Transcribed from the 19th century Religious Tract Society edition by
David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

                      [Picture: Public domain cover]

                                                                  No. 803.

                            NARRATIVE SERIES.

                                * * * * *





                                   THE
                               DYING GIPSY


                                * * * * *

           “Be sure your sin will find you out.”   NUMB. xxxii. 23.

                                * * * * *

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.

                                * * * * *

Reader, we see in the case of this poor man,

First, The force of conscience.

Let it be remembered that this sin was committed in private—his family
knew nothing of it—his brother probably did not notice it at the
time—there was no man of God at his elbow, to reprove him—no Bible at
hand to condemn him—and yet he was never happy afterwards.  What was it,
then, which made him thus miserable, and always thus brought his sin to
remembrance, but that same conscience, which so many deny, and always
affect to despise?  Though there was no recorder upon earth, there was
one in heaven: God heard and marked his sin: he it was that roused
conscience to its duty, and bid it wring the sinner’s heart; it did so,
and the unhappy blasphemer could never afterwards forget the impious
expression; it was ever present to his recollection, it followed him like
a frightful spectre wherever he went, and peace was a stranger to his
bosom.

This it was that clothed death with so much terror: he could not die as
his fellows are used to die, in brutal ignorance and stupidity; he was
alive to his situation, he saw his danger; he knew that punishment was
deserved; conscience, ever pointing to the bar of God, told him to
prepare for judgment—and though he knew but little of God’s word and his
threatenings against sinners, he could not but fear the worst: it was
this that shook his strong nerves, and bowed down his spirits for forty
years.  Oh! who can resist an enraged conscience?  “A wounded spirit who
can bear?”

Reader, pause for a moment.  You possess a conscience, though perhaps it
sleeps, but be assured it will not sleep for ever; it is immortal as the
soul, it will surely awake, and that soon, either in time or eternity:
convinced of sin you must be, either by the mercy of God in this world,
to bring you to repentance; or by his vengeance in the next, “where their
worm dieth not, and their fire is not quenched!”  O whenever it speaks,
listen to it, it is a friendly voice: do not stifle it, for in stilling
conscience we quench the last glimmerings of hope; we commit the last act
of violence upon the soul, short of self-murder; and do, as it were, leap
down upon the very shelvings of the pit, that mercy’s hand may never
reach us.

Secondly.  See here the bitterness of unpardoned sin.

God hath thus spoken by his prophet, (Jer. ii. 19.) “Thine own wickedness
shall correct thee, and thy backslidings shall reprove thee: know
therefore and see that it is an evil thing and bitter, that thou hast
forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my fear is not in thee, saith the
Lord God of hosts.”  This language was fearfully made out in the case
before us: for forty years this man had no rest in his mind; he had
committed many sins before, which, like to many lying spirits, had
deceived him; but this sin as soon as committed, he felt to lie upon his
conscience unforgiven; and from that time forward all his sins, which he
once turned as sweet morsels under his tongue, he found to be bitter as
gall.  His sufferings for so many years together, may be better conceived
than described; wherever he went, whatever he did, he seemed to see the
eye of God continually fixed and frowning on him.  Oh! if the pressure of
one unpardoned sin upon the conscience, be sufficient to fill the soul
with anguish, and render a man wretched through life; what must be his
sufferings in the world to come, where all his sins will be brought to
remembrance, and made to prey upon his peace for ever!

Reader!  You must sooner or later taste the bitterness of sin.  O that it
may be in time to bring you to repentance and salvation!  But know, that
if you die unpardoned, you must dwell with devouring flame, and lie down
in everlasting burnings.

Thirdly.  Notice signs of penitence.

His views of Christianity were indistinct and confused: this, however,
was to be expected from his habits of life.  Up to his eightieth year he
had been a fugitive and wanderer upon earth, without the means of grace;
and there is reason to think, without ever hearing a sermon in his life.
And had he possessed a Bible, he could not have read it: nothing
therefore but profound ignorance could be expected, but then, he
exhibited signs of the deepest penitence, and we know who has said, “The
sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O
God, thou wilt not despise.” (Pa. li. 17.)  Nor was this contrition the
mere effect of his dying circumstances; for some years previous he had
been an altered man, and had frequently been seen by his family, engaged
in prayer by himself under the hedges, and in other retired places.  I
have certainly no warrant for positively declaring that he is now happy;
nor dare I say he is not; “to his own Master he standeth or falleth”—but
when I heard of his death, I could not help, in the judgment of charity
tracing he departed spirit to the throne of God.

Reader are you thus penitent?  Have you felt and confessed your sins?
Have you earnestly implored mercy through the atonement of Christ?  Have
you forsaken sin?  For remember, he declared as a dying man, that he
would not repeat his former practices, nor live as he had done for the
universe.  If indeed you have forsaken your unrighteous thoughts and
ways, and turned to the Lord through faith in Jesus Christ, he will
assuredly receive you, and abundantly pardon.  But know, that if you
still allow yourself to sin, and still find sin pleasant, your state is
truly awful, you are as sure to die as he was, but not so likely to
obtain mercy, for he was penitent but you are not, and “except ye repent,
ye shall all likewise perish.” Luke xiii. 5.

Fourthly.  We are herein reminded of the blessedness and value of the
Bible, which reveals a Saviour and the hope of pardon.

It was not any thing of our own, but the truths of the Bible which
interested and cheered this dying man.  With eagerness he listened to the
doctrines of redemption and mercy through the blood of Christ, and found
them exactly suited to his case.

O then how diligently ought we to study the Bible!  Read it, and pray
over it; it will conduct thee to the fountain of life and mercy.
Remember, there is no salvation, no pardon, but through that Saviour of
whom it speaks, for “there is no other name given under heaven among men,
whereby we must be saved.” (Acts iv. 12.)  Mere sorrow for past, sin,
prompted by present pain, and dread of the future, forcing a cry for
mercy, cannot save us, nor must we trust to it: this man wept and groaned
for years but it brought him no relief—nothing effected this but the hope
of mercy through the Redeemer.

Sinner, go to Him; and may the divine Spirit seal these truths upon thy
heart, through Jesus Christ.  Amen.

                                * * * * *

 _London_: _Printed for_ THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY; _and sold at their
Depositary_, 56, _Paternoster-row_; _by_ J. NISBET, 21, _Berners street_,
              _Oxford-street_; _and by other Bookselllers_.

                       [Price 2_s._ 8_d._ per 100]

         _Considerable Allowance to Subscribers and Booksellers_.