A Domestic Servant: Hannah Broomfield

‘* HEBB THBT WEBB WITUIK BIGHT OF THE OITT THET WEBB GOING TO; ALSO HBBE MET THEM SOME OF THE INHABITANTS THEBEOF; FOB IK THIS LAND THE SHINING ONES COMMONLY WALKBD, BEOAUSB IT WAS ON THE BOBDEBS OF HEAVEN,” — PILOBIM’s PBOGBESS.

‘’ THET NEVBB STOP SINGING THEBB, SIB, DO THET? ’ — BIS THOUGHTS WEBB WITH THE ANGELS IN HEAVEN.” — BISHOP PATTESON’S UFB, Vol. il p. 104.

“HEB MIND STILL WANDBBED AMID GBBEN PA8TUBES, WHEBB SHB WAS STILL GATHEBING THE LOVELIEST FLOWEBS, AND WHBBB SHE HIABD THB ANGELS SINGING TO HEB.” — MEMOBIALS OF A QUIET LIFE, VoL il. p. 246.

“Dust, to its narrow house beneath,
Soul, to its place on high:
They that have seen Thy look in death
No more may fear to die.”

( 28s )

A DOMESTIC SEEVANT.

HIS young Christian fell asleep on the 2Sth

January 1874, at the age of twenty-six.

It was the writer’s great privilege to have her as a servant in his household; to be much with her during her illness; to be present at the final scene, and to follow her to her grave. What follows aspires to nothing more than humbly to record the story of God’s grace in the consistent life and triumphant departure of one of His lowliest children — a modest leaflet added to “the short and simple annals” of the Chmtianpoor.

There is only one disadvantage in which readers are placed compared with the writer — the inability to have their interest augmented by having come into personal contact with the original, in her gentle, winning ways. It is like the difference between perusing a printed speech or sermon, and hearing the same coming fresh from the orator or preacher’s lips, aided and emphasised by impressive look and gesture, and the varying tones and modulations of a living voice. No countenance I ever saw had, if it may be so termed, such capriciousness in expression. To a casual visitor, it must have conveyed the idea of extreme pensiveness, if not sadness. Even her hazel eye shared the dulness and passiveness, whereas it could be lighted up full of beauty and vivacity; and, as we can well testify, it glowed in her last days, and more so as death approached, with an unearthly lustre. A voice of great sweetness, pronunciation devoid of any provincialism, ease and gracefulness in her outer deportment, gave rise to the frequent remark of strangers, “How lady-like she is!” “She would adorn an upper circle;” and yet this wealth of natural grace never made her more than she was — the humble, faithful, hard-working housemaid; and all was glorified by her consistent walk as a child of God.

I wish to avoid by any “colouring” to invest either the subject of it or her words with an interest and attractiveness which did not belong to them. Her deathbed sayings were gleaned by loving hands almost as they fell from her lips; and if not, it was no great effort of memory to recall utterances alike so simple, so beautiful, and so memorable. Yes, reader! If you had been one of that little group gathered on these different occasions around Hannah’s dying couch, — if you had seen that countenance, and heard the music of that voice, you would have ceased to marvel at this tribute paid” by a whole family at “a servant’s death-bed.” Those who stood there, “looking steadfastly on her, saw her face as it had been the face of an angel.” You can only be fold of” the golden sun-

...

set;” — you must have been present to see all the varied glory of that setting radiance, an to refrain bewailing that hers was a sun going down while it was yet day.

Her complaint commenced with pleurisy. She had been visibly less able for the household work, accomplished hitherto with thorough satisfaction. Little suspecting the cause of some apparent neglects, reproofs gently given were not less gently taken. Indeed, her beautiful answers had been the subject of special remark before any idea was entertained of the depth of her piety and the reality of her consecrated life.

Throughout her illness there was most distressing difficulty of breathing; but there were exceptional intervals of comparative painlessness, during which she was enabled, without much eflfort, to utter her dying testimony. Moreover, as we were no less than four times assembled to witness her departure and bid her farewell, ere the Master’s final summons came, — there was an extended opportunity of Ustening to and garnering her last utterances. They will now be given very much at random, or rather in the disjointed way in which they fell naturally and at intervals from her own lips, as her feeble strength permitted. In reading over the subsequent pages, the writer must guard those who peruse them from the erroneous impression that such a gush of pious sentiment flowed in a continuous stream. Her ebbing strength and frequent suffermg would have rendered her unequal to such an effort.

Her own words in the course of her Hlness, and some fragmentary papers and writings found after death, will give the only light I possess on her early history, and the way in which from her childhood she had been brought to value her Bible and love her Saviour.

Her birthplace was one of those sweet rural nooks in Devonshire, at Church Staunton, near Honiton,^ where she had at an early period (I think when five years old), been deprived of a father’s care, and left as the youthful comforter of a now aged mother, to whose support in declining life it was Hannah’s chief delight, in after-days, to minister from her earnings. The first request made by her in our service was, “Please, can you advance me a pound? I wish to send it to my mother.” Many a sovereign, we have reason to know,

had been despatched on the same gracious errand.

Her own natural kindliness of heart, and the grace of God which refined and elevated it, made it a lifelong privilege to repay, as well as she could, these years of early devotion.

The following lineB I find by themselves in manuscript book, in her own handwriting: —

“O me I my country life that’s gone,
The fields — the woods — the flowers,
The dear old farm — the lane of limes
We ran to in the showers.*’

I think it was the first occasion of her rallying from impending death that I ventured to ask the question, when she was speaking of her love to the Saviour —

“Hannah, do you know when it was you were first brought to love Jesus?”

“Yes; I remember well It was at Church Staunton. Mrs., the vicar’s wife, had a Sunday-school. I attended her class. One of the girls died suddenly. On assembling as usual on the Sunday

following, Mrs. spoke very solemnly about our

companion’s early death. She said any of us might be called away with the same suddenness, and asked us to pray fervently to God that we might be brought to love Christ, and thus be prepared to die. I went home,” she added, “with my heart full. I told mother all, and asked her to pray with me. Mother and I knelt down together, and she prayed very earnestly; from that day my heart was given to Jesus, and it has been His ever since.”

Afber pausing a little, she continued,” But I must

tell you more. For God spoke to me when I was

young in various ways. I would like to repeat to you

my favourite verse. It is this, ‘I love them that love

Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me.’ This

is the reason of my fondness for that verse: it was

printed on the outside cover of a little book I got.

The book was about a poor boy who was in the habit

of going under a tree and praying. I thought, after I

read it, I would do the same; and I went, time after

T time, under a tree and prayed to God, and God answered me. I have always loved that verse since (for I came to love Him).*’

“We shall always think of you, Hannah,” said her mistress, “when we read that verse.”

“Yes, you will,” she answered; “you read it in the chapter the other morning.” (It had come, I remembered, in the usual course of our family worship.)

“And so you have loved the Saviour always from that time?”

“Oh, yes, ever since. I may say, from my childhood, Jesus was always my first thought. It was difficult, though, to show that He was so in the midst of common work. But He was, you know, nevertheless.”

Speaking of her clergyman in Devonshire. “He took such a deep interest in us. I shall never forget one sermon he preached on ‘Prepare to meet thy God.’ Tell him,” she said with emphasis, “I often recalled that sermon, and that his wife was the first to bring me to Christ.”

The few writings already referred to, found in her trunk after her departure, are specially valuable vouchers and attestations to the old saying, that it is “holy living which makes happy dying.” Among these, there are very many notes of sermons fully written out, with little annotations and favourite pieces of poetry, along with a short series of simple prayers — very evidently of her own composition, and designed to meet her own special wants and temptations. Their errors of spelling, &c., will the better autheuticate their genuineness. The rough setting imparts, in the present instance, worth and value to the jewel. Our space will only admit of two as specimens of many.

“Oh heavenly father thou who knowest all the secrets of the heart pleace Be my guide in this wicked world thou who knowest all things teatch me that true godliness wich leads to Everlasting Life do not let the tempter have any power over me ‘O Lord give me wisdom and knowledge to know the truths of thy holy Gospel Give me a wise and understanding mind write thy commandments in my heart Give me that strenth to overcome the wicked one do thou be pleased to be my frend and guide and Enlighten me that I may serve thee as I ought O heavenly father take me in thy kind protections this night do not let me give way to my wickness any more Send that guardian Angel to protect hear me this night for Jesus Christ’s sake Give me thy holy Spirit lead me the way everlasting. Amex.”

“To-day I have been full of evil thoughts till this afternoon I went to hear the sweet message of thy love now more clearly I can see how much I have neglected thee my everlasting frend I am full of douts. But heavenly father give me the strong desiring confidence to put all my trust in thee thou only knowest what is good for me teatch me thy will day by day and now be pleased to guide me in the way thou wouldest have me go let me arise with the full assuirence that thou hast heard my pettision pour thy Holy Spirit deep into my heart and do thou for me more than I ask or think I pray heavenly father that I may be with people that love thy holy name and give me that clear mind to see my faults let me ever strive to follow the footsteps of our blessed Saviour let thy merciful hand guide and proteck me Give me that firmness to speak of thy holy word kind father tak pity on thy child and lead me in the right way for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”

These are sufficient to show us unmistakably the springs of her inner life — the fountains which fed and animated her daily work, enabling her to do it “heartily as unto the Lord and not unto men,” and as “serving the Lord Christ.” They will enable us, too, the better to understand and appreciate another phase or expression of her spiritual nature, another source of her spiritual strength and joy, and which, moreover, unlike secret devotion, “could not be hid.” Delight in Prayer in her case (and especially naturally gifted, as she was, with a love of music), had its complement and counterpart in the delight of Praise. When the sun rises, the groves become vocal with melody. “Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.”

It was in the course of the third day of her illness that she began first, after a violent spasmodic pain had sabsided, to repeat a single verse at a time of some of her favourite hymns. The first I heard were these two opening lines —

“What is life? ’tis but a vapour,
Soon it vanisheth away.”

Then in a little —

“Why those fears ? — Behold! ’tis Jesus
Holds the helm and guides the ship:
Spread the sails and catch the breezes,
Sent to waft us through the deep.”

“Oh, these hymns I learnt in childhood!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up with smiles — “My clergyman told me they would come to mind on a deathbed. And see, it has all come true now.”

During the time of her active service in our household, her sweetly modulated voice was fi’equently employed in singing those to which she was most partial. This was specially the case on Sundays. I think I can even now hear her, in the stillness of the summer Sunday morning, when the windows and doors were open to admit the air, warbling those very strains which (embalmed with the name of Jesus), “refreshed her soul in death.”

Many sufiering Christians have regarded, as their most cherished emblem of heaven, a place of” rest,*’ Hannah’s main idea of the state and place of the

294 DOMESTIC SERVANT.

glorified — what she chiefly liked to picture it — was as a place of “singing.” Over and over, and with ever augmenting fervour and beauty, did she speak of it as such. When much too weak herself for the eflTort, she would beg us all to “slug about Jesus,” — “Sing: — you sing.” And she exacted this pledge — which, as wijl be afterwards seen, was faithfully redeemed at the last — “Mind you all sing when I am dying.” “Be sure tJien and sing to me. Sing all the time!”

The first occasion on which she made reference to her mistress of being aware of her danger was by saying, “We shall meet in heaven;” and later, “The angels are soon coming to fetch me. They have been singing to me!”

“You’ll think of me,” she said to a young fi-iend at a later hour of the next day, “You’ll always think of me in the Te Deum won’t you, at the part about the angels? I used always to lift up my heart with the angels!”

There was nothing of what could be called delirium throughout her illness; but, in moments of greater excitement, when her pulse was running high, she would point to the upper comer of the room — she did so more than once — and said she “saw angels circling there. Oh, how beautiful!”

“The angels are singing, * Glory! glory! ‘Oh, so beautiful! and Jesus at the right hand of God.”

Some time afterwards, I don’t remember when, with the anticipation of death evidently in her mind, she gently asked those by her bedside — “You won’t be afraid of this room, will you?”

“No,” one present replied, “it will always be a hallowed room to us, — a little sanctuary,” or something to that effect.

“Yes; you’ll think of the angels having stood all round. I like to think of the angel wrestling with Jacob, and him prevailing.” Then she added, for the first time, what was a special exhortation on several occasions afterwards, “Be brave. It is a great thing to be brave, and take up the cross.”

A second time the hymn was sung to which she was most partial, “Abide with me.” It was at a time when her strength had wonderfully revived. With what never-to-be-forgotten energy did she join in the two lines —

“When other helpers fail and comforts flee!”

also —

“I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless 1”

Six or seven days had now passed since the commencement of her illness, but nothing for a moment had disturbed her perfect peace. She had “overcome, through the blood of the Lamb.”

“Jesus at the right hand of God!” she exclaimed, with her finger gracefully pointing upwards; and then towards another part of the room, as if to her beaten foe, “Satan is down there, and Jesus says to him. No! she is mine 1” At another time she made the similar remark, “Satan is always ready to tempt us; Jesus is saying to him; Go away; I died for her!”

I quoted to her the saying of an aged relative, lately departed,” At evening time it shall be light —

GLORIOUS LIGHT!”

She said, “That’s beautiful!” and then, with radiant countenance, she repeated the words in her own earnest way, as if she saw with her own eyes through the Heavenly gates, “‘Glorious light! ‘... * And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light.’”

The heart that most bled for her, — the reader will at once surmise why, — here gave way. In a sweet voice, and without agitation, she sought to comfort him —

“Poor George! don’t cry so. We shall soon meet again. I am going to Jesus. You are going too, won’t you? You will be sure to take up the cross. But you must give up a great deal to do this. When you are tempted to evil thoughts or deeds, pray to Jesus. There is nothing wrong in the thought, — nothing wrong in the temptation; but it is the yielding to it that is wrong. Try and battle against that. They will laugh at you, George; but don’t mind. Remember it is a thorny path; but le h*ave. I used always to go to Jesus to help me through the gloomy way. I was laughed at for my religion when in service in London. Nobody, where I was, cared about Jesus or went to church. But I am

so glad to have borne it so well now. Be brave; it is

a great thing to be brave!”

Looking, by and by, up to the same friend, in whom

her earthly happiness was so bound,” I am sorry to

leave you, George; we should have been so happy. If

I live (but remember GocCs vnlt), what a pretty little

garden we’ll have, with flowers all round; but there is

a happier home. ... I am fond, very fond, of all that

hymn, * God of Bethel,’ but I like the middle verse

best —

‘Through each perplexing path of life
Our wandering footsteps guide;
Give us each day our daily bread,
And raiment fit provide.’”

Pausing for a little, she commenced, falteringly but sweetly (we all helped the feeble effort) —

“Abide with me from mom to eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.”

These, and other future utterances, were not said without many breaks. The cough and difficulty in breathing prevented this; and it would have been wrong to have allowed her to exhaust herself and imperil the least hope of ultimate recovery. But when her thoughts had been a little time at work, and frail strength permitted, she would break in, as she did with the following, though I forget the special

time —

“See! people cannot repent when they are so ill;

I couldn’t. Oh, tell them,” she exclaimed,” to love

God now! Jesus grieves every day for those who

won’t come to Him.” Turning, shortly after, to her

mistress, she, with earnest sweetness of voice, repeated

the verse —

“‘Tis easier work if we begin
To serve the Lord betimes,”

and immediately after, as if the mystery of her early removal had occurred to her —

“A flower when offered in the bud,
Is no vain sacrifice.”

•

Speaking of her own assured peace, she added, “Jesus is always near. The devil has gone quite away. Jesus won’t let him come near me.”

Though her decided preference evidently was to receive, without further delay, the invitation of her Heavenly Father, “Come up hither,” yet at times there was the revival within herself of a hope that she might still be raised up again. “I would rather go,” she said often; but once, when about to take some prescribed nourishment that might possibly recruit her failing strength, she very beautifully thus left the result in the hands of the Great Physician, “Now, Jesus, if Thou wilt; Thy will be done!”

To messages sent from kind neighbours and friends inquiring how she was, she said, ‘^ If I die, tell them how happy I am.”

The question was asked, “Are you suffering much in your chest now?”

“No,” she replied, with a gentle voice, “I am not suffering; I shouldn’t mind if I did.” And then, by a natural transition, she began to ‘^ consider Him that endured such contradiction of sinners against Himself.” “When Jesus fasted forty days,” she said, “what a temptation it must have been! And the devil, too, was with Him all that time! Then the angels came after, and ministered unto Him. They had been longing to go and do it all the while; but, you see, they must wait the appointed time.” All hymns seemed to have had a preciousness to her. But her chief favourite, and no wonder, was the one already mentioned — “Abide with me; fast falls the eventide.”

Months before her “eventide shadows” had any appearance of “falling,” when none of us for a moment dreamt of this early “sunset,” we had been specially familiar with these lines on her lips in her everyday work, and, as previously noted, on Sundays. They seemed to have a deeper meaning and augmented preciousness, now that the night was far spent, and the day — the glorious day — was at hand! “Jesus, Jesus!” she said, “but always with the crosSj you know.” Shortly after, perhaps again under the influence of slight excitement produced by the fever, the other pictare presented itself which so frequently floated before her mental vision — “she saw heaven opened.”

One present, an invalid, felt suddenly unwell, overcome with the fatigue of the long watching. Hannah imagined it was the effort of singing, and immediately said —

“Does it tire you, though? You’re fighting the battle too.” She added, a little after, to the same — “You will not have such a hard fight as I have. Jesus won’t let you suffer so much. God knows you are not so strong in body as I am to bear it.”

As the difficulty of breathing was increasing, we felt it was hurtful for Jier to attempt singing, and we dissuaded her from the effort.

“But I soon shall, and that for ever and ever. They say,” she added, with a sweet smile, “what people liked best on earth in spiritual things, they’ll do in heaven. So I am sure I shall be always singing. I always was fond of it, wasn’t I?”

Her wishes were gratified by taking up one of her favourites —

“Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidd’st me come to Thee,
Lamb of God, I come.”

The breathing was very distressing, but patience had its perfect work. No word of murmuring from first to last escaped her lips, saving at times the prayer, as she wiped the perspiration from her brow,” Jesus!

come! come quickly! “A great and ever-preseut thought, which doubtless served mightily to sustain her, was the wonderful patience and submission of her Blessed Lord. With indescribable pathos she once exclaimed, in one of those vehement struggles for breath, “Dear Jesus! dear Jesus! He suffered thirty years, and then they put the crown of thorns upon Him, and spat upon Him! And how patient He was! I have tried to be patient. But think of all He bore for us! And then, when we suffer, we deserve it.” One of the most affecting references she made was, I think, on the third occasion we had gathered, as we had imagined, to witness her happy departure. It was that strong, tender, filial love, reverting to distant Devonshire, and to the aged mother who had made her childhood happy, and also had her own share, under God, in making her deathbed peace. Her strength was quite exhausted, and power of utterance almost gone. But we never can forget the quick, anxious, but tenderly-expressive look she cast first on George, who was standing at one side of her bed. All she could say was one word, but the way it was said spoke volumes — “Mother!” She turned, or attempted to turn, to the other side of the bed where I was, and repeated the same sacred name — “Mother!” It was enough. A pledge was willingly given that this farewell trust would not be forgotten. With one wave of the hand, resuming her old posture on her pillows, she said, “Then I die happy!”

Lowly as her lot was, she seemed to have felt peculiarly the responsibility as a Christian of showing her colours, and not being ashamed of Jesus.

“When you’re with woridly people,” as she simply expressed it, “you can’t bring out Jesus. But for all that, you can keep Jesus in your heart, and know that you love Him. He knows all our infirmities. I would like to go to-night; but God’s will be done. If I Kve, I must bring others to Christ. I wish all would love Jesus! If all the world would join Christ, wouldn’t it be beautiful?” Then, with this feeling of responsibility in her thoughts, and the need of being “brave,” she attempted to join the tune to the words —

* * Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war;
With the cross of Jesus
Going on *’

Then she stopped, saying, “But oh! I mustn’t sing.” After a time of quiet watching and silence she said,” How I like that hymn! —

“* Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are.’”

Happening to be down-stairs, she sent a special message that she wished to see me. On going, she said, “Oh, I just wanted to ask you about departed spirits. Is it likely, as I think I have heard it said, that they will go to some other state immediately after death, and not at once to heaven?”

I simply replied, “‘Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise; ’ * To depart, and to be with Christ, which is far better.’”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, “that is just what I thought. That is all I wanted. Tell mother, I die happy; and to come too; and to pray hard that she may come.”

It would have been strange if, among her many cherished hymns, she had omitted “Rock of Ages.” It was not forgotten. We sang all together the three most beautiful verses of it. Despite of increasing weakness, she made the eflfort, though feeble, to join in the lines —

“Simply to Thy cross I cliug,*’
and

“When I draw this fleeting breath.”

But the struggle was gradually increasing.

“God knows I could not bear this long,” she exclaimed. “But He will not try us above that we are able to bear.”

To a young friend at her bedside whom she heard heaving a sigh, she said, with a voice of gentle reproof, “You’re sighing: — not so — sing cheerfully!”

Her request was obeyed, at all events after a short time. Another of her favourites was taken up by those present. The spasm was for the time over, and she evidently enjoyed and was soothed by it —

“How sweet the name of Jesus sounds 1”

She even endeavoured to join in with a smile at any part she particularly liked. When she came to the verse, “Weak is the eflfort of my heart,” the attempt was greatly too much for her: a flush sufiused her face, and we had to tell her she must do no more than listen. When finished, she said, “That’s so pretty.”

In making a kindly reference to one present, she said, “These are the talents. Each of us has got our talent. I fancy I see Jesus walking up to you, and saying, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’”

That last word reminds me, that not only did she employ her own humble talent well as a servant, “good and faithful,” but she was grateful and thankful for the lowly position which Providence had assigned her on earth, rather than one higher in the social scale. “You see,” she said, “Jesus was always with the poor. I have often thought what a good thing it is to be poor. We have only to work, and we have not the show and fashion to keep up.”

Not long after this, we had again (for it was a constant alternation of conflicting feeling) resigned all hope of her restoration. Imagining that her own sun was really to set before the shades of night had fallen on the outer world, I had even gone up to the churchyard at Chiselhurst, to make selection of a piece of ground for the precious dust to repose. I knew that to one who had so conquered the last enemy there would be no harm in making reference, on my return, to the cause of absence. Indeed, she had in the morning said, “You’ll bury me where you can go and see where I’m laid.”

“Hannah, do you know I have been up choosing a sweet spot for your grave?”

With a most pleased and astonished look she replied, “Fancy! and there will be room for all! — And there is a chime of bells! How beautiful that will be on Sundays!”

With intense earnestness, as if to make quite sure of the eternal safety and happiness of the one who claimed her deepest regard, “Bring him to God.”

The growing conviction was stealing upon her that the final parting could not now be far distant.

The last time I was ill “(she had a serious illness seven months previously) “I was like Hezekiah,” she said; “I prayed to be made well, and God heard me. You remember Hezekiah praying about the shadow on the sundial? But now, God thinks I must come.”

Contrary to all expectation, however, the feeble, flickering spark was again, next morning, fanned into reviving light, and another day’s respite was obtained. Could it be that the Great Master had ordained a little more suJBfering to elicit the manifestation of more patience? There seemed to us little dross to be purified by keeping longer in the furnace. Or, doubtless, was it not rather to let others see “in the midst of the furnace,” One with her, “like unto the Son of God!” —

and giving her dying grace for her dying day? She herself was more than willing to go. “To be with Christ,” she felt and expressed again and again, would be ‘^ far better.” “I would rather go. I would mTich rather go. But perhaps He won’t let me come to Him yet. There may be more to do for Him. There is that verse,” she added, “* If it be Thy will, let this cup pass.’”

The well-known hymn was sung to her, “Thy will be done.” On coming to the words, “All that now makes it hard to say,” she interrupted — “But it isn’t hard for me. It isn’t so bad as you think.” We all saw too manifestly it was hard enough. But she had spoken to herself the words she had addressed to others — Be brave!”

“You must all come to this, you know,” as she saw us standing around, powerless to help her in the sore physical struggle.

George said, “We shall all think of you when we do.”

“Yes, and I shall be waiting you when you die, to try and cheer you. Are there not guardian angels? I hope I may be made a guardian angel to you all. I suppose every one has an angel to support them. I wonder if I shall be a supporting angel? If I am, I should say, * Be brave.’”

“All my illness through, I haven’t had one unhappy thought. Jesus had to carry His cross thirty years; I have only had to carry mine a fortnight. Not so long.” .••••••

Yes, see how He suffered! * I find no fault in

Him.’ How could lie?” Then reverting to her own tossingSj she began to repeat —

Tossed with rough winds, and faint with fear, Above the tempest, soft and clear, Wbat still, small accents greet mine ear?

*Tis I; be not afraid I”

This finished, she repeated another verse —

Mine eyes are watching round thy bed,
Mine arms are underneath thy head,
My blessing is around thee shed:

‘Tis I; be not afraid!”

She was very grateful to her skilful doctors. “Such kind, good doctors! — they would like to get me well, wouldn’t they? Wasn’t that beautiful,” she remarked, “what Jesus said to Mary — ‘She hath done what she could ‘? Poor doctor! he seemed sorry this morning I was not getting well. He * did all he could.’”

It was about the same time she asked for a favourite little dog. He jumped into her bed, and she kissed him. She had always fondled this little creature like a child. “With that strange instinct so often observed, the spirit of the animal seemed to droop for days during her illness. He usually resented the intrusion even of a single stranger into the house. He was silent when many strange feet were conveying her down-stairs for her last long home!

I feel it is unnecessary to transcribe minutely other remarks made by her, all interesting to us.

Her mind, actively rambling from subject to subject, always — like the magnetic needle, true to its pole — reverted to the loved theme — “Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.”

“Oh, think of a whole day upon the cross: — a WHOLE day! And Ood left Him, you know! Yes; the Father! And He was crucified between two thieves!”

I repeated the Nutic Bimittis, with which, in her Church service, she was so familiar — “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word.” There I had stopped; but with great energy, or at least with all the energy her feeble strength admitted, she added,” For mim eyes have seen Thy salvation,^’

I forget what hymn was by and by being sung, but she attempted to join, and we endeavoured, as previously, to dissuade her from the effort. “You must really not try to sing.”

“Ah! in heaven I shall,” she replied with a gentle, submissive smile — “You can’t stop me there. At every deathbed there should be singing all round.”

To a young visitor, who had been with us for some weeks, and who came up to her room to see her for the last time, she turned and said —

“You’ll try too, won’t you? You’re young, and it’ll be so easy. You’ll have to come to this (meaning a deathbed), and then you’ll be so happy. I haven’t had one anxious thought all the time I’ve been ill.”

John Newton’s lines, from another hymn of her childhood, here recalled themselves to her memory —

‘* As when the weary traveller gains
The height of some commanding hill,
His heart revives, if o’er the plains
He sees his home, though distant still;

So when the Christian pilgrim views

By faith his mansion in the skies,
That sight his fainting strength renews,

And wings his speed to reach the prize.”

‘^ Moses saw the promised land,” she remarked, “and didn’t enter it.” I anticipated her allusion, and said, “Yes, it is different with you. You will both see and enter it.” She smiled sweetly, and said —

“Don’t you think that what you love most to do on earth you will do in heaven? If I’m in heaven, I shall love to think of you all. On Easter-day I used to sing the Hallelujah so happily; I shall be sure to be singing of it. You’ll think of me then too, won’t you?”

A little before this, she said to me — “I took the Communion, for the first time, the day on which Jesus was crucified.”

I said, “I scarcely understand what you mean” (I thought she was perhaps wandering a little).

“Oh, it was on Good Friday, you know; and I never can forget that day. It was a solemn one to me. We sang that hymn in church —

‘Father, remove this bitter cup.
If Buch Thy sacred will;
If not, then let me drink it up
Thy pleasure to fulfil.*

Be sure and tell Dr. R” (the able conductor of a

Sunday class) “how blest his instructions have been to me.” She sent also a grateful message to her clergyman, telling the special impression she had received from a recent Advent sermon — “Let us put on the armour of light,” coupled with the request that he would officiate at her funeral. “I never can forget that sermon about the armour; — agoing to fight. The Christian’s is a hard fight.”

The early part of the night passed without any material change. But we were all suddenly summoned to her room at early morning dawn. Her “Angels” seemed really at last to have been sent with the message — “The Master is come, and calleth for thee.” We sought farther to guide her thoughts by simply repeating the verses — “Father, into Thy hands I* commend my spirit; for Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth.” “Father, I will that they also whom Thou hast given Me be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory.”

She took us all in succession by the hand, and sweetly said, “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she said, shaking hands with her fellow-servant. “Good-bye, L; L, you’ll love Christ, won’t you? You would be so happy now.”

To George — “Good-bye, George. It is only the cross on earth — and then, for ever, and ever, and ever!”

To her mistress — “You’ll come too? If I know when you’re coming, won’t I run to meet you?”

“You’ll all come soon, won’t you?”

Kindly acknowledging any little services that had been rendered in this time of sickness, she most touchingly stretched out her pale finger, and pointing first to one and then to another, said, “He will say to yoUy and to you, and to you, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.’”

After this there were intervals of impressive silence.

Still assembled around her bed, we hardly liked to disturb her with any words, but we knew that even our mute sympathy would be pleasing.

The struggle in her labouring chest was most severe. On a mouthful of water being given her, she said —

“Jesus hadn’t a cup of water given to Him as I have.” She repeated, but unable to get farther than the first line —

“God, our Help in ages past I”

So conscious did she seem herself that she was now “ready to be ofiered,” that she looked expressively at a young friend to fulfil the last promise. And as if time were precious, in the midst of her hard breathing she uttered with diflSculty, yet very earnestly, the word, ‘’Sing!’’

The request dared not be refused. As most appropriate to the increasingly solemn hour, we selected what we knew was most familiar to her. Accordingly, two verses were sung of “Rock of Ages;” and, as she was able to bear it (and only one verse at a time) from “For ever with the Lord,” “Sweet Saviour, bless us ere we go,” “I lay my sins on Jesus,” Ac.

In the interval we commended her departing spirit in brief prayer to the God who gave it.

She had been brought back thrice before from the very gates of death; and although for a fourth time, from the lips of Him with whom all things are possible, the Divine mandate might yet be uttered, “Thou shalt live, and not die,” her own preferences were again thus audibly expressed, “I don’t want to come back. We shall all meet, and all sing together.”

The final verses repeated to her were manifestly too true: — should I not rather say, joyfully appropriate? —

“The hour of my departure’s come,
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord, let trouble cease.
And let Thy servant die in peace.

«

I come, I come, at Thy command,
I give my spirit to Thy hand;
Stretch oat the everlasting arms,
And shield me in the last alarms.”

Yes, after a brief interval, a temporary InU, mduced by an opiate, the closing hour, — now in all its impressive solemnity, did come. The fight was ended, and the early crown in view!

Utterance had failed. But while consciousness still remained, I asked — they were the last words to her — “Is all perfed peace f”

A gentle inclination of her head gave the sign.

The promise, extracted many days before, was not forgotten. The loved, and to us always now the doubly-loved and consecrated strain, rose from trembling lips, —

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide;
While other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes. Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies; Heaven’s morning breaks as earth’s vain shadows flee, In life, in death, dear Lord, abide with me.”

These two verses alone were sung. Indeed, I almost thought when we reached the words, “Heaven’s morning breaks,” that consciousness ceased, and that her favourite hymn here, was finished with the angels.

“Now, just as the gates were opened to let them in, I looked in after them; and behold the city shone like the sun, and in the streets walked many with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal.”

Even outer nature seemed to be in sweet harmony with the scene. It would surely have been in accordance with her own heart’s desire, that it was on a lovely Sunday afternoon that she was called to the Rest of the Glorified; and when the near and distant church bells were heard that evening ringing in their worshippers, we thought of the recent entrant -into the Church of the Firstborn, singing “the new song” in the everlasting Sabbath!

There she lay, “beautiful in death,” with the rich tresses of her dishevelled hair forming a kind of halo around the pale countenance. A well-known face of Guide suggested itself to more than one of us as we gazed on the yet unclosed eyes, looking up to the ceiling where she had seen and heard the angels singing. She was with them now.

“The CROSS,” “Be brave,” “Sing,” “Always singing.” These repeated words of hers seemed, to the ear of faith, to come like chimes wafted down to earth from the distant bells of glory — first the Cross, then the Crown; first Fighting, then Singing.

“Fight the fight, Christian,
Jesus IB o’er thee;
Klin the race. Christian,
Heaven is before thee.

Thee from the love of Christ

Nothing shall sever;
Mount when thy work is done,

Praise Him for ever.”

“Bury me,” she said, “where yoa can see my grave.”

The dying wish was fulfilled. The sun smiled on the day of her funeral, as on the day of her death. Bunches of lauristinus, ivy, and holly, and a few other evergreens, were culled by the same loving hands that had ministered at her sickbed, and were weaved into two tasteful wreaths — the one to be dropped on her coffin, the other laid on the top of her grave.

I need not describe more. The scene was deeply impressive. The tolling of the village bell greeting the bearers of the dead; then advancing under the picturesque “Lich-gate,” so peculiar to Kent churchyards; and listening, with uncovered heads, to the glorious words which have so often broken the silence or dried the tears of mourners — “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though, after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.” Then the procession to the old church, in which words of life and immortality were again spoken. Then the last scene of all — standing by the newly upturned grave; the sun slowly westering behind the old elmtrees, and gilding the tiles of the neighbouring chapel, under whose modest roof repose the remains of the illustrious Imperial exiles. Never surely were the words of the English ritual for the dead more fitly spoken — “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, of His great mercy, to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground, ... in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Reposing in what she herself well called “a beautiful spot,” we could think of her loved Angels, now hovering over the precious, because redeemed dust, — keeping holy vigils, only to be terminated at the bridal day of the Church triumphant, when the trump of God shall summon Death to surrender his prey.

“Dust, to its narrow house beneath;
Soul, to its place on high:
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.”

“TUE CITY OF THE CRYSTAL SEA.”

“Itato the holy dtpf New Jerutalem.’* — Rev. xxl. 2.

“And the city was pure gold, like unto clear glaes.” — Rev. zxi. 18.

“And bore the Throne there was a tea ofglase like unto crystal.” — Rev. iv. &

Come, father, mother, Elsie dear, I like you near me now, For I feel the icy finger laid already on my hrow; Come near and sit beside me, as my strength is failing fast; Could I only take you with me, then Death’s anguish would be past; My Saviour-God is calling me — I know it is His voice. For you I grieve, but for myself I only can rejoice: Oh, do not weep — for short the time our parting is to be: We shall meet in the City of the Crystal Sea.

*’I hoped to live for longer years, and even now I Beem At times to think this deathbed is but a passing dream: I gladly would have lengthened out my childhood’s sunny years, I never liked to hear this earth miscalled a Vale of Tears. As winter came and winter went, 1 never seemed to tire, As merrily our voices rang around the parlour fire; But round that winter hearth now, a vacant seat must be: For I’m going to the City of the Crystal Sea.

“I had hoped that, as in years gone by, so still would I have been

A happy joyous playmate upon the village green:

I had hoped to go in spring-time with my basket and my hood,

To search for yellow primroses with Elsie in the wood.

Yes, when spring and early summer came, to pluck the hawthorn

spray, And roam o’er banks of wild flowers throughout the livelong day: To listen to the singing birds and humming of the bee;

Far distant seemed the City of the Ciystal Sea.

“It was this day, three months ago, I spoke of Christmas time. When the bells above the snow-wreaths would ring their merry

chime, How busy then I thought would my fingers now have been, In decking porch and lich-gate in their dipery of green; In decking all the church, too, till the short day’s sunshine fails. The pillars and the lectern and the pulpit’s oaken rails; But other and far better things are in reserve for me.

When I enter God’s own City of the Crystal Sea.

“I had wished, I own, to serve Him some time longer here below. And on little kindly errands now and then to come and go; I had purposed on next New Year’s Day, to walk to Poynder’s Mill With the book-stand and the flower-glass for Mabel’s window-sill. The cushion and the pillows I was working for her chair, A bunch of holly-berries, and my plant of maiden hair; You can take her still these little things as keepsakes sent by me,. When I’ve left you for the City of the Crystal Sea.

Oh I often have I thought, too, when not so strong as now, “When age would overtake you with wrinkles on your hrow, How happy it would make me, to help you, parents dear, And do the little hest I could your closing days to cheer; How nice for me and Elsie, in our turn to sit at night, To smooth your ruffled pillows, and to watch you till daylight; I had hoped to pay you back again for all you’ve been to me; But we’ll meet in the City of the Crystal Sea.

“When you come to visit the spot, mother, where I shall silent lie. The thought may sometimes startle you, * How came she thus to die? Why were the angels sent so soon to bear her far away, Why did the sun of life go down while yet ’twas early day? ‘Oh, trust God’s love and wisdom, which though often now concealed. Will one day in His own bright world come all to be revealed; Yes, all that now is dark to us, we then shall clearly see, In the light of the City of the Crystal Sea.

“When first upon a couch of pain my throbbing head was laid. That God might raise me up again, how fervently I prayed; But He, perhaps, foresaw too well the briar and the thorn,. Which might, like other wanderiog sheep, my straying feet have

torn; Too surely would His wisdom know, that with a longer life I might have proved unequal for the battle and the strife. And therefore the unanswered prayer was all in love to mc. So He took me to the City of the Crystal Sea.

“And when all this is over, and time has onward rolled; O father, mother, Elsie, never think of me as old. Never think of me but as I am, without an earthly care, No wrinkle on my forehead — no white-lock in my hair; Never think of me as dying — never think of me as dead, But think of me only, as by guardian angels led: Yes, think of me, I pray you, as young as now I be, A child still in the City of the Crystal Sea.

“And if at any future time should sorrow be in store,

Should poverty or sickness come across your cottage door;

Accept of every trial as God’s messenger of love

To raise your hearts* affections to my better home above;

A few short years at farthest, and beyond this scene of woe

We shall meet where partings are unknown, and sorrow cannot

go: From all temptations ’ clean escaped * — from all afflictions free, Safe for ever in the City of the Crystal Sea.

‘’ Yes, I’m going to a region which is ever fair and bright, Where all the blessed angels walk in fields of golden light, Where the cherubim and seraphim surround the great I AM, And the armies of the ransomed sing the praises of* the Lamb; Oh, wondrous thought 1 this feeble tongue shall soon take up the

strain. And join in ‘Worthy is the Lamb — the Lamb for sinners slain; * My dearly loved Redeemer in His beauty I shall see, The glory of the City of the Crystal Sea.

“Come nearer, come yet nearer, I like you near me now.

For I feel Death’s icy finger still colder on my brow;

The Angels are all waiting round, I hear my Saviour’s voice,

The Gates of glory stand ajar, I cannot but rejoice.

My eyesight fast is dimming — the lengthening shadows fall,

I dare not longer tarry and resist the Master’s call;

Farewell! — I mayn’t return to you: but you can come to me ‘’

She entered then the City of the Crystal Sea.

REV. CHARLES ALBERT J ANSON.

“IF THSBE WAS ONE AMONG ALL TE2 MEN ENGAGED IN THE WOBK WHO IS BNBOLLED IN THE LIST OF SAINTS, IT WAS JANSON.” — BISHOP 8TSEBS.

“JANBON’B death is ONE LONG TBIUMPH.” — LEITEB OF A BBOTHSB MISSIONABT.

Oh, ’tis a placid rest!
Who should deplore it?
Trance of the pure and blest,
Angels watch o’er it 1

Sleep of his mortal night,
Sorrow cant break it;
Heaven’s own morning light
Alone shall wake it.

Nobly thy course is run I
Splendour is round it;
Bravely thy fight is won,
Martyrdom crowned it!”