THE DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER
BY LEGH RICHMOND
Preface
There is many a good book the value of which depends upon the
context of current thought at the moment of its first publication. Like the
primrose which bedecks the woods and lanes, they please for a few weeks and then
disappear, but now and then a writer finds his heart, his pen, his very soul
touched with an urge to record events of eternal significance. Such an
inspiration seized the spirit of Legh Richmond as he gave to posterity an
account of the life of the Dairyman’s Daughter. Her name, her surroundings, her
conversion and death were related with such power that literally millions of
copies were sold prior to 1853 to satisfy the demand, and numbers of men, women,
and children were brought to the Lord by this humble means.
In commending this new edition I would give just one instance
of a man who came to a knowledge of salvation through a perusal of the pages of
the book.
A clergyman who had a grudge against the first publishers
secured a copy with the sole aim of criticizing and exposing its defects. As he
read, however, he was so arrested by interest of the story and so penetrated by
the power of the truths which it contained “that the pen of criticism dropped
from his hand, prejudice was charmed into admiration and he was added as another
trophy of that grace which had shone so brightly in the life and death of the
Dairyman’s Daughter.”
May many who turn the leaves of this new edition know as did
the Dairyman’s Daughter what it is to be “born again” and cry VICTORY at the
last.
Geoffrey Williams
The Evangelical Library; London,
England.
Memoirs of Legh
Richmond,
by
T.S. Grimshaw.
An Authentic
Narrative
It is a delightful employment to trace and discover the
operations of divine grace, as they are manifested in the dispositions and lives
of God’s real children. It is peculiarly gratifying to observe how frequently,
among the poorer classes of mankind, the sunshine of mercy beams upon the heart,
and bears witness to the image of Christ which the Spirit of God has impressed
thereupon. Among such, the sincerity and simplicity of the Christian character
appear unencumbered by those fetters to spirituality of mind and conversation
which too often prove a great hindrance to those who live in the higher ranks.
Many are the difficulties which riches, polished society, worldly importance,
and high connections throw in the way of religious profession. Happy indeed it
is—and some such happy instances I know—where grace has so strikingly supported
its conflict with natural pride, self-importance, the allurements of luxury,
ease, and worldly opinions, that the noble and mighty appear adorned with
genuine poverty of spirit, self denial, humble- mindedness, and deep
spirituality of heart.
But in general, if we want to see religion in its purest
character, we must look for it among the poor of this world who are rich in
faith. How often is the poor man’s cottage the palace of God!
Many of us can truly declare that we have there learned our most valuable
lessons of faith and hope, and there witnessed the most striking demonstrations
of the wisdom, the power, and the goodness of God.
The character which the present
narrative is designed to introduce to the notice of my readers, is given
from real life
and circumstance. I first became acquainted with
the dairyman’s daughter by the reception of a letter, a part of which I
transcribe from the original, now before me.
“REV. SIR—I take the liberty to write to you. Pray excuse me,
for I have never spoken to you. But I once heard you preach at Arreton church. I
believe you are a faithful preacher, to warn sinners to flee from the wrath that
will be revealed against all those that live in sin and die impenitent.
“I was much rejoiced to hear of those marks of love and
affection which you showed to that poor soldier of the S. D. militia. Surely the
love of Christ sent you to that poor man; may that love ever dwell richly in you
by faith. May it constrain you to seek the wandering souls of men, with the
fervent desire to spend and be spent for his glory.
“Sir, be fervent in prayer with God for the conviction and
conversion of sinners. He has promised to answer the prayer of faith, that is
put up in his Son’s name. ‘Ask what you will, and it shall be granted you.’
Through faith in Christ we rejoice in hope, and look up in expectation of that
time drawing near, when all shall know and fear the Lord, and when a nation
shall be born in a day.
“What a happy time, when Christ’s kingdom shall come! Then
shall his will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Men shall be daily fed with
the manna of his love, and delight themselves in the Lord all the day long.
“Sir, I began to write this on Sunday, being detained from
attending on public worship. My dear and only sister, living as a servant with
Mrs.——, was so ill that I came here to attend in her place, and on her. But now
she is no more.
“She expressed a desire to receive the Lord’s supper, and
commemorate his precious death and sufferings. I told her, as well as I was
able, what it was to receive well as I was able, what it was to receive Christ
into her heart; but as her weakness of body increased, she did not mention it
again. She seemed quite resigned before she died. I do hope she has gone from a
world of death and sin to be with God for ever.
“My sister expressed a wish that you might bury her. The
minister of our parish, whither she will be carried, cannot come. She dies on
Tuesday morning, and will be buried on Friday or Saturday, whichever is most
convenient to you, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Please to send an answer
by the bearer, to let me know whether you can comply with this request. “From
your unworthy servant, “ELIZABETH WALLBRIDGE.”
I was much struck with the simple and earnest strain of
devotion which the letter breathed. It was but indifferently written and spelt;
but this the rather tended to endear the hitherto unknown writer, as it seemed
characteristic of the union of humbleness of station with eminence of piety. I
felt quite thankful that I was favored with a correspondent of this description;
the more so, as such characters were, at that time, very rare in the
neighborhood. As soon as it was read, I inquired who was the bearer of it.
“He is waiting at the outside of the gate, sir,” was the
reply.
I went out to speak to him and saw a venerable old man, whose
long hoary hair and deeply wrinkled countenance commanded more than common
respect. He was resting his arm and head upon the gate; the tears were streaming
down his cheeks. On my approach he made a low bow, and said:
“Sir, I have brought you a letter from my daughter; but I
fear you will think us very bold in asking you to take so much trouble.”
“By no means,” I replied; “I shall be truly glad to oblige
you and any of your family in this matter.”
I desired him to come into the house, and then said: “What is
your occupation?”
“Sir, I have lived most of my days in a little cottage at ——,
six miles from here. I have rented a few acres of ground, and kept a few cows,
which, in addition to my day labor, has been my means of supporting and bringing
up my family.”
“What family have you?”
“A wife, now getting very aged and helpless, two sons, and
one daughter; for my other poor dear child is just departed out of this wicked
world.”
“I hope, for a better.”
“I hope so, too: poor thing, she did not use to take to such
good ways as her sister; but I do believe that her sister’s manner of talking
with her before she died was the means of saving her soul. What a mercy it is to
have such a child as mine is! I never thought about my own soul seriously till
she, poor girl, begged and prayed me to flee from the wrath to come.”
“How old are you?”
“Turned seventy, and my wife is older; we are getting old and
almost past our labor; but our daughter has left a good place, where she lived
in service, on purpose to come home, and take care of us and our little dairy.
And a dear, dutiful, affectionate girl she is.”
“Was she always
so?”
“No, sir;
when she was very young, she was all for the world, and pleasure and dress and
company. Indeed, we were all very ignorant, and thought, if we took care for
this life, and wronged nobody, we should be sure to go to heaven at last. My
daughters were both willful, and, like ourselves, were strangers to the ways of
God and the word of his grace. But the eldest of them went out to service; and
some years ago she heard a sermon preached at ——church, and from that time she
became quite an altered creature. She began to read the Bible, and became quite
sober and steady. The first time she came home afterwards to see us, she brought
us a guinea which she had saved from her wages, and said, as we were getting
old, she was sure we would want help; adding, that she did not wish to spend it
in fine clothes, as she used to do, only to feed pride and vanity. She would
rather show gratitude to her dear father and mother; and this, she said, because
Christ had shown such mercy to her.
“We wondered to hear her talk, and took great delight in her
company, for her temper and behavior were so humble and kind, she seemed so
desirous to do us good both in soul and body, and was so different from what we
had ever seen her before, that, careless and ignorant as we had been, we began
to think there must be something real in religion, or it never could alter a
person so much in a little time.
“Her younger sister, poor soul, used to
laugh and ridicule her at that time, and said her head was turned with her new
ways. ‘No, sister,’ she would say, ‘not my
head
but I hope my
heart
is turned from the love of sin to the love of God. I wish
you may one day see, as I do, the danger and vanity of your present condition.’
“Her poor sister would reply, ‘I do not want to hear any of
your preaching; I am no worse than other people, and that is enough for me.’
‘Well, sister,’ Elizabeth
would say, ‘if you will not hear me, you cannot hinder me from praying for you,
which I do with all my heart.’
“And now, sir, I believe those prayers are answered. For when
her sister was taken ill, Elizabeth
went to wait in her place and take care of her. She said a great deal to her
about her soul; and the poor girl began to be so deeply affected and sensible of
her past sin, and so thankful for her sister’s kind behavior, that it gave her
great hopes indeed for her sake. When my wife and I went to see her as she lay
sick, she told us how grieved and ashamed she was of her past life; but said she
had a hope, through grace, that her dear sister’s Saviour would be her Saviour
too; for she saw her own sinfulness, felt her own helplessness, and only wished
to cast herself upon Christ as her hope and salvation.
“And now, sir, she is gone, and I hope and think her sister’s
prayers for her conversion to God have been answered. The Lord grant the same
for her poor father’s and mother’s sake likewise.”
This conversation was a very pleasing commentary upon the
letter which I had received, and made me anxious both to comply with the request
and to become acquainted with the writer. I promised the good old dairyman I
would attend the funeral on Friday, at the appointed hour; and after some more
conversation respecting his own state of mind under the present trial, he went
away.
He was a reverend old man; his furrowed cheeks, white locks,
weeping eyes, bent shoulders, and feeble gait were characteristic of the aged
pilgrim; and as he slowly departed, supported by a stick which seemed to have
been the companion of many a long year, a train of reflections occurred which I
retrace with emotion and pleasure.
At the appointed hour I arrived at the church; and after a
little while was summoned to meet, at the churchyard gate, a very decent funeral
procession. The aged parents, the elder brother and the sister, with other
relatives, formed an affecting group. I was struck with the humble, pious, and
pleasing countenance of the young woman from whom I received the letter; it bore
the marks of great seriousness without affectation, and of much serenity mingled
with a glow of devotion. A circumstance occurred during the burial service which
I think it right to mention.
A man of the village, who had hitherto been of a very
careless and even profligate character, came into the church through mere
curiosity, and with no better purpose than that of a vacant gazing at the
ceremony. He came likewise to the grave, and during the burial service his mind
received a deep, serious conviction of his sin and danger through some of the
expressions contained therein. It was an impression that never wore off, but
gradually ripened into the most satisfactory evidence of an entire change, of
which I had many and long continued proofs. He always referred to the burial
service, and to some particular sentences of it, as the clearly ascertained
instrument of bringing him, through grace; to the knowledge of the truth.
The day was therefore one to be remembered. Remembered let it
be by those who love to hear “the short and simple annals of the poor.”
Was there not a manifest and happy connection between the
circumstance that providentially brought the serious and the careless to the
same grave on that day together? How much do they lose, who neglect to trace the
leadings of God in providence as links in the chain of his eternal purpose of
redemption and grace!
“While
infidels may scoff, let us adore.”
After the service was concluded, I had a short conversation
with the good old couple and their daughter. Her aspect and address were highly
interesting. I promised to visit their cottage; and from that time became well
acquainted with them. Let us bless the Lord of the poor, and pray continually
that the poor may become rich in faith, and the rich be made poor in spirit.
A sweet solemnity
often possesses the mind while retracing past intercourse with departed friends.
How much is this increased when they were such as lived and died in the Lord!
The remembrance of former scenes and conversations with those who, we believe,
are now enjoying the uninterrupted happiness of a better world fills the heart
with pleasing sadness, and animates the soul with the hopeful anticipation of a
day when the glory of the Lord shall be revealed in the assembling of all his
children together, never more to be separated. Whether they were rich or poor,
while on earth, it is a matter of trifling consequence; the valuable part of
their character is, that they are now kings and priests unto God. In the number
of departed believers, with whom I once loved to converse on the grace and glory
of the kingdom of God, was the dairyman’s daughter. I
purpose now to give some further account of her, and hope it may be useful to
every reader.
A few days
after the funeral of the younger sister, I rode over to visit the family in
their own cottage. The principal part of the road lay through retired, narrow
lanes, beautifully overarched with groves of nut and other trees, which screened
the traveler from the rays of the sun, and afforded many interesting objects for
admiration in the beautiful flowers, shrubs, and young trees which grew upon the
high banks on each side of the road. Many grotesque rocks, with little streams
of water occasionally breaking out of them, varied the recluse scenery, and
produced a new, romantic, and pleasing effect.
Here and there the more distant and rich prospect beyond
appeared through gaps and hollow places on the road-side. Lofty hills, with navy
signal-posts, obelisks, and light-houses on their summits , appeared at these
intervals; rich cornfields were also visible through some of the open places;
and now and then, when the road ascended any hill, the sea, with ships at
various distances, opened delightfully upon me. But for the most part, shady
seclusion and beauties of a more minute and confined nature gave a character to
the journey, and invited contemplation.
What do not they lose who are strangers to serious meditation
on the wonder and beauties of created nature! How gloriously the God of creation
shines in his works! Not a tree, or a leaf or flower; not a bird, or insect, but
proclaims in glowing language, “God made me.”
As I approached the village where the good old dairyman
dwelt, I observed him in a little field, driving a few cows before him toward a
hard and hovel which adjoined his cottage. I advanced very near him without his
observing me, for his sight was dim. On my calling out to him, he started at the
sound of my voice, but with much gladness of countenance welcomed me, saying,
“Bless your heart, sir, I am very glad you are come; we have looked for you
every day this week.”
The cottage-door opened, and the daughter came out, followed
by her aged and infirm mother. The sight of me naturally brought to recollection
the grave at which we had before met. Tears of affection mingled with the smile
of satisfaction with which I was received by these worthy cottagers. I
dismounted, and was conducted through a very neat little garden, part of which
was shaded by two large, overspreading elm-trees, to the house. Decency and
cleanliness were manifest within and without.
This, thought I, is a fit residence for piety, peace, and
contentment. May I learn a fresh lesson in each, through the blessing of God, on
this visit.
“Sir,” said the daughter, “we are not worthy that you should
come under our roof. We take it very kind that you should come so far to see
us.”
“My Master,” I replied, “came a great deal further to visit
us poor sinners. He left the bosom of his Father, laid aside his glory, and came
down to this lower world on a visit of mercy and love; and ought not we, if we
profess to follow him, to bear each other’s infirmities, and go about doing good
as he did?”
The old man now came in, and joined his wife and daughter in
giving me a cordial welcome. Our conversation soon turned to the late loss they
had sustained; and the pious and sensible disposition of the daughter was
peculiarly manifested as well in what she said to her parents as in what she
said to me. I was struck with the good sense and agreeable manner which
accompanied her expressions of devotedness to God, and love to Christ for the
great mercies which he had bestowed upon her. She seemed anxious to improve the
opportunity of my visit to the best purpose, for her own and her parents’ sake;
yet there was nothing of unbecoming forwardness, no self-consequence or
conceitedness in her behavior. She united the firmness and earnestness of the
Christian with the modesty of the female and the dutifulness of the daughter. It
was impossible to be in her company and not observe how truly her temper and
conversation adorned the evangelical principles which she professed.
I soon discovered how eager and how successful also she had
been in her endeavors to bring her father and mother to the knowledge and
experience of the truth. This is a lovely circumstance in the character of a
young Christian. If it hath pleased God, in the free dispensations of his mercy,
to call the child by his grace, while the parents remain still in ignorance and
sin, how great is the duty of that child to do what is possible for the
conversion of those to whom it owes its birth! Happy is it when the ties of
grace sanctify those of nature.
This aged couple evidently looked upon and spoke of their
daughter as their teacher and admonisher in divine things, while they received
from her every token of filial submission and obedience, testified by continual
endeavors to serve and assist them to the utmost in the little concerns of the
household.
The religion of this young woman was of a highly spiritual
character, and of no ordinary attainment. Her views of the divine plan in saving
the sinner were clear and scriptural. She spoke much of the joys and sorrows
which, in the course of her religious progress, she had experienced; but she was
fully sensible that there is far more in real religion than mere occasional
transition from one frame of mind and spirit to another. She believed that the
experimental acquaintance of the heart with God principally consisted in so
living upon Christ by faith as to seek to live like him by love. She knew that
the love of God towards the sinner, and the path of duty prescribed to the
sinner, are both of an unchangeable nature. In a believing dependence on the
one, and an affectionate walk in the other, she sought and found “the peace of
God which passeth all understanding” (Phil. 4:7), for so he giveth his beloved
rest.
She had read but few books besides her
Bible; but these few were excellent in their kind, and she spoke of their
contents as one who knew their value. In addition to a Bible and Common
Prayer-Book, Doddridge’s
Rise
and Progress,
Romaine’s
Life, Walk, and
Triumph of Faith,
Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress,
Alleine’s
Alarm, Baxter’s
Saints’
Everlasting Rest, a hymn-book, and a few tracts,
composed her library.
I observed in her countenance a pale and delicate look, which
I afterwards found to be a presage of consumption; and the idea then occurred to
me that she would not live many years. In fact, it pleased God to take her hence
about a year and a half after I first saw her.
Time passed on swiftly with this little interesting family;
and after having partaken of some plain and wholesome refreshments, and enjoyed
a few hours’ conversation with them, I found it was necessary for me to return
homewards.
“I thank you, sir,” said the daughter, “for your Christian
kindness to me and my friends. I believe the blessing of the Lord has attended
your visit, and I hope I have experienced it to be so. My dear father and mother
will, I am sure, remember it, and I rejoice in an opportunity, which we have
never before enjoyed, of seeing a serious minister under this roof. My Saviour
has been abundantly good to me in plucking me ‘as a brand from the burning,’ and
showing me the way of life and peace; and I hope it is my heart’s desire to live
to his glory. But I long to see these dear friends enjoy the comfort and power
of religion also.”
“I think it evident,” I replied, “that the promise is
fulfilling in their case; ‘It shall come to pass that at evening time it shall
be light’” (Zech. 14:7).
“I believe it,” she said, “and praise God for the blessed
hope.”
“Thank Him, too, that you have been the happy instrument of
bringing them to the light.”
“I do, sir; yet when I think of my own unworthiness and
insufficiency, I rejoice with trembling.”
“Sir,” said the good old man, “I am sure the Lord will reward
you for this kindness. Pray for us that, old as we are, and sinners as we have
been, yet he would have mercy upon us at the eleventh hour. Poor Betsey strives
hard for our sakes, both in body and soul; she works hard all day to save us
trouble and I fear has not strength to support all she does; and then she talks
to us, and reads to us, and prays for us, that we may be saved from the wrath to
come. Indeed, sir, she’s a rare child to us.”
“Peace be to you, and all that belong to you.”
“Amen, and thank you, dear sir,” was echoed from each tongue.
Thus we parted for that time. My returning meditations were
sweet, and, I hope, profitable. Many other visits were afterwards made by me to
this peaceful cottage, and I always found increasing reason to thank God for the
intercourse I enjoyed.
I soon perceived that the health of the daughter was rapidly
on the decline. The pale, wasting consumption, which is the Lord’s instrument
for removing so many thousands every year from the land of the living, made
hasty strides on her constitution. The hollow eye, the distressing cough, and
the often too flattering red on the cheek, foretold the approach of death.
I have often thought what a field for usefulness and
affectionate attention on the part of ministers and Christian friends is opened
by the frequent attacks and lingering progress of consumptive illness. How many
such precious opportunities are daily lost, where Providence seems in so
marked a way to afford time and space for serious and godly instruction. Of how
many may it be said, “The way of peace have they not known;” for not one friend
came nigh, to warn them to “flee from the wrath to come.”
But the dairyman’s daughter was happily made acquainted with
the things which belonged to her everlasting peace before the present disease
had taken root in her constitution. In my visit to her, I might be said rather
to receive information than to impart it. Her mind was abundantly stored with
divine truths and her conversation was truly edifying. The recollection of it
still produces a thankful sensation in my heart.
I one day received a short note to the following effect:
“DEAR SIR, I should be very glad, if your convenience will
allow, that you would come and see a poor unworthy sinner; my hour-glass is
nearly run out, but I hope I can ask Christ to be precious to my soul. Your
conversation has often been blessed to me, and I now feel the need of it more
than ever. My father and mother send their duty to you.
“From your obedient and unworthy servant, ELIZABETH
WALLBRIDGE.”
I obeyed the summons that same afternoon. On my arrival at
the dairyman’s cottage, his wife opened the door. The tears streamed down her
cheeks, as she silently shook her head. Her heart was full. She tried to speak,
but could not. I took her by the hand, and said:
“My good friend, all is right, and as the Lord of wisdom and
mercy directs.”
“Oh, my Betsey, my dear girl, is so bad, sir; what shall I do
without her? I thought I should have gone first to the grave, but—”
“But the Lord sees good that, before you died yourself, you
should behold your child safe home to glory. Is there no mercy in this?”
“Oh, sir, I am very old and weak, and she is a dear child,
the staff and prop of a poor old creature, as I am.”
As I advanced, I saw Elizabeth sitting by the fireside, supported
in an arm-chair by pillows, with every mark of rapid decline and approaching
death. She appeared to me within three or four weeks at the farthest from her
end. A sweet smile of friendly complacency enlightened her pale countenance, as
she said:
“This is very kind indeed, sir, to come so soon after I sent
to you. You find me daily wasting away, and I cannot have long to continue here.
My flesh and my heart fail, but God is the strength of my weak heart, and I
trust will be my portion for ever.”
The conversation which follows was occasionally interrupted
by her cough and want of breath. Her tone of voice was clear, though feeble; her
manner solemn and collected; and her eye, though more dim than formerly, by no
means wanting in liveliness as she spoke. I had frequently admired the superior
language in which she expressed her ideas, as well as the scriptural consistency
with which she communicated her thoughts. She had a good natural understanding,
and grace, as is generally the case, and had much improved it. On the present
occasion I could not help thinking she was peculiarly favored. The whole
strength of grace and nature seemed to be in full exercise.
After taking my seat between the
daughter and the mother—the latter fixing her fond eyes upon her child with
great anxiety while we were conversing—I said to
Elizabeth:
“I hope you enjoy a sense of the divine presence, and can
rest all upon Him who has ‘been with thee’ (1 Chron. 17:8), and has kept ‘thee
in all places whither thou hast gone’ (Gen. 28:15), and will bring thee into the
land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign.”
“Sir, I think I can. My mind has lately been sometimes
clouded, but I believe it has been partly owing to the great weakness and
suffering of my bodily frame, and partly to the envy of my spiritual enemy, who
wants to persuade me that Christ has no love for me, and that I have been a
self-deceiver.”
“And do you give way to his suggestions? Can you doubt,
amidst such numerous tokens of past and present mercy?”
“No, sir, I mostly am enabled to preserve a clear evidence of
his love. I do not wish to add to my other sins that of denying his manifest
goodness to my soul. I would acknowledge it to his praise and glory.”
“What is your present view of the state in which you were
before he called you by his grace?”
“Sir, I was a proud, thoughtless girl, fond of dress and
finery; I loved the world and the things that are in the world; I lived in
service among worldly people, and never had the happiness of being in a family
where worship was regarded and they souls of the servants cared for, either by
master or mistress. I went once on a Sunday to church, more to see and be seen
than to pray, or hear the word of God. I thought I was quite good enough to be
saved, and disliked and often laughed at religious people. I was in great
darkness; I knew nothing of the way of salvation; I never prayed, nor was
sensible of the awful danger of a prayerless state. I wished to maintain the
character of a good servant, and was much lifted up whenever I met with
applause. I was tolerably moral and decent in my conduct, from motives of carnal
and worldly policy; but I was a stranger to God and Christ; I neglected my soul;
and had I died in such a state, hell must, and would justly, have been my
portion.”
“How long is it since you heard the sermon which you hope,
through God’s blessing, affected your conversion?”
“About five years ago.”
“How was it brought about?”
“It was repeated that a Mr.——, who was detained by contrary
winds from embarking on board ship, as chaplain, to a distant part of the world,
was to preach at—church. Many advised me not to go, for fear he should turn my
head; as they said he hold strange notions. But curiosity, and an opportunity of
appearing in a new gown, which I was very proud of, induced me to ask leave to
go. Indeed, sir, I has no better motives than vanity and curiosity. Yet, thus,
it pleased the Lord to order it for his own glory.
“I accordingly went to church and saw a great crowd of people
collected together. I often think of the contrary states of my mind during the
former an latter part of the service. For a while, regardless of the worship of
God, I looked around me, and was anxious to attract notice to myself. My dress,
like that of too many gay, vain, and silly girls, was much above my station, and
very different from that which becomes an humble sinner who has a modest sense
of propriety and decency. The state of my mind was visible enough from the
foolish finery of my apparel.
“At length the clergyman have out his text: ‘Be ye clothed
with humility’ (1Pet. 5:5). He drew a comparison between the clothing of the
body and that of the soul. At a very early part of his discourse I began to feel
ashamed of my passion for fine dressing an apparel; but when he came to describe
the garment of salvation with which a Christian is clothed, I felt a powerful
discovery of the nakedness of my own soul. I saw that I had neither the humility
mentioned in the text, nor any one part of the true Christian character. I
looked at my gay dress, and blushed for shame on account of my pride. I looked
at the minister, and he seemed to be as a messenger sent from heaven to open my
eyes. I looked at the congregation, and wondered whether any one else felt as I
did. I looked at my heart, and it appeared full of iniquity. I trembled as he
spoke, and yet I felt a great drawing of heart to the words he uttered.
“He opened the
riches of divine grace in God’s method of saving the sinner. I was astonished at
what I had been doing all the days of my life. He described the meek, lowly, and
humble example of Christ; I felt proud, lofty, vain and self-consequential. He
represented Christ as ‘Wisdom;’ I felt my ignorance. He held him forth as
‘Righteousness;’ I was convinced of my own guilt. He proved him to be
‘Sanctification;’ I saw my corruption. He proclaimed him as ‘Redemption;’ I felt
my slavery to sin and my captivity to Satan (1 Cor. 1:31). He concluded with an
animated address to sinners, in which he exhorted them to flee from the wrath to
come, to cast off the love of outward ornaments, to put on Christ, and be
clothed with true humility (Matt. 3:7, Col 3:8-10, 1 Pet. 5:5).
“From that
hour I never lost sight of the value of my soul and the danger of a sinful
state. I inwardly blessed God for the sermon, although my mind was in a state of
great confusion.
“The preacher had brought forward the ruling passion of my
heart which was pride in outward dress; and by the grace of God it was made
instrumental to the awakening of my soul. Happy, sir, would I be if many a poor
girl like myself were turned from the love of outward adorning and putting on of
fine apparel, to seek that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek
and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.”
“The greater part of the congregation, unused to such
faithful and scriptural sermons, disliked and complained of the severity of the
preacher; while a few, as I afterwards found, like myself, were deeply affected,
and earnestly wished to hear him again. But he preached there no more.”
“From that time I was led, through a course of private
prayer, reading, and mediation, to see my lost estate as a sinner, and the great
mercy of God, through Jesus Christ in raising sinful dust and ashes to a share
in the glorious happiness of heaven. And oh, sir, what a Saviour have I found!
He is more than I could ask or desire. In his fullness I have found all that my
poverty could need; in his bosom I have found a resting place from all sin and
sorrow; in his word I have found strength against doubt and unbelief.” “Were you
not soon convinced,” said I, “that your salvation must be an act of entire grace
on the part of God, wholly independent of your own previous works or
deservings?”
“Dear sir, what were my works before I heard that sermon but
evil, carnal, selfish, and ungodly? The thoughts of my heart, from my youth
upward, were only evil, and that continually. And my deservings, what were they
but the deservings of a fallen, depraved, careless soul that regards neither law
nor gospel? Yes, sir, I immediately saw that, if ever I was saved, it must be by
the free mercy of God, and that the whole praise and honor of the work would be
his from first to last.”
“What change did you perceive in yourself with respect to the
world?”
“It appeared all vanity and vexation of spirit. I found it
necessary to my peace of mind to ‘come out from among them, and be separate.’ I
gave myself to prayer; and many a precious hour of secret delight I enjoyed in
communion with God. Often I mourned over my sins, and sometime had a great
conflict through unbelief, fear, temptation, to return back again to my old
ways, and a variety of difficulties which lay in my way. But he who loved me
with an everlasting love drew me by his loving kindness, showed my the way of
peace, gradually strengthened me in my resolutions of leading a new life, and
taught me that, while without him I could do nothing, I yet might do all things
through his strength.”
“Did you not find many difficulties in your situation, owing
to your change of principle and practice?”
“Yes, sir, every day of my life. I was laughed at by some,
scolded at by others, scorned by enemies, and pitied by friends. I was called
hypocrite, saint, false deceiver, and many more names, which were meant to
render me hateful in the sight of the world. But I esteemed the reproach of the
cross an honor. I forgave and prayed for my persecutors, and remembered how very
lately I had acted the same part towards others myself. I thought also that
Christ endured the contradiction of sinners; and as the disciple is not above
his Master, I was glad to be in any way conformed to his sufferings.”
“Did you not then feel for your relatives at home?”
“Yes, that I did indeed, sir; they were never out of my
thoughts. I prayed continually for them, and had a longing desire to do them
good. In particular, I felt for my father and mother, as they were getting into
years, and very ignorant and dark in matters of religion.”
“Aye,” interrupted her mother, sobbing, “ignorant and dark,
sinful and miserable we were till this dear Betsey—this dear Betsey—this dear
child, sir, brought Christ Jesus home to her poor father and mother’s house.”
“No, dearest mother, say rather Christ Jesus brought your
poor daughter home to tell you what he had done for her soul; and, I hope, to do
the same for yours.”
At this moment the dairyman came in with two pails of milk
hanging from the yoke on his shoulders. He had stood behind the half-opened door
for a few minutes, and heard the last sentences spoken by his wife and daughter.
“Blessing and mercy upon her,” said he, “it is very true; she
would leave a good place of service on purpose to live with us, that she might
help us both in soul and body. Sir, don’t she look very ill? I think, sir, we
sha’n’t have her here long.”
“Leave that to the Lord,” said Elizabeth. “All our times are in his hand, and
happy it is that they are. I am willing to go; are not you willing, my father,
to part with me into his hands who gave me to you at first?”
“Ask me any question in the world but that,” said the weeping
father.
“I know,” said she, “you wish me to be happy.”
“I do, I do,” answered he: “let the Lord do with you and us
as best pleases him.”
I then asked her on what her present consolations chiefly
depended, in the prospect of approaching death.
“Entirely, sir, on my view of Christ. When I look at myself,
many sins, infirmities, and imperfections cloud the image of Christ which I want
to see in my own heart. But when I look at the Saviour himself, he is altogether
lovely: there is not one spot in his countenance, nor one cloud over all his
perfections.”
“I think of his coming in the flesh, and it reconciles me to
the sufferings of the body; for he had them as well as I. I think of his
temptations, and believe that he is able to succor when I am tempted. Then I
think of his cross, and learn to bear my own. I reflect on his death, and long
to die unto sin, so that it may no longer have dominion over me. I sometimes
think on his resurrection, and trust that he has given me a part in it; for I
feel that my affections are set upon things above. Chiefly I take comfort in
thinking of him as at the right hand of the Father, pleading my cause, and
rendering acceptable even my feeble prayers, both for myself and, I hope, for my
dear friends.”
“These are the views which, through mercy, I have of my
Saviour’s goodness; and they have made me wish and strive in my poor way to
serve him, to give myself up to him and to labor to do my duty in that state of
life into which it has pleased him to call me.”
“A thousand times I should have fallen and fainted, if he had
not upheld me. I feel that I am nothing without him. He is all in all.”
“Just so far as I can cast my care upon him, I find strength
to do his will. May he give me grace to trust him to the last moment. I do not
fear death, because I believe he has taken away its sting. And oh, what
happiness beyond! Tell me, sir, whether you think I am right. I hope I am under
no delusion. I dare not look, for my hope, at anything short of the entire
fullness of Christ. When I ask my own heart a question, I am afraid to trust it,
for it is treacherous, and has often deceived me. But when I ask Christ, he
answers me with promises which strengthen and refresh me, and leave me no room
to doubt his power and will to save. I am in his hands, and would remain there;
and I do believe that he will never leave nor forsake me, but will perfect the
thing that concerns me. He loved me and gave himself for me, and I believe that
his gifts and calling are without repentance. In this hope I live, in this I
wish to die.”
I looked around me as she was speaking, and thought, “Surely
this is none other than the house of God and the gate of heaven.” Everything
appeared neat, cleanly, and interesting. The afternoon had been rather overcast
with dark clouds; but just now the setting sun shone brightly and rather
suddenly into the room. It was reflected from three or four rows of bright
pewter plates and white earthenware arranged on shelves against the wall; it
also gave brilliance to a few prints of sacred subjects that hung there also,
and served for monitors of the birth, baptism, crucifixion, and resurrection of
Christ. A large map of Jerusalem,
and a hieroglyphic of “the old and new man,” completed the decorations on that
side of the room. Clean as was the whitewashed wall, it was not cleaner than the
rest of the place and its furniture. Seldom had the sun enlightened a house
where order and general neatness—those sure attendants of pious and decent
poverty—were more conspicuous.
This gleam of setting sunshine was emblematical of the bright
and serene close of this young Christian’s departing season. One ray happened to
be reflected from a little looking-glass upon the face of the young woman.
Amidst her pallid and decaying features there appeared a calm resignation,
triumphant confidence, unaffected humility, and tender anxiety, which fully
declared the feelings of her heart.
Some further affectionate conversation and a short prayer
closed this interview.
As I rode home by departing daylight, a solemn tranquility
reigned throughout the scene. The gentle lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep
just penned in their folds, the humming of the insects of the night, the distant
murmur of the sea, the last notes of the birds of day, and the first warblings
of the nightingale, broke upon the ear, and served rather to increase than
lessen the peaceful serenity of the evening and its corresponding effects of my
own mind. It invited and cherished just such meditations as my visit had already
inspired. Natural scenery, when viewed in a Christian mirror, frequently affords
very beautiful illustrations of divine truth. We are highly favored when we can
enjoy them, and at the same time draw near to God in them.
Soon after this I received a hasty summons, to inform me that
my young friend was dying. It was brought by a soldier, whose countenance
bespoke seriousness, good sense, and piety.
“I am sent, sir, by the father and
mother of Elizabeth Wallbridge, at her own particular request, to say how much
they all wish to see you. She is going
home,
sir, very fast indeed.”
“Have you known her long?”, I replied.
“About a month, sir; I love to visit the sick, and hearing of
her case from a serious person who lives close by our camp, I went to see her. I
bless God that ever I did go. Her conversation has been very profitable to me.”
“I rejoice,” said I, “to see in you, as
I trust,
a brother
soldier. Though we differ in our outward
regimentals, I hope we serve under the same spiritual Captain. I will go with
you.”
My horse was soon ready. My military companion walked by my
side, and gratified me with very sensible and pious conversation. He related
some remarkable testimonies of the excellent disposition of the dairyman’s
daughter, as they appeared from some recent intercourse which he had with her.
“She is a bright diamond, sir,” said the soldier, “and will
soon shine brighter than any diamond upon earth.”
Conversation beguiled the distance and shortened the apparent
time of our journey till we were nearly arrived at the dairyman’s cottage.
As we approached it, we became silent. Thoughts of death,
eternity, and salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer
lay, filled my own mind, and, I doubt not, that of my companion also.
No living object yet appeared, except the dairyman’s dog,
keeping a kind of mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at
my approach. He seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the
circumstance of the family as not to wish to give a hasty or painful alarm. He
came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at the house door, as
if conscious there was sorrow within. It was as if he wanted to say, “Tread
softly over the threshold, as you enter the house of mourning; for my master’s
heart is full of grief.”
A solemn serenity appeared to surround the whole place. It
was only interrupted by the breeze passing through the large elm trees which
stood near the house, which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were
plaintive sighs of sorrow. I gently opened the door; no one appeared, and all
was still silent. The soldier followed; we came to the foot of the stairs.
“They are come,” said a voice which I knew to be the
father’s; “they are come.”
He appeared at the top; I have him my hand, and said nothing.
On entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting the
much-loved daughter and sister; the son’s wife sat weeping in a window-seat,
with a child on her lap; two or three persons attended in the room to discharge
any office which friendship or necessity might require.
I sat down by the bedside. The mother could not weep, but now
and then sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at Elizabeth and at me. The
big tear rolled down the brother’s cheek, and testified an affectionate regard.
The good old man stood at the foot of the bed, leaning upon the post, and unable
to take his eyes off the child from whom he was so soon to part.
Elizabeth’s
eyes were closed, and as yet she perceived me not. But over her face, though
pale, sunk, and hollow, the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, had
cast a triumphant calm.
The soldier, after a short pause, silently reached out his
Bible towards me, pointing with his finger at 1 Corinthians 15:55-57. I then
broke silence by reading the passage, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave,
where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the
law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus
Christ.”
At the sound of these words her eyes opened, and something
like a ray of divine light beamed on her countenance, as she said, “Victory,
victory! through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
She relapsed again, taking no further notice of any one
present.
“God be praised
for the triumph of faith,” I said.
“Amen,” replied the soldier.
The dairyman’s uplifted eye showed that the Amen was in his
heart, though his tongue failed to utter it. A short struggling for breath took
place in the dying young woman, which was soon over, and then I said to her:
“My dear friend, do you not feel that you are supported?”
“The Lord deals very gently with me,” she replied.
“Are not his promises now very precious to you?”
“They are all yea and amen in Christ Jesus.”
“Are you in much bodily pain?”
“So little that I almost forget it.”
“How good the Lord is!”
“And how unworthy am I!”
“You are going to see him as he is.”
“I think—I hope—I believe that I am.”
She again fell into a short slumber.
Looking at
her mother, I said, “What a mercy to have a child so near heaven as yours is!”
“And what a mercy,” she replied in broken accents, “if her
poor old mother might but follow her there! But, sir, it is so hard to part—”
“I hope through grace, by faith, you will soon meet, to part
no more; it will be but a little while.”
“Sir,” said the dairyman, “that thought supports me, and the
Lord’s goodness makes me feel more reconciled than I was.”
“Father—mother,” said the reviving daughter, “he is good to
me; trust him, praise him evermore.”
“Sir,” added she in a faint voice, “I want to thank you for
your kindness to me...I want to ask a favor;...you buried my sister...will you
do the same for me?”
“All shall be as you wish, if God permit,” I replied.
“Thank you, sir, thank you. I have another favor to ask: When
I am gone, remember my father and mother. They are old, but I hope the good work
is begun in their souls, My prayers are heard...Pray come and see them...I
cannot speak much, but I want to speak for their sakes. Sir, remember them.”
The aged parents now sighed and sobbed aloud, uttering broken
sentences, and gained some relief by such an expression of their feelings.
At length I said to Elizabeth, “Do you experience any doubts or
temptations on the subject of your eternal safety?”
“No, sir; the Lord deals very gently with me, and gives me
peace.”
“What are your views of the dark valley of death, now that
you are passing through it?”
“It is
not
dark.”
“Why so?”
“My Lord is there, and he is my light and my salvation.”
“Have you any fears of more bodily suffering?”
“The Lord deals so gently with me, I can trust him.”
Something
of a convulsion came on. When it was past, she said again and again;
“The Lord deals very gently with me. Lord, I am thine, save
me...Blessed Jesus...Blessed Saviour...His blood cleanseth from all sin...Who
shall separate?...His name is Wonderful...Thanks be to God...He giveth us the
victory...I, even I, am saved...O grace, mercy, and wonder—Lord, receive my
spirit.
“Dear sir...dear father, mother, friends, I am going... but
all is well, well, well—”
She relapsed again. We knelt down to prayer: the Lord was in
the midst of us, and blessed us. She did not again revive while I remained, nor
ever speak any more words which could be understood. She slumbered for about ten
hours, and at last sweetly fell asleep in the arms of the Lord who had dealt so
gently with her.
I left the house an hour after she had ceased to speak. I
pressed her hand as I was taking leave and said, “Christ is the resurrection and
the life” (John 11:25).
She gently returned the pressure, but could neither open her
eyes nor utter a reply. I never had witnessed a scene so impressive as this
before. It completely filled my imagination as I returned home.
“Farewell,” thought I, “dear friend, till the morning of an
eternal day shall renew our personal intercourse. Thou wast a brand plucked from
the burning, that thou mightest become a star shining in the firmament of glory.
I have seen the light and thy good works, and I will therefore glorify our
Father which is in heaven. I have seen in thy example what it is to be a sinner
freely saved by grace. I have learned from thee, as in a living mirror, who it
is that begins, continues, and ends the work of faith and love. Jesus is all in
all; he will and shall be glorified. He won the crown, and alone deserves to
wear it. May no one attempt to rob him of his glory; he saves, and saves to the
uttermost. Farewell, dear sister in the Lord. Thy flesh and thy heart may fail;
but God is the strength of thy heart, and shall be thy portion for ever.”
I was soon called to attend the funeral of my friend, who
breathed her last shortly after my visit. Many pleasing yet melancholy thoughts
were connected with the fulfillment of this task. I retraced the numerous and
important conversation which I had held with her. But these could now no longer
be held on earth. I reflected on the interesting and improving nature of
Christian friendships, whether formed in palaces or in cottages; and felt
thankful that I had so long enjoyed that privilege with the subject of this
memorial. I indulged a sigh, for a moment, on thinking that I could no longer
hear the great truths of Christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of
the waters of life. But the rising murmur was checked by the animating thought,
“She is gone to eternal rest—could I wish to bring her back to this vale of
tear?”
As I traveled onward to the house where lay her remains in
solemn preparation for the grave, the first sound of a tolling bell struck my
ear. It proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath the ridge
of a high hill, over which I had taken my way—it was Elizabeth’s funeral knell.
It was a solemn sound, but it seemed to proclaim at once the blessedness of the
dead who die in the Lord, and the necessity of the living pondering these things
and laying them to heart.
On entering the cottage, I found that several Christian
friends, from different parts of the neighborhood, had assembled together to
show their last tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the dairyman’s
daughter.
I was requested to go into the chamber,
where the relatives and a few other friends were gone to take a last look at the
remains of Elizabeth.
If there be a moment when Christ and salvation, death,
judgment, heaven and hell appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of
meditation, it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing the
body of a departed believer.
Elizabeth’s
features were altered, but much of her likeness remained. Her father and mother
sat at the head, her brother at the foot of the coffin, manifesting their keep
and unfeigned sorrow. The weakness and infirmity of old age added a character to
the parents’ grief, which called for much tenderness and compassion.
A remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of
the few simple though solemn ceremonies which the case required, advanced toward
me, saying:
“Sir, this is rather a sight of joy than of sorrow. Our dear
friend Elizabeth finds it to be so, I have no doubt. She is beyond all sorrow.
Do you not think she is, sir?”
“After what I have known and seen and
heard,” I replied, “I feel the fullest assurance that, while her body remains
here, her soul is with her Saviour in paradise. She loved him
here,
and
there
she enjoys the pleasures which are at his right hand for
evermore.”
“Mercy, mercy upon a poor old creature almost broken down
with age and grief; what shall I do? Betsey’s gone—my daughter’s dead. Oh, my
child, I shall never see thee more! God be merciful to me a sinner!” sobbed out
the poor mother.
“That last prayer, my dear good woman,” said I, “will bring
you together again. It is a cry that has brought thousands to glory. It brought
your daughter thither, and I hope it will bring you there likewise. He will in
no wise cast out any that come to him.”
“My dear,” said
the dairyman, breaking the long silence he had maintained, “let us trust God
with our child, and let us trust him with our own selves. The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord. We are old, and can have
but a little farther to travel in our journey, and then—” He could say no more.
The soldier before mentioned reached a Bible into my hand,
and said, “Perhaps, sir, you would not object to reading a chapter before we go
to the church.”
I did so; it was the fourteenth of the Book of Job. A sweet
tranquility prevailed while I read it. Each minute that was spent in this
funeral-chamber seemed to be valuable. I made a few observations on the chapter,
and connected them with the case of our departed sister.
“I am but a poor soldier,” said our military friend, “and
have nothing of this world’s goods beyond my daily subsistence; but I would not
exchange my hope of salvation in the next world for all that this world could
bestow without it. What is wealth without grace? Blessed be God, as I march
about from one quarter to another, I still find the Lord wherever I go; and
thanks be to his holy name, he is here today in the midst of this company of the
living and the dead. I feel that it is good to be here.”
Some other persons present began to take a part in the
conversation, in the course of which the life and experience of the dairyman’s
daughter were brought forward in a very interesting manner; each friend had
something to relate in testimony of her gracious disposition. One distant
relative, a young woman under twenty, who had hitherto been a very light and
trifling character, appeared to be remarkably impressed by the conversation of
that day; and I have since had ground to believe that divine grace then began to
influence her in the choice of that better part which shall not be taken from
her.
What a
contrast does such a scene as this exhibit, when compared with the dull, formal,
unedifying, and often indecent manner in which funeral parties assemble in the
house of death!
But the time for departure to the church was now at hand. I
went to take my last look at the deceased. There was much written on her
countenance: she had evidently departed with a smile. It still remained, and
spoke the tranquility of her departing soul. According to the custom of the
place, she was decorated with leaves and flowers in the coffin; these indeed
were fading flowers, but they remind me of that paradise whose flowers are
immortal, and where her never-dying soul is at rest.
I remembered the last words which I had heard her speak, and
was instantly struck with the happy thought, that “death was indeed swallowed up
in victory” (1 Cor. 15:54).
As I slowly retired, I said inwardly,
“Peace, my honored sister, to
thy
memory, and to
my
soul, till we meet in a better world.”
In a little time the procession formed; it was rendered the
more interesting by the consideration of so many that followed the coffin being
persons of truly serious and spiritual character.
After we had advanced about a hundred yards, my meditation
was unexpectedly and most agreeably interrupted by the friends who followed the
family beginning to sing a funeral psalm. Nothing could be more sweet or solemn.
The well-known effect of the open air in softening and blending the sounds of
music was here peculiarly felt. The road through which we passed was beautiful
and romantic; it lay at the foot of a hill, which occasionally reechoed the
voices of the singers, and seemed to give faint replies to the notes of the
mourners. The funeral knell was distinctly heard from the church tower, and
greatly increased the effect which this simple and becoming service produced.
I cannot describe the state of my own mind as peculiarly
connected with the solemn singing. I never witnessed a similar instance before
or since. I was reminded of elder times and ancient piety. I wished the practice
more frequent. It seems well calculated to excite and cherish devotion and
religious affections.
We at length arrived at the church. The service was heard
with deep and affectionate attention. When we came to the grave, the hymn which
Elizabeth
had selected was sung. All was devout, simple, decent, animating. We committed
our dear friend’s body to the grave, in full hope of a joyful resurrection from
the dead.
Thus the veil of separation drawn for a
season. She is departed, and no more seen. But she
will
be seen at the right hand of her Redeemer at the last day,
and will again appear to his glory, a miracle of grace and a monument of mercy.
To the Reader
My reader, rich or poor, shall you and I appear there
likewise? Are we “clothed with humility” (1 Pet. 5:5), and arrayed in the
wedding-garment of a Redeemer’s righteousness? Are we turned from idols to serve
the living God? Are we sensible of our own emptiness, flying to a Savior’s
fullness to obtain grace and strength? Do we live in him, and on him, and by
him, and with him? Is he our all in all? Are we “lost and found,” “dead, and
alive again” (Luke 15:24,32)?
My
poor
reader, the dairyman’s daughter was a
poor
girl, and the child of a
poor
man. Herein thou resemblest her: but dost thou resemble
her as she resembled Christ? Art thou made
rich
by faith? Hast thou a crown laid up for thee? Is thy heart
set upon heavenly riches? If not, read this story once more, and then pray
earnestly for like precious faith. If, through grace, thou dost love and serve
the Redeemer that saved the dairyman’s daughter, grace, peace, and mercy be with
thee. The lines are fallen unto thee in pleasant places; thou hast a goodly
heritage. Press forward in duty, and wait upon the Lord, possessing thy soul in
holy patience. Thou hast just been with me to the grave of a departed believer.
Now, “go thy way till the end be; for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at
the end the end of the days,” (Dan. 12:13).
Note
The mother died about six months after her daughter, and I
have good reason to believe that God was merciful to her, and took her to
himself. May every converted child thus labor and pray for the salvation of
their unconverted parents. The father continued for some time after her, and
adorned his old age with a walk and conversation becoming the gospel. I cannot
doubt that the daughter and both her parents are now met together in “the land
of pure delights, where saints immortal reign.”
Visits to the
Isle of Wight
From an article in the London Baptist Missionary Magazine we
extract the following interesting items:
“On the following day, July 16, 1823, we visited the cottage
where the dairyman’s daughter had resided, and where she closed the days of her
pilgrimage. Her mother, we were informed, did not long survive her affectionate
daughter; and the aged dairyman, we learned, had been dead a few years. The
cottage is now occupied by her brother and his wife, both of whom we saw; and,
among other interesting particulars, we were highly gratified with a sight of
Elizabeth’s Bible; on inspecting which we saw not only her own handwriting, but
also that of a succession of ancestors for more than a century before her death.
“Proceeding over the same ground as the funeral procession
had done, we arrived at Arreton churchyard, where we found without difficulty
the grave we sought. Indeed, every child seemed perfectly familiar with the
spot.”
The interesting Memoirs of Legh Richmond, by Rev. T. S.
Grimshaw, of the author of the “Dairyman’s Daughter,” “The Young Cottager,” and
“The African Servant,” substantiates each of those tracts as a narrative of
facts which occurred under the author’s ministry in the Isle of Wight, where he
labored nearly eight years, when, in 1805, he was removed to Turvey, where he
died, May, 1827, in the 56th year of his age, and the 30th
of his ministry.
The Memoir contains a letter from Mr. John Higgins, a friend
of Rev. Mr. Richmond, who, having obtained from him permission to examine the
original letters of the dairyman’s daughter, says “It was not without pleasure
and surprise I found, on the perusal of the originals, that they were in every
respect as he had given them, with the exception of the bad spelling, the
unnecessary use of capital letters, and a word which was here and there added or
omitted to make the young woman’s meaning more intelligible.”
Many years later, Rev. Charles S. Robinson, D.D., of New York, visited the
island, and, in an article written soon after, we read as follows:
“In the old Tract House in Nassau Street, in
one of the rooms on the second floor, there used to stand two singular objects,
which strangers were wont to visit with peculiar interest.”
“One of them is a framework of wooden bars and posts, not
unlike a domestic screen, six or eight feet high, so arranged with hooks, hinges
and hasps as to be readily taken down, folded and borne from place to place.
This is well authenticated as Whitefield’s traveling pulpit—that which he
carried with him, and from which he was wont to address the thousands that
flocked to hear his voice.”
“The other is a mere cottage chair, high-backed, flagseated,
with a variegated cushion, without rockers, made of oak, unpainted and
unvarnished, a simple armchair, such as is to be found in any hamlet of England
in the best rooms of the laboring men. This is the chair in which the dairyman’s
daughter sat in those terrible days of decline, when Legh Richmond visited and
conversed with her. And I call those two structures, so singularly thrown
together, The Two Pulpits. Each one held a preacher, and God honored them both.
One heralded the Gospel in a ministry of zeal almost apostolic, the other
whispered it in a ministry of patient suffering, and after the trial was over,
gave her life to the world for all ages to remember. ‘She being dead, yet
speaketh.’ It would be a profitable reflection for many Christians—what sort of
a tract their lives would make.
“The day we landed on the Isle of Wight
was notable to us. Earliest of all we sought for Carisbrook Castle, as the easiest way was to take
this first on the excursion. Much of the wall remains standing, and the ancient
gateway is there still. Looking off from a fragment of a tower, we saw one of
the most lovely pictures that the eye could imagine, spread far and wide toward
the sea. There is a distinctness of outline in the old parts of Great Britain
which our newer countries can hardly hope to imitate for many a year. The hedges
are so admirable picturesque; the roads are so white, the villages are so
embowered in the trees and shrubbery; the small gardens are so fresh; the
churches are so quaint with their odd doorways and close graveyards; the meadows
are so traversed with lines of pathway running up to the pleasant stiles over
the divisions; indeed, the entire landscapes are so sweetly peaceful that one
finds himself unconsciously lapsing into a quiet, meditative mood, full of
enjoyment, and yet full of rest. All the natural features of the scene are
unchanged to this day, and one cannot forbear noticing the exceeding accuracy as
well as the wonderful literary beauty of the passage in the tract which
describes them.
“As the afternoon
advanced, we continued our ride a mile or two further in order to pay a visit to
the cottage where this humble child of God lived and died. It remains in a good
state of preservation, but has nothing now to boast of save its history. No
mementoes of any authentic value are preserved on the spot. The dwelling is a
little off the road. There is one room below; there appear to be two apartments
above. The building is a story and a half high; the worn gateway swings with a
stone and a rope; over the entrance is twined a pretty rosebush; the yard is
fairly crowded with lilacs, hollyhocks, and honeysuckles; three great elms rise
up between the steps and the road; these elms, I believe, are mentioned in the
tract. A quaint thatched roof, with heavy eaves projecting over the doorway, and
a long row of holly bushes, with shining leaves out in front, made the picture
of the dwelling quite pleasant to see from a distance.
The Tomb
“It is easy to find one’s way to the church and into the yard
where the dairyman’s daughter’s tomb is. The ancient building still remains, and
is used as a house of prayer: a square-towered stone structure, five hundred
years old, patched with ivy on its sides and roof. Within it appears cold and
repulsive, the pews high-backed, awkwardly arranged, unpainted, oak-paneled,
uncushioned and uncomfortable; the hand of time seems to have changed nothing,
its only visible effect being to render more cheerless and uncomfortable the
little old building and all its accessories.”
“The grave of the dairyman’s daughter is very modest—a mere
mound, with a plain slab of stone erected over it. A little girl of ten years
had unobtrusively followed us through the gate; and now as I sat down on the
sward to decipher the inscription, she leaned over the back of the monument and
repeated it, word for word, as I wrote it down in my notebook from her lips;
IN MEMORY OF
ELIZABETH WALLBRIDGE
“THE DAIRYMAN’S
DAUGHTER”
WHO DIED MAY 30,
1801, AGED 31 YEARS
“SHE BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH.”
Stranger, if e’er by chance or feeling led
Upon this hallowed turf thy footsteps tread,
Turn from the contemplation of this sod,
And think on her whose spirit rests with God
Lowly her lot on earth; but He who bore
Tidings of grace and blessings to the poor,
Gave her, His truth and faithfulness to prove,
The choicest pleasures of his boundless love:
Faith, that dispelled afflictions darkest gloom;
Hope, that could cheer the passage to the tomb;
Peace, that not hell’s dark legions could destroy;
And love that filled the soul with heavenly joy.
Death of its sting disarmed, she knew no fear,
But tasted heaven e’en while she lingered here.
Oh, happy saint, may we, like thee, be blest—
In life be faithful, and in death find rest.
It is always folly to attempt to reproduce to others the
workings of one’s own sensibilities. But I am clear in the conviction that no
man can read the “Dairyman’s Daughter” by the side of Elizabeth Wallbridge’s
grave without being moved to the very centre of his best feeling.
Postscript
This tract has been translated into many languages, and many
millions of copes have been circulated. It seems to have been signally honored
by the Holy Spirit as an instrument of evangelization.
The postmaster at Arreton writes, in response to a recent
letter of inquiry, that the dairyman’s daughter’s cottage is still standing,
though renovated, and the room in which Elizabeth died is preserved intact. None of
her relatives are now living in the neighborhood. Her tombstone is kept in very
good repair and is visited by a great many people. He adds that the Wesleyan
Friends have built a chapel near by, and named it, “The Dairyman’s Daughter’s
Memorial Chapel.”
The
Dairyman’s Daughter is the true account of the life
of Elizabeth Wallbridge, a young woman who lived on The Isle of Wight, just off
the southern English coast near the ports of Southampton and Portsmouth. She died there at an early age in
1801. Her name, her surroundings, her conversion and death were related with
such power that literally millions of copies were sold prior to 1853 to satisfy
the demand, and numbers of men, women, and children were brought to the Lord by
this humble means.
This small booklet was
translated into many languages during the 19th century. It seems to
have been signally honored by the Holy Spirit as an instrument to communicate
God’s truth with humility and love.
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