- 
 
 J 
 
SHORT STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 COTTAGERS' DAUGHTERS. 
 
The following Tale is extracted/row 
 the M Cottager's Monthly Visitor" 
 
 Gilbert & Rivington, Printers, St. John's Square. 
 
THE 
 
 IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mary — bad lived for many years in 
 our family, and a more active, indus- 
 trious, modest servant we never had. 
 When she married one of our labour- 
 ers, and settled in the most comfort- 
 able cottage on the estate, every one 
 thought her a most enviable and 
 happy woman ; and, as far as worldly 
 concerns went, she was indeed pros- 
 perous. But, alas I she had an idol 
 reigning in her heart, which usurped 
 the place that her God ought to have 
 held there. She had only one daugh- 
 ter; and as years rolled on, and no 
 
 a 2 
 
4 
 
 THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 other child was born, this daughter 
 became doubly dear and precious to 
 both her parents. Their fondness, 
 however, was the fondness of Eli : 
 no admonitions or reproofs were ever 
 permitted to embitter the days of 
 this beloved child. No employment 
 or occupation was forced upon her at 
 home, and every punishment at 
 school for idleness and neglect, was 
 looked upon as an injustice and 
 affront. She grew up in bodily 
 health and strength, but her mind 
 was a wilderness, and her thoughts, 
 for want of better employment, be- 
 came a prey to vanity, which so 
 easily finds its way into the female 
 mind. No expense was spared by 
 her fond parents to gratify her taste 
 in dress ; they were well able to 
 afford it, and she spent upon ribbons 
 and gewgaws as much as she pleased. 
 When she was about sixteen, my 
 mother, lamenting the total idleness 
 she lived in, took her into her ser- 
 vice, and found that she had every 
 thing to learn, and was not qualified 
 for any one situation in a gentle- 
 
THB IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 man's family. For a year she bore 
 with her indolence and forgetfulness, 
 in hopes that she might improve, 
 but at length, finding she required 
 constant looking after, and was not 
 to be trusted a moment alone, she 
 dismissed her, recommending to her 
 mother to place her in some farmer's 
 family, where she would be kept at 
 constant work. But her mother was 
 but too glad to receive her beloved 
 Nancy again ; she was the darling of 
 her heart, she was never happy with- 
 out her; and, besides, she was look- 
 ing forward with pride and pleasure, 
 to her settling comfortably in the 
 course of the following year. A very 
 steady and excellent young man, who 
 worked in oar gardens, had been 
 paying his addresses to her while 
 she lived with us, — and a finer- 
 looking and better-behaved youth I 
 never saw. He continued to visit 
 her at her father's house, and what- 
 ever he could spare of his wages from 
 the support of his infirm father, he 
 was prudently saving for Nancy. One 
 day, when he had been kept later 
 
 a 3 
 
6 THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 than usual at his work, he rested at 
 his father's house for a few minutes 
 after supper, and then proceeded to 
 visit his love. As he crossed the 
 thick fir plantation, which separated 
 the two cottages, the moon shone 
 brightly through the dark boughs; 
 the cool air of the evening, scented 
 by the delicious perfume of the firs, 
 and the agreeable prospect of spend- 
 ing the rest of the evening with 
 Nancy, all contributed to refresh 
 his weary limbs ; and as he walked 
 nimbly on, he roused many a timid 
 hare from its resting-place, and many 
 a fluttering bird from its perch in 
 the thicket. But that rustling noise 
 on his right hand,— what was that? 
 He stopped to listen, and distinctly 
 heard whispering voices; and one 
 voice was that of a man, the other 
 that of Nancy. He concluded her 
 father was with her, and advanced 
 to meet them ; when to his amaze- 
 ment he beheld indeed Nancy, and # 
 by her side Mr. Edwards, a single * 
 man about thirty years of age, and 
 the owner of a large farm in the 
 
3< 
 
 I 
 
THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 neighbourhood of Nancy's cottage. 
 Oh! Nancy, can this be? thought 
 he, and he passed them without 
 speaking, and with his head bent 
 to the ground ; and, in hopes of not 
 having been discovered, he returned 
 another way to his father's house. 
 "Alas ! thought he, I must give up 
 all hopes of Nancy ; she will forsake 
 me, and marry the rich farmer. But 
 does he intend to marry her ? A 
 horrible thought then struck him, 
 but he immediately dismissed it, 
 and reproached himself for having 
 for one moment thought so meanly 
 of Nancy. The next day he found 
 her at home, and gently remonstrated 
 with her for her inconstancy ; but 
 Nancy tossed up her head ; (< She 
 was free to do as she pleased ; she 
 had received handsome presents from 
 her rich lover, but he had never 
 given her any thing ; the other was 
 more like a gentleman than a farmer, 
 and she liked him the best." — 
 George was a good-tempered young 
 man ; but to be thus cast off at once, 
 
 a 5 
 
]0 THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 and taunted with his poverty, by 
 the girl for whom he was toiling to 
 save a maintenance to enable them 
 to marry, this was too much ; he 
 bitterly reproached her for her levity 
 and unkindness, and left her imme- 
 diately. In the course of a few 
 months he felt reason to rejoice 
 that he had discontinued his visits, 
 for the effects of Nancy's misconduct 
 were daily becoming more apparent. 
 His feelings at this discovery were 
 those of anger and indignation ; but 
 who can paint the anguish of her 
 mother, when the sad truth flushed 
 upon her mind ? From the day she 
 became acquainted with her daugh- 
 ter's disgrace, she drooped and sick- 
 ened ; at the end of a week she took 
 to her bed, and she never rose from 
 it again. I visited her in her cham- 
 ber, and found her in a dreadful state 
 of mind.— Her temper had never 
 been under good control, and now 
 broke out with dreadful violence, in 
 bitter taunts and scornful upbraid- 
 ings of her impenitent child. Find- 
 
THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 ing that my presence only agitated 
 her, I talked of leaving her, but she 
 would not hear of it. " Oh don't 
 leave me," she said, " for I thought 
 I was quite desolate till you came, 
 but now I have found a friend. I 
 had not a creature to speak to ; my 
 husband does not feel as I do about 
 it ; but oh 1 it is my own fault, and 
 that is what cuts me to the heart. 
 I never would contradict her, nor 
 punish her ; I never prayed to God 
 for her ; I loved her too dearly, but 
 I did not love her in the right way ; 
 I forgot God, and made an idol of 
 her j and now I am punished for 
 my sinful neglect. Oh, my friend, 
 you only know what I feel ; you are 
 my only comfort; do not leave me 
 in this time of my distress." — " I 
 will not leave you," said I, " till I 
 can leave you in a more peaceful 
 frame of mind ; but do not say that 
 no one but me knows what you feel. 
 The God whom you have forgotten 
 knows — he counts and treasures up 
 your tears; and has sent you this 
 
 a 6 
 
12 THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 affliction to wean you from your 
 earthly idol. — * Come unto me all ye 
 that labour and are heavy laden/ 
 says he, 4 and I will give you rest. 
 Set your affections on things above, 
 and not on things on the earth.'" — 
 " But," said she, " will he receive 
 me after I have neglected him so 
 long?" — " Yes," said I, " if you 
 sincerely come to him in prayer, and 
 strive to amend your life. Think of 
 your sins ; confess them to him ; 
 pray that the atoning blood of our 
 Saviour may be accepted for them, 
 and with all your might strive and 
 pray against them during the re- 
 mainder of your days. Talk calmly, 
 not in anger or upbraiding, but 
 mildly and seriously to your daugh- 
 ter ; entreat her to go and sin no 
 more ; and to bring up the innocent 
 offspring of her sin in piety and 
 goodness." The poor mourner al- 
 ready began to feel comfort from my 
 words, but her mind still dwelt with 
 remorse and shame upon the share 
 she had in her daughter's guilt. 
 
THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 « Let that thought," said I, "deter 
 you from upbraiding her ; repent of 
 the idolatry of your heart, and of 
 loving the creature more than the 
 Creator, and resign yourself calmly 
 to his will.'' I then knelt down by 
 her side, and after reading the 39th 
 Psalm, every word of which she 
 heartily applied to her own case, and 
 putting up a prayer for her, and 
 with her, to the throne of grace, I 
 left her for that time. A few days 
 after, I asked a neighbour how she 
 was ? <c Oh, she is an altered wo- 
 man," said she. " When I first saw 
 her, she was almost out of her mind ; 
 she was ready to sink into the earth 
 with shame and distress ; she wished 
 herself in her grave, without consi- 
 dering how unfit she was to die. But 
 now she is quiet and resigned ; her 
 temper is almost heavenly, and she 
 is praying, or giving good advice to 
 her daughter almost all day." This 
 good account I was happy to find 
 confirmed by my own observation. 
 She had ceased to repine, and to 
 
 a 7 
 
H THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 
 
 upbraid her daughter for her sin, and 
 her husband for his want of feel- 
 ing. Her words were now mild 
 and gentle, and went to their hearts 
 — she lingered about a month with- 
 out any positive bodily illness ; but 
 her illness was of the mind; in two 
 nights her hair turned grey, and she 
 literally died of a broken heart ; but 
 I hope and trust the impression 
 made upon her husband and daughter 
 will be deep and lasting. 
 
 My friends ! does my narrative 
 touch your hearts? If so, search 
 them diligently, and see whether 
 you have no idol there? No God 
 but the Lord ? Is there no favourite 
 relation or friend ; no favourite plan, 
 no wealth or honours, business or 
 pleasures, that divert you from serv- 
 ing the Lord ? If there is, let me 
 implore you to cast down that idol 
 from its shrine. " If thine eye 
 offend thee, pluck it out and cast it 
 from thee ; for it is better for thee that 
 one of thy members perish, than that 
 thy whole body should be cast into 
 
THE IDOLIZED DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 hell. — And every one that hath for- 
 saken houses, or brethren, or sisters, 
 or father, or mother, or wife, or chil- 
 dren, or lands, for Christ's sake, 
 shall receive an hundred-fold, and 
 shall inherit everlasting life." Matt. 
 xix. 29. 
 
16 
 
 TRUE ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 OF 
 
 A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 The simple, but short, and sad his- 
 tory of a young woman, which these 
 pages record, is strictly true. The 
 writer of it is the clergyman of the 
 parish in which she lived and died. 
 The names of the parties and of 
 the place are not mentioned, for two 
 reasons — first, because they would 
 add little or nothing to the painful 
 interest and the solemn instruction 
 which the facts themselves seem 
 calculated, under God's blessing, to 
 excite, and to convey; and secondly, 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN, 
 
 17 
 
 because the writer does not wish to 
 hurt the feelings of the living, or to 
 blacken the memory of the dead, 
 more than there is any occasion for. 
 They are all known to Him, from 
 whom nothing is hid. 
 
 The village of — — , in the county 
 
 of , is situated about a mile from 
 
 the great western turnpike-road. So 
 low is its situation, that it is not visi- 
 ble from its principal approach, until 
 you come to the bottom of a lane, 
 
 meed on either side with wild apple 
 Pees. At the end of this simple avenue 
 
 a 9 
 
18 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 rises the ornamented tower of the 
 village church, around and close to 
 which, as if for shelter and protec- 
 tion, a few poor-looking cottages 
 raise their humbler roofs. " Surely 
 here, if any where," a stranger might 
 exclaim, "calmness and peacefulness 
 are to be found !" Alas, they can- 
 not be, where there are not piety 
 and goodness. Sinfulness abounds 
 in degree, though not in extent, in 
 the quiet-looking country village, as 
 in the bustling city or town ; for 
 human nature is the same every 
 where — as the sequel will too plainly 
 show. 
 
 In one of the poorest of these poor 
 dwellings, there lived an aged widow 
 woman with her only child, a daugh- 
 ter, about twenty-six years of age. 
 My attention was drawn to them, in 
 consequence of their extreme state 
 of poverty, immediately upon my 
 entering on the discharge of my 
 pastoral duties. I soon discover- 
 ed that the daughter was living 
 in an open state of sin with a 
 young man, who did not belong 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 19 
 
 to the place. I represented, as was 
 my duty, the exceeding sinfulness of 
 
 such a state of life. The mother 
 appeared to feel very properly the 
 justness and the force of my address 
 — whilst the daughter was affected 
 even to tears. " Surely," thought I, 
 "the rock cannot be very hardened 
 as yet, on which an impression is so 
 soon and so easily made I" They then 
 informed me that the young man was 
 very willing to marry her, but that 
 they could not afford to raise the 
 
 a 10 
 
20 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 necessary sum of money. I would 
 here stop to notice a practice which 
 there is too much reason to believe is 
 more general than is commonly sus- 
 pected. Many a young woman has 
 been betrayed into an act of sin, un- 
 der a promise of marriage. But even 
 if that promise is fulfilled, which is 
 not always the case, the sin remains 
 the same ! The names of the parties 
 may be written in the parish register, 
 but the sin is still registered in that 
 book which shall be opened at the end 
 of the world. They may lose nothing 
 of their worldly reputation in the eyes 
 of their neighbours, or they may re- 
 gain what they have lost; but in the 
 sight of God, who sees the past as 
 well as the present, the blot is still 
 visible — a blot which nothing can 
 efface, but the precious blood of Him 
 who died to save all believing and 
 penitent sinners. How wrong then, 
 how sinful is the expression, by which 
 such a reparation, poor and unsatis- 
 factory as it really is, is too often 
 spoken of, viz. " making an honest 
 woman of herl" It is true, if the 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 21 
 
 guilty parties enter into the married 
 state from proper motives, from a 
 desire to avoid further sin, and to 
 make the only restitution that is in 
 their power to society, which they 
 have offended, it is not to be discou- 
 raged. Too seldom, however, do 
 such motives influence such persons. 
 Under this impression, I recom- 
 mended that they should be mar- 
 ried ; and I removed the alleged diffi- 
 culty respecting the fees. The young 
 woman had no prayer-book ; I gave 
 her one, which she thankfully ac- 
 cepted, and spoke fair, and promised 
 well for the future. Both the mo- 
 ther and the daughter now attended 
 the church pretty regularly ; but still, 
 weeks and weeks passed on, and no 
 banns were put in : at last the parties 
 were duly asked. On my passing by 
 the cottage one afternoon, I saw the 
 young man and the mother and the 
 daughter sitting together ; and I 
 thought it a fair opportunity to 
 speak to him about his former state 
 of life, as well as upon the prospect 
 which was before him; and on in- 
 
22 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 quiring when they thought of being 
 married, he said, it would be delayed 
 a little, from want of clothes. That 
 this should not be an excuse, I gave 
 him a suit, which is here mentioned, 
 not by way of boasting, but solely 
 to expose the deceit and ingratitude 
 of this guilty couple. Three months 
 passed away ; so that their marriage 
 could not now take place, unless the 
 banns were again asked. However, 
 I had done what I conceived to be 
 my duty, by earnest exhortation, as 
 well as by needful assistance. I 
 therefore left them to follow their 
 own course! 
 
 In a population of about six hun- 
 dred, the deaths, and consequently 
 the funerals, are not very frequent — 
 not so frequent indeed as to be a 
 familiar, and therefore an almost un- 
 noticed, and quite unimproved, sight. 
 Yet, strange to say, there was scarcely * 
 a funeral at which this sinful young 
 woman was not present. Frequently 
 have I seen her seated in the church, 
 as I entered reading those awakening 
 words, u We brought nothing into 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 23 
 
 this world, and it is certain we can 
 carry nothing out. The Lord gave, 
 and the Lord hath taken away, bles- 
 sed be the name of the Lord." At 
 times, I thought I perceived that she 
 seemed to feel the impressive and 
 affecting service for the dead. It is 
 to be feared, however, judging from 
 the result, that, whatever might 
 have been the motive or cause which 
 brought her within the hearing of 
 those sounds, and within sight of the 
 grave, she '* had ears and heard not, 
 she had eyes and saw not." So true 
 is it, that the ordinary means of grace, 
 if they fail to soften, too frequently 
 have the tendency of hardening a sin- 
 ful heart. Alas 1 it requires a more 
 startling peal than the sound of the 
 knell to awaken the slumbering soul 
 from its deep sleep — a louder voice 
 than the silent language of an open 
 grave to bid it " arise from a death of 
 sin to a life of righteousness !" 
 
 It was during the last spring, that 
 business of a melancholy nature took 
 me away from my parish for a short 
 time. On my return home, I was 
 
24 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 informed that the young woman, 
 whose short but sad history is now 
 drawing to a close, was taken sud- 
 denly ill, and had expressed a desire 
 to see me. I immediately went to 
 her. Her mother informed me that 
 she was seized, a few days ago, in 
 the fields ; and that she had taken to 
 her bed only the very day before. I 
 found her in a very feverish and rest- 
 less state ; but not, as far as I could 
 judge, in immediate danger. I set 
 her sin before her as plainly, but as 
 feelingly, as I could, and the awful 
 state in which she was. All that she 
 answered was, that " she would do 
 so no more I" Listen, ye who talk 
 about, and trust to, a death-bed re- 
 pentance, which you vainly flatter 
 yourselves is to settle the awful ac- 
 count between you and your God — 
 listen to the acts of confession, the 
 rule of faith, the sighs of penitence • 
 — all, all wound up in this poor, 
 unmeaning, unsatisfactory, and, we 
 fear, unacceptable declaration, that 
 " she would do so no more I" What 
 may have been passing in her heart. 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 25 
 
 f presume not to judge. I only state 
 faithfully what I saw and heard. 
 4 4 Oh ye, who have made no better 
 * preparation to meet your God and 
 Saviour, tremble lest you should be 
 in the same condemnation I" — After 
 further exhortation and prayer, I left 
 her. Upon calling the next morn- 
 ing, I found her perfectly insensible. 
 Her end was visibly approaching. 
 The time for exhortation was past : — 
 there was yet time for prayer. And 
 earnestly and humbly did I commend 
 her soul into the hands of its most 
 faithful Creator and most merciful 
 Saviour ! She died in the course of 
 the night. Would that I could say 
 that she departed, even outwardly, 
 in peace I but fearful, (I am informed) 
 most fearful were the expressions 
 which fell from her dying lips ! too 
 fearful to be here repeated I — " He 
 that being often reproved, and hard- 
 eneth his neck, shall suddenly be 
 destroyed, and that without remedy." 
 Prov. xxix. 1. 
 
 On the following sabbath, between 
 the church services, the bell tolled 
 
LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 for the funeral of this poor young 
 woman. Often as I hear that bell, 
 its deep and solemn sound seemed to 
 be more deep and solemn than usual. 
 The sun was shining brightly upon 
 her grave, from the mould of which 
 a few village children were endea- 
 vouring with shrinking curiosity to 
 look into it, — whilst here and there, 
 groups of persons were scattered, 
 who had assembled somewhat earlier 
 to witness the last earthly ceremony 
 in which mortality is to bear a part. 
 — A funeral any where, but especially 
 a village funeral, although a solemn, 
 is any thing but a revolting sight. 
 Besides a due regard for the feelings 
 of the living, there is almost a sort 
 of consideration even for the un- 
 conscious remains of the departed, 
 which are carefully concealed, as it 
 were, from needless exposure, by the 
 ample folds of the pall ; whilst the 
 long train of relations and connec- 
 tions who follow, banishes for a time 
 the idea of that awful solitariness 
 which attends the dead. But there 
 were none of these attendant cir- 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 2? 
 
 cumstances to cast a sort of hallowed 
 feeling over the cold and dreary fu- 
 neral of . Four young men 
 
 were seen to bear her slowly round 
 the corner, the two foremost of whom 
 were straining the corners of a scanty 
 sheet which barely covered her coffin, 
 and which served the purpose of a 
 pall Her aged mother followed, 
 alone— and this formed the whole of 
 the procession ! And now com- 
 menced my sad and painful duty to 
 read that truly affecting and beautiful 
 service, which was evidently written 
 in the spirit of the other church 
 offices, and on the supposition that 
 all, over whom it would be pro- 
 nounced, were indeed children of 
 God, and had died in the Lord. 
 But by many, parts of that service 
 have been misunderstood and mis- 
 represented ; particularly that part 
 which is considered as expressing an 
 opinion upon the spiritual and eter- 
 nal state of the departed soul, " We 
 commit the body to the ground in 
 sure and certain hope of the resur- 
 rection to eternal life," &c. &c. 
 
28 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Herein we only declare the fact of 
 the resurrection, that the dead shall 
 rise again ; we pronounce no opinion 
 as to the final doom of the soul— we 
 do not say that we have a sure and 
 certain hope of the soul of the de- 
 parted individual being raised to eter- 
 nal life. Yet, in the spirit of that 
 Christian charity which " hopeth all 
 things," we express indeed a hope 
 concerning our departed brother or 
 sister, that they may rest in the 
 Lord ; but a mere hope is very dif- 
 ferent from a belief, or expectation, 
 or assurance. I mention this, be- 
 cause this part of the burial service 
 of the Church of England has been, 
 and still is, very much misunder- 
 stood, and misrepresented. Doubt- 
 less, as in the present instance, it is 
 the duty of the minister to offer up the 
 same prayer of faith over one whom 
 he had scriptural grounds for believ- 
 ing had died in the Lord, and over 
 another whom he had the same 
 grounds for believing had died in 
 the most unprepared state of soul 
 imaginable. And yet, he may, I 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 29 
 
 trust, utter the same prayer con- 
 sistently over both; for, as it has 
 been well observed, " there may be 
 different degrees of hope, the lowest 
 of which is but one remove from 
 despair*." 
 
 On the coffin being lowered into 
 its last resting-place, a by-stander 
 threw a flower into the grave— fit 
 emblem, I thought, of her, who, at 
 the youthful age of twenty-six, was 
 thus " cut down, dried up, and 
 withered." 
 
 I endeavoured to improve the me- 
 lancholy circumstance in my sermon, 
 which soon followed the ceremony, 
 the text of which was taken from 
 4th chap. 1 Ep. Peter, 18th ver. 
 " And if the righteous scarcely be 
 saved, where shall the ungodly and 
 the sinner appear?" 
 
 Such was the life, death, and bu- 
 rial of . If her simple, but 
 
 short, and I am sure, sad history, 
 (to the faithfulness of which I again 
 pledge myself,) should meet the eyes 
 of any parent who has neglected to 
 
 * Wheatley on Common- prayer. 
 
30 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 take what care is in their power, of 
 the souls of their children, oh Met 
 that parent take warning, lest the 
 awful fate of this young woman 
 should be that of any of his or her 
 children! Let them consider how 
 heavy a weight of responsibility lies 
 upon their own souls ! — And if any 
 child should read this sad story, let 
 hat child ask himself, " If I were 
 to die this night, in what state of 
 soul should I die ?"— May your life 
 and your death be different from that 
 of this poor young woman. Although 
 she was brought up in a day-school 
 and a Sunday school, yet she still 
 had an "evil heart of unbelief." I 
 would mention, in conclusion, that, 
 shortly after her funeral, I called 
 upon the old school-mistress of the 
 village, and asked her what sort of a 
 
 girl was, when she was* at 
 
 school? -Oh, Sir," she replied, 
 " we could do nothing with her— she 
 was so wicked a girl, she used to tell 
 the other girls that there was no such 
 place as heaven and hell."— Oh ! 
 could she now speak, she would 
 
OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 31 
 
 speak a very different language! 
 She would say, " As you would go to 
 Heaven, set out betimes in the morn- 
 ing of life, for it is a long and difficult 
 way to get there — as you would avoid 
 hell, flee from sin, for it is the short 
 and easy way to it,— the end whereof 
 is death, death to the body— death 
 to the soul." 
 
32 
 
 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 It was her first grief ! — and to those 
 who can understand the depth of a 
 mother's feelings, nearly the bitterest 
 that the heart can know. Lucy Ar- 
 nott, the gay and laughing mother of 
 two lovely girls, herself almost a girl 
 in looks, and alas ! a child in reli- 
 gious hope and experience, had, by 
 one of those rapid diseases which 
 seem to deride human skill, lost in 
 one week both these treasures. I 
 had heard from a neighbour of this 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 33 
 
 9 
 
 sad event, and though duty hade me 
 hasten to the house of mourning, I 
 went there with pain and reluctance, 
 for I knew how inconsolable must 
 be the sorrow of those who have not 
 sought religion as " a guide," before 
 they needed it as a "comforter." I 
 crossed the stile that separates the 
 garden from the lane, and opened the 
 cottage-door as softly as I could ; for 
 there is a feeling of respect which 
 affliction excites in the mind, which 
 prevents us from rudely intruding on 
 it. What a scene of sorrow met my 
 eye ! it seems still before me, though 
 years have passed away since ! The 
 mother, — her face pale with weeping, 
 
 and her hair and dress in disorder, 
 was sobbing and wringing her hands, 
 
34 
 
 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 in that agony of grief, which refuses 
 to be comforted; — the father was 
 sitting over against her, leaning his 
 head on his hand, with such a look 
 of angry and rebellious grief, as really 
 shocked me ; the aged grand-father, 
 from his station in the chimney 
 corner, was gazing on the scene 
 around with a look of stupid wonder : 
 — he seemed to have outlived his 
 faculties, and his fixed, yet vacant 
 gaze, seemed to show that joy and 
 sorrow had alike taken leave of him 
 for ever in this world ; the poor dog 
 who lay at his feet, seemed to have 
 a greater measure of feeling than his 
 master, and looked piteously around 
 him ; as I have sometimes noticed 
 
 in those sagacious animals. As 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 35 
 
 opened the door, the wretched mo- 
 ther started from her seat, and sob- 
 hing out, " My child, my child !" 
 would have hastily left the room. I 
 drew her back, and taking her hand in 
 mine, I tried to show my sympathy 
 in her sorrows, and listened, without 
 trying to check her, while she poured 
 forth the sad story of her loss. At 
 length, however, she seemed wearied 
 by the violence of her own emotions, 
 and willing to listen to any attempts 
 at consolation I could offer ; but, as 
 I have said before, the task is difficult 
 indeed, when the mourners have lived 
 hitherto without God in the world. 
 Oh ! would we but (as it is beauti- 
 fully observed in one of Dr. Arnold's 
 sermons,) "would we but present to 
 our Maker the offering of a free and 
 happy spirit;" would we but serve 
 him as our master, and seek Him as 
 our friend, before we need Him as our 
 " Comforter/' we should divest our 
 trials of the sharpest sting, remorse : 
 and the language of our hearts would 
 no longer be, " Art Thou come to call 
 my sins to remembrance, and to slay 
 
 c 2 
 
36 
 
 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 my son ?" but it would be " the Lord 
 gave, and the Lord hath taken away; 
 blessed be the name of the Lord." 
 The Bible is indeed full of comfort, 
 and of precious promises ; but it is a 
 dangerous presumption in those who 
 have neglected its threats and its 
 warnings to take to themselves its 
 consolations. I did not therefore 
 speak to Mrs. Arnott as I should have 
 done to one who had been leading a 
 religious life, but I rather endeavoured 
 to explain to her, that this severe af- 
 fliction was in fact sent on an errand 
 of mercy, to win her from the love of 
 the creature to the love of the Crea- 
 tor. I will not repeat all that passed 
 between us; — suffice it to say, that I 
 left her with the pleasing hope that 
 this trial would not be sent in vain,— 
 for her heart, softened by sorrow, 
 seemed at length to be touched by a 
 sense of its past sins, and though her 
 tears still flowed, they flowed not now 
 merely for the loss of her children, 
 but from a newly-awakened sense of 
 her sinfulness and ingratitude. The 
 husband, too, raised his head from 
 
THE FIRST GUIEF. 
 
 37 
 
 his hand, and though he spoke not, 
 he seemed to listen to what I said. — 
 
 My two next visits were still more 
 satisfactory ; I found Mrs. Arnott 
 each time alone, for her husband had 
 gone out to his usual work :— the oc- 
 cupations of the poor leave them no 
 time to give way to sorrow ; and per- 
 haps it is well that it is so ; for honest 
 labour, " as unto the Lord, and not 
 unto men," brings with it its own con- 
 solation. I found Lucy looking ill 
 indeed, and wretched, but seeming 
 careless of the sickness of the body, 
 and at length awakened to that fatal 
 sickness of the soul under which she 
 bad so long laboured; — her past life, 
 in which at the time she had seen no 
 harm, which she had thought quite 
 
38 
 
 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 free from sin, now appeared to her, 
 not indeed in its true colours, (" for 
 the knowledge of sin is often gra- 
 dual/') but in a very different point 
 of view from that in which she had 
 once seen it ; — the fleeting and tran- 
 sitory nature of the present life too, 
 seemed to open upon her, and the vast 
 importance of that which comes after 
 it. " But the light which first breaks 
 in upon a soul that has been hitherto 
 in spiritual darkness, is at first most 
 painful;" and so Lucy found it: — 
 " it is as if we had been walking at 
 midnight in fancied security on the 
 edge of a precipice; till the rising sun 
 changes our carelessness into horror, 
 by showing to us our real danger." 
 " Oh ! could I but find comfort," she 
 would often exclaim, as remorse and 
 sorrow filled her heart. " You will, 
 Lucy," I replied, " if you seek it. in 
 the proper way, and by the proper 
 means, of a thorough change of heart 
 and life, through the grace of God's 
 Holy Spirit, which is never withheld 
 from those who seek it earnestly; — 
 you will then feel that God is a God 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 39 
 
 of love, — now you know Him but as 
 a God of terror ; — but the work of 
 grace may be gradual, — you must be 
 content to tread the thorny paths of 
 religion, before you can hope to ga- 
 ther the flowers which yet, as you 
 advance, you will find thickly scat- 
 tered around you — meanwhile pray 
 and strive, that He who has begun a 
 good work in you, may continue and 
 perfect it. 
 
 Days passed on, during each of 
 which I spent an hour with Lucy. 
 She had always her Bible before her, 
 which now seemed her delight ; and 
 she told me with gratitude that she 
 had got her husband to join with her 
 in prayer, morning and evening. 
 
 I was returning one Sunday even- 
 ing from a walk which I had been 
 taking, to enjoy the beauties of that 
 delightful season when spring is just 
 blending into summer : — a thousand 
 sweet sights and sounds had kept me 
 out later than usual, till the village 
 clock struck nine as I entered the lit- 
 tle church-yard which divided me from 
 my home. It was almost dusk ; yet, 
 
40 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 as I walked on, the outline of a female 
 figure caught my eye, seated beside 
 
 a new-made grave. I doubted whe- 
 ther I should advance; when, as I 
 lingered, a faint sob broke on my ear, 
 and the words, " My child, my child!" 
 caught my attention. 
 
 It was Lucy's voice; — the fond 
 idolatry of sorrow had led her to the 
 grave where her children had been 
 buried, and she was strewing them 
 with flowers which she had gathered 
 from the fields. I came up to her, 
 and taking her hand, urged her to re- 
 turn home with me. She did not 
 speak, — she could not ; — but she 
 pressed her hand to her heart, as if 
 to show that there was a void there 
 which nothing could fill up. 
 
 It ill becomes us hastily to censure 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 41 
 
 the indulgence of a sorrow, which He 
 who sends it deigns to look on with 
 compassion : — I strove, therefore, ra- 
 ther to turn her feelings into another 
 channel, and to prove to her that she 
 had still an object of supreme affec- 
 tion ever present with her, — even 
 Christ the Lord ; and that He who 
 had taken from her her heart's trea- 
 sures, had only done so, that He 
 might fill the vacant place with His 
 own image. 
 
 A week passed away, during which 
 I was not able to see Lucy ; but the 
 excellent minister of our parish went 
 to her, and from him I knew that she 
 received better counsel than I could 
 have given her. 
 
 When I next called she was out ; 
 she had taken her work and had gone 
 to sit with a neighbour opposite, but 
 came over as soon as she saw me. 
 She looked better and more cheerful, 
 and began directly speaking of the 
 kindness of her neighbours, and how 
 they had tried to help and to cheer 
 her. She repeated, too, the advice 
 and instruction which our good Cler- 
 
42 
 
 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 gyman had given her, and expressed 
 again and again her earnest desire to 
 lead a new and holy life. On several 
 other visits that I made to her, I 
 always found her sitting with one of 
 her neighbours (people who had, alas! 
 little care for religion) at her needle- 
 work. There was no harm certainly 
 in sitting with a neighbour ; yet it 
 might lead to harm if it took up her 
 thoughts and attention, and fixed 
 them on this world instead of a bet- 
 ter. I thought it therefore right to 
 caution her. " You must not think, 
 Lucy," I said, " that I am insensible 
 to the kind endeavours of your friends 
 to comfort you, if I warn you against 
 a mistaken kindness which our friends 
 sometimes show us when they strive 
 to drive away our sorrows by gossip 
 and the idle tales of the world:— 
 hopeless grief is not indeed to be in- 
 dulged, but the religious thoughts to 
 which, through God's blessing, such 
 grief may give rise, are * that in the 
 multitude of words there lacketh not 
 sin/ and commune with your own 
 heart rather than with your neigh- 
 
THE FIRST GKIEF. 
 
 43 
 
 bours." I saw that Lucy received my 
 advice coldly, but I trusted that this 
 arose from a momentary feeling of 
 anger, which would soon go off; but 
 it was with real pain that I found, day 
 after day, when I either called on her 
 or passed her door, she was always 
 sitting with one of her neighbours ; 
 and the " says he" and " says she," 
 that I could not avoid hearing as I 
 passed, told me plainly, that idle gos- 
 sip was their theme. I saw this with 
 concern indeed ; for I now began to 
 fear that she would realize that awful 
 parable, St. Matthew, chapter xii. ver. 
 43. " When the unclean spirit is gone 
 out of a man, &c. &c. then goeth he 
 and taketh seven other spirits more 
 wicked than himself, and they enter 
 in and dwell there, and the last state 
 of that man is worse than the first. " 
 The " unclean spirit" of carelessness 
 and worldly-mindedness had indeed, 
 for a time, been cast out by God's 
 holy Spirit, blessing to this end the 
 affliction she had suffered. "The 
 house," that is, her soul, was for a 
 while emptied of worldly thoughts 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 and wishes. Oh ! can it be (T thought) 
 that she will not strive to fill it with 
 holy thoughts, and with " all the 
 fruits of the Spirit?" Can it be, 
 that, already weary of seeking Him, 
 ** in whose favour life is found," she 
 will turn again to the beggarly ele- 
 ments of the world ? If so indeed, 
 the evil spirits that have been cast 
 out will return with other spirits more 
 wicked still, and her " last state will 
 be worse than her first." I went to 
 her and told her all this, and prayed 
 her, as she valued her immortal soul, 
 not to resist the Holy Spirit, lest haply 
 he might depart from her for ever. 
 
 Time passed on ; summer gave 
 place to autumn ; the promise of 
 spring was fulfilling in the harvest 
 
THE F1KST GRIEF. 
 
 45 
 
 which was ready for the sickle; — 
 " the flowers which had adorned the 
 earth hath made way for the fruits 
 which were to enrich it :"— every 
 thing, in short, in Nature had advan- 
 ced ; hut, alas ! Lucy Arnotf s spiri- 
 tual improvement had not kept pace 
 with Nature, and she might have said 
 in the words of the prophet, " the 
 summer is past, the harvest is ended, 
 but I am not saved." I have seen 
 her very often : — I usually, indeed, 
 
 when I called, found her sitting with 
 one of her neighbours at work, but 
 she always left them to come and sit 
 with me ; and would talk, much more 
 indeed than she used to do, about the 
 honour I did her in sitting in her 
 poor place ; yet I saw, or thought I 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 saw, that it was the honour (as she 
 chose to term it) of my visits, rather 
 than the profit, that, through the 
 blessing of God, they might be of to 
 her, which she now thought of. 
 When I talked to her about her reli- 
 gious state, and reminded her of the 
 good resolutions she bad made in her 
 time of affliction, she would listen 
 with evident impatience, and often 
 interrupt me to tell of neighbour 
 such an one's daughter, who was 
 going to be married, or of the birth 
 or death of some one in the village, 
 till I took my leave, hopeless of fix- 
 ing her attention. All this was very 
 sad. Yet, thanks to the infinite 
 mercy of God, He does not let us 
 fall away from Him, without many 
 gracious recalls. He will not (if I 
 may use the expression) take our first 
 refusal of his offered mercies. Un- 
 like any earthly friend, " often griev- 
 ed, and often resisted, He returns to * 
 us in mercy, and will not utterly for- 
 sake us, till He has tried in vain 
 every means to bring us to Himself. " 
 Lucy's pious and excellent mother 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 47 
 
 came to pass a month with her, and 
 she joined her good advice to the 
 counsels of the Clergyman of our pa- 
 rish, but in vain ; Lucy listened at 
 first with remorse, and shed tears, 
 but this feeling soon changed into 
 indifference ; and, on her mother's 
 departure, she seemed to shun those 
 who were likely to give her good 
 advice, but was ever to be seen among 
 the idle and the gay. The spark 
 which God's spirit has lighted in the 
 heart is not easily extinguished, yet, 
 like all other flames, if unfanned, it 
 will at length go out. So it proved 
 in this instance. On my return 
 home, after an absence of nearly a 
 year, I asked after Lucy. I found 
 her, as to worldly things, much bet- 
 ter off; — she went out daily to iron- 
 ing, and got good wages ; — but alas ! 
 in the great concern of religion she 
 had indeed sadly gone back. She 
 was never to be seen at Church ; but 
 at fairs, and at all idle diversions, she 
 was constantly to be met with, where 
 the smartness of her dress and the 
 levity of her conduct, prove the truth 
 
48 THE FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 of what has often been said, that we 
 cannot remain as we are, but must 
 either grow better, or we shall surely 
 grow worse. 
 
 I often meet Lucy, gay and laugh- 
 ing, and seemingly contented ; but 
 her's is that false and hollow peace 
 "with which the devil tries to cheat 
 those whom he has ruined: 5 ' — her 
 thoughtless neighbours may call her 
 happy, but those who think at all 
 about eternity will reckon her far 
 more miserable than when, sitting 
 by the grave of her infants, her sobs 
 broke upon the stillness of night, and 
 she exclaimed in anguish, " my child; 
 my child !" 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Gilbert & Rivington, Printers, St. John's Square.