XXVI.
MAY 13.-THIS has been a Sunday to be held in long remembrance. We were summoned early this morning to Mrs. Campbell, and have seen her joyful release from the fetters that have bound her long. Her loss to me is irreparable. But I truly thank God that one more tired traveler had a sweet "welcome home." I can minister no longer to her bodily wants, and listen to her counsels no more, but she has entered as an inspiration into my life, and through all eternity I shall bless God that He gave me that faithful, praying friend. How little they know who languish in what seems useless sick-rooms, or amid the restrictions of frail health, what work they do for Christ by the power of saintly living, and by even fragmentary prayers.
Before her words fade out of my memory I want to write down, from hasty notes made at the time, her answer to some of the last questions I asked her on earth. She had always enjoyed intervals of comparative ease, and it was in one of these that I asked her what she conceived to be the characteristics of an advanced state of grace. She replied, "I think that the mature Christian is always, at all times, and in all circumstances, what he was in his best moments in the progressive stages of his life. There were seasons, all along his course, when he loved God supremely; when he embraced the cross joyfully and penitently; when he held intimate communion with Christ, and loved his neighbor as himself But he was always in terror, lest under the force of temptation, all this should give place to deadness and dullness, when he should chafe and rebel in the hour of trial, and judge his fellow-man with a harsh and bitter judgment, and give way to angry, passionate emotions. But these fluctuations cease, after a time, to disturb his peace. Love to Christ becomes the abiding, inmost principle of his life; he loves Him rather for what He is, than for what He has done or will do for him individually, and God’s honor becomes so dear to him that he feels personally wounded when that is called in question. And the will of God becomes so dear to him that he loves it best when it ’triumphs at his cost.’
"Once he only prayed at set times and seasons, and idolized good frames and fervent emotions. N9w he prays without ceasing, and whether on the mount or down in the depths depends wholly upon His Saviour.
"His old self-confidence has now given place to child-like humility that will not let him take a step alone, and the sweet peace that is now habitual to him combined with the sense of his own imperfections, fills him with love to. his fellow-man. He hears and believes and hopes and endures all things and thinketh no evil. The tones of his voice, the very expression of his countenance, become changed, love now controlling where human passions held sway. In short, he is not only a new creature in Jesus Christ, but the habitual and blessed consciousness that this is so.
These words were spoken deliberately and with reflection.
"You have described my mother, just as she was from the moment her only son, the last of six, was taken from her," I said, at last. "I never quite understood how that final sorrow weaned her, so to say, from herself, and made her life all love to God and all love to man. But I see it now. Dear Mrs. Campbell, pray for me that I may yet wear her mantle!"
She smiled with a significance that said she had already done so, and then we parted-parted that she might end her pilgrimage and go to her rest-parted that I might pursue mine, I know not how long, nor amid how many cares, and sorrows, nor with what weariness and heart-sickness-parted to meet again in the presence of Him we love, with those who have come out of great tribulation, whose robes have been made white in the blood of the Lamb, and who are before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple, to hunger no more, neither thirst any more, for the Lamb which is in the midst of the .throne shall lead them into living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
MAY 25.-We were talking of Mrs. Campbell, and of her blessed life and blessed death. Helen said it discouraged and troubled her to see and hear such things.
"The last time I saw her when she was able to converse," said she, "I told her that when I reflected on my want of submission to God’s will, I doubted whether I really could be His child. She said, in her gentle, sweet way-:
"Would you venture to resist His will, if you could? Would you really have your dear James back again in this world, if could?’
"I would, I certainly would," I said.
"She returned, ’ I sometimes find it a help, when dull and cramped in my devotions, to say to myself : Suppose Christ should now appear before you, and you could see Him as He appeared to His disciples on earth, what would you say to Him? This brings Him near, and I say what I would say if He were visibly present. I do the same when a new sorrow threatens me. I imagine my Redeemer as coming personally to say to me, "For your sake I am a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; now for My sake give me this child, bear this burden, submit to this loss." Can I refuse Him? Now, dear, he has really come thus to you, and asked you to show your love to Him, your faith in Him, by giving Him the most precious of your treasures. If He were here at this moment, and offered to restore it to you, would you dare to say, "Yea, Lord, I know, far better than Thou dost, what is good for him and good for me; I will have him return to me, cost what it may; in this world of uncertainties and disappointments I shall be sure of happiness in his society, and he will enjoy more here on earth with me than he could enjoy in the companionship of saints and angels and of the Lord Himself in heaven." Could you dare to say this?’ Oh, Katy, what straits she drove me into! No, I could not dare to say that!"’
"Then, my darling little sister" I cried, "you will give up—this struggle? You will let God do what He will with His own?"
"I have to let Him," she replied; "but I submit because I must."
I looked at her gentle, pure face as she uttered these words, and could only marvel at the will that had no expression there.
"Tell me," she said, "do you think a real Christian can feel as I do? For my part I doubt it. I doubt everything."
"Doubt everything, but believe in Christ," I said. "Suppose, for argument’s sake, you are not a Christian. You can become one now." The color rose in her lovely face; she clasped her hands in a sort of ecstasy.
"Yes," she said, "I can."
At last God had sent her the word she wanted.
MAY 28.-Helen came to breakfast this morning in a simple white dress. I had not time to tell the children not to allude to it, so they began in chorus:
"Why, Aunt Helen! you have put on a white dress!"
"Why, Aunty, how queer you look!"
"Hurrah! if she don’t look like other folks!"
She bore it all with her usual gentleness; or rather with a positive sweetness that captivated them as her negative patience had never done. I said nothing to her, nor did she to me till late In the day, when she came to me, and said:
"Katy, God taught you what to say. All these years I have been tormenting myself with doubts, as to whether I could be His child while so unable to say, Thy will be done. If you had said,’ ’Why, yes, you must be His child, for you professed yourself one a long time ago, and ever since have lived like one,’ I should have remained as wretched as ever As it is, a mountain has been rolled off, my heart. Yes, if I was not His child yesterday, I can become one to-day; if I did not love Him then, I can begin now"
I do not doubt that, she was His child, yesterday and last year, and years ago. But let her think, what she pleases. A new life is opening before her; I believe it is to be a life of entire devotion to God, and that out of her sorrow there shall spring up a wondrous joy.
SEPT. 2, Sweet Briar Farm.-Ernest spent Sunday with us, and I have just driven him to the station and seen him safely off. Things have prospered with us to such a degree that he has been extravagant enough to give me the use, for the summer, of a bonnie little nag and an antiquated vehicle, and I have learned to drive. To be sure I broke one of the shafts of the poor old thing the first time I ventured forth alone, and the other day -nearly upset my cargo of children in a pond where I was silly enough to undertake to water my horse. But Ernest, as usual, had patience with me and begged me to spend as much time as possible in driving about with the children. It is a new experience, and I enjoy it quite as much as he hoped I should. Helen is not with us; she has spent the whole summer with Martha; for Martha, poor thing, is suffering terribly from rheumatism and is almost entirely helpless. I am so sorry for her, after so many years of vigorous health, how hard it must be to endure this pain. With this drawback, we have had a delightful summer; not one sick day; nor one sick night. With no baby to keep me awake, I sleep straight through, as Raymond says, and wake in the morning refreshed and cheerful. We shall have to go home soon; how cruel it seems to bring up children in a great city! Yet what can be done about it? Wherever there are men and women there must be children; what a howling wilderness either city or country would be without them!
The only drawback on my felicity is the separation, from Ernest, which becomes more painful every year to us both. God has blessed our married life; it has had its waves and its billows, but, thanks unto Him, it has at last settled down into a calm sea of untroubled peace. While I was secretly braiding my dear husband for giving so attention to his profession as to neglect me and my children, he was becoming, every day, more the ideal of a physician, cool, calm, thoughtful, studious, ready to sacrifice his life at any moment in the interests of humanity. How often I have mistaken his preoccupied air for indifference; how many times I have inwardly accused him of coldness, when his whole heart and soul were filled with the grave problem of life, aye, and of death likewise.
But we understand each other now, and I am sure that God dealt wisely and kindly with us when He brought together two such opposite natures. No man of my vehement nature could have borne with me as Ernest has done, and if he had married a woman as calm, as undemonstrative as himself what a strange home his would have been for the nurture of little children? But the heart was in him, and only wanted to be waked up, and my life has called forth music from his., Ah, there are no partings and meetings now that leave discords in the remembrance, no neglected birthdays, no forgotten courtesies. It is beautiful to see the thoughtful brow relax in presence of wife and children, and to know that ours is, at last, the happy home I so long sighed for. Is the change all in Ernest? Is it not possible that I have grown more reasonable, less childish and aggravating?
We are at a farm-house. Everything is plain, but neat and nice. I asked Mrs. Brown, our hostess; the other day, if she did not envy me my four little pets; she smiled, said they were the best children she ever saw, and that it was well to have a family if you have means to start them in the world; for her part, she lived from, hand to mouth as it was, and was sure she could never stand the worry and care of a house full of young ones.
"But the worry and care is only half the story," I said. "The other half is pure joy and delight."
"Perhaps so, to people that are well-to-do," she replied; "but to poor folks, driven to death as we are, it’s another thing. I was telling him yesterday what a mercy it was there wasn’t any young ones round under my feet, and I could take city boarders, and help work off the mortgage on the farm."
"And what did your husband say to that?"
"Well, he said we were young and hearty, and there was no such tearing hurry about the mortgage and that he’d give his right hand to have a couple of boys like yours."
"Well?" - "Why, I said, supposing we had a couple, of boys, they wou1dn’t be like yours, dressed to look genteel and to have their genteel ways but a pair of wild colts, into everything, tearing their clothes off their backs, and wasting faster than we could earn. He said ’twasn’t the clothes, ’twas the flesh and blood he wanted, and ’twasn’t no use to argufy about it; a man that hadn’t got any children wasn’t mor’n half a man. ’Well,’ says I, supposing you had a pack of, ’em, what have you got to give ’em?’ ’Jest exactly what my father and mother gave me,’ says he; ’two hands to earn their bread with, and a welcome you could have heard from Dan to Beersheba.’"
"I like to hear that!" I said. "And I hope many such welcomes will resound in this house. Suppose money does come in while little goes-out; suppose you get possession of the whole farm; what then? Who will enjoy it with you? Who will you leave it to when you die? And in your old age who will care for you?"
"You seem awful earnest," she said.
"Yes, I am in earnest. I want to see little children adorning every home, as flowers adorn every meadow and every wayside. I want to see them welcomed to the homes they enter, to see their parents grow less and less selfish, and more and more loving, because they have come. I want to see God’s precious gifts accepted, not frowned upon and refused."
Mr. Brown came in, so I could say no more. But my heart warmed towards him, as I looked at his frank good-humored face, and I should have been glad to give him the right hand of fellowship, As it was I could only say a word or two about the beauty of his farm, and the scenery of this whole region.
"Yes," he said, gratified that I appreciated his fields and groves, "it is a tormented pretty-laying farm. Part of it was her father’s, and part of it was my father’s; there ain’t another like it in the country. As to the scenery, I don’t know as I ever looked at it; city folks talk a good deal about it, but they’ve nothing to do but look round." Walter came trotting in on two bare, white feet, and with his shoes in his hand. He had had his nap, felt, as bright; and fresh as he looked rosy, and I did not wonder at Mr. Brown’s catching him up and clasping his sunburnt arms about the little fellow, and pressing him against the warm heart that yearned for nestlings of its own.
Sept. 23-Home again, and the full of the thousand cares that follow the summer and precede the winter. But let mothers and wives fret as they will, they enjoy these labors of love, and would feel lost without them. For what amount of leisure, ease and comfort would I exchange husband and children and this busy home?
Martha is better, and Helen has come back to us. I don’t know how we have lived without her so long. Her life seems necessary to the completion of every one of ours. Some others have fancied it necessary to the completion of theirs, but she has not a greed with them. We are glad enough to keep her; and yet I hope the day will come when she, so worthy of it, will taste the sweet joys of wifehood and motherhood.
JANUARY 1, 1853.-It is not always so easy to practice, as it is to preach. I can see in my wisdom forty reasons for having four children and no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, of having a little time to read, and to keep on with my music; strength with which to look after Ernest’s poor people when they are sick; and, to tell the truth, strength to be bright and fresh and lovable to him—all these little joys have been growing very precious to me, and now-I must give them up. I want to do it cheerfully and without a frown. But I find I love to have my own way, and that at the very moment I was asking God to appoint my work for me, I was secretly marking it out for myself. It is mortifying to find my will less in harmony with His than I thought it was; and that I want to prescribe to Him how I shall spend the time and the health and the strength which are His, not mine. But I will not rest until till this struggle is over; till I can say with a smile, "Not my will! Not my will! But Thine!"
We have been, this winter, one of the happiest families on earth. Our love to each other, Ernest’s and mine, though not perfect-nothing on earth is-has grown less selfish, more Christlike; it has been sanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have borne together. Then the children have been well and happy, and the source of almost unmitigated joy and comfort. And Helen’s presence in this home, her sisterly affection, her patience with the children and her influence over them, is a benediction for which I cannot be thankful enough. How delightful it is to have a sister! I think it is not often the case that own sisters have such perfect Christian sympathy with each other as we have. Ever since the day she ceased to torment herself with the fear that she was not a child of God, and laid aside the sombre garments she had worn so long, she has had a peace that has hardly known a cloud. She says, in a note written me about the time:
I want you to know, my darling sister, that the despondency that made my affliction so hard to bear fled before those words of yours which, as I have already told you, God taught you to speak. I do not know whether I was really His child, at the time, or not. I had certainly had an experience very different from yours; prayer had never been much more to me than a duty; and I had never felt the sweetness of that harmony between God and I the human soul that I now know can take away all the bitterness from the cup of sorrow. I knew-who can help knowing it that reads God’s word?-that he required submission from His children and that His children gave it, no matter what it cost. The Bible is full of beautiful expressions of it; so are our hymns; so are the written lives of all good men and good women; and I have seen it in you, my dear Katy, at the very moment you were accusing yourself of the want of it. Entire oneness of the will with the Divine Will seem to me to be the law and the gospel of the Christian life; and this evidence of a renewed nature, I found wanting in myself. At any moment during the three years following James’ death I would have snatched away from God, if I could; I was miserably lonely and desolate without him, not merely because he had been so much, to me, but because his loss revealed to me the distance between Christ and my soul. All I could do was to go on praying, year after year, in a dreary, hopeless way, that I might learn to say, as David did, ’I opened not my mouth because Thou didst it.’ When you suggested that instead of trying to figure out whether I had loved God, I should begin to love Him now, light broke in upon my soul; I gave myself to Him that instant and as soon as I could get away by myself I fell upon my knees and gave myself up to the sense of His sovereignty for the first time in my life. Then, too, I looked at my ’light affliction,’ and at the ’weight of glory ’ side by side, and thanked Him that through the one He had revealed to me the other. Katy, I know the human heart is deceitful above all things, but I think it would be a dishonor to God to doubt that He then revealed Himself to me as He doth not to the world, and that the sweet peace I then found in yielding to Him will be more or less mine so long as I live. Oh, if all sufferers could learn what I have learned! that every broken heart could be healed as mine has been healed! My precious sister, cannot we make this one part of our mission on earth, to pray for every sorrow-stricken soul, and whenever we have influence over such, to lead it to honor God by instant obedience to His will, whatever that may be? I have dishonored Him by years of rebellious, carefully-nursed sorrow; I want to honor Him now by years of resignation and grateful joy."
Reading this letter over in my present mood has done me good. More beautiful faith in God than Helen’s I have never seen; let me have it, too. May this prayer, which, under the inspiration of the moment, I can offer without a misgiving, become the habitual, deep-seated desire of my soul:
"Bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. Take what I cannot give—my heart, body, thoughts, time, abilities, money, health, strength, nights, days, youth, age, and spend them in Thy service, O my crucified Master, Redeemer, God. Oh, let these not be mere words! Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire in comparison of Thee. My heart is athirst for God, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before God?"