A brief memoir of Mary Ann Whyte, in a letter by her father.
CULAIRD,
INVERNESS, June 15th, 1857.
My Dear Sister,
This is now the fifth time within the last thirty-four months that I am called upon to announce the demise of a very dear one. The excellent and beloved wife, the three dear and promising daughters in peace at home and the brave and good son in war abroad (Donald fell at the siege of Sebastopol in 1855, at the age of 19 years), having in that short space been removed from me. Sore bereavements indeed, but my dear Lord enables me to bear all wonderfully. He took them clean through life, and in death He made them more than conquerors.
Having already given an account of the last illness and comfortable dying hours of the others, I now offer to attempt giving you the following in the case of my good Mary Ann—a rich and rare monument of Divine grace. My regret is that it has not fallen to the lot of an abler hand to describe and declare such a remarkable instance of redeeming love. However, what I say is true, the Lord knoweth. As you are aware, although naturally a healthy and cheerful girl, her health was gradually declining for some time back. Being of a loving temper, the repeated and sore trials we have had weighed heavily upon her. With sorrow I was observing this, but was cherishing the fond hope that, by the blessing of God upon careful attention, she might regain her usual good health. The All-wise Being, however, had otherwise determined. To use her own words, which she often uttered during her last days, “He loved her too much to leave her long in the wilderness.”
In sending on the printed copy of this memoir, Mr. F. Beaton, Inverness, states. “It was probably written in the then school-house at Culaird, near the Inverness-Dores road about four miles from Inverness. As written on the cover, the enclosed copy was given by Mr. Whyte to his friend Mrs. Fraser, Achnabat, mother of the late John Fraser, and Alexander Fraser, Rowanbank, Lyne, Stratherick, whose widow, Mrs. Fraser, Lyne, requested me to post it to you.”—Editor.
Since Jessie’s death, who, as you know, was called home exactly seven weeks before her, she sank rapidly; but was up every day except the last eighteen. She herself was fully aware of her state, more so than I was, though anxious enough. On Wednesday, the 29th of April last, as I was sitting alone, much wearied in mind and body, having travelled a good deal the day before, she, in her usually sweet and smiling manner, came and sat right before me, and with a solemnity and composure which I shall never forget, and which nothing but a Gospel hope could impart, freely disclosed her mind and gave it as her assured persuasion that her sojourn also was now nigh over, at the same time comforting me by the assurance that, although she had as much happiness here as she could wish for, nevertheless her chief desire was to depart and to be with Christ. At the same time also she, being the only managing person about me, gave such directions about this and that as might do honour to the attainments of an aged and confirmed disciple. For a week afterwards she continued to rise, until Wednesday, the 6th of May, when she got so ill that it was necessary for her to keep her bed. As the servant girl was on that day removing some things out of the way, she, observing her new mourning bonnet and frock carried past, said, with a broad smile, and with holy fire in her eyes, which she fixed on me, “I shall never more see these; but will soon and for ever wear a crown of glory, and the white robe secured for me in my lovely Jesus from all eternity. Oh, I long to be with Him!”
From this time until her departure her soul was one burning flame of desire — first, to go home to the full enjoyment of her Lord; and next, that all mankind might partake of the love of Jesus — the name by which she most frequently named her beloved Saviour. Of this there are many living witnesses, for all the country, from the highest to the lowest, visited her. The clergymen of the parish, both Established and Free, were very assiduous in their attention and witnessed to the mighty power of Divine grace as manifested in her case. All who saw her, and whose testimony is worth the having, declare that they “never saw it on this fashion.” It was not blind enthusiasm: she knew in whom she believed; all her hope and joy emanated from the Bible Saviour, who, as she often said herself, loved her, and gave Himself for her, and who gave her such special and sensible manifestations of His love. Often from a reverie, with uplifted hands and eyes fixed heavenwards, would she break out in raptures such as these—”Oh love of heaven! who can but love thee; art thou not altogether lovely? I love thee, sweet Jesus, and I know thou lovest me with an everlasting love. I long to see thee and enjoy thee in thy glory. Come, oh come and take me home, for I cannot live but in thy presence!”
Although she derived much help and comfort from other sources, yet in the Bible lay all her well-springs. One evening, as I sat beside her at worship, I read the 45th Psalm in metre. This I did in course, not intentionally. During the reading of the psalm she appeared to have fallen into a sweet slumber, which continued until all was over, when she opened her eyes, and beckoned as if wishful to speak to me. When I bowed my ear to her, she said, with the ever happy smile, “Yon is the way I’ll go home.” I asked what way? “The way,” said she, “you sang. Do turn it up and read it again.” I did so, as it is contained in the 13th, 14th and 15th verses, and to give you an idea of the effect it had upon her is more than tongue or pen can describe. This was the last passage she committed to memory and a sweet morsel it was to her to the end.
But it was not from isolated passages of the Sacred Book she was enabled to draw comfort, though there were some that were made more refreshing to her than others; yet, as is well known, her understanding of it, and her enjoyments therefrom were most remarkable. As one instance of many, I mention the following:—One day, for in all things I cannot give detailed dates, I read beside her the 25th chapter of Exodus. When reading of the ark, testimony, mercy-seat and cherubims, she abruptly and with heavenly fervour exclaimed, “Oh! there He is, my sweet Lord.” I asked, where? “In the ark,” said she, “with the Law—perfect love to God and man in His heart; and oh, the admiration of angels! On the mercy-seat, where in Him we can meet the Father in peace and rejoice over judgment.” And, after a pause, with the hallowed smile that never left her in life or in death, she said, “I want words to express what I see and feel.” She endeavoured to strengthen herself upon her pillow to give expression to her wonder, love and praise. How truly she imitated the wondering cherubims! I asked her when she lay down as to how or where she got such understanding of the said passage. She in a little replied, “Whoever takes the key—Christ—can understand the Bible.”
Her sensible enjoyments were uncommon; nor were they those of an hour or of a day, but, with the exception of one cloudy forenoon during the eighteen days she was confined, hers was a continual feast, increasing more and more unto the perfect day. At times she would start from a fixed reverie, and, with the ever angelic bearing, say, “Thy love overcomes me, my sweet Jesus! Thou hast loved me from all eternity; in time thou hast called me, and now, while I am young, thou takest me home from the sorrows of the wilderness to thy full enjoyment and communion— all in love—love that overcomes me.”
On a certain evening, in the twilight, about a week before she died, she slept soundly and longer than usual. I was pacing backward and forward beside her, when feeling at last at last a little anxious, I asked her twice, in a soft voice, if she was awake, to which she made no reply. After a while I asked her again, when, gently opening her eyes, she said, in a low and lovely voice, “No; but I am afraid to speak.” Asking her the reason why, she said, “Oh, I felt my Beloved’s arms about me taking me home, and I was so joyful, and I feel still so happy that I am afraid to speak for fear of putting Him away.” She then quietly shut her eyes and composed herself to enjoy her spiritual feast. How like the Spouse, when she charged even the daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and by the hinds of the fields, that they stir not up, nor awake her love till He please. I turned away back for a while, endeavouring to magnify the Lord, gathering assuredly that this was none other than the gate of heaven. In my cogitation I considered, moreover, that if this was indeed a genuine enjoyment, the enemy would soon assault. Nor in this was I disappointed. I spent the night with her, as I always did, until five o’clock in the morning, when I retired to rest, but often not to sleep until nine. Until I left her she was in her usual elevated mood; but when I rose I found her, though not seemingly unhappy, yet depressed-like in spirit. I did not take notice of it to herself until noon, when, on going into her room, I asked her as usual, “What cheer now?” “Indeed,” said she, “my cheer is not so good to-day.” “What is that owing to?” said I. “The enemy troubles me,” she said. “Does he make you doubt your interest in your Beloved?” I asked. “No,” she said, with a triumphant air, “he durst not do that, he knows ‘I made sure of that; but he tries to terrify me with the fear of death, telling me that it is an awful thing to die, and that the agonies of dissolution are terrible; and says to me, ‘Why might not the Lord take you home as He did others, without enduring the pangs of death?’ I know,” continued she, “that this is the enemy’s hour and work and I try to resist.” On my asking her by what means, she said, “By considering that although some got home without tasting death, nevertheless the whole of them, except two, passed through death’s gates; besides,” said she, “I cannot but reproach myself at being frightened to die, when I recollect how sweetly and happily my dear mother and sisters departed. Oh, what was it but falling gently into the arms of sleep!” In a while after this she said, “I know this does not affect my eternal salvation, but these cowardly suggestions make me very uncomfortable.” After praying together, I was led to ask her if the enemy told her who it is that has the keys of death. On which she immediately and with joy exclaimed, “Oh, I see it now! my own dear Jesus has the keys of death and hell, to give me an easy passage through the one and to lock the cowardly enemy into the other. Alas!” said she, “that I should so forget my key. I now see, moreover, that He takes me home by a better way, the way He took Himself — the King’s highway, whereas that by which Enoch and Elias went was, in comparison, but a bye-way.”
This was the only cloudy season she had on her death-bed. Her Lord having released her from these bonds, she, to the end, went on her way, not only rejoicing in spirit, but with an ever-increasing desire to depart. On one rapturous occasion I asked her if it added much to her delight the prospect of soon enjoying the happy company of our dear ones who had left us? She replied with much weight, “Well, I’ll be trying to think of that myself, and it affords me unspeakable comfort and joy to believe that they are before me in heaven; but, whatever I think of, my mind is ever on Himself. Oh! who could think of or look to any other? Is He not altogether lovely? I love thee, O sweet Jesus! Come, come! why tarry the wheels of thy chariot!” I asked her (for although naturally like Mary, she was more of a pondering heart, yet during these days she was very communicative and liked to be asked as to her state and frame) if she was sure that she loved Him? With an earnest look and voice, she said, “I am as sure of that—as that I say it; yea surer,” and laying her feeble hand upon her breast, “for He has written it here.”
(To be continued.)