And learn of thee, the lowly one, Oh! in thy light, be mine to go, C. FRIENDLY VISITOR. No. 255.] DECEMBER, 1839. [VOL. 21. SHORT ACCOUNT OF A POOR COLLIER. As I passed our church-yard the other evening, I observed a funeral, at which an unusual throng of people were assembled. The crowd was chiefly composed of men, and many of them I knew as colliers who worked in the pits. On enquiry, I found that they were following to the grave one of their fellow-workmen, who had met with what in mining districts is so common-a sudden death. It was a lovely evening: the setting sun was going down brightly, and its rays shone upon the pall of the coffin, as the mourners slowly bore it to its quiet resting place. Oh! I thought, how differently did the poor collier's sun go down; all was quenched in utter darkness, and how suddenly! but then the thought came, "Some are ready for the call, and he might have been of the number of those blessed ones." "Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, and few there be that find it;" yet he might have been one of those few. And was he one? It was but to mention his name to any one of the mourners who thronged the churchyard, and a ready answer was given. For twenty years he had walked in the way that leads to heaven; and not content to walk alone in it, had been ready to say with Moses, "We are jour neying unto the place of which the Lord said, I will give it you: come with us, and we will do thee good." "Ah! (said a poor man to me,) he was the means of the conversion of my own brother, who is now dead, through following him up, and enticing him to a place of worship"-a homely manner of speaking, but so expressive, that I would not omit it, and of how much it told, perhaps of the uncivil answer, then the unwilling compliance, and at last perhaps of the time when they took sweet counsel together, and walked to the house M of God as friends-of something more still; the mind faintly and feebly, and yet, I doubt not, truly follows them to that land very far away, where they have now met in glory-to that land which "once lay before thêm as in a map, but of which they now walk round the bulwarks, and count the towers," and are evermore led to exclaim, "Behold, the half was not told me." But it was not one alone to whom his watchful care was blest. Eighteen of those who met with him in public worship, several of whom he had been the means of awakening from the error of their way, met round his grave, "and many tears they shed," remarked the old woman who mentioned it to me, "and well they might, they lost their right hand." In the course of the next week, I went to visit his poor widow. There was no clamorous grief, no violent outbreak of sorrow; she sat motionless and tearless, reminding me of the few expressive words uttered by one on a similar occasion: "Sorrow that is to last for life cannot afford to be violent." I scarcely attempted a word of consolation; but taking a Bible from the shelf, was about to read to her one of the beautiful Psalms. "It is his own Bible," were almost the first words she uttered; "and if you turn to the first page, you will see where he has put down the names of all his children." There was a prayer too which he had begun to write, but left unfinished till his next hour of leisure should be devoted to the pleasant task. That hour of rest never came; but instead of that prayer being ended, an eternal song of praise was begun. The sight of the book seemed powerfully to recal her husband to poor Mary's mind. "It was seldom out of his hand," she said, "when he was at home from his work; but he is taken from it now, and from us too," she added; and then when once the spell was broken, and she found herself able to name him, she continued speaking of him. And as I listened, I could not but admire the strong feeling of self-denial by which her conversation was marked. "Well," she said, "he knows nothing of all this trouble; let us have to toil on as we may, he is safe at rest. Sometime ago, when he was very ill, he said to me, 'Mary, I cannot feel so ready to leave this world as I ought, on account of these dear children; when I see them all around me, my heart clings to them.' Ah!" she added, with intense feeling, "he had no such trouble at his last moment, they were not near him then ;" and she was going on to tell me of his death, but her voice failed. It was pleasant to talk of his holy life, of his continued watchfulness for herself and children, but of his sudden departure from them all she could not speak. After leaving her, I visited her father and mother, who lived in the next cottage. It is said, that a man's character is best known by his own family and by his near neighbours, and from them I learnt the highest character of poor Isaac. "We lived next door for fifteen years, said his mother, "and I never had a miss word with him; indeed it was impossible; if any one tried to offend him, he always gave the quietest answer. Many a time," she said, "have I sat in the corner of the cottage late at night; and then after every one else was gone to bed, and the candle was out, how I have heard him pray-such beautiful words, they seemed to shine into my heart." "Ah!" said her old husband, "he is well off now, but his was a sad end; he went off looking as well and as cheerful as ever, and I saw him brought home through that field at night;" and then he went on to tell me of the cause of his death, and well, as far as this world was concerned, might it be called sad. I learnt from him that the poor collier was not at his own work, but being a steady man, was put to work at that part of the pit where most care was needed. He saw that there was danger, and during the whole day was in continued anxiety whether the heavy masses of coal above might not fall and bury him. But evening was drawing on, and he might hope soon to leave his fearful employment: in vain-the evening was not to come to him, and he was not to return to his home but as a corpse -the dreaded moment of which during the day he had so fatal a presentiment came at last: the mass fell, and crushed him to death. Well has it been said, "Through much tribulation we must enter the kingdom of heaven," &c. Who can tell the weight of agony which must have pressed on the heart of the poor collier through that trying day; but with the last expiring sigh, all woe was ended for ever. His poor boy's cry of agony as he hung over the corpse was unheard by him; and the songs of angels met his ears, whilst in his cottage was heard such bitter wailings as can be conceived only by those who know how the heart is torn by the tidings of sudden death. But those who read this simple account, together with those who mourn him, are passing away together. The messenger which shall bid them stand before their Maker may come with tardier footsteps; but the last hour must come, and the entrance into the presence of the King of kings must be alike to all-awful beyond what the most soaring imagination and the clearest intellect can conceive-and yet the most unlearned Christian may, like poor Isaac, be ready to meet the call, "being found in Christ and clothed in his righte ousness.' F. E. LIFE VIEWED FROM THE BORDERS OF THE GRAVE. The last hours of men who have grown old in faithful devotion to the service of Christ, often furnish to us rich treasures of practical wisdom. How affecting and beautiful were the words of the great Hooker on the day before his death, when asked with respect to the subject of the deep contemplation in which he was engaged, and from which he appeared loth to be di verted. His reply was, "that he was meditating the number and nature of angels, and their blessed obedience and order, without which peace could not be in heaven and oh!" added he, "that it might be so on earth." |