in himself, and that if ever he get in again it must be by the
restoring grace of God, may seem to some people paradoxical and
disheartening; but it is a truth, and a truth which, if properly
understood and felt, would go farther towards our recovery than we
at first may apprehend. Paul found that 'when he was weak then was
he strong,' and many others have found the same. The more we are
emptied of self-sufficiency, the more sensibly shall we feel our
weakness, and the more importunately implore that the Lord would
save us, and restore us.
"This was the way in which we at first found rest for our souls,
and this must be the way in which we recover it. An awakened sinner
frequently labours hard after peace, without being able to obtain
it. Wherefore? 'Because he seeks it not by faith, but by the
works of the law.' In all his labours there is a large portion of
self-righteous hope, or an idea that God will pity him on account
of his endeavours to please him. But if ever he obtain peace, it
must be by utterly despairing of all help from himself; and falling,
as a sinner entirely lost, into the arms of sovereign mercy. This is
walking in the good old way, which brings rest to the soul; and the
same sense of our insufficiency which is necessary to find rest in
the first instance, is equally necessary to find it on all future
occasions.
"We may pray from year to year, and all without effect. It is
only the 'prayer of faith' that succeeds; the distinguishing
characteristic of which is a sense of there being no help in us,
and a laying hold of the mercy and faithfulness of God, as revealed
in the gospel. David for a time _groaned_, and even _roared_,
'by reason of the disquietness of his heart;' but he obtained no
relief from this. On the contrary, he sunk deeper and deeper into
despondency. At length he betook him to another manner of praying:
'Out of the depths cried I unto thee--and thou heardest my voice!'
We find him here pleading the exceeding greatness of God's mercy,
and the plenteousness of his redemption. Here he found rest for
his soul! Jonah also for a time was in much the same state. With a
conscience so far awakened as to deprive him of all enjoyment, he
retired to the bottom of the ship; and, wearied with the load of
his guilt, slept away his time. Even the horrors of a tempest did
not awaken him. At length being roused and reproved by heathens,
and marked out by lot as the guilty person, he confesses who he is,
and what he had done, and advises them to cast him into the sea.
Humanity struggles for a time with the elements, but in vain; he
must be cast away. Think what must have been his state of mind at
this time! He is thrown into the deep, is swallowed by a fish, and
retains his reason even in that situation; but no light shines upon
his soul. Conceiving himself to be on the point of death, his heart
sighed within him, 'I am cast out of thy sight!' But ere the thought
had well passed through his mind, another struck him, 'Yet will I
look again towards thy holy temple!' He looked, and was lightened:
'Out of the belly of hell cried I unto thee, and thou heardest my
voice! When my soul fainted within me, I remembered the Lord; and my
prayer came in unto thee, into thine holy temple.'"[21]
[21] The author is indebted to a work of the late Rev. A. Fuller for
the quotation with which this chapter closes.
THE FARM-HOUSE KITCHEN.
In the parish of Woodford, about twenty miles from the town where
I resided, there were a few cottages, pleasantly situated on an
eminence which commanded a beautiful and extensive view of the
surrounding country. They were principally occupied by the peasantry
who were employed on the neighbouring farms. No less than five
church spires could be seen rising in the distance, from amongst the
trees, of different parishes; but they were too remote for the aged
and the infirm to visit, and the more robust and healthy were also
very ready to plead the length of the way as an excuse for their
non-attendance at public worship.
Mr. Annesley, a Dissenting minister in the village of Woodford,
on passing this hamlet one summer evening, had his attention
arrested by an interesting looking young man, about the age of four
and twenty, who appeared to be in the last stage of a decline.
He presented to him a few religious tracts, which the young man
received with an air of indifference; but when informed that they
were intended to prepare him for that world into which he was likely
soon to enter, he seemed pleased, and said, "That is what I want,
Sir." This young man, who was the son of a respectable farmer, lived
about two months after the first interview Mr. Annesley had with
him; and died avowing his entire dependence on the death of Jesus
Christ for eternal life: blessing God in the most simple and ardent
terms, for his goodness in sending to him at the eleventh hour a
knowledge of the way of salvation.
[Illustration: JAMES GODWIN
W. L. THOMAS.
BRINGING IN THE LAST LOAD OF CORN.
THE REAPERS' HYMN OF PRAISE.
Vol. ii. page 285.]
After his death, the old farmer, his father, when lamenting that
they enjoyed no religious advantages in that remote part of the
parish, very readily consented to have his large kitchen licensed
for preaching; and Mr. Annesley engaged to give them a sermon
on Tuesdays every week. When he commenced his labours he had to
pass through the ordeal of mockery and contempt. Sometimes he was
insulted by the poor rustics, when attempting to explain to them the
mysteries of the kingdom of heaven; but by visiting them in their
own cottages, and displaying a kind and affectionate disposition,
he gained their confidence and esteem, and they pressed to hear him
with devout and earnest attention.
Having resolved to make an excursion to Woodford, and pay a visit to
this rural place of worship, of which I had often heard, I took my
seat in the coach, one afternoon in the month of September, as far
as the village of Woodford, from which it was a walk of three miles
to the farm-house. The weather was unusually hot for the season of
the year; but towards the evening, the cool breezes which sprung up
made me enjoy my journey exceedingly.
After getting down from the coach, I quitted the village by a cross
road, and then turned aside into a fine shady lane. On passing by
a farm-yard, I observed an extraordinary rush of men, women, and
children, and being anxious to know the cause of it, I advanced into
the yard, where I saw a group marching before the last load of com,
which they were bringing from the field, and singing the following,
as a harvest hymn of praise:--
"But now his hand hath crown'd our toil,
We joy like those that share the spoil,
The harvest home to bear:
With shouts the laughing pastures ring;
With grateful hearts we reapers sing
The praise of heaven's eternal King,
Through whose paternal care we bring
The produce of the year."
I tarried some time, intermingling my feelings with those of the
enraptured swains, and participating with them in this feast of
innocent delight; but on looking at my watch I found that I must
hasten onwards, or I should be deprived of the higher gratification
of witnessing a more interesting and a more important sight. On
proceeding up the lane that led to the rural temple of devotion,
I occasionally heard the harmony of Zion's strains, which became
more distinct and impressive as I drew nearer, till at length I was
enabled to catch the following words which the congregation were
singing:--
"Shall I beneath thy gospel stay,
And hear the call of grace;
And at the awful judgment-day,
Be banish'd from thy face?"
I got into the passage just as Mr. Annesley arose to pray, but I
did not choose to advance, lest I should disturb the devotions of
the little assembly. While standing there, two ladies approached
towards the door, and, like myself, waited in silence till the
prayer was ended, when we all entered together. Our appearance
excited considerable attention, but whenever we had taken our seats,
every eye was attentively directed towards the minister. To one
who has been accustomed to offer up his prayers and his praises,
in the fixed and appropriate language of our national liturgy--and
to listen to the enunciation of life and immortality within the
walls of a church--the scene of rustic simplicity exhibited in this
farm-house kitchen must have appeared very singular. Mr. Annesley
stood in a corner of the room, his Bible lying open before him on
a small round deal table, the family clock ticking behind him; his
rustic audience was variously disposed of--some sitting on the
dresser to his right, others in the chimney-corner to the left, the
majority on forms in front of him, and a few bending forwards from
the passage, being incapable of gaining admission. As they were
singing the hymn which intervenes between the prayer and sermon, an
expression which I had recently met with came to my mind, and with
such force, that no external decoration was wanted to render
either the place or the truth more acceptable to my taste--"A
religion without a Saviour, is the temple without its glory, and
its worshippers will all desert it." Just as the minister read his
text, the countenances of several changed; all were attentive, and
appeared to have forgotten the toils and the fatigues of labour,
while listening to the discourse, which was founded on the following
words of Jesus Christ:--"But there are some of you that believe
not" (John vi. 64). He had not been speaking long, before my spirit
involuntarily said, "Here is religion with a Saviour, and wherever
his truth is preached, there he condescends to dwell."
[Illustration: J. GODWIN.
W. L. THOMAS
THE FARM-HOUSE KITCHEN.
Vol. ii. page 286.]
The sermon delivered was simple, perspicuous, and well calculated to
fix the attention of the audience. The figures of illustration and
description were selected from the rural scenes and occupations with
which the congregation were familiar; and from the looks, the tones,
and the actions of the speaker, it was evident that he was really
in earnest, and desired to impress his hearers with his own views
and feelings. When expostulating with those who did not believe, he
suddenly paused, his eyes, more than half suffused with tears, told
more forcibly than language could express, how deeply he felt; while
his lips, quivering with tremulous anxiety, gave utterance to the
interrogation--"_Why won't you come to Jesus Christ, and be saved?_
Do you think you need no Saviour? Impossible! Do you imagine that
he is unable to save you? Do you suppose he is unwilling to save
you? Impossible! Do you think you are in no danger of being lost?
Do you imagine that the misery of a lost soul is less terrible than
the Scriptures represent it? or that the happiness of a redeemed
spirit is less joyous? Impossible! _Why then won't you come to
Jesus Christ, and be saved?_" No profound arguments were employed
in pressing on the attention of his rustic audience these pointed
questions, and yet they came with an almost irresistible force.
As the people were retiring, I heard some of them saying to one
another, "Ah! why don't we come to Jesus Christ, and be saved?"
Being seated nearly opposite the two ladies who entered along with
me, I could not avoid noticing the behaviour of one of them, which
contrasted strongly with the simple and devout attention of the
cottagers. Sometimes she listened with apparent seriousness, but
more than once the smile of contempt and the look of scorn seemed to
gather on her countenance; and at one part of the sermon, when the
preacher was speaking of the entire depravity of the human heart,
she made an effort to leave, but was apparently prevented from doing
so by her friend. When, however, this simple question fell from Mr.
Annesley's lips, she became still and thoughtful, and I observed
tears fall from her eyes, an unconscious response to the earnest
appeals of the preacher.
After service I introduced myself to Mr. Annesley, who insisted
on my spending the night at his house. On our talking over the
occurrences of the evening, I mentioned what I had noticed in the
conduct of one of the ladies, and expressed my belief that her heart
was penetrated by what she had heard. "If, Sir," he remarked, "that
lady should be converted, she will be a living witness of the truth
of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and afford a strong corroborative
testimony of its Divine origin. I have," he added, "no personal
acquaintance with her; nor was I aware that she was present this
evening, till I saw her leaving at the conclusion of the service,
but I have long known her character; she resides at Hollyton, a
village about a mile and a half distant, and, I believe, is one
of the most agreeable women you could meet with in society, but
she is a professed infidel; and though most of her relatives and
friends are religious, she will rarely consent to attend any place
of worship with them. She says that the scheme of salvation is a
cunningly devised fable, got up by the priesthood, and palmed upon
our hopes and fears by the policy of our rulers; and unhesitatingly
avows that it is the duty of every person, who feels a proper
respect for the dignity of the human species, to employ all his
influence to dissipate the delusion. She will not, I understand,
enter into any discussion on the Christian religion, because, she
says, no evidence could induce her to believe it--no, not if she
had seen the miracles performed which are ascribed to Christ and
his apostles--and often quotes the inconsistent conduct of its
professors, to show that its moral tendency is unfavourable to
the growth of virtue. The lady who accompanied her is of a very
different stamp, and a pious member of the church. I presume her
influence has induced Mrs. Farrington to attend our meeting this
evening. I trust that she may yet be led to see and repent of her
errors."
"I am mistaken," I remarked, "if her scepticism has not received its
death-blow to-night. She will be thinking soon about coming to Jesus
Christ to be saved."
"Amen. The Lord grant that it may be so."
I then referred to the interesting scene I had witnessed on my
way to the farm-house, and was informed by Mr. Annesley that the
labourers whose festivities I had witnessed, belonged for the
most part to his regular congregation at Woodford, and were in
the employment of Farmer Hopkins, one of the most esteemed and
influential members of his church.
The next morning, as we were sitting at breakfast, a note was handed
to Mr. Annesley from Mrs. Farrington, requesting that he would be so
kind as call on her in the course of the forenoon. She added, that
she understood he had a clerical friend with him at present, whom
she had observed at the meeting on the previous evening, and that
she would feel much gratified if he would accompany him.
"Your discourse," I observed, "has already borne fruit."
"I trust so," he replied. "You will of course go with me on this
visit to Mrs. Farrington's. I have never been in her house, and I
should like to have a friend with me, more especially as she seems
anxious for it herself."
I would have excused myself, on the ground that I had already been
longer absent from home than I had intended; but my objections
were overruled, and I consented to remain another night with Mr.
Annesley, and return to town next morning. In the course of the
forenoon, we proceeded to Mrs. Farrington's, and were received by
her with the utmost courtesy. She mentioned that she had recognized
me the previous evening as a clergyman in ----, whom she had once
heard preach, and on her way home she had learned that I was to be
the guest of Mr. Annesley for the night. She endeavoured to assume
her accustomed ease and sprightliness of manner; but still I felt
persuaded that she was labouring under strong mental depression,
which she was anxious to conceal. The conversation turned on the
scenery around us, which had now assumed the beautiful autumnal
tinge; and when Mrs. Farrington pointed to a double row of fine elm
trees, whose thick and extended branches overshadowed a lovely walk
in the front of her cottage, I could not refrain from repeating the
following lines of Cowper:--
"Meditations here,
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head;
And learning wiser grow, without his books."
"But," said Mrs. Farrington, "to quote from the same author--
'Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connection. _Knowledge_ dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.'"
"Very true," said Mr. Annesley, "and hence we sometimes see those
who are endowed with the greatest intellectual talents, and enriched
with the largest stores of knowledge, acting the most foolish parts
in the drama of life, and terminating their career without any hope
of a blissful immortality." This allusion to a future world, threw
a shade over the countenance of Mrs. Farrington, and more than once
she endeavoured with difficulty to suppress a sigh.
"We have high authority for saying," I remarked, "that it is not
good for the soul to be without knowledge; but considering the
relation in which we stand to God, and our condition as sinners
against his righteous government, there is no knowledge so essential
to our happiness, as a knowledge of his character, and the way in
which his favour is to be conciliated. Without this, we are left
in absolute uncertainty respecting our final destiny, which must be
perplexing and alarming, in proportion as we seriously meditate on
the capabilities of the human soul to suffer or enjoy in a future
state of existence. Hence arises the desirableness of a revelation
of the will of God; and the advantage of having such a revelation,
when made, committed to writing, that it may be preserved from the
corruption and uncertainty to which oral tradition is necessarily
exposed. This revelation we have in the sacred Scriptures; its
purity and adaptation to our moral condition are strong internal
evidences of its genuineness; and I am at a loss to conceive how
any one can reject it, without destroying his own peace of mind. It
delineates our character, as guilty, depraved, and unhappy, with the
most perfect accuracy; and points our attention to a Saviour, who
came to save and to bless us, and to fit us for a nobler life than
we can ever live on earth."
Mrs. Farrington became deeply affected, burst into tears, and
left the room, but soon after returned, offering as an apology
for her weakness and her rudeness, as she termed it, an excessive
nervous irritability under which she was then labouring. After a
moment's pause, Mr. Annesley said:--"Pray, Madam, is not your mind
now powerfully affected by those religious truths which you once
rejected as the fallacious opinions of man?"
"Yes, Sir," she replied, "it is, and has been since I heard you
preach last night in Farmer Rogers' kitchen. I have hitherto
rejected the gospel as a cunningly devised fable, and generally
looked with pity or contempt on those who embraced it, but then I
was convinced of its divinity, and by the force of an evidence which
I had not previously examined."
"What fresh evidence of the divinity of the gospel," said Mr.
Annesley, "did you receive last night, for I do not recollect
advancing any?"
"The evidence of experience," she replied, "for the gospel came
not in word only, but in power, and I could no longer resist it.
Curiosity led me to that sequestered house of prayer; and at first
I was disposed to treat the whole affair with contempt. The pride
of my heart rose up against the statement which you gave us of the
entire depravity of our nature, and I should have left in disgust,
had not my friend prevented me; but when you proposed that simple
yet important question, '_Why won't you come to Jesus Christ, and
be saved?_' I felt as though an arrow had pierced my soul, and from
that hour till now, I have been suffering the agonies of a wounded
spirit. I could get no sleep last night, reflecting on my condition;
and early this morning I despatched a messenger to your house,
with the note which you received. I feel deeply obliged for the
promptness with which you and Mr. ---- have responded to my request,
in coming to see me."
"But," inquired Mr. Annesley, "as the interrogation you refer to was
no direct proof of the Divine origin of the gospel, how came it to
produce such a conviction in your mind?"
"I have been revolving that question, and it has created some strong
doubts of the correctness of my present belief; but yet now I can no
more reject the gospel as false, than I could before receive it as
true. That interrogation came with a power which was superhuman, and
its impressions on my heart bore the stamp of the same agency; and
now, Sir, the only question which I wish resolved is this: May I be
permitted to hope that that Saviour whom I have so long rejected,
and so often and so grossly insulted, will ever condescend to cast
one tender look of compassion on me?"
"In the conversion of a sinner," said Mr. Annesley, "it pleases God
to display his sovereignty, no less than his power and his grace;
and hence he generally accomplishes it in a way which compels us
to acknowledge his direct and immediate agency. Had he chosen to
convince you of the Divine origin of that system of truth, which you
have so long rejected, by the slow and rational process of a logical
argument, your judgment might have been convinced, while your
heart remained unaffected by its awful and sublime communications;
but by convincing you of your guilt, and of your danger, and of
the necessity of a Mediator and a Saviour, he has rendered that
argumentative process unnecessary, in compelling you at once to seek
the consolations of mercy as essential to your happiness."
"Oh! yes, Sir, they are essential to my happiness, indeed they are,
but I fear they will be withheld. What plea can I urge for mercy? On
what basis can I rest a hope of acceptance?"
"It is usual," Mr. Annesley replied, "for a person who is just
awakened to a belief of the gospel of Christ, to suppose that its
consolations are far beyond his reach, whilst he stands in dread of
its awful denunciations; but this is a delusion which fear practises
on the imagination. In the operations of Divine truth on the heart,
there is a natural process observed on the part of the great
invisible Agent who conducts it; the convictions of personal guilt,
connected with an apprehension of merited punishment, prepare the
way for the reception of pardon and salvation, as the free gifts of
God."
"Am I then to consider what I suffer and what I dread as preparatory
visitations of Divine grace, to compel me to take refuge in Christ
from the wrath to come?"
"Yes, Madam. The feelings which you now experience, and which excite
so much alarm, are intended to prepare you for the manifestations
of the Divine favour and love. You have now to fix your attention
on Jesus Christ, who is able and willing to save all who come unto
God by him. And hear the encouraging and consolatory language he
employs--'All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him
that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out' (John vi. 37)."
"But what reason have I to believe that such gracious words relate
to myself?"
"Their insertion in the Bible is your authority for so applying
them to yourself. But lest you should suppose that this gracious
declaration was designed, in any sense, for the exclusive relief of
those to whom it was originally given, the revelation of mercy and
grace concludes with language equally encouraging:--'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' (Rev. xxii. 17). Why then should you doubt?
Why should you pause? Why should you continue to linger around the
promises of salvation, and not embrace them as the source of your
comfort?"