The Dying Gipsy

CONSCIENCE, say some, is a mere whim, that frightens weak minds, renders man a coward, and cuts short half his purposes. But is it not rather the candle of the Lord shining in man’s dark bosom, to bring to light the hidden wickedness of the heart; that well-known voice which gives no sound, yet will be heard—that hand often felt, though never seen? Reader! it you regard this inward monitor, (and I trust you do,) you will not then turn away from the following relation of facts.

Several reports were brought to P—, of a dying gipsy, who was lying in a camp two miles off; that his mind was greatly distressed at the prospect of death, that he had offered a sum of money for a person to read to him a portion of the Bible, and that he had also offered money to a poor woman for reading to him part of the Book of Common Prayer; and further, that he had declared he could not endure the thought of dying till God had forgiven him.

Not being able that day to visit him myself, I prevailed on a friend to go instead, to whom the gipsy gave an account of himself in nearly the following words:—

“My name is Stanley, my ancestors were once respectable, my great-grandfather was a principal officer in the army of the commonwealth; but the family falling to decay, my father took up with the wandering life of the gipsies; among them I was born, and have continued to the present time. I am now in my eightieth year, and have led a long and wicked life; but there is one thing that troubles me above all the rest. About forty years ago, in the course of conversation with a brother of mine, I cursed the Almighty to his face! From that time, sir, I have been a stranger to peace; the recollection of my blasphemy has followed me ever since; I cannot forget it; it haunts me from place to place; alone or in company, it is the same. I get no rest; my wickedness fills me with horror; I am indeed a monster; often have I tried to remove the impression, but it is impossible. O, sir, my sin it too heavy for me to bear! Such has been its influence upon my spirits, that the bare mention of God’s name would bring a trembling upon me, and fill my mind with anguish. As long as I could, I concealed the cause of my uneasiness, till it became too painful to bear, and I was at length induced, about two years ago, to reveal it to my family; from that time I have earnestly sought for God’s forgiveness, but I still feel his hand heavy. O might I but be pardoned! I could then die in peace; but, sir, with this burden upon my soul, death will indeed be dreadful.”

Having heard his affecting relation, my friend immediately spoke of Jesus Christ—of his death on the cross for the salvation of sinners, and exhorted him to believe in the Son of God, who died for the sins of the world; assuring him, that there was mercy with God to pardon him; that the divine compassion was like the boundless sea; that the arms of Christ’s mercy were still extended to embrace and welcome all that come to him, even the vilest; that many great sinners had been pardoned upon repentance and were now shining in glory; that there was room still for more, and that if he repented and believed in Christ as the only Saviour, salvation was as free for him as for others. At these words his countenance brightened; but as speaking had by this time greatly exhausted him, my friend bade him farewell for the present.

The next evening we visited him together; a small tent pitched upon the ground, enclosing room just sufficient for a bed, contained the sufferer. As we drew near, a young woman of about twenty, in features, dress, and manners every way the gipsy, came forward, and (as is frequently the case with unenlightened relatives) wished us not to introduce the subject of eternity any more. She said he had felt much more composed in consequence of my friend’s preceding visit, but still she feared if we mentioned the subject then, it would again disturb him; besides he was already much fatigued. However, on our replying that the tidings we brought were calculated to soothe, instead of disturb, a person in his circumstances, she drew the curtain from the front of the tent, and the object of our attention lay before us, gasping for breath.

I confess I was much struck with the affectionate attention the family appeared to pay to their aged father; however careless of their own persons, they did not neglect him—there was every thing that could be expected under such circumstances—a feather bed, bolster, and pillows, supported the limbs of the dying man—the sheets and pillow-cases were white and clean, and a patchwork counterpane, equally clean, covered him outside.

He immediately noticed us, and though nearly breathless made an effort to speak; he replied to some of my friend’s questions concerning the subjects they had discoursed upon; said that his mind was easier than it had ever been before—that he felt as if a great weight had been lifted off from him. We asked, “What has been the practice of your past life?” He replied, “Nothing but sin.”—“What do you deserve at the hands of God?” “Eternal punishment.”—“Would God be just, if he were to refuse you mercy?” “O yes!”—“If you should be spared and recover, would you live as you have done?” “O no! not for the world.”—“What do you now desire? what do you most need?” “Mercy! mercy!”—“What, if you might be pardoned?” “O I would give the world to obtain it!”—“Are you then really desirous of pardon, that you may join the redeemed in glory?” To this he signified his full assent, not indeed in so many words, they were too feeble to convey his meaning; but with eyes and hands uplifted, and a countenance remarkably animated, he seemed at once to collect all the remaining energies of body and spirit to say, “O yes! indeed I am!” This assent was accompanied with a force of expression, which I apprehend none but a dying man could give to it.

I again stated to him the plan of salvation, through the redemption of Jesus Christ; the necessity of a change of heart to render us meet for heaven; to all which he replied as intelligibly as we could expect from his weak state and previous ignorance, for he could not read a letter. I then stated to him some of the invitations of divine mercy, as, Isaiah lv. 7, “Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.” And, Isaiah i. 18, “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as while as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” John vi. 37, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.” Matt. vii. 7, 8, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: for every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.” Rev. xxii. 17, “And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst, come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.” I asked him if they were not sweetly suited to the case of a penitent? He replied, “O yes!”—“Do they suit your case?” “O very well!” By this time he was so much spent, that speaking appeared almost impossible; I therefore kneeled down by him, and endeavoured in a short prayer to plead the promises which are yea and amen in Christ Jesus, on which we are encouraged to hope. We then left him, and he expressed the sincerest gratitude for our attentions, as did his family also.

As we turned away, my mind was deeply affected with the scene which surrounded us; it was a fine evening in May, the landscape was extensive, and richly diversified with sections of arable and pasture land—the wide common on which we stood was skirted on one side by a continuous range of hills, whose sloping sides exhibited the various shades and hues peculiar to the season, as seen in the fallow ground, the deep foliage of the copse, the corn, the turnip, and the varying grass; while here and there, a lengthened bank of chalk was seen beneath the frowning precipice—in the distance, the parish church raised its neat white spire above the trees—behind these, another range of hills, though more irregular, stretched their encircling arms so as completely to bound the prospect—the sky, with the exception of a few light clouds, was clear and serene, and the whole beautifully tinged with the rays of the selling sun.

Such was the face of nature, which seemed suited in its stillness to the solemn scene we had quitted. But with man it was far otherwise—a sad contrast now presented itself. In a retired part of the common, beneath the shade of a few trees, we had just seen a poor fellow-sinner (and we hope a penitent) preparing to enter the presence of his Maker—the soul on wing for flight, trembling, and anxious for the future—here we had trodden the confines of eternity, and seemed to have been breathing the air of death, and holding converse with the spirits of another world; but at no great distance on the same common, hundreds, who had assembled to celebrate the Whitsun holidays, were wasting in giddy sinful mirth that precious time, which the poor man we had just visited would have given the world to recall. How sad a perversion of the sacred festival appointed for the purpose of commemorating the descent of the Holy Ghost!—that sacred Spirit, against whom this thoughtless rabble were constantly striving, by stifling his voice, and quenching his influence within them! Thus, thought I, men sin; and thus, as in the agonies of that dying man, they often suffer for it! But this is not all; he will, we hope, find mercy, many of them perhaps will not—we trust he is a penitent, he has rejoiced to hear of the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world; but who can say that one fourth of that thoughtless crowd will ever repent? And if not, these visionary joys must be succeeded by real and everlasting misery. The thought affected me, and I felt thankful for the grace, which I hoped had made me to differ.

The next day our penitent (for so we considered him) was again visited by some of our friends, but was nearly speechless. He lingered for a few days longer, and then died, we trust in peace, through the infinite mercy of Christ. We learnt, that for the last twelve years of his life he had been a very altered man; and his family declared that since he had unbosomed his sin and grief, they had often seen him under the hedges in secret, as they thought, praying fervently for mercy.