The history of Susan Gray

In my parish, not far from the fine town of Ludlow, on the bank of the beautiful river Teme, are the garden, the little orchard, and the ruins of the pretty cottage, which many years ago were rented by James Gray.

A flue wood of tall trees shelters this pleasant spot from the cold North wind, and a row of large willows grows at the foot of the garden beside the river. When I first came to my living, I became acquainted with James Gray. He was an honest good young man, and he was so happy as to have a wife who feared God: the character still given in that country by those who remember Mary Gray, was that she was a pious, sober-minded young woman, "a keeper at home," as the Apostle exhorts women to be, and a most kind and dutiful wife.

James gained a tolerably comfortable livelihood by working in his garden. He cultivated his land with so much care that he had the earliest and best peas and beans, gooseberries and currants, salads and greens, in the country; these he always sold at a moderate price, never attempting to deceive or cheat the rich; for it was one of his most favourite sayings, that honesty is the glory of the poor man.

For some years these good people lived most happily in their cottage. It is true that they were obliged to work very hard; and now and then, as I have been told, in a severe winter, to live rather hard also: but they loved each other, and, next to their God, they thought it their duty to please each other; and as the holy Scriptures say, "a dinner of herbs where love is, is better than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith." After his daily work James never omitted to read a chapter in the Bible, and a short prayer with his wife before they went to bed; for, as he often used to say, when we lay ourselves down in our beds, we know not whether we shall be ever suffered to rise from them again: many have died in their sleep: let us, therefore, before we lie down to rest, make our peace with God, ask his pardon for any bad thing we have done in the day, and pray him to continue his blessings to us: so should death visit us in the hour of night, we shall not go into another world unprepared to stand before our Judge.

It pleased Heaven that Mary Gray should have but one child: but this child, although everyone who saw her declared her to be one of the finest little girls in the country, never was foolishly indulged or spoiled by her father and mother.

Although little Susan's parents would rather have starved themselves than have let their child want anything which was good for her, yet they never gave her anything for which she cried; they never suffered her to show angry airs, or to disobey the least of their commands. For as some very wise man remarks, if a father or mother suffers a child at five or six years of age to disobey his will, that child at twelve or fourteen will go nigh to break his parent's heart. The stubborn wills of children should be broken whilst they are small and weak, and yet dependent on their parents. It is too late to subdue an obstinate child, when that child is nearly old enough to provide for himself. But although Mary Gray never spared correction when it was necessary, yet there was not in the neighbourhood a kinder mother; when Susan was good she would play with her, she would sing to her, she would tell her stories, gather her flowers, and when she had leisure from her work she would carry her into the green fields to show her the high blue hills afar off, the pretty birds in the hedges, and the little boats on the river. Almost as soon as the child could speak she taught her to kneel down and say a short prayer to God: when she became older, she told her that it was God who made her, and talked to her of that happy place, to which those blessed children go, who keep God's holy will and commandments.

When Susan was about three years of age, her father and mother took her with them every Sunday to church; upon which occasions they always dressed her very neatly, yet never decked her out in vain ornaments, for Mary remembered well these words of the holy St. Paul: "I will that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety: not with embroidered hair, or gold or pearls, or costly array; but, which becometh women professing godliness, with good works."

Mary would sometimes, say, when talking over these things with James, as they often did of a Sunday evening: "It does not become me, who am myself guilty of so many offences both in thoughts word, and deed, to find fault with my fellow-creatures: yet it has often seemed very strange to me when I have been at market, or at church, or in any kind of public place, to see so many women of all ranks and degrees, striving as it were who should most transgress the command of the Apostle, adorning themselves and their children in every vain ornament which their fortunes could procure them; surely this cannot be right."

"In ray humble opinion," James would answer, "the love of fine clothes is as plainly condemned in the Bible as the love of drinking; but let us, my dear Mary, with God's blessing, bring up our little Susan, and appear ourselves in a plain way, and leave other people to themselves."

I often went to visit these good folks, and was greatly delighted with their pious and excellent discourse; for a foolish or profligate word never proceeded from their lips, and their child was so clean, so well ordered, so dutiful, and so gentle, that, young as she was, I formed the greatest hopes of her, and believed she would become a good Christian. It pleased heaven, however, to deprive this poor child of her good parents. She was just turned six years of age, when a terrible fever, which raged in this neighbourhood at that time, seized first upon Mary Gray, and then upon her husband; and, notwithstanding all the skill and care of the doctor, they both died. But death to them was no evil, for they had always trusted in God, and endeavoured to fulfil his will; and it pleased him to take them from this world of sorrow and labour to that happy place where men are made "equal unto the angels, and are the children of God."

But their death seemed to be a sad evil to their little girl, for whom I and my wife felt so much sorrow, that had we not had many young children of our own, we would have taken her into our own family. As soon as her dear father and mother were dead, she was carried to the parish poorhouse. After she had remained there about two months, an old woman, her father's aunt, who lived in Ludlow, undertook to maintain her till she should be twelve years of age, if the parish would allow her twelve-pence a week.

The parish having given their consent to this plan, the child was carried to the town by the old woman, and for many years I saw no more of her; for about that time it pleased God to afflict me with a disorder, which for some time prevented me from attending to my parish, and taking heed unto the flock over which the Holy Ghost had made me an overseer.

When, at the end of twelve years, by the favour of Heaven, I was restored to health, and could ride about the country, and visit my children (for so I call my parishioners) I went several times to Ludlow to inquire after Susan Gray but could hear nothing of her; her old aunt was dead, and her house shut up. Thus it was out of my power to serve the daughter of the worthy James and Mary Gray; but I trusted that Heaven, who "visits the sins of the parents upon the children unto the third and fourth generation," would not fail to bless the child of these excellent people; and so as I hoped it proved to be. God did bless Susan Gray: for a time indeed did he try her; but at length he made her who had sown in tears reap in joy, and rewarded her with an exceeding great reward. James and Mary Gray had been dead about thirteen years, when one evening as I was sitting by my fire with my wife and family, I was called out to a poor woman, who kept a very homely but reputable lodging-house in the village.

"I made bold to come, sir," said she, "to ask you to read prayers this evening to a poor young woman, who is, I fear, at the point of death."

"And who," said I, "is this young woman?"

"I know but little of her," answered she: "she came to my house fourteen days ago; soon after that great storm of thunder and lightning which struck the church steeple, and blasted your great pear-tree, sir. It was after twelve o'clock in the night when she knocked at the door. I happened to be up, finishing some work, or I could not have let her in."

"And pray," asked my wife, who had stepped out into the kitchen after me, "from whence do you suppose she comes?"

"Indeed," replied the woman, "I should think from no great distance; for although she had a small bundle of linen in her hand, she had neither hat nor cloak on."

"I fear," said my wife, looking at me and shaking her head, "that this is some unfortunate young creature who knows not the fear of God."

"Truly, madam," said the woman, "I would not wish to harbour any bad person in my house; but I really think that this poor friendless girl is one whom no one can say anything ill against.

She is extremely neat and plain in her dress, and most civil and obliging in her carriage; while she was tolerably well, which she was during the first week of her being with me, she did some little work for Farmer Flemming, who, as she told me, knew her father and mother; and then she paid me every night her two-pence for her lodging. But since she has been ill, she has scarcely been able to raise enough to keep her from starving, by selling one by one the few clothes which she brought with her. She has a handsome Bible and Prayer-book, which are constantly in her hands: these, she says, she would not sell if she could possibly help it, for she calls them her only comforters."

"Did you not say," asked my wife, "that Farmer Flemming knew this poor girl's father and mother?"

"Yes, madam," replied the woman; "they lived many years ago in this parish; their names were Gray."

"Gray!" exclaimed my wife; "is it possible?" And she looked at me."

I immediately put on my hat, and following the woman, hastened down into the village, thinking as I walked along of the wonderful ways of God: how sometimes for a season the good seem to be chastened and the wicked to flourish. "But we know that all things work together for good to them that love God."

When I was arrived at the lodging-house, I was conducted into a small yet clean room, where, on a straw mattress, and covered only with a thin blanket, lay a young woman, apparently in a kind of doze. She was very pale, and seemed to be almost at the gates of death; but there was nothing disgusting or frightful in her, as there is about bad people when they are sick or about to die. She was perfectly clean and neat, and her face was composed as the face of a little child; for it seemed that she had no wicked passions to disturb or agitate her. Whilst I looked at her, as I stood by her bedside--for I would not suffer the woman of the house to awaken her--I could not help thinking of James and Mary Gray, and I said to myself, "Is this the same pretty lively Susan, who, not many years ago, was blessed with a kind father and mother to take care of her, and to watch over her? And is she now without a friend, without a home? Is sickness so soon come upon her, and must she die, whilst, yet in the flower and prime of life? 'But the days of man are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth: for the wind passeth over it, and it is gone.' So saith the royal David."

Whilst these thoughts passed in my mind, she opened her eyes and tried to raise herself in her bed: and smiling, said in a faint voice, "I most humbly thank you, sir, for visiting a poor orphan: although I was quite an infant when I lost my father and mother, yet I remember how often you visited their humble cottage, and bow often you kindly noticed their little child." I turned away to hide the tears which came into my eyes; and she not understanding wherefore I turned from her, and why I did not answer, said--

"Sir, I fear by the freedom of my speech I have offended you. You perhaps do not remember Susan Gray. My father and mother lived many years ago in the little cottage on the river-side just below the church."

By this time I had recovered myself, and turning to her I took her hand and said--

"Poor young creature, do you think it possible that I should be offended at your innocent joy on seeing me? No, my daughter, I have not forgotten you; I have not ceased to remember with affection your worthy parents. But where have you lived since the death of your aunt? What has reduced you to this state? Have you met with no friends in this world to protect you, and to supply to you the place of your lost parents?"

She replied with a degree of piety which filled my eyes with tears of joy--

"I have not indeed, sir, met with many friends; but that God, who is the father of the fatherless, has not forsaken me. I have had many trials and temptations," she added, "and those who ought to have been my protectors laid snares for me. But I trusted that Jesus Christ who gave himself for our sins, would deliver me from this present evil world, according to the will of my God and my Father. And praised be God," said she, clasping her hands together, "he has delivered me: I am now above the power of wicked pleasures. Although I am poor, sir," continued she, "and soon must die, yet I am not unhappy; and own I am so far on my journey, I would not, were it in my power, be restored to health, and return again into the busy and wicked world."

Whilst she was speaking she grew very faint; so for the present I besought her to speak no more of the things that were past, telling her that I hoped, should she get better, to hear all her history. Then taking up a Prayer-book which lay by her side, I read a few prayers to her; for I saw she was not able to go through the whole of the service for the sick with me; and then having wished her a good night, and promised that I would visit her again the next day, I hastened home.

When my wife heard my account of Susan, late as it was, she put on her hat and cloak, and having make a little gruel, and warmed it with a glass of our best made wine, and some spice, she herself went down into the village to see the poor girl. As she passed by, she called upon Nurse Browne, a good old woman, whose cottage is close by my garden gate, and engaged her to attend and wait upon the poor sick girl till her disorder had taken some turn either for the better or the worse: if death to so good a girl, as Susan proved to be, can be said to be worse than a restoration to health. But methinks I run rather too much into length in my story: for although my wife's kind attentions to Susan Gray still on reflection give me the greatest, the most heartfelt pleasure, yet strangers may not take that interest in them which I do; I shall therefore shorten this part of my story.

For about ten days my wife and I continued to visit Susan in the poor lodging-house; at the end of which time she was so much better, that we removed her from thence to Nurse Browne's cottage, which being higher up the hill, and situated on the same sunny bank with my house, we thought would be more cheerful and airy for the poor girl.

Nourishing food and good nursing had done much for her; but still the doctor, who sometimes visited us from Ludlow, declared she could not live. She had caught a cold which had fallen upon her lungs, and was in a deep decline, which we believed would probably end in her death before winter. But although she, as well as those about her, knew that she was in a dying state, yet never did I see a more cheerful or happy creature than she was when we brought her to the nurse's cottage.

Thank God, she was not in much pain, and she had made her peace with him; her lamp was trimmed, and she was prepared for the long journey which she was soon to take. She spent many hours of the day in reading and prayer; and sometimes at noon, when the sun was high in the heavens, and the air was warm, she would sit at the door of the house, looking around her on the green woods, the river rolling through the meadows, and the church upon the hill, where she hoped her body would be laid beside those of her dear parents, whilst her soul was mounting far above the clouds to that happy place where "those who have endured temptation shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him."

Whilst she was at this cottage, she by little and little, when she found herself able, told us her story, which, much as we loved and admired her before, rendered her still more and more dear to us. But before I relate it, as I intend to do, to the best of my power in her own language, I must address a few words of my own to those young women who shall hereafter read the history of Susan Gray.

I am an old man, being seventy-four last old Christmas-day: I have been Rector of this parish forty years; and during that time I can say with King David, "I never saw the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread." I will not say that misfortunes do not sometimes come upon very good people, but God is "a strength to the poor man who fears him, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat."

Yet whilst I affirm this for the encouragement of those who try to serve their God to the best of their power, I must not hide from you who shall read this, what has been the end of all the bad people whom I have been so unfortunate as to know since I lived in this village. I will speak particularly of bad women. I never knew a vain, a light, or bold girl whose end in this world was not shame, poverty, or disease. For a time a bad young woman may seem to prosper; she may deck herself in silver and gold, she may paint her face and tire her head like the wicked queen Jezebel. But these are the words of God, "Hear thou this, thou that art given to pleasures, that dwellest carelessly, that sayest in thine heart, I am, and none else besides me; evil shall come upon thee, thou shalt not know from whence it rises; and mischief shall fall upon thee, thou shalt not be able to put it off; and desolation shall come upon thee suddenly, which thou shalt not know."

And I pray you, readers, do not deceive yourselves, nor suppose because you see many bad people around you, that God will spare them for their numbers: the city of Sodom, in which there were not ten good men, was burnt with fire from Heaven; so were there not ten good girls in the town or village in which you live, the multitude of the sinners would not save them. All bad people will have their portion in the lake which burns with brimstone and fire. Nor must you hope that you will be saved by being secret in your crimes, for night is not dark with God. He knows even all your thoughts; and if we suffer our minds to be filled with evil thoughts, he will not receive us into heaven when we die. Attend, therefore, to what an old man says, who has studied God's book from his cradle to his old age; and all of you try to equal Susan Gray, that you may with her enter into the joy of our Lord.

But now let me proceed to tell you her story as I heard it from herself.