but I don't remember any. My mother died when I was but a little
girl. From what I have heard an old servant say, I believe that she
was fond of the Bible; but my father abhorred it, and he trained me
to abhor it. He used to call it the Grand Mogul of superstition.
Its style of composition, I have heard him say, is as offensive to
correct taste, as its sentiments are revolting to a cultivated mind."
"If you will permit me, Madam (taking out my little pocket Bible
while speaking), I will read you a few passages, and then you can
judge how far your belief is supported by evidence."
She bowed assent, and I then read the twenty-third psalm. I saw, by
the expression of her countenance, that the chaste imagery of the
psalmist pleased her; but before we could interchange any remarks
the horn blew, and the mail suddenly stopped. However, when she
alighted to step into the carriage which was in waiting to receive
her, she said, in a tone of subdued seriousness, "I will follow
your advice, Sir, and read the Bible to form my own judgment of
its character and tendencies; and if you will favour me with your
card (which I gave her) I may, possibly, some day let you know the
result, especially if it should be what, I do not doubt, you wish it
may be."
A long period had elapsed after this occurrence took place, and
it had nearly passed from my recollection, when it was very
unexpectedly revived by a letter from the lady. The letter was
subscribed Susannah Hastings, and, after calling to remembrance
the circumstances in which we had met, she proceeded to give me
a general outline of her subsequent history, accompanied by an
interesting account of her severe mental conflicts in her spiritual
inquiries, and a pressing invitation to call and see her, should I
ever pay a visit to London, where she then resided. I acknowledged
the receipt of the letter, congratulated her on the great moral
and spiritual change through which she had passed, and stated that
she might expect to see me very soon. Not long after that I had
occasion to be in London. Within a few days after my arrival, I
called on her, and had from her own lips a more detailed account of
the process of her conversion from darkness to light, than she had
given me in her letter. My visits were repeated during my sojourn
there, and since then we kept up an occasional correspondence.
From these two sources of information--her letters and her verbal
communications--I am able to give a finished sketch of her somewhat
marvellous, if not romantic history.
Having entertained, from early childhood, a belief that the Bible
was a very objectionable book, both in point of sentiment and style
of composition, she says, in her first letter, "I was not only
surprised but delighted, by your reading the twenty-third psalm. I
saw the rural scene vividly depicted; the sheep feeding in the green
meadows, while the shepherd was reclining on the bank of the gently
flowing stream, watching the glad movements of the sportive lambs,
as the evening sun glided in noiseless splendour through the sky.
I at once resolved to purchase a Bible, thinking, _then_, that it
was merely a work of the imagination--an antique relic of some early
poetic age." But on her arrival in London, she was prevented from
doing this so soon as she intended, in consequence of the assiduous
attentions of her friends, who were ceaseless in their efforts to
raise her drooping spirits; naturally thinking that, if they could
succeed in doing so, she would get reconciled to her fate, and again
enjoy life. Hence she was lured from one gay scene to another still
more exciting, and every expedient was adopted which ingenuity could
devise, to amuse and gratify her. But she soon found, that neither
the opera, nor the theatre, nor the fascinations of private parties,
could assuage the tumultuous agitations of her heart. "I moved
amongst them," she said, "more like an automaton than a living being
who felt any pleasure in existence."
An incident now occurred, that led her into a new train of thought,
which proved the beginning of an eventful issue in the history of
her life. On passing her bookseller's, she looked in, to inquire
about a new novel, which she had seen announced as just issued
from the press. There she saw on the counter a small Bible, which
brought our conversation in the stage coach to her remembrance,
and she purchased it. In her first letter, she says, "I soon found
the twenty-third psalm, and as I re-perused it, its poetic imagery
appeared to my mind more beautiful than ever. I then turned to Psalm
ciii., which I read with more solemnity of feeling. It made me think
of myself, and it brought me imperceptibly into contact with God.
I was delighted by his assumption of the paternal character. This
was the first time in my life I felt any force, or perceived any
intelligible meaning, in the petition in the Lord's Prayer--_Our
Father, who art in heaven_; but yet my perceptions of its meaning
were very vague and indefinite. They did not excite any emotions
of love, or of gratitude, or filial trust; but they left a strong
impression on my mind. It was a strange and startling impression,
that, though an inhabitant of earth, I was moving towards another
world. I am sure I had not thought so much about God or another
world all my life, as I thought that night, and particularly when
my head was on my pillow. My day-thoughts came up in my dreams, and
in a more lucid form, and produced a more powerful effect. When I
awoke in the morning, I felt a strange sensation of mental ease,
which greatly astonished me, as I knew not by what cause it had been
produced. The agitating forces of bitter grief and sullen discontent
were in a state of quietude; and though not really happy, yet my
spirits were buoyant, rising at times to cheerfulness."
At this juncture she had to fulfil a long-standing engagement--to
accompany a party of friends on a tour to the north; and though she
endeavoured to excuse herself, yet she felt compelled to yield,
as the excursion had been planned principally on her account.
When alluding to this excursion, at my first interview with her,
she said:--"At an earlier period of my life, I should have been
delighted, when wandering through the Trosachs or sailing on
Lochlomond, when gazing on the wonders of Staffa or surveying
the magnificent scene from the top of Goatfell; but my mental
susceptibilities were unstrung, and I felt no response to the scenes
of beauty and grandeur which I beheld. But never shall I forget
the little unobtrusive inn at Brodick, nor my neat little bed-room
there, as I there saw a Bible, the first I had seen since I left
home. I sat me down, and, in addition to the two psalms that had
become favourites with me, I read Psalm cvii., which greatly excited
me, as it revived the fearful emotions of the preceding day, when,
on nearing Arran, we had to encounter a terrific storm."
On her return home, she resumed her reading of the Scriptures,
and passed from the Psalms to the Prophecies of Isaiah. The bold
imagery of the prophet delighted her, but she could not trace its
application, or its meaning; and, in reference to his sixth chapter,
she was greatly perplexed to decide whether it was a poetical
fiction, or a real description of heaven. "My first course of
reading," she says in her letter, "left an impression on my mind
that we have not, in any of the walks of literature, such a class
of men as the writers of the Bible. These men possess some rare
endowments; they appear to know more about God and another world
than any other writers whose works I have ever read. There is a
majestic simplicity, and sublime grandeur, in all their statements
and descriptions of the unknown world, and its great spirits."
Having no one to guide her in her study of the Scriptures, her
reading was very desultory; she passed from one book to another
in great mental perplexity, and could not discover any obvious
connection between them, resembling the continuity preserved in
other works with which she was familiar. At length she turned
to Paul's Epistles, but they were dark and mystical, and rather
repulsive to her taste, being so unlike the poetic and the prophetic
books; to her mind they presented no sublimity or beauty; and
yet she admitted, it was a strange repulsiveness--it gave her no
offence, or even distaste to the Bible. "I now," she adds, "began
reading the Gospels. They were more intelligible. The narratives
pleased me. I was delighted with some of the scenes, particularly
the Prodigal Son, and the Pharisee and Publican in the Temple. The
tales interested me; they seemed to wear the air of truthfulness,
and yet at times I thought them inventions. The history of Jesus
Christ very soon took a strong hold of my imagination, and I soon
began to admire the fine blending of majesty and meekness, of
dignity and tenderness, of lofty bearing, which no insults could
disturb, and sweet compassion, which his character so broadly
exhibits. Yes, I often said, he is a real person, for no human
genius could invent such a person, or draw such a character. I
followed him through the dark period of his agonizing sufferings,
from his prostration in the garden to Calvary, where he was
crucified. I wept when I saw him on the cross."
In one of the interviews I had with her, she said, that two
things both surprised and perplexed her. She was at a loss to
conceive the reason why his countrymen treated Jesus Christ with
so much unkindness and cruelty, when he was such an extraordinary
benefactor, and so benevolent--going about doing them good, healing
their sick, restoring their injured senses of sight and hearing,
and even raising their dead. The other thing that surprised and
perplexed her was, that he should continue to live amongst them,
when they were so rude in their manners, and insolent in their
speech, and when he knew they were often plotting to take away
his life. Why did he not leave them, and go and live amongst some
more humane and generous people, who would return such a style
of treatment by courtesy and gratitude? The more she thought of
these things, the more she was perplexed. She felt so bewildered,
that she put her Bible in her book-case, under an impression she
should never be able to understand it. And yet she could not let
it remain there long. Her curiosity was too much excited, and her
self-imposed prohibition tended to increase her eager solicitude
to make out the meaning of what she read. Hence she resumed her
reading exercise; and on going through the Gospel of John very
carefully, a ray of light fell on _one fact_ in the history of
Jesus Christ, which, while it increased her perplexity, opened the
way towards a discovery to be made in some future stages of her
inquiry. The fact was this: she perceived that, when in conversation
with his disciples, he occasionally made emphatic allusions to the
_necessity_ of his death. This she thought very strange, as it
was a case without a parallel within the compass of her reading.
However, it fixed her attention; and, on a more minute examination,
she perceived that he professed to come from heaven, and avowed
his intention of returning thither; and that he spoke of dying, as
though he had a stronger interest in death than in life, foretelling
to his disciples the agonizing death he was to die (Matt. xx.
17-19). His not recoiling from such a death, and doing everything in
his power to escape it, led her to think that he was some incarnate
being of a peculiar order, who had some special mission to fulfil,
and yet she could not imagine what that mission could be--a mission,
depending for its accomplishment on death, rather than on life,
appeared to her a mystery too profound for human ingenuity to
unravel. "At length," and I cannot do better than quote from her
letter, she says, "a thought struck me and I acted on it, and the
labour of doing so produced a momentary suspension of my oppressive
anxiety. I arranged, as well as I could, some of the passages which
appeared to assign the reasons for Christ's death, to which he often
alluded, particularly the following:--'Even as the Son of man came
not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a
ransom for many' (Matt. xx. 28). 'I am the good shepherd: the good
shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.' 'As the Father knoweth me,
even so know I the Father: and I lay down my life for the sheep.'
'Therefore doth my Father love me, because I lay down my life, that
I might take it again.' 'No man taketh it from me, but I lay it down
of myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it
again. This commandment have I received of my Father' (John x. 11,
15, 17, 18). I endeavoured to work out an intelligible meaning from
these passages, but I could not. A mysticism enveloped them which I
could not penetrate. I wanted a living expositor. I longed for an
interview with you, and more than once half-resolved to come and see
you, as, though you were a stranger, I felt you were a friend, and
I knew no other whom I could consult. I had no book in my library
which gave me any help, and I knew not what book to inquire for,
if I applied to my bookseller. No language can depict the excited
state of my heart. I felt intuitively assured there was some latent
meaning in these mysterious sayings of Jesus Christ, or he would not
have uttered them. He was too wise and too good to utter what was
false or foolish. But I could not trace out the clue of discovery.
This at times repulsed me, but, on cool reflection, it appeared like
a silent proof that the Bible was not a book of human invention, as,
in that case, I thought, by dint of application, I should be able to
decipher its meaning. One thing now surprises me, and that is, that,
while cherishing the idea that the Bible was a Divine book, rather
than a human one, I never thought of lifting up my heart in prayer
to God for wisdom and grace to understand it."
In this state of painful bewilderment, depressed by repeated
failures in her efforts to acquire the knowledge which she deemed
essential to her happiness, yet resolutely determined to prosecute
her inquiries, she wrote to her uncle, a clergyman of the Church
of England, stating her case, with its painful perplexities, and
desiring his sympathy and advice. He replied, expressing some
surprise at the receipt of such a letter, and intimating his
apprehension that she had been hearing some methodistical or
evangelical preaching, which he denounced as a fatal heresy, more
calculated to drive people into a state of derangement, than to
advance them in virtue or in happiness. He assured her that, as she
had been, in baptism, made a member of Christ, a child of God, and
an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, she need not cherish any
anxieties about her spiritual safety or final salvation. He advised
her to banish the absurd chimæras, which were disquieting her,
and go and take the sacrament, which, he said, was the spiritual
nourishment which Almighty God had provided to sustain the inner
life of the soul; and, in addition, he recommended her to mingle
rather more in the circles of gaiety, so as to drive away her
melancholy ideas. This letter was both mystical and unsatisfactory.
It contradicted her experience, and she felt astonished that a
clergyman should advise her to go more frequently into the gay
world. "I knew," she said, "that my own ideas were not fanciful,
but the vague conceptions of some great truths of the Bible; and
I felt as unable to banish them from my heart, as a person, when
asleep, feels unable to banish the dreams which disquiet him."
However, she decided on joining in the communion; and being then at
Bath, away from all her gay friends, she went to church, and took
the sacrament--a thing she had never done before. But it had no
tranquillizing effect; indeed, it increased her perplexity, and for
awhile made her think that her case was a hopeless one, and that
it would be better for her to abandon all further solicitude and
inquiries, than to cherish and prosecute them. But she could not
bring herself to such a decision; and the more she laboured to do
so, the more anxious she became to get the clue of discovery, which
she thought was to be found _somewhere_. In this state of intense
anxiety and great depression, she returned to her town residence.
Her friends were more assiduous to please than ever; but some were
mortified, and others were offended, because she would not again
enter into the gay scenes and habits of former times; occasionally
they hinted their apprehensions that she would soon turn an
Evangelical, and become as scrupulous and devout as any of the sect.
These sarcasms, in conjunction with her uncle's letter, suggested
to her the idea of going to some church, where an evangelical
minister did duty, thinking it possible that he might give her the
explanation she so much desired; but she long hesitated about doing
this, as she had not gone to any place of public worship for many
years, with the exception of the time when she took the sacrament
at Bath. Her desire at length became so strong, that one Sunday
morning she left home, not knowing where to go; but, on passing
along the street, she saw some respectable and sedate-looking people
going into a church, whither she followed them. This church was a
Dissenting chapel, which, she said, she should not have entered if
she had known it, as she had been accustomed to hear Dissenters
spoken of as an uneducated and uncouth people. She felt a strange
sensation on seeing the clergyman ascend the pulpit in a plain black
coat, instead of going into the reading-desk in a white surplice;
but the soft melody of the singing, and the emphatic solemnity of
his style of reading the Scriptures, calmed her momentary agitation,
and she listened to his prayer with devout seriousness. This was
the first extempore prayer she had ever heard; and when speaking of
it, in one of our interviews, she remarked that, in one particular,
it bore a resemblance to her Bible reading--parts were plain and
intelligible, and parts were under a veil of mysteriousness. The
minister seemed to know the desires and emotions that were stirring
within her, and he expressed them with so much accuracy and force,
that it greatly astonished her. "Had I confessed to him," she
remarked, "he could not have had a more perfect knowledge of what
was passing in my mind."
When God has any special design to accomplish, we may often trace
the harmonious conjunction of the various agents and agencies which
he employs in effecting it. The Ethiopian eunuch was sitting in his
chariot, reading the prophet Esaias, when Philip, under a Divine
impulse, went and seated himself by his side. The passage he was
reading was veiled in darkness, and he asked for an explanation,
which was immediately given, understood, and felt; the moral
transformation took place by the concurring action of Divine power;
he avowed his newly originated faith; was baptized, and went on
his way rejoicing--the visible agent of the great transaction
disappearing, that the tribute of adoring gratitude might be offered
up exclusively to the God of all grace. We pass from this wondrous
scene to another, stamped with the same moral insignia, though
not quite so obviously conspicuous. Here is a person of superior
intelligence, who has long been labouring, by her own unaided
reason, to decipher the hidden mysteries of the truth as it is in
Jesus, and labouring in vain. She leaves her own home on a Sabbath
morning in quest of a living expositor, yet not knowing where to
find one. An unseen hand guides her to a chapel, which she would
have disdained to enter had she known its denominational character.
Her latent prejudices spring up into powerful action when she
observes a slight deviation in the order of the service from that
with which her eye was once familiar; and yet they are overcome by
a devotional exercise, which surprised her by its novelty, while
it strongly interested her by its appropriateness. The question
she left home to have solved is a simple, yet a very important
one; and on its solution her happiness is dependent. The second
hymn is sung. The minister rises in his pulpit; his Bible is open
before him, and, after a short pause, he announces his text, "And
I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.
This he said, signifying what death he should die" (John xii. 32,
33). The sketch he gives of the crucifixion is thrilling; and many
weep while he presents to their view the chief actors who performed
their parts on this tragical occasion. Mrs. Hastings also weeps.
The preacher now passes from description to explanation; from a
detailed statement of facts, to an elucidation of the design for
which the Son of God groaned, and bled, and died. She listens with
breathless attention, as he unravels the thread of mystery which
ran through all the passages of the Bible which she had arranged
and studied, without perceiving their import. "I felt," she said,
"intuitively assured, when he entered on this part of his subject,
that the light of explanation was coming; and I was intensely eager
to catch every utterance. I now perceived that the death of Jesus
Christ was a voluntary ransom, to redeem and to save the lost and
the guilty. The first part of his sermon awakened my sympathy;
the latter part touched another chord of my heart. I wept again;
but from a different cause. My sins made me weep; and the love
of Christ in dying to expiate them, made me weep--and I now wept
as I had never wept before. It was with some difficulty I could
refrain weeping, even when the clergyman had finished his sermon,
which lasted rather more than an hour. I could have listened to him
much longer. I never knew time go so rapidly. I left the hallowed
place with reluctance, thinking, as I paced back to my home, that I
was now entering as into a new world of existence, abounding with
mystic, yet intelligible wonders. I was in a tumult of emotion, yet
it was a calm ecstasy of feeling. I clasped my Bible, and pressed it
to my bosom. I thought of your words, which I never forgot, though,
when I first heard them, they sounded in my ear as the mockery of
grief:--'That book has healed wounds as deep as yours; and if you
examine it, you will find it a well-spring of life to your withered
happiness.' I now can attest the truth of your declaration. I have
tasted its sweet waters; they are indeed the waters of life. None
other so sweet or powerful. I can now respond to the truthfulness of
the following paraphrase of Dr. Watts, whom I now prefer to Byron or
Wordsworth--he is the poet of the heart weighed down by sorrow and
anxiety:--
'Lord, I have made thy word my choice,
My lasting heritage:
There shall my noblest powers rejoice,
My warmest thoughts engage.
'The best relief that mourners have,
It makes our sorrows bless'd:
Our fairest hopes beyond the grave,
And our eternal rest.'"