whom I received the word of truth, often comes and spends an hour
with me. He considers me as the first-fruits of his ministry; and
I rejoice, _as only the first-fruits_, for since it pleased the
Lord to call me by his grace, there have been many to whom he has
been the instrument of conveying the grace of life. Our hamlet was
the land of darkness before that bright light rose upon us; but now
it is as the land of Goshen. What a glorious change has been made
in Squire Stevens and his lady, who live at Fairmount villa! When
they came to live there, they took the lead in all the fashions and
amusements of the gay and ungodly; very seldom attended church on a
Sunday, and often uttered many hard speeches against Mr. Ingleby;
but their prejudices vanished as soon as they heard him, and now
they are become the most spiritual and zealous family in our parts.
There was a fine stir when they left their own parish church to
attend the ministry of Mr. Ingleby, who preaches about a mile and a
half off; but they have displayed so much of the superior excellence
of the Christian character, and conducted themselves with so much
godly consistency, that even the enemies of the cross are loud in
their praise. They sometimes call to see me, and when they do not
call they often send; and the other day, when I was expressing my
gratitude to Mrs. Stevens for the numerous favours I had received,
she replied, with an emphasis which I shall never forget, '_The
steward should wait in the hall after he has delivered the present;
and then return and deliver the note of thanks to his lord who
sent it._' I hope, as you are a stranger among us, you will call
at Fairmount, where, I am sure, you will meet with a very kind
reception."
I made no reply, but proposed reading a chapter and going to prayer.
I read the 23d Psalm, on which I made a few appropriate remarks, and
then bowed before the footstool of the Divine throne. It is true
I had no soft cushion to kneel on, but I felt that the ground was
rendered sacred by the presence of the Holy One; I had no prescribed
form to aid my devotion, but I felt under the peculiar dictations
of the Spirit, who maketh intercession within the saints; and
arose, not to lose a recollection of the interview amidst the din
of business, or the dissipations of life, but to cherish it as a
latent proof of the connection which subsists between the spiritual
and material world, and as supplying me with a fresh evidence of the
immense value of that scheme of redemption which admits sinners into
fellowship with their sovereign Lord.
[Illustration: FIRST INTERVIEW WITH FARMER PICKFORD.
Vol. i. page 47.]
Soon after I left this lonely cottage, on crossing over a
neighbouring field, I saw a farm-house at a distance, and finding
from my watch that I had two hours more at my disposal, I resolved
to visit it. On entering the yard I met the farmer, Mr. Pickford,
a respectable-looking man, who invited me, in the true spirit of
rural hospitality, to walk in and take a mug of ale. I had not been
seated many minutes before the crusty brown loaf, the delicate cream
cheese, and the can of fresh ale made their appearance, and as my
appetite was rather keen, I relished my lunch. But as my principal
design was the survey of human character, I easily contrived to
induce my host to exhibit himself, which he did in pure native style.
"I have been admiring, farmer, the neatness of your hedges, and the
cleanliness of your fields, which, added to the richness of the
foliage and the luxuriance of the crops, gives a fine effect to the
scenery around."
"Ay, ay, Sir, a country life for me. I shouldn't like to be pent
up in the smoke of a city all my days, though my foolish girls are
always saying that there are more pastimes in a town than in a
village."
"Why, yes, we have many sources of amusement in a city which you
cannot have in the country; but we are exposed to more danger, from
the temptations to which we are liable."
"That makes good what I have often said, that town-folks are worse
than country-folks."
"But if a man be inclined to be wicked, he will be wicked anywhere.
I suppose you have some about you _who are not quite so good as they
ought to be_."
"Yes, there are a few of that sort, the worse luck; but then we
have some who are _better than they need be_, and so the quantum of
goodness is made up to the full Winchester measure."
"Indeed! I never saw a man better than he ought to be."
"Why, Sir, perhaps I made a mistake. I should have said, we have
some who _pretend to be better than they need be_; but you know that
a man may pretend to what he a'n't got."
"True; but what sort of persons do you now refer to?"
"To these Methodists;[1] before they came we were as peaceable as a
flock of sheep in a fold; but now we are always wrangling; and, in
spite of us, they have put down all the little merry-makings which
we used to have among us."
[1] The epithet Methodist is taken in its popular acceptation, as
employed by the antievangelical part of society.
"But how have they put down your merry-makings?"
"Why, Sir, we used to have as good a pit of cocks as any in the
country; but now the very men who used to breed the best sort are
turned Methodists; and when I asked one the other day if he had any
young ones hatched yet, he told me that he had seen his wickedness,
and hoped never to be permitted to fall into the sin again; as
though God Almighty would be offended at the innocent pastimes of a
village."
"But do you not suppose that the cocks which fight inflict pain on
each other; and can a humane person derive any amusement from the
agonies of a dumb animal?"
"True, Sir; some, I know, are against such sports, but I must
confess that I have a bit of a liking for them."
"I believe, from what little I know of rural life, that the
_innocent pastimes_ of the village usually terminate in scenes of
drunkenness, rioting, and lewdness; and pray, farmer, have you never
seen the bad effects of them on your friends, and on your servants?"
"Ay, ay, Sir, you now strike home, but what are people to do; they
must have a little 'laxation from hard work sometimes."
"But you say 'these things are put down by the Methodists, in spite
of you;' what do the people do now?"
"O, nearly all of them are turned Methodists, and Squire Stevens,
who lives up at Fairmount yonder, is at the head of them."
"What sort of a gentleman is he?"
"He is very well in his way, only he has too much religion."
"What do you mean by too much religion?"
"Why, he is always talking about it, and giving away little books,
and visiting the poor, and praying with them in their houses, and
preaching to them in his chapel which he built for them. And some
people say he can preach a better sarmunt than parson Cole, who is
a regular Oxford man. His wife is a cleverish sort of a woman; she
looked in here one day, and talked away at a fine rate about Jesus
Christ and salvation by grace; and I have had main hard work ever
since to keep my wife from running after this new sort of religion."
"Pray, farmer, have you ever seriously reflected on the worth of
your soul?"
"Why, Sir, I have something else to reflect on."
"But have you any subject to reflect on of equal importance? Do you
not know that your soul, when it leaves the body, will exist for
ever in a state of happiness or misery?"
"So the parsons tell us, but they may be out in their judgment as
well as other people. I don't believe all they say. I strike off
one-half, and then there's plenty left."
"Do you ever think on the subject of death?"
"No, I don't like to think on such a gloomy subject."
"But why not, when you know you must die soon, and may die to-night?"
"I hope not, for I a'n't fit to die."
"And are you conscious that you are not fit to die, and yet neglect
to think about it? Is it possible?"
"Why, Sir, methinks it's time enough to think about it when it
comes."
"But it may come suddenly, like a thief in the night, and bear off
your soul to the great world of spirits."
"If it should, then the Lord have mercy on my soul. I suppose he
will, as he likes to save sinners, so the parsons say."
I then described to him the frame of mind in which I had left Mrs.
Allen--his wife being present the whole of the time. He could not
refrain from weeping, though he endeavoured to conceal his tears;
and when I had finished, he said that he knew her very well, but as
she was a Methodist, he had been prejudiced against her, but added,
"If this be a sample of their religion, it is of a better sort than
I imagined." And turning to his wife, he said, "Do as you like, I
will never oppose thee again."
"That's the best news I have heard to-day. I'll go to chapel on
Sunday."
"I hope, Sir, that you will stay and take a pot-luck dinner with us;
it will be plainish fare, but a hearty welcome."
"Yes, Sir, do," said his modest-looking wife; "we have just killed a
pig, and I have a nice pork pie, and some apple sauce and cream."
I thanked them both for their kindness, but declined accepting
the invitation, having engaged to dine with a friend in the
neighbourhood.
"Pray, Sir, if a body may be so bold, do I know your friend?"
"You do know him; and perhaps if I mention his name, you will feel a
momentary embarrassment."
"I fear no man; and I don't think I have got an enemy in all these
parts."
"I am going to dine with Mr. Stevens."
"Hollo! I sometimes talk a bit too fast; the worse luck; however,
don't say what I have said. He is a gentleman; I would not offend
him for the world. We live on very good terms; and a better man
does not exist, and I am sure his wife is the best woman in all the
parish."
I told him that he might make himself very easy, as it was not my
habit to sow discord among neighbours. I promised to call again
before I left, which appeared to give him pleasure.
As I was walking up the hill which leads towards the villa, I met
a venerable-looking gentleman, in the costume of a clergyman. We
bowed; and, with an air of peculiar kindness, he said, "I presume I
am addressing the Rev. Mr. S----s?"
"My name, Sir, is S----s."
"I am happy to see you in these parts; but I shall be more happy by
seeing you at the rectory. We are both, I trust, ministers of the
gospel; and though we labour in different communions, yet, as we
expect to dwell together in heaven, I see no reason why we should
shun each other's society on earth."
"Our Lord has broken down the middle wall of partition, but bigotry
has been endeavouring almost ever since to rebuild it; and though
she has succeeded in raising it up immensely high in some parts of
her empire, yet, as she cannot always secure a good foundation, we
occasionally find an opening through which we can pass to enjoy the
fellowship of the saints."
"Ay, Sir, I often pray, 'Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation
thereof.'"
"And to such a prayer I can most cheerfully respond, Amen."
"But do you not think," added Mr. Ingleby, "that the spirit of
liberality is gaining ground among us?"
"I hope it is; but there is very much land yet unoccupied."
"True, but there have been some large inclosures made within the
last half-century. Your London Missionary Society, which breathes
such a catholic spirit, has brought together many of the children
of God who were scattered abroad; and the British and Foreign Bible
Society has bound them together as with a threefold cord, which the
demon of bigotry will never be able to burst asunder."
"I think your remarks are correct; but I want to see more of the
spirit of liberality of sentiment and feeling which is often
expressed, and often applauded at our public meetings, brought
into expression and practical operation in social life. I want to
see Christians of every denomination mingling together, not in the
costume and with the spirit of their distinctive order, but in
their more dignified and exalted character, as disciples of the
Lord Jesus. I want to see them disposed to merge the trifling
distinctions in the more important consideration of their relative
union to each other; and if the spirit of contention is to prevail
among us, let it be the spirit which Paul inculcates, when he
exhorted the Hebrews to provoke one another to love and good works."
"Your sentiments," replied the pious rector, "exactly accord with
my own; and though I do not expect that the spirit of bigotry will
die and be buried before I am called to rest with my fathers,
yet I hope, when standing on the top of the celestial hills, to
witness her interment, and then, in ecstasy, I will respond to the
joyous shout which earth will raise, when she exclaims, 'Bigotry is
fallen--is fallen!'"
"I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Mrs. Allen."
"Ay, she is an eminent saint. How is she, Sir?--I am now going to
see her."
"She appears to be drawing near her latter end, but I do not think
there is any prospect of an immediate change; she is in a most
heavenly frame of mind."
"When I first knew her, which is now near twenty-five years ago,
she came to live with me; but her temper was so violent, and her
enmity to the gospel so inveterate, that I was obliged to part with
her. After she left me, she went to live with a dissolute gentleman
in the neighbourhood, when the seed of the kingdom, which had been
unconsciously deposited in her heart, sprang up; and after remaining
in her situation for a few months, she returned to my service, and
never have I seen a more manifest proof of the efficacy of Divine
grace."
"Religion will sometimes reform a vicious life, and check the evil
propensities of the heart, while the _temper_ is left unsubdued.
What influence have her religious principles over her temper?"
"I am happy to say that the lion became a lamb, and in meekness and
gentleness of spirit she surpasses most. But I perceive," looking
at his watch, "that I cannot prolong our conversation, as I have
an appointment; and therefore I beg you will do me the honour of
a visit before you leave. Come early in the morning, or consent to
stay the whole of the night."
I reached Fairmount about half-an-hour before dinner, which gave
me an opportunity of recording in my diary the incidents of the
morning. As I sat musing on the raptures of the dying Christian,
the ignorance of the worthy farmer, and the liberality of the
venerable clergyman, the servant tapped at my door, and informed
me that the family were waiting. I immediately made my appearance
in the parlour, when Mrs. Stevens said, "I have the pleasure, of
introducing to you my nephew, Mr. Lewellin." I took his hand with
mingled emotions of surprise and joy, offered him my congratulations
on the great change which had taken place in his moral and spiritual
character, inquired after his pious mother, and then sat down to
refresh myself with the provisions of hospitality.
THE HORNINGSHAM SAILOR.
Dinner being ended, we adjourned to the back parlour, whose folding
doors opened on the lawn, and exhibited a sweet scene of tranquil
beauty.
"The heart that is insensible to the charms of nature," said Mr.
Lewellin, "must be devoid of taste and feeling."
"True," replied Mr. Stevens, "but how many feel these charms who
never hold communion with Him who has invested them with their
magic power. They profess to rise up through nature, 'to nature's
God;' but their conceptions of His character are essentially
defective; they admire His grandeur and His greatness, but there
is no recognition of His purity; they extol His benevolence, but
are not awed by His justice. I recollect being in company with a
gentleman, who was an impassioned admirer of nature, and after an
eloquent descant on its magnificent scenery, he concluded by saying,
'The Deity, who has given existence to such physical wonders, would
act a very undignified part to stoop so low as to notice the little
frailties of humanity; but to suppose he would punish them, would
be to offer Him an insult.' Hence they very naturally, from their
assumed premises, scornfully reject the remedial scheme of salvation
that is revealed to us in the Scriptures."
"Our reception or rejection of the Scripture scheme of salvation,"
said Mr. Lewellin, "depends on the opinion we form of the character
of God; for if his purity and equity be not recognized, the law
which commands obedience will be denounced; the distinction between
virtue and vice, which the Scriptures mark with such precision, will
be confounded; and the whole scheme of Divine mercy will be regarded
as a cunningly devised fable. I remember the time when I lived
without any habitual reverence for the Supreme Being. I admired the
wisdom and the benevolence which I could trace in the construction
of the universe; but it neither excited gratitude, nor led to any
dependence on God for preservation from evil, or for happiness. It
is true when the elements were disturbed, when the tempest raged,
when the lightning flashed, and when the thunder roared, I trembled;
but no sooner had these commotions ceased, than all was tranquil
within; yet it was not peace of mind, it was a moral torpor, a
judicial insensibility, the ease which precedes the moral pangs of
the second death."
This reference to his former state induced me to ask him to give us
an account of his conversion. He complied with my request; but as
the more prominent incidents have been already narrated, I need not
detail the whole of his statement.
"My mind," he observed, "was in a peculiarly serene frame when I
consented to accompany my mother to chapel. I had been that morning
on a visit to a friend, in whose society I had passed many hours
of pleasant intercourse; and our conversation unexpectedly took
a religious turn. 'I have recently,' said my friend, 'had my mind
very much occupied and perplexed about the truth or falsehood of
Christianity. If Christianity be a cunningly devised fable, we are
safe; but if it be a true revelation from heaven, we are undone.'
'It is no fable,' I replied; 'it is too true.' 'Then how can we
justify that indifference which we pay to it?' 'To justify it is
impossible; but such is the native insensibility of our hearts to
unseen and eternal realities, that nothing but an extraordinary
dispensation of Heaven can rouse us to a state of proper feeling.'
'Pray, Sir,' said my friend, 'what was the state of your mind in
the immediate prospect of death?' 'I was,' I replied, 'in great
agony, and its intensity increased as the symptoms of coming death
became more decisive. I drew back with horror from the scene which
was before me; but yet at times I longed to plunge into the dark
abyss, that I might know the utmost of my misery.' 'But could you
derive no hope from the consolations which Christianity holds out to
man?' 'None; mine appeared a hopeless case. An allusion to mercy had
a more terrific effect than the utterance of the tremendous word,
Depart!' 'I think,' he replied, 'that religious people are generally
more happy than those who are irreligious; and it is certain, if
the testimony of the most respectable witnesses can be received,
that they are infinitely more happy in the prospect of death.' 'Yes,
Sir, they are, and very naturally so. They expect by the loss of
life to gain the prize of a glorious immortality. We have no such
a prospect!' 'That's true. To us a hereafter is a dead blank, or
torments for ever. What a difference!' As I was returning to my
mother's cottage, I felt an unusual elevation of soul, for which I
could assign no real cause. 'Is this,' I involuntarily exclaimed,
'the first beaming of mercy? Impossible! But why?' The train of
thought which now passed through my mind necessarily partook of
the singular character of my feelings; and though I could not fix
my attention on religious subjects, yet I felt no inclination to
dismiss them. After I reached home, as I sat musing over the recent
occurrences of my life, I opened a hymn-book which was lying near
me, and felt deeply impressed by a hymn to which I chanced to turn,
and which was very appropriate to the state of my mind. The same
afternoon my mother asked me to accompany her to chapel, which gave
me more pleasure than I wished to discover. I was delighted with the
fervour of the singing, and the chaste simplicity of the prayer, and
a few petitions which were uttered struck me with great force."
"Do you recollect these petitions?" said Mrs. Stevens.
"I shall never forget them--'Enlighten, we beseech you, O Lord, our
dark understandings!--renovate our depraved nature!--deepen the
impressions which thy truth has already made on our hearts!--and
admit us, through the mediation of Jesus Christ, into communion with
thee, the only source of pure and substantial bliss!' Never did
words, uttered by human voice, produce a more powerful effect; but
it was not till the minister began to enlarge on the condescension
and death of the Lord Jesus, that I felt my guilt and perceived my
danger. I retired from the chapel with a class of feeling which had
never been previously excited within my breast; yet I cannot say
whether joy or sorrow most preponderated. I wept as my sins came
to my remembrance, but my most sacred tears were shed in gratitude
to the Redeemer for the thrilling manifestation of his pity and
his love. I felt the change, on passing from a state of spiritual
death to newness of life, as consciously as I now feel the action of
life in my vital system; nor could any species of sophistry induce
me to doubt it--a change which produced an entire revolution in
my sentiments and principles; in my habits and in the objects of
my pursuit; and though it has called down upon me the sarcasms of
the sceptic, yet I am not ashamed to own that it is 'by the grace
of God I am what I am.' My mother, when I told her of it, fell
on my neck and kissed me; she wept tears of joy, and then knelt
down and returned thanks to God for his abundant mercy towards me.
Never, till that eventful evening, had I tasted of such pure, such
unmingled felicity."
Every one present was deeply affected by this narration. Mr.
Stevens was about to continue the conversation, when our attention
was attracted by an English sailor, who approached and asked an
alms. Mr. Stevens, who was fond of seeing all the varieties of human
character, invited him to take a seat, and after inquiring where he
had come from, and how long he had been at sea, said, "I dare say
you have endured many hardships in your dangerous profession; it
would be interesting to us if you would give us some account of your
life."
"My life, please your honour," replied the weather-beaten tar, "has
been a chequered life. I was born at Horningsham, a small village
in Wiltshire. My father had three children. He was very religious,
and so was my mother. They taught us to read the Bible and to pray,
and took us to chapel every Sunday. But I was always a wildish
lad, and so was brother George, who was a year younger than I. One
night, when we were about seventeen years old, we set off, unknown
to father or mother, to go to sea. We walked all night, and all the
next day, till we got to Botley, between Southampton and Tichfield,
where we stopped for some refreshment, and to rest ourselves. The
next day we were joined by three soldiers, who said they would take
us across the fields to Gosport; but when they got us into a lonely
place, they robbed us of our watches and all our money. This was
the beginning of our sorrows, and we began to repent of our folly;
but we did not like to go back home. As we were walking up and down
a street in Portsmouth, a gentleman came and asked us if we should
like to go to sea. I replied I would like nothing better. He gave
us five shillings each, provided a lodging for us, and the next
morning we went on board ship. We often wished ourselves at home,
but it was no use; so, after sending a letter to father, to let him
know what was become of us, we set sail. After cruizing about the
channel for some months, we fell in with the Dutch off Camperdown.
This was the first battle I ever fought; and it was a desperate one.
Many a stream of English blood flowed that day; and, just as we were
hailing victory, a spent shot struck my poor brother George (his
voice faltering as he spoke), who was standing by my side; he fell;
we carried him down to the cockpit, when he took me by the hand, and
said, '_Farewell, brother! I am dying_. _Give my love to mother,
and father, and sister, and tell them that I die in the arms of
victory._' He scarcely finished the words before he heaved a dismal
groan, and died. The shouts of victory gave me no pleasure; for I
had lost my brother. Poor fellow, he was thrown overboard the same
day; and many a tear was shed, Sir, as we let him down, for he was
much liked by the crew."
"What ship," said Mr. Stevens, "were you on board of?"
"The _Venerable_, please your honour; Admiral Duncan's ship."
"Did you know Covey, who was wounded in that engagement?"
"Yes, please your honour; I was on deck when he fell. He was as
brave a fellow as ever fought; and he was as generous as he was
brave."
"But was he not very wicked?"