The note book of a county clergyman

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MRS. SHERWOOD'S WORKS.

Chapter III. Joy In Sadness 218

MARRIAGE.

-" Your heart was hard I fear-

Indeed 'tis true

Truly friend, For aught I hear, your master shows to you More favour than you wot of. Mark the end. The font did only what was old renew ; The caldron suppled what was grown too hard. The thorns did quicken what was grown too dull. All did but strive to mend what you had niarr'd, Therefore be cheer' d, and praise him to the full, Each day, each hour, each moment of the week, Who fain would have you be, new, tender, quick."

Hebbekt.

MARRIAGE.

Chap. I. Early Days

A NICER looking couple than George and Mary Adams, never knelt together before the altar of our parish church to receive the marriage benediction. ■ Nor were there often seen in our village, more kind greetings than those with which they were welcomed as they left the porch. They were, indeed, both of them, general favour, ites. They had always lived amongst us ; and there was not a more good humoured open-hearted lad in the village than George Adams : he was industrious too in the main, except when he was drawn from work by a fair, a revel, or some other country gaiety. He was, upon the v/hole, sober ; though cheerful company and high spirits led him sometimes into excesses, of which he was heartily ashamed afterwards. He was strong, too, and active ; the cottage, of which he and his wife were to take possession, was adorned with many rustic luxuries — the fruits of his own recent providence ; or the gifts of approving friends. Altogether he was quite a prize in the village : and in the opinion of most around them, few were more to be envied than the mother of one who had drawn so high a number in the lottery of husbands, as had fallen to young Mary Adams. But this opinion, tljough general, was not universal ; and amongst those who did not entertain it, was one for whose full approbation of her marriage, Mary longed more than that of all the rest of the village together.

Her mother, who was now advancing in the vale of years, was one who had long learned to judge of matters by a very different rule from that which most of her neighbours employed. Perhaps it was that she had been early left a widow, by a husband whom she had loved even from her infancy. This, at least, was the reason always given in the village, for the alteration which they could not but observe in the dame ; she and her husband had been loved by all their neighbours, and when the evil day came, she had many thronging round her to give her comfort. All their kind endeavours, however, seemed to do her little good ; and she felt herself that she was happiest, when the door was shut at night ; and ^vhen, with the cradle, in Avhich little Mary

EAKLX DAYS. 17

slept, near her, she could take down her husband's Bible, and read the sweet words which it contained, whilst no one observed the tears which ran down her cheeks, or the hands which were often clasped together, as if in a struggle between grief and prayer. Her neighbours noticed bydegrees, how fond she seemed to be growing of this quiet life ; and they were afraid that, if she mused so much over her sorrov/s, it would turn her head. But there was no such danger truly ; she was always glad to see me, and many a joyful visit did I pay to her cottage. For the Lord had indeed touched her soul, and she had found that consolation which he only can give to the sorrowing heart. The voice of her Saviour's sympathy was what soothed her grief, and he was gently raising again the head of the bruised reed. She came out of the furnace of affliction purified by its fires. She was seen again in the village, and mixed with her neighbours ; and though a touch of seriousness might always be perceived in the tone of her spirit ; though now and then even a tear might start into her eye, and though she was not the same light-hearted, gleeful spirit that she had been before, yet no one ever found her make them sad by her company. If the gaiety was less loud in her presence, it was not less truly cheerful ; she was always welcome B2 every where ; but in sickness or in sorrow, no one else could be thought of: her coming was like the cool breeze to the fevered head ; like the first dawn in the night tempest. Many an eye, when it saw, blessed her ; many a spirit at the last day will, I doubt not, bless her again, as having been to them in sorrow and in sickness, of a truth the messenger of peace.

Many were the village suitors who contended for her hand, but to all of them she gave the same answer. It was always kind, though it left them no hope of ever succeeding, and they all went away her friends ; her only earthly care seemed to be to provide for her child, and hard did she work to maintain her in comfort. No cottage was so clean as hers ; and as she grew up, there was not a tidier or better instructed girl in the parish than little Mary. Even from her earliest years, she heard of God her Maker, and Christ her Saviour ; and her little hands were joined in prayer, night and morning, by her pious mother. It seemed that her labours and her prayers were not wasted ; for as little Mary grew up, her conduct made all who knew her, hope that she would be the staff of her mother's age. She was of a peculiarly gentle spirit, with a warmth of affection which secured the love of all who knew her. We hoped too, that there was more than this ; that she had indeed sought the God of her mother, and that the seed which was sown within her heart, though it might be checked at times by the waywardness of youth, would yet one day be ripened and matured to an abundant harvest. At the season of confirmation she was brought more especially under my care ; she was a ready learner of all that was to be learned ; and she seemed to feel deeply what ought then to be felt. She confessed the unworthiness of her best services, and with true sincerity she devoted herself to the service of her God. Nor did the impression pass away, as it too often does, " like the early dew." It would be impossible to forget the joy which beamed in the countenance of her widowed mother, when a few months afterwards, Mary, having finished a course of preparatory instruction, presented herself at the table of the Lord to seal her former vows. Aflier a while a place was fdtrad for her in an excellent family in the neighbourhood. — The parting with her daughter was hard to the mother ; but she had too long learned that the* ■oath of duty was truly the easiest to walk in, to hesitate for a moment upon the subject. Mary bore the highest character in her new situation. From time to time she visited her own village — and latterly the vigilant eye of affection had

20 EAELY DAYS.

detected symptoms which made her mother fear lest her spirituality of mind should be in some degree injured, by the loss of that assistance which had helped to support her at home, and by the presence of new difficulties and temptations. To other eyes there was not the smallest diflference. Mary was praised by all — and whilst the widow heard these commendations with thankful pleasure, her own apprehensions only led her to be yet more earnest in prayer for her beloved child.

At one of these visits it was observed that George was more than heretofore in her society, and her mother perceived that she was fonder of his company. She immediately spoke to her upon the subject ; for it had always been her endeavour to make her child her friend, and they had no secrets from each other. She set before her the character of George. She asked her ' whetheHie was one who would lead her in the narrow wR^?'

' Oh, my^hild,' she would say to her, ' you cannot well think what a hindrance it would be to you to be married to one who did not truly love your Master. I have seen many such matches ; and I never saw a happy one ; either the flame of godliness was damped, and for aught we could see, put out in the wife ; or it was through a sad and a bitter path that she walked. Never, my child^ never let me^ee you give your heart to one who does not fear and love God.'

Mary loved her mother ; she knew that she was right, and she resolved to act upon her'Opi. nion ; and when George soon after spoke >to her of marrying, she told him how her mother felt^ and added that she could never think of marry^ ing him. George promised that he would be a steadier man, that her mother should see him so much altered, that her objections would be given up ^ and Mary was not quite so firm in her refusal as she had been ; and though she would not withdraw it, yet George thought that he had ground for hoping that the day might come when she would. He loved her much ; and this was motive enough to lead him to be more attentive to all his duties than he had been. All the neighbours remarked how regular George was become at church, — how steady in his work ; whilst his alehouse friends tempted him in vain to join them ; he even stood pretty well the jeers in which their invitations ended.

During her occasional visits to her mother, Mary of course met him, and heard of his improvement. It was not without disquiet that the widow viewed the progress of his intercourse with her daughter. But she thought that the course which wisdom prescribed to her, was to

23 EABLY DAYS.

take no direct notice of the^atter. Her daughter, she was sure, saw in her silent observation of all that passed, abundant testimony of her unchanged opinions. There was, however, meanwhile a slow and gradual alteration in Mary's own feelings. She was becoming more and more attached to the young man. She could not exactly approve of/ her inclination to retract her refusal, but she had not strength of principle enough to act ^ up to what she knew to be right. Thus conscience was wounded ; and this, as it did not open her eyes at once to her real state, began directly to impair the spirituality of her mind. Indulged sin was beginning to separate between God and her soul. The next step was to endeavour to quiet conscience, first, by turning her eyes away wilfully from its suggestions ; and then, after a while, by discovering answers to them. It was when her mind was in this state, that her mother first renewed the subject with her.

' George Adams is much improved, my dear, during the last year.'

Mary, who was working near her mother, did not dare to look up ; but busying herself more earnestly than ever, merely answered, 'Yes, mother ; every body says how much better he goes on now,'

* Do you think, Mary, that there is any seriousness of mind about him V

' I should think so ; how regular he is at church !'

'It is easy to be regular at church, Mary, whilst the heart is not given up to God. Does he ever talk to you about what you used to love to speak of to me V

Mary's countenance crimsoned over, for conscience told her the full meaning of her mother's speech. The old woman laid down her knitting, and looking at Mary, said, ' Come, my dear child, you and I must always be frank with one another ; do you wish to change your mind about marrying George V

Mary made no answer.

' My dear child,' said the widow, ' you well know what my love is toward jq$i ; God grant that it be not too great. I fear that you have been by little and little changing your mind about him — and yet, Mary, is his heart changed ? Is he a companion fit for eternity ? Oh, my child, if you marry one who does not truly fear God, what sorrow will you bring upon yourself ! If you are, as I trust you are, one of God's children, you will bring many afflictions upon your head ; for you will need them to prevent your fixing your heart upon this world ; and oh, if it should be the means of drawing your heart away from God, and making you forget all you liave felt and resolved,' —

The old woman was stopped by the force of

■ ••her ^elmgs ; Mary too was in tears. She threw

her^ms round her mother's neck, and would

have promised her any thing, to comfort her

then.

' No, Mary,' sraid her mother, ' I would not have you promise me now any thing which you will hereafter repent of having said. Thinli over it, my child, and pray over it ; and I will speak for you to our minister about it, and he shall advise you what to do in the matter.'

Mary could not but consent to this, because it was her mother's wish, though she could scarcely bear to have it mentioned to another. For she could hardly hide, even from herself, the testimony of herlfcjgnscience, or the consciousness that her inclination was likely to prove too strong for her principles.

It was not long before the matter was mentioned to me, or before I found an opportunity of conversing with Mary. I could do little else than repeat her mother's warnings. The young man was undoubtedly improved for the time ; but there was no appearance whatever of any real change in his character, of his heart being converted to God ; and earthly affections, as I told her, were poor things to build upon for comfort

SUNNY DAYS. 25

here. How too could she expect happiness in a marriage with one who, if she sincerely wished to serve God, could have no community at all of feeling, in what must be most important in her eyes?

She took my advice kindly, with many tears ; and I believe many resolutions of acting up to it ; and we parted with an earnest prayer for her, that she might ' perceive what she ought to do, and also have grace and strength faithfully to perform the same.'

In less however than a year from this time, with a stifled conscience, and with the consent, though not- the approbation of her mother, she agreed to become the wife of Adams. When it was once settled, her mother wisely forbore all further opposition ; and she joined with me in praying that a blessing might still be vouchsafed to her beloved daughter.

Chap. II. Sunny Days

Adams and his wife were now established in their cottage, and all around them bespoke a more than ordinary degree of comfort. The widow was C

26 SUNNY DAYS.

often with her daughter, endeavouring to improve every thing to her spiritual good. Whenever I visited them I was always welcome, though I felt that Mary's manner was constrained towards me. I knew that this was owing to the uneasiness of her conscience, and the feeling that she had acted contrary to my advice, and to her mother's wish. Her religious character was evidently lowered. But it was, she perhaps thought herself, no more than the necessary effect of her increased cares and new situation. She hoped that some day or other she should be able to converse with her husband as she had been used to do with her mother, upon spiritual things. There were indeed times when conscience would speak ; when she was forced to cast restless glances inward ; and when the effect of this was visible in uneasiness of mind. But for the most part she was still evidently quieting conscience ; and external prosperity enabled her to do this the more easily. All things went well with her outwardly ; the affection of her husband appeared to be undiminished ; his habits of life in the main preserved their improved tone. He had work in abundance, and health to enable him to perform it ; and her children, of whom she had now three, were remarkably healthy and intelligent. Often would her pious mother remind her, that these days could not last forever, and exhort

STORMY DAYS. 27

her earnestly to be " laying up her treasure in heaven and not upon the earth." She would Hsten attentively to all that was said to her, but it evidently fell upon different ears than those which used to drink in the holy words of her beloved mother.

Chap. III. Stormy Days

It was shortly before the birth of her fourth child that these bright days began to cloud over. Her mother, who had been growing very infirm of late, fell really ill, and was confined entirely to her bed. Mary watched with a full heart her declining strength ; and nursed her with continual and careful affection. The old widow would often look upon her in silence for minutes together till the tears chased one another down her cheeks. Her great delight was to get her daughter to read the word of God to her. At last she said to her one day, ' Mary, I shall be but a short time longer with you, and I must tell you what my heart has long been full of. I fear, my girl, that your affections are being by little and little weaned from heavenly things. Your conscience has been

28 STORMY DAYS.

uneasy ; and this has made prayer, and reading God's book for yourself tiresome to you. Oh, Mary, remember how we have prayed together and read those blessed promises ; now listen to your dying mother, — there is nothing but these hopes which can bear up our souls when we come to die : then there is nothing in the world worth a thought, but being indeed at pedce with the great God through Jesus Christ. Pray that you may not be left to wander from God ; and when I am gone think over these things : return to God indeed, and beg of him, if you have done amiss, to enable you to come to him again, as a penitent child, through your Redeemer. And if he sends afflictions upon you — and I cannot help having a sort of feeling that troubles will come upon you — oh, do not let a hard heart keep you away from him ; but cast yourself before him ; and pray that you may be enabled to return to him. It may be. Mar}'-, that the troubles which he sends you will prove your choicest blessings.

She spoke more to her oftentimes to this effect while her strength lasted — for it was but a few days after this, that though her lips moved, and though her voice could be heard doubtless by the angel messenger who was waiting for the dying saint, yet to us who stood round her bed no sound was audible. Calmly and sweetly she breathed her last : — prayer was her latest occu-

STORMY DAYS. 29

pation — her eyes followed the daughter of her love, until it seemed as if they were fixed on something which we saw not — and then with her mild features kindling into the expression of praise, she peacefully yielded up her soul into the hands of her Redeemer.

As I knelt beside her bed in prayer with the family, and heard her daughter's heart-breaking sobs, earnestly did I pray that this might prove that loving correction which should bring back again the wandering child to her Heavenly Father. And such did seem to be its effect : the lessons which she had learned around her mother's bed, and over her open grave, were written deeply upon her heart. And had her husband been one who would have led her on, who can say but that even her burdened conscience would have found relief in her full return to her ' first and early love.' But all that she met with from Adams was in fact injurious to her. He endeavoured to dispel her grief, by leading her by degrees into amusement. * The wholesome lessons of sorrow were gradually effaced, the opportunity of good was lost — and this chastisement had evidently passed over her and left its purpose unfulfilled. In the season of affliction, she had resolved to attend again at the Lord's Table ; but before the next time when it was administered, the freshness of C2 her thoughts of good was passed, and the business of the family and other real difficulties appeared to her to be insuperable hindrances.

I saw less and less of her — she did not seek to meet me ; and though I hoped earnestly that the time might come when I could promise myself some benefit from my visits to her, I thought that this was not that season. The chilling frost had thrown its icy mantle over the upper surface at least of that fresh stream of affections which in youth had flowed so freshly. My trust was, that it might yet melt away, and leave the water to its true and happy motion.

Chap. IV. More Trials

The next few years of Mary's life were not marked by any uncommon feature : she had indeed some trials to which she had hitherto been a stranger. The last infant had never known the health with which her elder children had been blessed ; when about nine months old, it had suffered severely from fits — and many a bitter hour did its mother spend in watching over it. Like every true-hearted parent, she was taught by the

MgRB TRIALS. 31

voice of God within^ Her to love with deeper tenderness the sickly little one who needed all a mother's care, — she succeeded in keeping alive <|;he faints spark of life, and the bodily health of the child had of late strengthened, though all but its partial mother saw but too evident symptoms of the injury which her mind had sustained. She was not, however, yet of an age to make this painfully certain, and Mary never doubted but that restored health would leave her dai'ling clear of all infii-mity.

It was five years after her mother's death when sickness again visited her family. Her husband was attacked by a painful and lingering fever. It left him, after many weeks of harass, ing anxiety, feeble and dispirited. Times were hard, — and his lost time pressed heavily upon the spirits of Adams. He retui-ned to work with a heavy and desponding mind, — his rent was in arrears, and his landlord talked of finding another tenant, — his credit at the village shop was almost gone. He was not a man to bear up against such difficulties as these ; he had not the spring of true piety, which shews more nobly perhaps in the poor man struggling against the hard waves of the stormy sea of want, than in any other ordinary circumstances.

The cold weather came, and the little corner

32 MORE TBl||9.

of his garden which had a^i^ys held his stack of faggots was empty ; it was hard to see his wife aij children pinched by cold, and the hand of Adams was raised against his master's hedges. An inexperienced purloiner is commonly awkward, and the guilt of more cautious theft was laid upon him. — The consequence was, that he lost, after some angry words, a master whom he had long served — and set out with a soured temper to find (no easy matter) a new employer. After an idle day, as he passed sullenly by the public house, he heard in it the sounds of mirth, and almost without a thought he rushed into it. He was welcomed by some of his old companions ; their fare was forced upon him, and its effect upon one now unaccustomed to it soon drove from his mind the feelings of shame which had risen upon him when he found himself again where he had been so long a stranger.

In the corner of the fire-place, and next to Adams, sat one with whom he had never been on terms of intimacy. Lowe was a man who seemed always to have money at command and yet to do nothing wherewith to earn it ; — his character, therefore, was not of course good, and Adams had always shunned him : now, however, he was by little and little engaged in conversation with him : he had told him his difficulties — his wrongs — his

MOlte TEIALS. 33

want of work. iJc^e sympathized with him ; was indignant against his master ; and ventured at last, when, from Adams's raised tone it seeii&ed as if-his head was not altogether clear, to hint darkly that there were still means by which he might regain his former prosperity, and that honestly enough if he had the heart to make a venture ; — his hearer, however, shewed no inclination to take the hint, and Lowe was too crafty a tempter to shock his drowsy virtue by pressing him to take a step for which he was not yet prepared.

Adams declared his intention of seeking for work on the morrow at another farm, and returned home not entirely sober to his wife. It was a new and painful source of grief to her to receive him thus, though she tried to invent excuses for the weakness which she could scarcely hide from herself. Farmer Walton wanted no new hands, being scarcely able to keep on those whom he had got already ; and Adams turned homeward with a heavy heart, after another idle day. As he walked sadly home, the hint which Lowe had dropped, came often into his mind, and he felt half disposed to question him further upon the matter. — ' He spoke of getting money honestly,' said he to himself, ' besides, there can be no harm in hearing what he has got to say ; it will be time enough to refuse to liave a hand in it when I know better what it is.' But his conscience told him that there must be something wrong in it ; and he had just determined to have nothing to say to him, as he reached the door of his cottage. His melancholy looks told his wife that he had been unsuccessful ; and he perceived that something had been vexing her. ' Their landlord had been to see him — he had heard of his quarrel with his master ; feared for his arrears of rent, and ending by saying, that unless the rent was paid up by that day week, he should find another tenant.

Adams sat for a few minutes with his face buried in his hands ; and then rising, almost without saying a word, he left the cottage in spite of his wife's intreaties. He went straight to Lowe's, he was not at home — he was at the public-house — not choosing to speak with him there, Adams sent a little girl to fetch him home. They were soon in conversation ; and as Lowe perceived at once the state of George's mind, he opened to him his plans without hesitation.

He was a smuggler, — and he wanted assistance in his illicit trade. The vei-y next night he expected a cargo of spirits, if he could get men enough to man his boat and effect the landing of the tubs ; and he offered Adams a high price if he would give him his assistance. The bait was tempting ; to secure him for the first time, Lowe had offered him a large proportion of the expected profits.

* But you assured me that it was an honest way of getting money.'

< And is it not honest ? Do not I pay honestly for every drop ?'

* Yes, but the excise, Lowe ?'

* What right has the government to make me pay over again for it, when I have bought it like an honest man ? Besides, it is only fair play between us ; for if they can catch me, they do ; and if they can't, why then, the more's the luck.'

Adams had many scruples, but he was sorely tempted to comply. He thought of his wife and children, scarcely supplied with food and clothing ; he thought of his rent — of the next Friday when he must leave the cottage in which he had lived ever since his marriage — of the little garden where were still growing several flowers planted by the widow's hand — and he began to excuse his inclinations to sin, by thinking how great was his temptation.

Lowe saw that he was wavering, and dropped a hint as if he thought that Adams was afraid to go.