be it so. The next thing mentioned in that article of your Catechism, what is it?”
“Steadfastly purposing to lead a new life.”
“And what do you think of that?”
“My life, sir, will be a short one; and I wish it had been a better one. But from my heart I desire that it may be anewone for the time to come. I want to forsake all my evil ways and thoughts, and evil words, and evil companions; and to do what God bids me, and what you tell me is right, sir, and what I read of in my Bible. But I am afraid I do not, my heart is so full of sin. However, sir, I pray to God to help me. My days will be few; but I wish they may be spent to the glory of God.”
“The blessing of the Lord be upon you, Jane; so that whether you live, you may live to the Lord; or whether you die, you may die unto the Lord; and that, living or dying, you may be the Lord’s. What is the next thing mentioned?”
“To have a lively faith in God’s mercy through Christ, sir.”
“Do you believe that God is merciful to you in the pardon of your sins?”
“I do, sir,” said the child earnestly.
“And if he pardons you, is it for your own sake, Jenny?”
“No, sir, no; it is for Christ’s sake—for my Saviour Jesus Christ’s sake, and that only. Christ is all.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Sir, I must not mistrust him; nor would I, if I might.”
“Right, child; he is worthy of all your trust.”
“And then, sir, I am to have a thankful remembrance of his death. I can never think of his dying, but I think also what a poor unworthy creature I am; and yet he is so good to me. I wish Icouldthank him—sir, I have been reading about his death—how could the people do as they did to him?—but it was all for our salvation. And the thief on the cross—that is beautiful. I hope he will remember me too, and that I shall always remember him and his death most thankfully.”
“And lastly, Jenny, are you in charity with all men? Do you forgive all that have offended you? Do you bear ill-will in your heart to anybody?”
“Dear sir, no! how can I? If God is good to me, if he forgives me, how can I help forgiving others? There is not a person in all the world, I think, sir, that I do not wish well to for Christ’s sake, and that from the bottom of my heart.”
“How do you feel towards those bold, wanton, ill-tempered girls at the next door, who jeer and mock you so about your religion?”
“Sir, the worst thing I wish them is, that God may give them grace to repent; that he may change their hearts, and pardon all their wicked ways and words. May he forgive them, as I do with all my soul!”
She ceased—I wished to ask no more. My heart was full. “Can this be the religion of a child?” thought I. “O that we were all children like her!”
“Reach me that prayer-book, and the cup and plate. My dear friends, I will now, with God’s blessing, partake with you in the holy communion of our Lord’s body and blood.”
The time was sweet and solemn. I went through the sacramental service.
The countenance and manner of the child evinced powerful feelings. Tears mingled with smiles—resignation brightened by hope—humility animated by faith—a child-like modesty adorned with the understanding of a riper age—gratitude, peace, devotion, patience—all these were visible. I thought I distinctly saw them all—and didIalone see them? Is it too much to say that other created beings, whom I could not behold with my natural eyes, were witnesses of the scene?
If ministering angels do ascend and descend with glad tidings between earth and heaven, I think they did so then.
When I had concluded the service, I said,—
“Now, my dear Jane, you are indeed become a sister in the Church of Christ. May his Spirit and blessing rest upon you, strengthen and refresh you!”
“My mercies are great, very great, sir; greater than I can express. I thank you for this favour—I thought I was too young—it seemed too much for me to think of; but I am now sure the Lord is good to me, and I hope I have done right.”
“Yes, Jenny; and I trust you are both outwardly andinwardlysealedby the Holy Ghost to the day of redemption.”
“Sir, I shall never forget this day.”
“Neither, I think, shall I.”
“Nor I,” said the good old woman; “sure the Lord has been in the midst of us three to-day, while we have been gathered together in his name.”
“Sir,” said the child, “I wish you could speak to my mother when you come again. But she keeps out of your sight. I am so grieved about her soul, and I am afraid she cares nothing at all about it herself.”
“I hope I shall have an opportunity the next time I come. Farewell, my child.”
“Good-bye, sir; and I thank you for all your kindness to me.”
“Surely,” I thought within myself as I left the cottage, “this young bud of grace will bloom beauteously in paradise! The Lord transplant her thither in his own good time. Yet, if it be his will, may she live a little longer, that I may further profit by her conversation and example!”
Possibly, some who peruse these simple records of poor little Jane may wish the same. If it be so, we will visit her again before she departs hence and is no more seen.