IT was a tumble-down, one-roomed cottage close to the water of the bay. The owner of it, a rough godless man, plied the uncertain calling of a boatman. His wife was a Christian woman. Near them lived an earnest servant of Christ. One day as he was going to see some of the poor people he was interested in, the big, bloated, unshaven boatman, dressed in ragged canvas trousers, a torn, colored shirt, accosted him with a rough “Ahoy! heave to.”
What followed is perhaps better narrated in the different speakers’ words.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” I replied.
“Well, not particularly,” he answered, “but the old girl inside wants to say a word to you. She’s bound on a voyage, and wants to know if her papers are all right.”
“Do you speak of your wife?” I asked.
“Yes, if you like it better. She’s about done for. She wanted me to go after you, but it’s too hot for a Christian to put his head out, but seeing you coming I hailed you.”
“A Christian! are you a Christian?” I exclaimed. “All a set of impostors. Don’t care to be suspected of being one. Used the word as a saying. The fewer preachers in the world the better it would be.”
As I passed into the only room, there lay the invalid stretched on a mattress supported by a sea vessel’s berth against the wall. She extended her thin hand, turned her eyes to me, and smiled a welcome.
“God be blessed, ever blessed, for this favor, sir,” she said in a low, weak voice. “I wished to see you before I died. God has heard my prayer and mil you to me. Oh! sir, pray for my husband.”
“Mag, if you wanted to see the parson to ask bin to pray for me, you might have saved yourself the trouble. If there are any prayers put up for me, doctor, it must be to the devil.”
The dying woman closed her eyes, and her lip moved in prayer. There was an air of patience impressed upon her face, telling of long years of endurance “I want none of your religion,” the man broke in with an oath.
“Sir,” I said turning to him, “are you a man?” “Well,” he said, “I reckon I am not a dog?”
“If, then, you are a man, you do need the Christian religion. A dog needs no Saviour, man needs Christ, needs a Saviour. If you do not need a Saviour you are below a man, you are a brute.”
With an angry look he advanced a step into the room.
“This is strong language, parson, to put to a man,” he said with an air and tone of intimidation.
“You acknowledge, then, that you are a man?” I answered, steadfastly meeting the gaze of his gray eyes. “‘God commandeth all men everywhere to repent.’ The strong language I made use of is the Word of God.”
He clenched his fist.
“James,” said his wife― “James, do not strike.”
“No, no, don’t fear, I’ll not knock a man down for quoting Scripture, but people ought to be a little delicate, Mag, in how they throw bricks at a man. It ain’t pleasant to be called a brute.”
“Pardon me, sir, I did not call you a brute. I simply said man needs Christ, brutes can do without Him.”
The boatman made no reply. He turned away, evidently in deep thought. I saw his wife’s eyes follow him, and with a look of gratitude she said, “God bless you, sir, for speaking to him so simply. Intemperance and bad company have made him what he is. Oh! sir, when I am gone, think of him, pray for him, call and see him, and talk with him. He has a soul to save. Christ died for him. The atoning sacrifice is sufficient to save even a sinner like him. Oh! sir, be was gentle, but the cup―the cup, sir, it has changed him.”
“I promise not to forget,” I replied.
“Thanks, sir, thanks! I―”
Here her emotion prevented her from saying more. I saw the death-dew was on her brow. This interview had kindled her dying energies, but now she sank back exhausted. I knelt down and committed her to the care of her Redeemer. As I closed she opened her eyes; a glorious radiance was in her features, as she said, “I know that my Redeemer liveth, ―and though―worms―destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”
“James, husband, come near me; I am going away from you, let me say farewell.”
The boatman came near her bed. “James,” she said, “let me take your hand.” With ill grace he put his heavy, clumsy hand in her dying grasp. I could see, however, that he was moved. The dying look of his wife had reached his hard heart. He said nothing, stood still, and gazed upon her. There was a holy radiance in her face, as she said: “James, farewell; I die. I am now going to that heaven the hope of which has filled and cheered me in my sorrow. I am going to see the face of Jesus. I am going where there is no more sin―no tears―no pain―no death. The happiness of that blessed world will be eternal, the life without an end. I bear testimony in dying I am sustained by the hope of that Bible which you have so often been angry with me for reading. Forgive me, I meant no reproach. Kiss me, my husband.”
To my surprise he dropped on one knee, bent over her pillow, and kissed her forehead.
She smiled, and placing her hand on his forehead, prayed: “Father, glorify Thy grace in making my husband a Christian man. Nothing is impossible with Thee.”
The boatman’s face betrayed no emotion, but I could see it was only with a great effort he restrained himself. He remained spellbound by her side. She was now sinking fast.
“Sir,” she said, “farewell. I thank you for your consolation and for your presence here.” She pressed my hand with her cold fingers. Turning to her husband, she said, “Good-bye, dear James; I cannot return to you, but you can come to me. Farewell! oh I let it not be forever.”
His chest heaved, there was a sudden outburst of tears, and loud groans of anguish. The strong man was utterly broken down. He leaned his head upon her pillow and sobbed like a child. No pen could describe the expression on the face of his dying wife. Holy joy beamed in every feature as she gently drew his forehead near and kissed him. “James,” she said, “those tears are my joy. Oh! that God may give you grace to come where I am going. Will you promise me to come?”
“Maggie, I promise; so help me God!” he replied in a strong, firm voice, whilst his eyes were blinded with tears.
“Then I die in peace. Saviour, into Thy hands I commend my spirit. Thou hast made my cup to run over.”
For a few moments she lay silent and motionless. He gazed upon her, watching the last sign of life. He bent over her and kissed her lips. I could hear him mutter, “I am a villain, I am a brute, I am not worthy to be near to one who is so near to God. This is as near heaven as a wretch like me ought to approach. God forgive me, I am not worthy to live. I hate myself; I loathe myself.”
Suddenly she opened her eyes and said with an animation that surprised me: “Hark, hear that music. Oh! it can’t be of earth. Listen! Such a strain reached my ears from the heavenly chorus.”
She paused, and then said―
“Who are these in bright array?
This innumerable throng
Around the throne.”
Her voice ceased. I resumed where she had
stopped. She then added―
“Amidst the throne
Shall to the living fountain lead.”
“Oh! yes, blessed Lamb of God, Jesus, my Saviour, my Hope, there I shall follow Thee.”
Here she seemed lost in rapture. Her face was transfigured. Her eyes were closed. Softly, plaintively she began to sing: ―
“Oh, there shall rest be found,
Rest for the weary soul,
Beyond this vale of tears,
There is a life above
And all that life is love.”
“Is love―is love―is love. Come, Lord Jesus, come.” Her voice ceased, her spirit had gone to be with her Saviour.
Her husband knelt by her pillow with a look of intense sorrowing love. After kissing his dead wife. he raised himself up.
“You have seen, my friend, how a Christian can die,” I said very gently.
“Yes,” he answered, from a bursting heart, “and I have known how a Christian can live. That woman was an angel from God’s heaven to me. I see it all. I feel it all now, sir, I am a brute, and yet she never gave me an unkind word. Those lips, now closed forever, only uttered words of love, gentleness, and truth. I hated her, because she was God’s. Her holy life was always a sermon to me. She was a living Bible against me and my evil life. God forgive me.” He then abruptly left the room, and paced up and down the backyard.
The day of the funeral arrived. His old associates could not understand the change which had come over their old chum; as they saw his massive frame torn with grief, they could not understand how the wickedest man in that locality was so deeply affected.
Ah! they had not witnessed that scene by the bedside of the dying saint. They were not in the secret of the way he had been “won by the conversation of his wife,” or of the effect of a “living Bible” upon the conscience of such a deep-dyed sinner.
May this touching account of her life, sorrows, and dying joys not only encourage all wives similarly situated to emulate her example, but be a voice to all who profess to be Christians. May we be more truly “a living Bible,” so that others may be attracted to that same blessed Saviour whom we own.
Above all, may the reality of this death-bed scene speak to all, who read these lines, who are unconverted.
H. N.