Taking the Consequences: a book for the present day ... With a preface by the Bishop of Ripon

Preface

BY THE LORD BISHOP OF RIPON. MANCHESTER: PALMER & HOWE, i and 3 BOND STREET. LONDON : SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY. 1867.

PREFACE.

. TI^E learn from the Inspired Word, that in the " last days perilous times shall come." Surely there is enough in the aspect of passing events to warrant the con clusion that, judging from this sign, we are approaching the last days. Floods of infidelity and superstition have risen in their might against the ark of Christ's Church. Under the pretence of " intellectual progress," and the greater free dom of modern thought, the claim of the Bible to be regarded as the authoritative voice of God is virtually set at naught ; and this, not by men who honestly avow them- Preface. selves infidels, but by persons who, while pretending still to belong to the Church of Christ, assume the right to sit in judgment on revelation, and to call in question some of the most important articles of the Chris tian faith.

Such writers, in a tone of arrogant assump tion, charge the Bible with inaccuracies, deny the trustworthiness of men who wrote as they were moved by the Holy Ghost, and even venture to impugn the veracity of our blessed Lord himself. The result of all this is, that the faith of some is overthrown ; and many who are misled by such teachers of error are abandoned to doubt or despon dency, with no certain foundation upon which to stand for eternity. With equal zeal and activity others are endeavouring to corrupt men's minds from the simplicity that is in Christ. By these, the form of godliness is substituted for the power. A religion of outward display and Preface. V ceremonial is put in place of the gospel. External ordinances have their importance so magnified, that virtually they are made to supersede the necessity of a living union by faith with the Saviour, as the true way of peace and salvation.

Nor are we free from peril of another kind. Amongst professing disciples of Christ may be noticed the growth of a worldly spirit, leading to the utter neglect of the precept, " Be not conformed to this world." Are there not multitudes of professing Christians, fully alive to the danger of those sceptical opinions which pervade to a large extent the literature of the day — who look with unmiti gated displeasure on the attempt to undo the work of the Reformation, and to entangle us afresh with the yoke of bondage from which our Church and nation were delivered three centuries ago — whose conduct, nevertheless, is lamentably inconsistent, and can only be de scribed as a compromise between the claims VI Preface. of religion and the claims of the world ? In their case the prediction of our blessed Lord is verified, " The love of many shall wax cold."

Surrounded by such perils, we have need to " watch and pray always, that we may be accounted worthy to escape all these things that shall come to pass, and to stand before the Son of man." At such a period any treatise which clearly upholds the necessity of vital godliness, and a decided separation from the world, is of value ; and in the belief that the following pages may, by God's blessing, be profitable both for warning and instruction, I have cheerfully consented thus to introduce them to the notice of the reader. R. R. December 12, 1S66.

Introduction

. A MONGST the many questions of the present day, one very perplexing to a thoughtful mind is this : What has become of the boundary - line between the Church and the world ? In other days, remembered by the generation that is passing away, it was well marked, obvious to every man's eye, clearly definable by every man's con science ; now it recedes before us like the visible horizon. Our " fathers, where are they ? " Where are the old " landmarks," of which they told us ? Is it that the Church has leavened the world ? or has the mighty tide of worldliness Introduction. VIII carried away the ancient breakwater, and swept over the Church ? If so, One only can arrest its course, but it pleases Him to work by human means. A mariner carefully sounding the great deep, is powerless to re move the hidden rock that had almost wrecked his vessel, but he does good ser vice if he fasten there some warning signal to point other ships to a safer channel ; it is but a small thing, yet it may incite others to do the same on a wider scale, and save many a gallant bark from destruction.

The following pages, containing not a few sketches from real life, will, by God's blessing, have done their part, if they call forth " winged words " from abler pens, on a sub ject of ever-growing importance. Year by year worldliness seems to be bringing stronger influence to bear on Chris tian homes, in such vital points as the man agement of our households, the training of our children, the choice of professions for our Introduction. IX sons, and the marriages of our daughters, — questions which, in some of their far-reaching issues, may affect not only the rising generation, but each succeeding one, till the final consummation of all things. Coppenhall Rectory, Nov. 1866. b CONTENTS. CHAP. page I. THE MARRIAGE. — A TELEGRAM, . I II. EMMA MONTAGUE, . . . 21 III. EARLY TRAINING, • • - 33 IV.

ELMWOOD RECTORY, ... 45 V. A VISIT, ..... 58 VI. DANCING, .... 69 VII. NEVER TO BE RETRIEVED, . . 76 VIII. EDITH'S ILLNESS. — DARK SECRETS, . 86 IX. A NEGLECTED WARNING, . . Ill X. ONE OF LIFE'S CHANGES, . .126 XI. SCHOOL LIFE, . . . -153 XII. A HEAVY BLOW, . . . 170 XIII. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT, . 1 87 XIV. DEPARTURE, ... . . 200 XV. A HEAVIER BLOW, . . . . 209 XVI. FRANK, ..... 219 XVII. LIFE AT D , . . . .233 Contents. XII CHAP. PAGE XVIII. PARENTAL ANXIETIES, . . . 248 XIX. REUNION, .... 264 XX. A LETTER IN TWO HANDWRITINGS, . 284 XXI. RELEASE, .... 294 XXII. HOME LIFE AT ROEHAMPTON, . . 313 XXIII. CONCLUSION, ....

Chapter I. The Marriage

— A TELEGRAM. " For better, for worse." s T was evening ; the evening of a day full -*- of interest to the inhabitants of the vil lage of Elmwood. The church bells had rung since early morning in honour of the marriage of one who had endeared herself to rich and poor, which her position as the eldest daughter of the rector, the Rev. Alfred Scott, had given her many opportunities of doing. The bride and bridegroom had taken their departure ; the school-children and many of their parents had enjoyed a fete prepared for them ; the tired ringers had quitted the A church ; and now the last wedding guest was gone, and all was quiet in the home that numbered one daughter less. Her brothers and sisters sat talking over the events of the day; their father withdrew to his study, and opened a favourite old folio; but many a time he paused in his reading to think of the beloved child whom he had just given into another's keeping, and to say, "God bless my dear Eliza."

The mother was alone in her own room, in prayers and tears seeking to cast a heavy care on One whom we never seek in vain. Even her most intimate friend might have wondered that she wept whilst all around her were rejoicing; but hers was no selfish grief caused by the separation from a cherished child ; she loved her with an affection too true and deep for selfishness. The temper, disposition, and prospects of her new son were all that she could desire, for Frank Montague, a young barrister of rare ability, was esteemed and liked by all who knew him, and his character stood high. Early religious training had done everything for him that human efforts can ; for his pa- — A Telegram. 3 rents had lived what they taught. It is far from easy to do this in every-day life ; but it is much more important to a father to be consistent in his son's eyes than even in those of his churchwarden or his client.

The young are keen observers, and merciless judges ; apt to reason thus, — " Papa says the world is dross ; but he cannot really think so, or he would not have been so angry when I broke a cup." Frank Montague's parents were now at rest for ever ; he often thought of them with deep affection, remembered their counsel and example, and for their sakes he reverenced religion ; but at this point he stopped — human teaching can go no farther. His idol was ambition. All that he had achieved at college and elsewhere seemed merely the scaffolding of his future eminence ; after each advance the voice that rang in his ear was still " Excelsior ! " — but it was earth's "Excelsior" — he had no higher thought. He strained every nerve, with un tiring energy and perseverance ; he was ever seeking, ever finding, but he sought not, he found not, God.

If we could imagine some planet to have strayed from its centre of attraction, to have lost its way in infinite t space, it would be an apt emblem of one who was ever receding farther from the soul's centre — God. It was some such thoughts as these that called forth the mother's tears — her heart misgave her. She had earnestly sought to train her children for God's blessed service, and had fully believed that with this trea sured daughter all was well. Often during their brief engagement she anxiously in quired the grounds of Eliza's confidence in Mr Montague's religious principles, and was reminded of his upright life, of the general esteem in which he was held, of the tender reverence with which he always spoke of his mother, or of the words he had one day used, " I want you to be just such a wife to me as she was to my father."

The mother listened, but sighed ; " all this availed her nothing," because it did not touch the root of the matter ; she knew it was all true, but it did not satisfy her. On one occasion Eliza said, " If he were — A Telegram. 5 the worldling you fear, mamma, I think he would have chosen a rich wife to help him on in the world, instead of selecting me, when any duke's daughter might have been proud to have him." This seemed a fair argument ; but Mr Mon tague was not the man to owe his position to a wife. Mrs Scott told her future son-in law some of her anxieties. He replied with winning courtesy, " I think, I hope, that you may trust me with her. I can truly tell you that her religion is one of her charms in my eyes." Such was really the case ; indeed, he fully intended to become a Christian himself at some time ; but he did not see his way clearly to it just yet.

Nor was he likely to do so — the mists of worldliness were ever around him. Eliza attributed his reserve in speaking on such subjects, not to indifference, but to a high-minded integrity which led him to say less than he felt, through the dread of saying more. In such circumstances woman's love " believeth all things :" and she augured equally well from what he said, and from what he did not say. By those who have not watched the con tradictory workings of the human heart, it may be questioned how far Eliza's excellent father would be influenced by worldly con siderations in so weighty a matter : but few things elude our grasp more readily than our own motives. Moreover, it is no easy task to silence the pleadings of worldliness ; we often think we shall not hear them any more, but again and again while life lasts, the voice silenced for a moment, begins "to discourse most eloquent music."

The event ful day arrived, and they solemnly vowed "to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony," till death should part them. No shadowy glimpse into the future, no presentiment of possible sorrow, clouded either mind even for a moment. At the close of the wedding-tour they reached their home, a pleasant house in Bel grave Square. That evening they sat to gether in the library, after a minute inspec tion of each room and its belonsnno-s " How does my wife like her new home ? " " She likes it dearly," was the reply. — A Telegram. 7 " You look tired, little one ; you had better go to your room, and prepare for rest." " I will as soon as we have had prayers." " Prayers ? " inquired Mr Montague. "Yes, dear Frank, it is quite time;" he stopped her as she laid her hand on the bell.

" You never stipulated for prayers, my dear." " I did not know it was necessary, Frank ; you know I have been accustomed to them all my life ; please let me find a church ser vice, and ring the bell." " Wait a moment. I should not like to begin family prayers unless I could have them regularly." " Why can we not have them regularly ?" " Because in the morning I am often much hurried ; and at night we shall frequently have visitors, or engagements from home, when I have leisure for any such relaxa tions." Eliza began to argue the point with some warmth, but he waived the discussion, saying that he had important letters to write ; and added that if she could not be happy without family prayers, she might read them to her maids in her boudoir as many times a day as she pleased. Poor Eliza ! she went up-stairs with a sinking heart ; this was the first time that her will and her husband's had crossed, and it was not pleasant to find that even when he was manifestly in the wrong, his was the stronger.

During the honeymoon her wish had been law to him in everything ; and she fancied in her ignorance that it would always be so, little dreaming of the discipline that married life for the first year or two generally is to the wife, perhaps in a modified degree to the husband also ; for, he too, if he desire to possess his wife's heart, must exercise self control and tender forbearance. For one who has been a cherished daugh ter at home, the lesson is a really hard one. She must learn to give up her will without thinking it a sacrifice — she must study her husband's character, and ways, and tastes, and even his whims and fancies : yet without appearing to be always watching him. She must not be surprised to perceive that his profession usually seems his first earthly ob- — A Telegram. 9 ject : and instead of feeling a contemptible jealousy of his work, because it engrosses his time and thoughts, she should only care to know that in all things he is seeking to do the Master's work and will.

She must feel it no slight to be for many hours in the day alone, and even forgotten ; and should some hasty word at parting have chafed her, let her reflect that he probably forgot having uttered it before he had turned the nearest corner : so that the absence of a welcoming smile on his return would surprise as well as grieve him. She must teach herself to understand that men when irritated say far more than they mean, and thus she will not feel aggrieved by a few hard unjust words. Above all she must take care never to let temper meet temper ; for if there must needs be anger, (and offences will come sometimes, especially at first whilst each is a stranger to the other's inner life,) it is all important that only one should be angry at a time. To the true loving wife, who thus acts during the first trying years of married life, the rest will be comparatively easy, when her little bark is no longer sailing on unknown seas : and sooner or later there comes a recompense beyond her hopes ; slowly, but surely, she becomes far dearer than in her bridal days, and, whatever be her life's trials, she knows that "the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her:" a joy with which no stranger intermeddles.

But other thoughts than these kept Eliza waking that night. Deeper than the pain of being for the first time thwarted, lay the pang of misgiving, the half-awakened dread lest her mother's fears had been better founded than she had believed. However, she turned quickly from the thought, resolv ing to make religion so attractive in her own conduct as speedily to win him over, if he were not already won ; and full of the flatter ing idea of being the instrument in so good a work, she resolved to postpone the question of family prayers for a few weeks, till they had become settled in their new home — little thinking that each day's delay increased the difficulty. Poor young wife ! she miscalcu lated on every point, her own steadfastness and strength most of all. How different — A Telegram. 11 would her life's history have been had she at this critical moment, in conscious weakness, cast herself upon Him who never fails us, even in the perplexities which we bring upon ourselves.

Meanwhile Mr Montague sat at his writing table, his eyes fixed on a letter which he was trying to read, but its contents failed to reach him : memory was busy, calling up a far different scene — a low wainscoted room lined with books, and a lamp shedding its light on a venerable head bent over an open Bible. He recalled the very tones of his father's voice as he read, and his thoughts went back from one scene to another to the times of his earliest recollections, when to ring the prayer-bell had been one of his childish privileges. And now he was master of his own house, and had just forbidden its being rung. Memory and conscience smote him, and he felt his wife was right, though, like most husbands, he was conscious of a dis inclination to tell her so. At length he resolved to yield to her request if she re newed it, but not to propose the concession unasked.

Thus time went on : it took weeks, almost months, to get "settled ;" and by that time both became accustomed to a home with no family altar. The size and elegance of her house gratified her much ; and for some weeks she was never weary of admiring the various luxuries around her. By degrees, however, the fear arose that they might be living beyond their means, and she anxiously questioned her husband on the subject. " Certainly not beyond our means," was his reply ; " I have an utter horror of debt." " But is it wise to live quite up to our in come ? " " Do not trouble your head about that, my prudent little wife ; business matters are out of the province of ladies." The force of this argument is so rarely apparent to the feminine intellect, that Mrs Montague naturally rejoined, " I should much prefer living more economically, and laying something by for future wants."

" My dear Eliza, I have insured my life, so in any contingency you are provided for." — A Telegram. 13 He spoke rather peremptorily, as husbands, consciously in the wrong, are sometimes apt to do. With how sharp a pang he remembered it all in days to come ! The words and the tone grated on her ear, for she had not been thinking of herself at all. He saw a shadow cloud her brow for a moment, and said, " Listen, my dear one. In some pro fessions, especially my own, to seem pros perous is a means of becoming so. To succeed in the world, a man must appear to have succeeded.* Nor is it any deceptive appearance in my case, for my income in creases every year." Some of his remarks contrasted strangely with the teachings of her early home, but she listened with deep attention, and with a loving wife's ready reliance on her husband's judgment.

To do him justice he never deliberately intended to weaken her religious impressions, or to teach her lessons of worldliness. He rarely accompanied her to church except on Sunday morning ; but if he saw her preparing * " Pour s'etablir dans le monde, on fait tout ce qu'on peut pour y paraitre etabli." — M. de la Rochefoucauld. to attend evening service on a wet night, he merely raised his eyebrows, and said, " Going to church in the rain, Eliza? Well, do as you think best." Yet the harshest opposition would have done her infinitely less harm than the half smile, the gentle banter ; for whilst he was really though unconsciously bringing to bear upon her the mighty " power of littles," she never suspected that such trifles as a look, a tone, a gesture, were influencing her at all. Harshness and opposition would have made the good seed strike deeper root : trouble would have led her to prayer, and prayer would have brought strength.

In stead of this she was beginning to pride herself on her consistency, whilst the world was daily gaining a stronger hold upon her ; fascinated by her husband's powers, and yielding implicitly to the mastery he had obtained over her mind, she only sought, as wives often do, to mould herself to him. Some things roused her occasionally to a momentary consciousness of the change that — A Telegram. 15 was taking place in her inner life. She be gan to find it hard to answer her mother's loving earnest letters ; feeling a restraint and perplexity for which she could scarcely account ; till the satisfactory idea occurred to her that as letters were now the common property of her husband and herself, it must needs be less easy to write what would bear the scrutiny of two minds ; forgetting that this did not embarrass her in the least when writing to her brothers or sisters.

She often found herself glancing at her watch whilst reading her Bible, or at prayer ; she would on no account abridge the time, but it grew a little tedious ; she seemed to have much less to tell her Heavenly Father — fewer sins to deplore, fewer temptations to struggle against — in truth, she was not strug gling, and therefore all unconscious of the current on which she was drifting. Her thoughts were constantly dwelling on her husband's plans and prospects ; and any guests were welcome who could promote his views. At first their worldly tone of conversation used to jar upon her ear, but she soon grew accustomed to it, and learned to think and speak as they did. A few months after her marriage, one of her sisters wrote — " Dearest Eliza,— We are rather anxious about dear mamma, who has been confined to her bed for two days.

We hope it is only a severe cold, so do not be uneasy ; you shall hear immediately if there are any un favourable symptoms. She is continually talking about you Your loving sister, EDITH." Mrs Montague was engaged to accompany some fashionable friends to a dress concert. She would gladly have stayed at home that evening, for a presentiment of coming trouble weighed upon her heart, after reading her sister's letter, but her wish was overruled and she went. She loved music passionately, but that night she heard as if she heard not. The gentle tones of her mother's voice, "talking continually of her" kept sounding — A Telegram. 17 in her ear. During her absence a telegram arrived, and was brought to her in the con cert-room by one of her servants. She opened it with a trembling hand, and read, " Come directly — she is in great danger."

She rose instantly, but the crush that even ing was so great that it was long ere she reached the entrance, and still longer before a carriage could be procured. At length she reached home ; her husband had gone into the country on important business, and would not return till the next day. So she enclosed the telegram in an envelope to be given to him on his arrival, hurriedly changed her dress, and without lingering for rest or refreshment, re-entered the carriage and was driven to the station. The clocks struck the hour of midnight as she approached its bril liantly-lighted entrance, and heard the sound of a coming or departing train. "Faster, faster," she called in an agony, but it was too late ; she alighted, found an empty plat form, and saw the red light of a receding train a quarter of a mile off.

"Just gone, ma'am," said a porter cheer- B fully, right glad that his long day's toil was over ; " good fire in the waiting-room." "Stop," she faintly said; "when is the next train to E ?" "2.30; — but it is a stopping train, much longer on the road than most." Sad and desolate she turned to the waiting room, telling her servant to come to her in two hours. She longed to be alone with her sorrow, and throwing herself on a sofa she wept bitterly till she was at length sum moned to the train. There she grew more composed — the sight of the stars looking down in their calm majestic grandeur on earth's restless turmoil seemed to tranquil lise her ; as though the voice of nature said, " Hush, be still — there are unnumbered worlds where earth's rudest shocks are all unfelt." Their glorious beauty was not unmarked even in the dying chamber.

Some one had drawn up a blind to see if the carriage were approaching, and was about to let it down again, when the mother said, " Leave it as it is — I may see those stars to-morrow from the — A Telegram. 19 other side." Her husband, who had just offered up for her the exquisite commenda tory prayer, repeated a verse she greatly loved of Bonar's — " Not many more of life's slow-pacing hours, Shaded with Sorrow's melancholy hue ; Then what a glad ascending shall be ours — Then what a pathway up yon starry blue ! " Oh yes, a glad ascending to that home where He is gone before, my Saviour. I have only one wish left, to see my first-born dar ling child ; to tell her — charge her— to keep herself unspotted from the world." A few murmured words of prayer, and then she spoke no more ; but her eyes turned wistfully to the door each time it opened.

In the cold cheerless hour preceding the wintry dawn, Mrs Montague reached the station where the carriage had been waiting half the night. " Is she alive ? " " She was, ma'am, four hours ago, when I left, but they thought she could not live till morning." Half-an-hour later the watchers in the silent room heard the carriage coming at full speed ; and in another minute she who, six months before, had quitted her childhood's home a happy bride, re-entered it to stand be side her mother's death-bed. Too late now: — no smile of welcome greeted her; consciousness was over, life ebbing fast. " Speak to her, Eliza, perhaps she may know your voice ; she has wearied for you all night long, and was talking of you not an hour ago." " Mamma ! dear, dear mamma!" The pathetic cry rang through the hushed chamber ; but there came back no answering voice nor look.

Oh, mighty power of coming death ! One half hour before she would have been clasped to the heart that had yearned for her with such deep mother love to the last. Presently there crept over the peaceful face that chill, gray shadow that falls but once: — then it slowly faded, and she saw " Another morn than ours."

Chapter II. Emma Montague

" A child is a tender thing ; it must be handled tenderly." ' I shockof sudden bereavement, and her -* mother's dying message, made a deep impression on Mrs Montague ; and for many months after her great loss she lived in com parative retirement, and found more time for thought and prayer. But, as those of us well know who have followed our holy and beloved dead to their quiet resting-place, after a longer or a shorter interval, varying greatly according to individual character and circumstances, they be come no longer our ever-present thought. At first, for months, sometimes for years, we are always living the past over again, which they and we lived together ; or follow ing them as far as we can to the home where they are gone to dwell ; or trying to shape our daily life so as to carry out their plans and wishes, wondering, not whether they love us still, for who can for a moment doubt it? but whether they know how we are occu pied, or hear of us from time to time, as friend after friend departs to join them.