01.02. The Sleep of Death

The Sleep of Death

M ____ was born in K ____ , amid scenes of beauty such as few spots can rival. Though many of her ties to it were soon broken, never to be re-fastened, still, to the last, she loved it, as Mary might love Bethlehem, though her stay in it was brief, and her links to it were few.

She had early sorrows; but they went by and were forgotten. Once and again, in childhood, she was made to look upon the face of death— the death of dear ones; but no lesson for eternity did she learn from her early tears. The sister and the playmate were taken from her side; but God was not chosen to fill up the blank which, in such a case, even childhood feels, nor the Son of God resorted to as the portion of the soul,—sweeter than sisterhood, dearer than companionship, as truly fitted to satisfy the first unripe, uncertain longings of immortal being, as the larger, more definite cravings of the aged and the wise. To earthly relatives she clung the closer in the days of her early bereavement; but God was far away. From her tenderest years she threw herself upon the affection of others, cleaving to them firmly; by nothing wounded so sharply as by any slowness in returning her love. Timid and diffident, she did not make acquaintances rapidly ; but, when made, she held them fast. Wayward, sometimes even to selfishness, she would yet do or sacrifice anything for those whom she loved. Keen in feeling, and with a touch, it might be, of sullenness as well as warmth in her temper, she was yet honest and straightforward. She could not but be trusted by all who knew her, so conscientious was she, and without deceit. The family having removed to Edinburgh while she was yet young, she attended the Circus Place School, where she was marked by her good conduct as well as her great perseverance. In the spring of 18—, her family went to reside in France, accompanied by the dear friend to whom most of the letters in this volume were addressed. On neither side was there, in this friendship, the tie of grace. The intimacy was close indeed, but it was not "in the Lord;" and though of this friend, M____ could, in after years, say as Paul did of his kinsmen, "who also were in Christ beforeme," yet, during their sojourn in Paris, they "walked according to the course of this world."

M____ kept a diary then, and in it we read records such as the following. How strange would they seem in later years! "Sunday. Went to church in the forenoon. In the afternoon took a walk with J. W. and R. in the Champs Elysées."

Again, she thus records her worldliness:—"Went to a dance at General B____’s. Had great fun, and danced the whole evening."

Again, "Sunday, went with J. W. to see the Palais Royal. Took a walk in the Tuilerie Gardens."

She was not flippant or frivolous in her worldliness, for it was not in her nature to be so. Yet that did not make her love of vanity and gaiety less intense and cordial. It was as if she did not trifle even with these pleasures, but went the full round of them all, with the ardour which marked her character. The theatre and the ball-room she enjoyed. And these, with the novel or some light volume of the world’s literature, either French or English, filled up her hours.[1] She lived to herself, to the world, and to vanity. She was "without God." As a fuller illustration of the utter worldliness with which she was then encircled, a few extracts from the journal of a companion are added:—

"St Omers, June 13th.— Had lessons in Italian and French. 14th.—Went to chapel forenoon and afternoon; in the evening to the Grande Place, to hear the band. 21st Sunday.—Went to the cathedral to see the Fete de Dieu, the finest in St Omers. Saw a procession in the church. The music fine. All sorts of instruments. Went in the evening to hear the band in the Petite Place. 28th, Sunday.—Went to chapel twice. Went to hear the band in the evening. July 22d.—Spent the evening at ____. Dancing and cards. 23d.—

Got my first lesson on the guitar. August 18th.—Went to the opera with ____, and M____. Paris, October 4th.— Went to the ambassador’s chapel; after dinner walked to the Tuileries, then to the Palais Royal and had coffee. December 31st.— Went to a dance at Mr. B____’s, where I enjoyed myself very much. We brought in the New Year at the supper-table, and afterwards danced till four in the morning. January 3d.— M____ and I went to General B____’s, where a lady played. Mrs. B. sang, and the General and Monsieur D____ played chess, although it was Sunday. D____ came home with us, and we had a great deal of fun. January llth.—Went with M____ to the Italian opera, to Mrs. B____’s box. Heard ____ ; was delighted beyond measure. 12th.—Went with M____ to the Theatre de l’Ambigu Comique, and was very much pleased." Scenes like these are only recalled for the purpose of shewing, without concealment or extenuation, the character and early life of one for whom God had much grace in store.[2] It is by marking the contrast between her earlier and her later years, that we see the greatness of the Holy Spirit’s work, and the love of Him who "delivered her from a present evil world." Truly, in her case, "the grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant, with faith and love which is in Christ Jesus."

She was thus altogether "in the world," and "of the world." Of God, and Christ, and the endless kingdom, she knew nothing. The Bible was an unheeded volume, turned over, perhaps, once a week, when the Sabbath drew a cloud between her and vanity; but neither studied nor prized. Few could have been found further from God than she, more sunk in spiritual death; for "she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth" (1 Timothy 5:6). "All my happiness was confined to this world," is her own statement of her condition in these days of gaiety. It does not appear that she had ever looked into eternity, or called to mind the judgment of the great day. Her tastes and pursuits were earthly. Of religion, she had nothing. The love of the Father was not in her; and the cross of the beloved Son invited her eye in vain.

Two years after this she went to London on a visit to a near relative. There, for the first time, the Word broke in upon her dreams, and she awoke to the thought, "I am a sinner." She seems to have had, at this time, some pleasure in listening to the Word, for, in 1843, when writing to her friend, then in London, and attending Regent Square Church, she thus expresses herself: "I remember the church you go to, well; many a time have I sat in it with great delight. Strange, when I did not care for Jesus then!" But the gleam was momentary leaving, when it vanished, the darkness as deep as before. Her convictions were faint, and her inquiries after deliverance were but half in earnest. Her feet turned not to Calvary, nor did her eye light upon the cross. She saw neither the sin nor the Saviour, as he saw them who said, "in Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins according to the riches of His grace," and her consciousness of guilt passed off. She had not seen enough of sin to make her hate it, nor enough of Christ to win her love to him, nor enough of his blood to pacify her conscience truly, nor enough of the Father’s grace to afford her a resting-place or a joy; and so she went back to the world, or rather, let us say, she resolved not to leave it. Still, as ever, warm in her love, and firm in her attachments, and kind in word and deed, she sought her portion among the things that never filled a soul, nor healed a wound, nor dried a tear. Full of the buoyant life of youth, she was wholly "dead in sin." Endowed with excellent mental gifts, her imagination ardent, her temperament susceptible, her whole tone of thought high, she had not yet realised her responsibility, nor laid out one talent for God. The mind was cultivated, but the soul —it was left to the god of this world to make his own of. The world seemed bright to her, for she had not yet seen the brighter. She loved it, and sought her joy in it. For the human heart must have a world to live in; and if "the world to come" be unknown, then the soul betakes itself to the present, poor as are its pretensions to gladden or to satisfy. For, poor as it is, it does pass itself off for being fair and great, so that many are ensnared. Nay, and in these last days, it seems to deck itself with richer beauty in order to win the warm, fresh heart of youth more thoroughly to itself, and draw it away from God. Hardly can there be a sadder sight than the fascinated victim of pleasure. For all is so gay without, yet so hollow, so dark within. The mirth, the glitter, the dance, the song, "music’s voluptuous swell"—these are the enchantments! These are the excitements that tamper with the health of youth’s unripe affections, forcing into sudden growth the sensibilities of opening manhood and womanhood, before their time. These are the visions that lure the soul into a region of unrealities, where a false tone is given to life, and a feverishness infused into thought and feeling, which not only "costs the fresh blood dear," but which eats into the very vitals of spiritual being, increasing the distaste of the natural mind for all holy truth, and the terrible intensity of its enmity to God. And what a spell for the young and fervent! Yet how sad the spectacle! The light step is there, but it treads the way of death. You hear the joyous voice, but there is not a tone in it that could take up the new song. The flower-wreath decks the forehead; but wreaths are for the free and the victorious;— are they seemly for the bondman and the conquered? The flower and the fetter, the gem and the iron, the bud of spring and the mouldering leaf of autumn, the revel and the funeral, the brilliance of the gay hall and the blackness of the eternal darkness,—how painful, how awful the unlikeness!

O world, what a vanity,—what an infinite vanity! "With what an array of deceptions art thou furnished for beguiling the eye and heart of man! Wounding, but not healing the soul; emptying, but never filling; saddening, but never comforting; intoxicating, but never refreshing,— thou art able to cheat us into the belief that thou canst heal, and fill, and comfort, and refresh! Thus man is mocked; thus the young heart is cheated, mistaking the unreal for the real, and preferring the beauty of the creature, to the glory of Him who is fairer than the children of men."