leaving Mrs. Orme, who was still to remain for a few weeks longer
at Rockhill. From the pressure of my engagements in the metropolis
I was unable to make out my purposed call on Mr. Gordon. Having
occasion, however, about four months afterwards, to go to London
to preach a charity sermon, I set out one evening to see him; but
on reaching his house, was concerned to find that he was in a very
precarious state of health, and had been unable to go out for some
time. On sending up my card, I was at once admitted, and found him
in the drawing-room reclining on the sofa. He looked very ill; but,
judging from the expression of his countenance, I thought he was
glad to see me. On making some inquiries as to the length of his
confinement, and the nature of his disorder, he made a reply which
brought on a lengthened conversation.
"It is now," he said, "nearly three months since I was in the city;
and it is doubtful whether I shall ever go there again."
"Is your disorder, then, of such a threatening character?"
"Why, yes, it baffles Lawrence. But he is now trying another
medicine, which he hopes will take effect; if not, he says, I must
prepare for the worst."
"I hope, then, you are making the necessary preparations."
"To be candid, Sir, I am the same man as when we had the last
chat on the question of Christian missions, with this only
difference--then I was in vigorous health, but now I am prostrated
by disease, and disease which threatens to be fatal, though it does
not give me much pain."
"You must no doubt feel some anxiety when so near death--on the eve
of the final extinction of your being, or of passing into another
world of existence, and for ever?"
"Why, yes, I am no stoic; and therefore I feel emotions both novel
and painful. I would rather live than die, especially if I could
recover my usual health and energy; because it is better to be,
than not to be. The prospect of a termination to my existence is no
pleasing theme for reflection."
"Then you still believe that when death comes you will cease to
exist, and perish for ever like the beasts of the field?"
"That is my belief."
"But you may be mistaken."
"I admit it, because mere belief and positive knowledge are two very
different things."
"Then you are living in a state of uncertainty; as you know not
whether you will be annihilated or live on for ever in another
state of existence. Surely this must give rise to some fearful and
depressing thoughts."
"No, I cannot say that it does, because I think the Deity who
brought me into existence without my solicitation, and who has given
me such a large portion of enjoyment throughout life, will still
befriend me, if he decide that I shall continue to exist after death
in another world. That I shall continue to exist, however, I do not
expect."
"But do you not perceive the fallacious ground on which your
expectation is placed, unless you believe, and without any clear
evidence, that the Deity has made a special dispensation in your
behalf?"
"I don't quite understand you."
"Why, you infer that your future condition of existence, if you
are to live after death, will be similar to the one which you have
enjoyed here, and which has been, upon the whole, a very favourable
one. Suppose another person proceed on the same principle, he
must infer, that his future condition will be a most painful and
unfortunate one, simply because his present condition is so. There
is, then, a self-evident and a dangerous fallacy in the proposition
which allows two persons to draw from it such opposite inferences,
the one for, and the other against himself, and without any
reference to personal conduct or character."
"There may be a logical fallacy in my proposition, and in my
reasoning on it; but it is the only ground of hope, when, in some
moments of misgiving, I am led to admit the possibility of passing
into another state of existence."
"Well, then, you are reduced to the necessity of making one
admission, which is a terrible rebuke to your sceptical theory."
"Indeed! and what is that?"
"That your position, in relation to death, is an unenviable one,
especially when placed in comparison with that of a believer in
Christ; indeed, it is one which should make you recoil in terror."
"I admit it. Yes, Sir, if you were in the same condition with
myself, you would, I have no doubt, have visions of celestial glory
flitting before your imagination, and you would be in ecstasy.
Yes, a believer in Christ has a great advantage over us, when
he approaches the crisis of his destiny. No gloomy thoughts or
anxieties harass his soul; but on the contrary, a brilliant prospect
stretching far into eternity opens to his view. Yes, a believer in
Christianity ought to feel a transport of joy in anticipation of his
death."
"Then, on your own admission, death to a believer in Christ is the
morning star of a glorious day; but to a sceptic, it is the dark
shadow of coming night."
"I admit you have brilliant visions, when death is coming to bear
you off; we have none, we see nothing but darkness, and feel at
times the terror of uncertainty. I admit you occupy the vantage
ground then; you stand on what you believe is a rock; beneath us is
the moving quicksand. Yes, you die in general better than we do,
or can do. There is no denying this; and I shall not attempt to
disguise it."
"Your condition, my dear friend, in my apprehension, is truly
appalling. It agonizes me. I see you standing on the edge of a
tremendous precipice. In a moment you may be lost, and perish, and
for ever. Shall I pray with you, before I leave you? The prayer of
faith may prevail for your rescue and salvation."
"Excuse me, dear Sir, without supposing that I undervalue your
generous friendship. You would save me, I know, if you could. But
I have no faith, and therefore it would not be honest to appear
devout, and I cannot compel myself to believe."
I called again before I left London, but as he was asleep, I did not
see him; but I saw his housekeeper, a very intelligent, pious woman,
in whose integrity I knew he had great confidence. She informed
me, that when sitting with her master during one very restless
night; and thinking, from some heavy sighs which he occasionally
heaved, that some new feelings were stirring within him, she said to
him--"It is a great pity, Sir, that you will cling so firmly to your
infidel opinions when they cannot comfort you. You had better look
up to the Saviour; he is able, and he is willing to comfort and save
you."
"Well, Mary," he replied, "I admit it would be better if I could
believe in a Saviour, as you do, than to remain in my present state
of uncertainty; but I have no faith--I cannot compel myself to
believe."
"Then, Sir, pray to the Lord Jesus, and he will give you faith to
trust in him for salvation. He has compassion for them that are out
of the right way."
"But how can I pray, when I have no faith in prayer? It may all be
true what you believe, and if it should, I am irrecoverably lost,
and for ever; but I have no faith in such a tremendous issue."
"But, Sir, such a tremendous issue may be certain, even though you
do not believe it; and the bare possibility of its occurrence should
alarm you."
"I admit that, but I can't compel myself to believe."
I returned home with a heavy heart, feeling as a humane person
feels, on coming out of the prison, where he has had the last
agonizing interview with an old friend, whom he has left under the
sentence of death. Having requested Mr. Gordon's housekeeper to let
me know if any change took place in his health, I received a note
from her a few weeks afterwards, saying, the crisis was past, and
that he was so far restored, that he was now at Maidenhead, trying
the effect of a change of air and scene. This gave me pleasure--as
a respite sometimes issues in a rescue. His form was ever before
me. Many a petition did I offer up to the Hearer of prayer in his
behalf; and more than once, on rising from my knees, I felt a strong
persuasion that the prayer of faith would prevail. It was after a
very remarkable season of special devotion, when I pleaded with the
Lord with intense and hallowed earnestness, that I received from
him the following letter, which was an ample recompense for all my
labours and anxieties:--
"REV. AND DEAR SIR,--I yield at last. My only hope for pardon
and peace is in the precious blood of Christ. My heart is too
full to write much. It is full to overflowing. Do come and see
me, and I will tell you all. I can secure you a spare room not
far from my own lodgings.--Yours truly,
ARTHUR GDORDON."
I set off immediately, and spent several days with him; and had from
him and his housekeeper a detailed statement of the occurrences
which had taken place, and which I will now reduce to continuous
order, for the gratification of the reader. He had taken lodgings
in a cottage occupied by a poor but pious family, and which was
pleasantly situated near the banks of the Thames. Though he had no
regard for the exercises of family devotion, yet he had no very
strong antipathy to them. He therefore felt no annoyance by hearing
the good man read and pray with his family morning and evening,
though no one knew that he was in the habit of listening. The
simple, yet earnest petitions (as Mr. Gordon afterwards confessed)
which were offered up to the Hearer of prayer, in behalf of the
stranger, for his restoration to the enjoyment of perfect health,
and that his affliction might be sanctified to his spiritual
benefit, often made a deep impression on his heart, but it passed
away without any appearance of a beneficial result.
An incident now occurred which had nearly proved fatal to him,
but it was overruled for good. He went with a party of friends to
spend the day at Marlow; and as they calculated on the probability
of seeing some wild ducks, one gentleman took his gun with him. On
their return down the river in the evening, they resolved, as it
felt rather cold, to walk the last two or three miles. In stepping
out of the boat, one of the party slipped, and at that moment the
loaded gun, which he carried in his hand, went off; Mr. Gordon, who
was a little in advance, and stooping down to fasten his shoe, fell,
and his hat was blown to shivers. All were terror-struck, under the
impression that he was killed; but it was soon discovered that he
had sustained no injury, beyond a slight wound on the right side of
his forehead, and the tip of his ear, which were slightly grazed.
They pressed around him with their congratulations; one facetiously
remarking, that he must have been born under a lucky star, to dodge
death so dexterously, when it was so near him. The accident, and the
escape, naturally engaged more of their conversation than any of
the other occurrences of the day; but there was no reference to the
special providence of God, except in the usual strain of sceptical
derision. "A pious believer," said the facetious man, "would be for
kneeling down, and offering up a tribute of thanksgiving for your
lucky escape, Gordon; and so should I, if I believed in a special
Providence."
"I don't believe," said another, "that God ever interferes in such
little matters; if he did, he could easily have prevented the slip
of the foot, which was the first moving cause of the explosion; and
had he done that, Gordon would have saved his hat, and gone home
without his scars."
These remarks, which at any other time would have been in harmony
with his opinions and sentiments, by his own admission, now grated
harshly on his ears; he felt his spirit recoil from them, and for
the first time in his life wished himself out of such company. He
was somewhat astonished, as he confessed to me, by the suddenly
awakened antipathies, which beat so strongly in his heart. On
arriving at his lodgings, he related to the family the particulars
of his narrow escape from death; when the good man exclaimed, in a
subdued tone of pious reverence, "The Lord be praised for protecting
you in such an hour of danger. This, Sir, is an instance of what
the Psalmist calls preventing mercy, for which you should be truly
grateful to the Lord."
Mr. Gordon knew that his servant united with the family in their
evening devotions; and thinking that this accident and escape would
form a subject of reference in the prayers of the pious cottager, he
kept his door ajar, and sat and listened. He heard his servant say,
"My master is as kind a man as walks on the earth, and is thankful
for any attentions which are paid to him by any one; but he has no
gratitude in his heart to the God of his mercies. He lives, as the
apostle says, without God in the world."
"Well, then," replied the good man, "if he offer up no thanksgivings
to the Lord for his miraculous escape from death, we will do it
for him; and pray that he may be brought to feel as a child of our
heavenly Father ought to feel." He then read the sixth chapter
of the Gospel of Matthew, remarking, at the conclusion, that it
was a great privilege to be able to believe the consolatory and
soul-sustaining truths which they had been reading. One sentence in
his prayer was uttered with emphatic earnestness--"We thank thee, O
Lord, for preserving the life of the stranger now sojourning with
us, when it was so near death; and we pray that he may feel towards
thee as a child ought to feel towards his heavenly Father." This
touched his heart.
"I never," he said to me, "felt such an emotion as I experienced
when that simple prayer was uttered. It was as thrilling and as
powerful as it was sudden and unexpected. I immediately arose and
seated myself on the sofa, and was soon absorbed in a train of deep
thought. Yes, death came very near me to-night. He has marked the
signs of his nearness in the scar wounds on my forehead and my ear.
Was it mere chance which gave me a hair-breadth escape from a sudden
death? Yes, says infidelity; God never interferes in little matters.
But would it have been to me a little matter if I had had an arm
blown off, or a leg broken, or been sent out of life into another
world; and probably to ----. No. It would have been a great matter
_then_. Is my preservation from death to be regarded as a little
matter? Was God away from the spot where my friend's foot slipped?
Yes, says infidelity; and I should have responded to this saying
before the event occurred; but I cannot _now_. I doubt my own faith;
I renounce it. It may do at a club, or a convivial party; but it
won't do for the spot where death was coming, but where the victim
has been miraculously rescued from his power. 'AS A CHILD OUGHT TO
FEEL TOWARDS HIS HEAVENLY FATHER!' Beautiful expression! Yes, I
ought to feel grateful to God; but I have never considered him as
standing in the relation of a father to me. But has he not on this
occasion acted like one?"
On turning and looking carelessly round the room, he saw his copy
of Tremaine lying on the side-board. He took it up and opened it;
the chapter on Providence caught his eye, and he read it. "This,"
he confessed to me, he found to be but "starlight-reading; clear,
but cold; brilliant, but wanting in power; expanding the intellect,
and charming the imagination, but not finding its way to the heart.
I read, and believed; read, and yet doubted. I was," he said,
"completely bewildered; but I recollect saying, O that I had the
faith of the cottager, or my servant, my mind would be in perfect
peace."
His housekeeper, who, as yet, was ignorant of the novel process
of thinking which was going on in his mind, informed me that she
was astonished and delighted one evening by his asking her for the
loan of her Bible. She fetched it, and on giving it to him, said,
"That book, Sir, will do you good, if you pray over it when you are
reading it." He read the sixth chapter of Matthew; read it several
times; and when referring to it in our conversation, he said, "What
a difference, Sir, between the two readings! Tremaine reasons
closely and clearly; he almost demonstrates and compels belief; but
there is no pathos, no power; the heart still remains sceptical and
unmoved. Jesus Christ asserts, commands, and promises; the heart is
captivated, and induced to place its trust in God. Yes! 'it must
be,' as the pious cottager remarked, 'an inestimable privilege to
be able to believe the consolatory and soul-sustaining truths which
I have now been reading.' I believe NOW. But how is this? Logic
has not been reasoning. My intellect is dormant; and yet it is
spell-bound by novel and solemn thoughts. It is making new spiritual
discoveries, which, I believe, are grand realities, but which I have
long despised and rejected as legendary tales; and I feel tranquil.
And yet, as the process of reflection goes on, I feel again
bewildered. My calm is becoming a tumult; and out of satisfaction
springs up anxiety. Is this a delusion, or am I waking up out of a
mental torpor amidst sublime spiritual realities? I am conscious of
a change which has come upon me, and very unexpectedly."
"You do not doubt its reality?"
"No, Sir; it is no sham. I am as conscious of its reality as I
am of my own existence. I am no sceptic _now_. I have no hostile
feeling _now_ against the remedial scheme of salvation. I adore
Christ _now_. I can give him my heart. I am astonished by my own
utterances; but they are the genuine expressions of my feelings."
"I presume, Sir, you ascribe the great change which has taken place
in your belief, and in your moral taste, to a supernatural cause; to
what the apostle calls the grace of God?"
"I do, Sir. There are three things which satisfy me that this
marvellous change is the work of God. In the first place, I had no
conception that such a change was either necessary or possible; in
the next place, I had no more power or inclination to effect it
myself than I have to raise a dead man to life; and then it has been
produced so suddenly, preceded by no intimations or anticipations
of such an occurrence, and by such apparently inadequate means.
The simple prayers of the rustic cottager subdued me. They touched
my heart. I could, as you know, withstand the assaults of the most
acute and powerful reasoning; your persuasive eloquence touched no
cord of my heart. I could repel, with a sarcasm, the most awful
warnings; and stand immoveable when death was advancing to execute
the penal sentence; but I could not stand out against the simple
prayers of the pious cottager. Indeed, I felt more inclined to yield
than to resist. It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in my
eyes. He made me willing in the day of his power. On this principle
it can be accounted for, but on no other. Reason, as well as
gratitude, compels me to say--By the grace of God, I am what I am.
But O, my friend, where can I find language to give full expression
to the astonishment and gratitude which I feel when reflecting on
the long-suffering and the forbearance of God, whose majesty I
have so often insulted, and whose authority I have set at nought,
defying his threatenings, and spurning his overtures of mercy! How
marvellous the condescending compassion and grace of the Lord Jesus
Christ, who has at last brought me to penitence and contrition, and
given me a hope of salvation!"
"I suppose you now recal to your recollection, at times, some of
the subjects of our former discussions; both your objections to the
various parts of revealed truth, and how I endeavoured to refute
them?"
"In the first place, I may mention, that from the outset, on the
Saturday evening we first met,[39] and through every succeeding
encounter, I had a latent apprehension that you were right; and
that your belief, with its consolations and prospects, was far more
conducive to human happiness, than my disbelief, with its suspicions
and uncertainties; I clearly saw, that on your hypothesis, the loss
of life, which is the greatest of human possessions, would be an
incalculable gain; but on mine, it would be an irreparable loss.
When reasoning in my calmer moments on these data, I arrived at
this conclusion--for man's sake the Christian faith _ought_ to be a
genuine faith, even if it is not so; and I recollect when you were
assigning the causes which invest the name of Jesus Christ with such
great power over the human mind on its passing through scenes of
extreme privation and peril, and especially when passing from one
world to another, I felt that I would gladly exchange my disbelief
and its uncertainties, for your faith and its assurances. I now,
Sir, by the grace of God, can add my testimony to the truthfulness
of what you asserted in that encounter. The Christian faith is both
a renovating and consolatory power, and it does the work ascribed
to it; it gives peace to a wounded spirit, and a hope full of
immortality to the guilty and morally worthless."
[39] Vol. i. p. 94.
"You would not now willingly be what you once were?"
"Be what I once was! no, Sir. As readily suppose that a glorified
spirit, if left to his own choice, would choose to come back to
earth, to re-tread its polluting soil, to raise again the standard
of rebellion against the Majesty of heaven, and again intermingle
with the workers of iniquity. Be what I once was! no, Sir. Like the
man in the gospel who found the pearl of great price, I have no wish
to lose what I have miraculously found; I have found the Messiah,
Jesus Christ the Saviour, mighty to save; and to his service I now
consecrate myself for life and for ever."
He took me one evening to the place where the gun-shot accident
happened, and when pointing with his stick to the spot where he
fell, he stood a while speechless, the tears trickling down his
cheeks, when he exclaimed, under the impulse of strong emotion,
"What a mercy that I was not blown from this spot into hell! On this
spot, Sir, I have stood every evening since the accident occurred,
to offer up my adorations and thanksgiving to the God of my mercies,
and to echo the utterance of Paul, 'This is a faithful saying, and
worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world
to save sinners; of whom I am chief' (1 Tim. i. 15). Yes, Sir,
and I will visit it when the gray hairs of age hang upon me, if I
am spared to old age; and shall I ever forget it when in heaven?
But the gun-shot and my escape would have proved the materials
for a profane joke in a convivial party, had it not been for the
sovereign grace of God, who employed it as the precursor of my
salvation--'Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me,
bless his holy name'" (Psal. ciii. 1).
He continued at Maidenhead till his health was thoroughly
re-established, and then he returned to London. On his reappearance
at the counting-house, in which he had long held an important
office, he received the hearty congratulations of the firm, and of
all his fellow-clerks, by whom he was greatly respected, for his
close application to his duties, his gentlemanly habits, and the
kindness of his disposition.
Shortly afterwards he had occasion to pass through my town on some
business of his employers, and paid me a visit. We spent a very
pleasant evening together. He then informed me that he had had a
visit from Mr. Newton, and another infidel friend; who called with
their congratulations on his escape from the gun-shot, and the
recovery of his health, and to propose an excursion to Greenwich,
with a party, on the following Sunday. This invitation he at once
declined, and added, "You probably will be surprised to hear that
I renounce as false, and as fatal, all the sceptical sentiments
and opinions I once held; and now embrace with gratitude and joy
the glorious gospel of Christ, as a true and sublime revelation of
mercy and of grace. In future, my Sabbaths will be held sacred to
public worship, in preference to any other exercises or pursuits.
And I would earnestly entreat you to turn your serious attention
to the paramount claims of the gospel; its rejection, as a legend
of superstition, will embitter your reflections and appal your
anticipations in a dying hour." They listened to this with profound
astonishment, making no other remark than simply wishing him well,
and then abruptly left him.
I took occasion from this reference to Newton and his companion, to
remark, that it would have been a great blessing for himself and
others, if he had undergone this change at an earlier period of his
life.