Conclusion.

Plan of this work.

and its devoted ministry;-these and all other branches of the great army of God, shall all move forward, side by side, against the one great enemy of their common Màster. The world will then no longer point to our contentions, and quiet themselves in sin, but they will see, though our forms and usages may differ, that still, in heart and purpose, WE ARE ONE.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SICK.

"Sick, and ye visited me."

An inspection of our table of contents, would not lead the reader to suppose that any very logical plan was pursued in the arrangement of the topics discussed in this work. It is, in fact, to be considered as a connected train of thought, rather than a systematic arrangement of several independent subjects of discussion. Accordingly, after two or three preliminary chapters, we took up the first and most obvious source of suffering which obtrudes itself upon our notice, in this valley of tears. It was poverty; and, as in the consideration of it, we saw that it admitted of no effectual remedy but the removal of its moral causes, we were led at once to the discussion of the great moral remedy for all moral evils,-the gospel of Jesus Christ; and the modes by which this remedy is to be most effectually applied. Having in the three last chapters considered this subject in its three most important aspects, we now return to the other great branch of physical evil.

Sickness; the twin sister and companion of want, and the sharer with her of the empire of human suffering. Like poverty, she is the daughter of sin, but is farther separated from her mother. Sin moves on, and sickness

Safe to do good to the sick.

lingers often behind, so that you may deal with her separately. Want, on the other hand, clings closely to her parent; they make common cause, and stand or fall together.

But to drop the metaphor,-although, as the bible teaches us, all sickness and pain are to be considered as the consequence of sin, yet they sometimes come from it so indirectly, and are separated from it so far by lapse of time, and are sometimes in so slight a degree connected with personal transgression, that we may apply our remedies directly to it, with comparatively little danger. In fact, there are several considerations, making our duty to the sick a very important part of the field of benevolent action.

1. We can very easily afford a great deal of relief and even of happiness to the sick; and that safely. If it is only temporary relief and happiness, it is an object worth securing, provided that it can be secured without danger. When we relieve the distresses of poverty by our friendly interposition, we are always solicitous, lest we may, in the end, make more unhappiness than we remove. The distress may be feigned, or may be in some way connected with deception, and our aid, in such a case, will only encourage and embolden fraud. Or a man may have neglected to make provision for coming wants, when he might have provided for them, and then, when he begins to feel their pressure, we may cut off the influence of a salutary lesson for the future, by the relief which we cannot find it in our hearts to deny. It sometimes seems almost cruel, to admit such suspicions, but it is only the extreme of inexperience or of folly, that can be blind to them.

In cases of sickness, however, they do not apply. All the good that we can do in the chamber of actual disease or suffering, is, with exceptions very few and rare, a work, at least, of safety.

And then, besides the safety of it, doing good in a sick

The sick laborer.

Good easily and safely done.

room, is a very effectual way of doing good. We work there to great advantage. A very little effort gives a great deal of relief, or a great deal of pleasure. Perhaps it is owing to the feelings of helplessness and dependence, which sickness brings, or perhaps to the effect of disease in awakening the susceptibilities of the mind, and rendering the sufferer more sensitive to kindness, as we know he is to sounds, and light, and pain. The sternest man will be softened, if you approach him with relief, or even with sympathy, when he is in sickness or pain.

Thus, if there are within the reach of your walks, a number of cases of sickness among the poor, and unfortunate, and neglected, there is no way in which you can spend a few hours each week, in doing more immediate and effectual good, than in seeking out the cases, and carrying to them your relief, or at least, your sympathy. There is, for example, in one lowly home, a poor man laid upon his hard, uncomfortable bed, by an accidental injury received in his work,—and the want, which his exertions only keep at bay, begins to take advantage of his helplessness, and to press his iron grasp upon the mother and children. Now you may visit him,-your words of sympathy and encouragement may save them all from despair. Your aid may find a little employment for the wife, or for a child, or a little medical advice for the patient, so as to hasten his release; and thus with a strict economy of your means of doing good, you may, by a small expenditure of time, and money, and care, give at once, great immediate relief, and save a whole family from much future suffering. And while you are doing it, the light of Christian example and character, which you will cause to shine into that dark home, may allure some of its inmates, in the end, to the banner under which you are serving.

Then again, here is another case. An incurable disease of a limb, is wasting away a little patient, and carrying him slowly and surely to the grave. Without pain, and with

The child.

Happiness.

Old age.

very little general disease, he is confined by the apparatus of the surgeon in one position, which there is only the faintest possible hope that he will ever leave, till he is released from it to be laid in the last position of mortality. Till then, however, his arms and eyes are at liberty, and his soul is free; and contented, cheerful and happy, he welcomes you day after day with a smile, as you come to admire the little windmills, and boxes, that he makes with his penknife and glue,—or to give him new drawings to copy,- -or a new book to read,— -or to sit at his bed-side, with your hand upon his brow, wishing that all the suffering and the wretched could be as happy as he;—or to kneel by his bed-side, and pray simply for a continuance of the goodness and mercy with which God surrounds his little prisoner. His narrow room seems to be the connecting anti-chamber of earth and heaven, and viewing both worlds from it, you can hardly desire that God should restore its inmate to the one he has left. His soul seems to float in the presence and communion of the Savior, as the swimmer in the warm summer sea.

Again, there is age, decrepit old age,—sitting helplessly by the fireside, in his ancient chair. His generation has gone off and left him, and he is alone. He feels like a stranger among the beings that have sprung up all around him, as it were in a day, and his thoughts and his memory run back spontaneously to times, and men, and events that now are gone; and which, though they are every thing to him, are nothing now to any body beside. It is painful to him to find that the knowledge and recollections to which alone his mind runs back with interest and pleasure, are insignificant and worthless to all around him. Now you may look in upon him a few minutes, as he sits in his armed chair in a winter evening, or stop to talk with him a moment under the trees, before his door, at sunset, in June; and by your tone of kindness and interest, and the air of respectful consideration always due to age, you revive the

Consumption and her victims.

heart of the aged pilgrim to sensations of happiness, which beam over his soul brightly, while you are with him, and linger there long after you are gone. The enjoyment is but little, I admit,—but then the expense is but very little, by which it is secured.

Then, besides all these sources of sickness and suffering, there is often near us, and sometimes at our very firesides, a visiter, whom we scarcely know whether to call an enemy or a friend. New England, if not her native land, is at least her loved and chosen home. She thrives in the refreshing coolness of our northern clime. The air of the sea breeze, of the cool autumnal evening, and of the wintry storm, constitute her very vital breath. Her form is slender and delicate,—a little too delicate and feeble for gracefulness; and her cheek, though it blooms, does not bloom exactly with beauty: but then her eye is bright, and her forehead is of marble. Her name is Consumption.

She loves New England, and lingers unobserved among us in a thousand scenes. She is always busy here, selecting her victims among the sensitive and the fair, and commencing secretly that mysterious process of entanglement, by which they are to become, at last, her hopeless prey She loves the slow moon-light walk, the winter sleigh-ride, and the return in the chilly coach at midnight, from the crowded city assembly. She helps make up the party in the summer evening sail,-uninvited, unwelcome, and unobserved, but still there, taking her choice from all the lovely forms before her. She knows too well how to choose. She can appreciate intelligence, beauty, sensibility, and even moral worth, and in the collected assembly of her victims, you would find some of the brightest and loveliest specimens of humanity.

Now, perhaps, you may find some one of these victims in the circle of your walks, and you may easily do a great deal to relieve weariness, and restlessness, and pain, during the long months of decline, and to soothe the sufferings of the last hours.