It is a pleasing consideration that, amidst the spiritual darkness which unhappily prevails in many parts of the land, God nevertheless has a people. It not unfrequently happens, that single individuals are to be found who, though very disadvantageously situated with regard to the ordinary means of grace, have received truly saving impressions, and through a blessing on secret meditation, reading, and prayer, are led to the closest communion with God, and become eminently devoted Christians. It is the no small error of too many professors of the present day, to overlook or undervalue the instances of this kind which exist. The religious profession and opinions of some have too much of mere machinery in their composition. If every wheel, pivot, chain, spring, cog, or pinion, be not exactly in its place, or move not precisely according to a favourite and prescribed system, the whole is rejected as unworthy of regard. But happily “the Lord knoweth them that are his;” nor is the impression of his own seal wanting to characterise some who, in comparative seclusion from the religious world, “name the name of Christ, and depart from iniquity.”

There are some real Christians so particularly circumstanced in this respect, as to illustrate the poet’s beautiful comparison:—

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

Yet this was not altogether the case with the Dairyman’s daughter. Her religion had indeed ripened in seclusion from the world, and she was intimately known but to few; but she lived usefully, departed most happily, and left a shining track behind her. While I attempt a faint delineation of it, may I catch its influence, and become, through inexpressible mercy, a follower “of them, who through faith and patience inherit the promises.”

From the time wherein I visited her, as described in my last paper, I considered her end as fast approaching. One day I received a hasty summons to inform me that she 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 W---, 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 inquired.

“About a month, sir. I love to visit the sick; and hearing of her case from a 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 recent intercourse which he had had with her.

“She is a bright diamond, sir,” said the soldier, “and will soon shine brighter than any diamond upon earth.”

We passed through lanes and fields, over hills and through valleys, by open and retired paths, sometimes crossing over, and sometimes following the windings of a little brook, which gently murmured by the road-side. 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 circumstances 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.”

The soldier took my horse, and tied it up in a shed. A solemn serenity appeared to surround the whole place; it was only interrupted by the breezes passing through the large elm-trees, which stood near the house, and which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs of sorrow. I gently opened the door; no one appeared; and all was yet 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 gave him my hand, and said nothing. On entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting the much-loved 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 bed-side. 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 the 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 Cor. xv. 55, 56, 58. 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!” said I.

“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 favour; 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 favour 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—precious 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 that 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.” 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 thy light and thy good works, and 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.”