“Just knew, and knew no more, tier Bible true,
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter read, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.
The light she walked by, kindled from above,
Showed her the shortest way to life and love:
She, never checked by what impedes the wise,
Believed, rushed forward, and possessed the prize.”
―COWPER.
One afternoon, in the month of May, as William walked the street with a gay companion, he observed a boy, in the homely garb of the country, pacing slowly along the causeway, and gazing eagerly on the sign-boards. William, who was ever ready to assist and befriend countrymen, who are but too often scorned and laughed at in the town, approached him. It was the shepherd boy of the old farmer. “What brought you hither?” said William, surprised at the unexpected encounter. There was a meaning in the eye of the simple boy which half told the tale. “Helen is ill,” said he; “she was seized with a severe cold some months ago: she is now confined to her bed, and the surgeon is doubtful of her recovery.” “Is she ill? Is she very ill?” exclaimed William, fearing the worst, and bringing his handkerchief over his eyes. “Let us make haste,” continued he; “I will take a surgeon with me from town.” “But we cannot reach home to-night,” said the boy; “the sun is nearly set.” “True,” said William, ― “true, we must be off early in the morning.”
William now conducted the boy to his lodgings, informed Mr. Hunter of his sister’s illness, and that he would set out at daybreak to see her, sent a message to a skillful surgeon to have himself in readiness at the dawn of next morning, and then retired to his room.
Again and again he questioned the boy of Helen’s trouble. “Does she sleep much? Has she much pain? Does she think herself dying?” “She has little hope of recovery,” said the boy almost weeping aloud, when he saw the sorrowfulness of William’s countenance, and remembered all Helen’s kindness and pious instructions to himself. “She says she is dying, and wishes for nothing but to see you. Oh, how she charged me to bring you quickly!” “Has she heard anything of me lately?” said William eagerly. The boy looked down. “She has heard something,” said William; “she has heard that I have neglected some of her kind advices.” The boy wiped his eyes, and gave an assenting look. “Who carried the information?” resumed William; “did it hurt her spirits?” “A traveling merchant who knows you,” said the shepherd, “came our way the other day―” “And what did he say of me? You must tell me freely.” “He said,” replied the boy bashfully, “that he thought you pay more attention to your worldly interests than your religious concerns.” “It is too true; it is too true,” said William, his conscience taking advantage of the present state of his feelings. “But has the information hurt her? It would hurt her; she is all tenderness; she loves me like an angel.” “It was only yesterday that she heard of you,” answered the boy, “but she has never rested since. The servant girl heard her name you last night about twelve, while she waited on her by the bedside.” “She prayed for me, ―I know she prayed for me,” said William, all her kindness to him coming over his soul. “What did the girl hear? Tell me, good boy.” “She heard your sister say,” replied the lad, “Blot not out my dear brother’s name out of the book of life!” “When shall it be morning?” said William, weeping abundantly, “this night shall be a long one. The shepherd was now conducted to bed, and William went to his own, but not to sleep. He thought not of wealth―he planned not the trade of tomorrow, ―the gaiety of pleasure had fled from his imagination. Would the superior skillfulness of a city surgeon not recover his sister? Had the disease taken hold of the seats of life? Had the report of his impiety made her worse? Did she now struggle with disease, and pray for him again at midnight? Would all his cherished hopes of seeing her comfortable and accomplished with him in Glasgow be disappointed? Would he be left without a relation in the world? All her native loveliness and tenderness, all her kind warnings and instructions, came over his mind. He remembered their wanderings by the glen in the days of childhood―he saw the innocence and fondness of his sister’s look―he heard the sweetness of her voice―he remembered their visits to their mother’s grave―he remembered how often she had repeated to him their mother’s dying advice — he remembered that they were orphans in the world. All his ambition, all his connections in Glasgow, broke away from his mind. He thought of Helen only―his soul was present at her bed.
The first glance of day saw William and the surgeon mounted on horseback and on their way to the old farmer’s, taking with them whatever medicine the shepherd’s account of Helen induced them to think might be useful. The country over which they had to travel was rough and difficult. But the droughtiness of the May days had dried up the morasses, and rendered all the streamlets passable by the horses. At ten o’clock in the forenoon they alighted before the door of Helen’s habitation. How William’s heart did beat as he entered! How his sister would be altered! The surgeon remained in the kitchen, and William hastened into the room or “spence,” as it was called, where Helen lay. Oh! how he did gaze on her countenance! It was sweeter than ever―her eye was purer―but there was a hollowness in her face that withered every hope of recovery.
Helen raised herself on her bed, threw her arms round William’s neck, who now stooped over her, and kissed him without speaking a word. “Are you ill, dear sister?” said William; “oh, I see you are ill.” “Not ill, my dear brother,” said Helen, a gleam of unspeakable kindness issuing from her eyes. “Not ill; but I have had fears for you.” “Oh, that the Lord would enable me never to forget your kind advices again!” said William. From his future life this aspiration breathed in the sincerity of his heart, proved to be the prayer of faith. Then were his parent’s prayers, that had lain long on the mercy-seat, ―then were Helen’s supplications in behalf of him answered. Helen saw the sincerity of the look, and kissed her brother again. “I have brought a surgeon with me,” said William, “shall I bring him in?” “You are very kind,” replied Helen, “but I fear he can do me no good.”
The surgeon was now brought into the room. His skillful eye saw that his art would be unavailing. Helen was hastening to the close of a rapid decay. Every morning found her weaker than the preceding night, and every night than the morning before. Helen thanked the surgeon for his kindness in coming so far to see her, and said, “If you can do no good to me, you will comfort my brother.” William turned himself away when he saw the surgeon’s face, for it was a face of meaning, and wept plentifully.
As Helen complained of no pain, the surgeon could do little but instruct the servant girl how she might best prepare her cordials.
William now led the surgeon out of the room, and they retired into a small garden behind the house. “I need not ask your opinion of my sister,” said William; “there is no hope. Do you think there is no hope?”
“I will not deceive you,” replied the surgeon, “but I shall wait till tomorrow, and endeavor fully to understand her disease. I will leave you just now, and make some inquiries of the servant girl, for your sister is not able to talk much herself.”
William was now left alone in the garden. He threw himself down beneath an old hawthorn that spread its blossoms over him disregarded. This was the moment of the bitterness of his soul. A gleam from heaven, we have said, had lighted up the darkness of his heart. He was convinced of sin, of righteousness and of judgment. The holiness, and injustice, and omnipotence of God, broke in on his soul. He felt the deceitfulness of his heart, he remembered his pious education, his narrow deliverance from death in the snow-storm, he thought of the warning scene of the soldier, and his ingratitude for so much kindness oppressed his spirit. The destruction, out of whose jaws lie scarcely yet felt himself, made him tremble. But the bow appeared spanning the mount of Calvary; he saw the everlasting hand of mercy stretched down over the cross, he heard the everlasting voice of love inviting him to lay hold of it, and he had now no other stay. Oh, how did the greatness of God’s mercy in Christ then overwhelm his soul! How, in this moment, did Helen’s kind advises and instructions, and all her loveliness and tenderness, and her pale countenance, dart across his thoughts! She had been the means, he felt, the persevering means of saving him.
If any gentle reader should ever happen to come this way, that has been long in raptures with the gallant hero of romance, whose honor ever bears him out, whose heart is always good, and whose conscience never reproaches him, he will perhaps not be likely to esteem William much here. I cannot help it. This was a time of superior joy in heaven; the angels had watched seventeen years for this moment, and a fuller note now floated from their harps through the mansions of heaven.
While William was thus engaged in the garden, a short conversation happened between his sister and the old farmer, which we shall record here, chiefly to show what sustained Helen’s hope on a bed of languishing, and allayed her fears in the prospect of death—that last enemy which we must all meet.
Immediately after William and the surgeon left Helen’s apartment, the old farmer entered anxious to know the result of the surgeon’s visit. From this he could gather little hope; and although the good old man had often asked Helen how she possessed her soul, he now urged the question with more than his wonted earnestness.
“How is it with you, my daughter,” said he, ― “how is it with you? Do you feel your peace with God as secure as ever?”
“Yes, my dear father,” replied the young saint, “I feel that God loves me with an everlasting love. You know I have had moments of fear and doubting in the expression of death; but the nearer I approach the end of my days, it hath pleased my kind Redeemer to give me brighter views of the King in His beauty, and the land that is afar off. My flesh indeed doth faint and fail; but while I am weak, then I am strong. In the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength. This is my comfort, ‘there is now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.’ It is on Him alone that I rely for salvation. Every day have I sinned against Him; and all my righteousnesses are as filthy rags. I have often read in the Bible, and you have told me, that nothing but the blood of Christ could wash away our sins, but I never felt the truth of this so powerfully as now. When I look back on my life, I see little, I see nothing in my own doings, but cause of repentance; when I look to my Saviour, I see nothing but strength, and hope, and salvation. I know He hath satisfied the law, and brought in an everlasting righteousness. I know He hath unstinged death, and vanquished the grave, and though I die, yet shall I live; for my Redeemer liveth, and I shall live to praise Him with the spirits of the just made perfect. God is all my salvation and all my desire. I rest on His mercy in Christ. Oh, how great is His goodness! Thanks be unto Him for the unspeakable gift which hath brought life and immortality to light. ‘O death, where now is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be unto God who giveth me the victory through Jesus Christ my Lord!’”
“Thanks be unto God,” exclaimed the old man, “that He hath given you these hopes of eternal life. I came to comfort you, but you comfort me. Your comfort is in God, your hope in the Holy One of Israel. Oh, how sweet this hope on the bed of death! How sweet to you, my daughter, and how solacing to me and all your friends!”
William having breathed a prayer of gratitude, and of fervent supplication for his sister, endeavored to compose his spirits, and returned to Helen’s room. The old farmer sat by her bedside. The lamb (for it was still called the lamb, although now three years old) stood and looked up in her face. “This is my lamb,” said Helen, observing William rather surprised at its presence; “you recollect of it going with us to our mother’s grave; it takes every opportunity of coming into the room. Poor thing! it will attend me to the last. Take good care of it,” continued she, addressing the old man, ― “take good care of it when I am gone; it is an innocent little thing.”
The old farmer now withdrew, and Helen and her brother were left together. William related his thoughts in the garden. While he spake, every look of Helen was a gleam from heaven—every sigh the essence of prayer. “You have been the means of saving me,” said William, “Oh, how good you have been!” Helen clasped his neck, kissed him again and again with the warmth of intensest love, her eye glanced a look of perfect enjoyment, and she exclaimed, “I am happy now, O kind Redeemer! I come to Thee. My dear brother will soon be with me.” It was too much for Helen. Her hands loosed from William’s neck, the quivering hectic forsook her cheek, she gave a gentle sigh on her brother’s bosom, it was the last of Nature, the wheel stood still at the cistern, and her soul ascended up into heaven.
I shall leave the scene of this evening to the kind reader. The old farmer, the shepherd boy, the servant girl, the surgeon, wept with William, and the lamb looked up wistfully in their faces. The good old man at length opened the Bible, and they sang together these verses from the 103rd Psalm―
“Such pity as a father hath
Unto his children dear,
Like pity shows the Lord to such
As worship Him in fear.
“For He remembers we are dust,
And He our frame well knows,
Frail man, his days are like the grass,
As flower in field he grows;
“For over it the wind doth pass,
And it away is gone,
And of the place where once it was
It shall no more be known.
“But unto them that do Him fear
God’s mercy never ends;
And to their children’s children still
His righteousness extends.”
The second morning after Helen’s death saw her funeral moving slowly over the heath. The day was bright and lovely, but no one heeded its looks. The lamb followed after the mournful procession. “Shall I turn it back?” said the shepherd boy to the old farmer. “No, poor thing,” answered George, “it loved Helen, and it will see her laid in her grave.” About five miles distant was the village churchyard. The sexton waited at the gate, and conducted them to the newly-opened grave, the pall was removed, William let down his sister’s head, the cold clay fell from the sexton’s shovel sadly on the coffin, the shepherd boy wept aloud, a tear ran down the wrinkled cheek of the old farmer, the lamb bleated mournfully by his side, William heard the clods of dust fall on the coffin, he looked into the grave, turned away and wiped his eyes; again the clay fell, he looked back into the tomb, and wept bitterly,― “I shall go to her, but she shall not return unto me!” was the sigh of his heart.
The green turf was now laid on the silent house of rest, over which William afterward caused a modest stone to be placed, on which was engraved his sister’s name, with these words of our Saviour below it: “WEEP NOT FOR ME, BUT WEEP FOR YOURSELVES.”
Farewell, Helen! Perhaps thou dolt not hear me, but I shall pronounce thy funeral service. Thou hast done well. Thou didst look with delight and gratitude on the scenery of creation. Thou rejoiced with that which rejoiced, and wept with that which wept. Thy face was the home of the sober smile and the cheerfulness of content. This was well. But it was merely like the sentimentalist and the philosopher, to possess a natural charity, and cherish an affection for the lower works of the Creator. But thou hast done more. It was thy belief in Jesus Christ, as the Author and Finisher of thy faith, which gave all thy enjoyments a supernal relish. Thou hadst no hope in thy own works in the tenderness of thy heart, or in the general mercy of the Creator. It was the mercy of God in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, on which rested all thy faith of eternal life. It was the Spirit of God to which thou trusted for progress in holiness and complete sanctification. It was this love of God dwelling in thy heart, this undivided trust in the atonement, that excited all thy praise, and sustained, and comforted, and secured thee in the hour of dissolution. Nor did this love of God―this trust in the Saviour―this looking for the hallowing influences of the Spirit, relax thy own endeavors of well-doing. These were wings to thy feet, and a light in thy path of duty. Thou didst remember thy mother’s advice―thy Bible was open in thy hand. Thy heart forgave the soldier―thy faithfulness and gratitude would not discover thy old friend to his enemies. Thou was the means of persuading one soul at least into the straight path. Thy love to thy brother was great; he will talk of it to thy father and mother in the New Jerusalem. Thou wast not much spoken of on earth. Thy tear of sympathy, thy humility and fervor of devotion, were noticed little by the world. This is thy praise: Thou wast well known in heaven. Thy name was familiar among those who stand, with white palms in their hands, before the eternal throne.
God loved thee, and took thee to dwell with Him forever. Farewell!
Reader the same dwelling-place is open for thee. If thou hast not secured the entrance, I counsel thee to make no delay? for thou knowest not what an hour may bring forth.