verses you have quoted, and others which speak of coming to him
for life, and to be saved; but a veil of mystery hung over them
which I could not lift up. I had the loftiest conceptions of his
superhuman greatness and goodness; the fine blending of majesty
and meekness, of dignity and condescension in his character,
awakened my admiration; his pity, his love, his spotless purity,
awed and delighted me; and I often felt indignant--a real loathing
of spirit--when reflecting on the brutal treatment he met with
from his countrymen; but I never could make out, from anything
I read in the New Testament, how he could stand in the relation
of a Saviour to me, or how I could perform that act of coming to
him, on which he places the issue of salvation. And this is the
origin of my unbelief. I had no wish to become an unbeliever; I
became one against my inclination, and in opposition to early, and
long-cherished, and endeared associations; but necessity compelled
me; because, after long and intense thinking, I found that the
proferred blessing of salvation was placed on an impracticable and
an impossible contingency. Nor have I, as yet, had cause to regret
it. I now can live without dread of the future; and I have no doubt,
if there be another state of existence for man, as I feel inclined
to believe there is, it will be one of happiness, to compensate for
the sorrows and miseries which are endured in this."
"But suppose others have been enabled to perform this act of coming
to Jesus Christ; and suppose, by performing it, they have entered
into the actual possession of peace and joy in believing, then I
think you must admit that the contingency on which the proferred
blessing of salvation is suspended, comes within the capabilities of
the human mind, and what others have done _you might have done, and
yet may live to do_. By your permission I will give you a paragraph,
as it bears so closely on the subject of our conversation, which
one of the most distinguished men of the present age addressed to
a philosophical friend. The writer had been for years a believer
in the Divine origin of the Christian faith, but up to this period
in his moral history, it was to him a system of abstract truths,
which made no approaches to his heart, to engage his affections,
or to influence his will. But by a succession of impulses and
impressions, and new discoveries of his inner spirit, he began to
feel restless--some degree of alarm, in fact, that he stood in need
of a Saviour; and by reading the Bible with close attention, he
found that Jesus Christ, who up to this time had moved in dim vision
before his imagination, as an ideal or a mere historical being, was
a living being, and just such a living being as he needed--one who
could save him from his fears, and who alone could save him. The
crisis in his moral history now arrived, and he says: '_I sicken at
my own imperfect preparations. I take one decisive and immediate
step, and resign my all to the sufficiency of my Saviour_. _I plead
his own promise, that him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast
out. I come to him with my heart, such as it is, and I pray that the
operation of his Spirit, and the power of his sanctifying faith,
would make it such as it should be._' This is the experience and
testimony of Dr. Chalmers, who tells us that after he thus believed
and trusted in Christ, he had 'joyful moments;' he walked with God,
living in the habitual expectation of eternal life."
"If, Sir, I now entertained the same belief in the truthfulness
of the Bible which I once entertained, and which, without doubt,
Dr. Chalmers entertained when he wrote to his friend the paragraph
which you have just given to me, I should feel strongly inclined
to attribute the predominancy of fear and dread over hope and
peace, under which I ceaselessly suffered, to some defective view
of revealed truth, or to some shortcoming in the mysterious act
of mental obedience to a Divine requisition; but, to be candid, I
cannot now look on the Bible with that degree of reverence I once
did, and for many grave reasons. I have detected in it so many
palpable errors, and so many irreconcilable discrepancies, that I
cannot now receive it as a genuine and authentic revelation of the
Deity."
"But neither errors nor discrepancies have ever been considered,
by fair and impartial critics, as decisive evidence against the
genuineness or authenticity of an ancient book; as errors, by
careful collation, may be corrected, and discrepancies adjusted, as
our knowledge becomes more accurate and extended. And this has been
done in reference to the Bible, by many whose learning and integrity
stamp a sterling worth on the result of their labours."
"I know, Sir, many men of learning, of taste, and of dogged honesty,
who are staunch believers in the Bible, and candour compels me to
admit that they have, to their own satisfaction, corrected the
errors and harmonized the discrepancies which stagger my faith; and,
perhaps, if I were to adopt the same process of labour, I might be
equally successful; but I do not now see the necessity of it. I have
arrived at a point of discovery which yields me as much satisfaction
as you can feel in the discoveries which the Bible makes to you. I
can feel, without such auxiliary aid, a calm repose in the sympathy
of God with individual man, and a delight in meditating on his
grandeur and his goodness, which, I think, cannot be surpassed by
any emotion which the strongest faith in the promises of the Bible
can inspire."
"But, Sir, how can you know that he feels sympathy for individual
man, unless he tells you so?"
"I believe he does."
"But on what evidence do you base your belief? Because, to believe
without evidence, would be as absurd as to withhold belief from
preponderating evidence would be reprehensible."
"I infer it, from the very obvious marks of _benevolent design_
which are apparent through the whole range of creation."
"I will not dispute this point; but permit me to ask you whether,
in your belief, his sympathy is a species of refined sentimental
emotion for his own gratification, or a practical manifestation of
sustaining and consoling influence; and whether he sympathizes with
_every individual man_ who needs his sympathy, _or only a select
portion_ of the great family of suffering humanity?"
"Before I reply to your questions, may I ask if you have any doubt
on the question of his sympathy for individual man?"
"I have no doubt on the question of his sympathy and loving-kindness
in behalf of those who confide in him, and who love him, because
my Bible tells me so; but there is an ambiguity in your form
of expression, which, in my judgment, involves a self-evident
contradiction, and this is why I have asked for a clear
explanation--ambiguity in reasoning being something like a sudden
eclipse, which wraps everything in total darkness."
"In my theory, Sir, there is no selection--nothing like that
undercurrent of partiality which runs through the Bible; all are
treated alike, standing on the same level; and hence my expression,
he sympathizes with individual man, means _every man_."
"And you believe this, without his telling you that he does cherish
a _practical_ sympathy for every man."
"I infer it, Sir, and from what I consider an infallible data--the
obvious marks of benevolent design, which I can trace through the
whole range of the visible creation."
"I admit your data, but object to your inference, because uniform
experience decides the fact that all men do not stand on the same
level, nor are they treated alike; for we cannot look in any
direction without seeing inequality. I am not going, Sir, to inquire
into the causes of this inequality of rank, of personal and of
social condition, which is so obviously apparent, as that would
raise many questions which we should not have time to discuss, but
simply to notice the fact of inequality, which your proposition
virtually denies. Look, for example, at yon princely mansion,
and then think of the cottage where we first met. Compare the
athletic frame of its wealthy occupier and his hale appearance,
with an emaciated human being, whose life is pining away under a
prolonged disease. Are all treated alike, and do all stand on the
same level, under his administrative providence? No, Sir, there are
towering mountains, rich in golden ore, and desert wastes, where
the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his
bosom. And if, Sir, he sympathizes with every man, in the sense
which we attach to the term, it must be sentimental; facts prove
that it is not practical--the mere sympathy of the humane judge
for prisoners, when leaving the dock under the sentence of death,
or that of the tender-hearted physician in a ward of incurables.
Go into an hospital, a prison, a poor-house, or a cottage, where
its inmate is dying under prolonged and acute disease; visit the
habitation of a broken-down tradesman, whose children are crying
for food, while he has none to give them; pass on to the field of
battle, after the work of slaughter is over, and mingle amongst the
wounded; or go on board the slave ship, and look into her hold, as
she moves through the middle passage, between the land of freedom
and the land of perpetual bondage; and what _practical_ proof will
you find, in any of these retreats of suffering humanity, that
GOD SYMPATHIZES WITH EVERY MAN? You talk of the discrepancies of
the Bible, and argue that they are a proof that it comes not from
God. But what a terribly perplexing and appalling discrepancy do
you open up between his character as a benevolent being, and his
administrative providence? Follow out your course of reasoning, and
then, to act consistently, you must become an atheist, and compelled
to admit into your creed not only improbabilities, but absolute
impossibilities."
"Well, I will admit that when we come into real, practical life, we
are compelled to modify, if not to give up as indefensible, some
of our speculative opinions. In fact, the issue of every inquiry,
when fearlessly pursued, is uncertainty--painful, distracting
uncertainty--and man becomes the sport, if not the victim, of his
own speculations and investigations."
"Yes, Sir, when he will not condescend to be taught of God. If
we admit the inspiration, and consequent authority of the Bible,
we have an infallible teacher on all questions relating to our
responsibilities and our final destiny, and the mind settles down
into a state of quietude, and feels secure; but if we reject its
inspiration and authority as a sham, or a dogma of superstition,
we go adrift on the wide expanse of absolute uncertainty, and are
left to perish, when, and where, and how we know not, till after the
terrible catastrophe has occurred."
There was now a pause in our discussion; and within the space of
a few minutes, a little dark cloud, like that which was seen by
the prophet's servants from the heights of Carmel, overspread the
heavens, and we were compelled to look for a place of refuge from
the storm which was coming.
"I am going to see a poor woman, who lives in yon cottage; perhaps
you will not object to accompany me; we shall find shelter there."
"Most willingly, and if she be a deserving object, I shall feel most
happy to contribute a mite for her relief; _for your sake, Sir_."
"I thank you. Sir, for the personal compliment; and I doubt not but
she will be thankful for your charitable donation, for she is very
poor."
"To be candid, Sir, I like practical sympathy better than
sentimental; the one is a reality, the other a sham or a mawkish
emotion, little less than a self-compliment to a refined but useless
sensibility--something which excites the sentimentalism of a
drawing-room, when we are looking on the print of an hospital or the
wreck of a vessel hanging on the wall, but which gives no relief to
a rescued sailor, or a discharged incurable."
The poor inmate (Mrs. Allen) was seated in her chair, wrapped in
flannel, and supported by pillows, her appearance plainly indicating
that she was near death. She smiled on seeing me, but on seeing the
stranger she became a little disconcerted, yet, with polite ease,
she moved her hands towards two chairs, and said, "Gentlemen, be
seated."
"You appear," said Mr. Tennent, "very ill."
"Yes, Sir, but I believe my life of suffering will soon end, and
then all will be well--_and for ever_."
"I suppose you hope to go to heaven when you die?"
"I have no doubt of it, Sir."
"But as your Bible speaks of hell and eternal misery, don't you
sometimes fear going there when you die?"
"I did once, Sir."
"And why not now?"
"Because my dear Saviour says, 'Come unto me, and I will give you
rest.' I have come to him, and do come to him daily and hourly,
and he has fulfilled his promise, and given me rest of soul, as an
earnest of everlasting rest, and peace, and joy."
"Then you have no fear in prospect of going into the great invisible
world."
"No, Sir; and I long for the hour to come when I shall depart and
be with Christ. I saw him in the visions of the night, when deep
sleep had fallen upon me, and he appeared in glory, as when he was
transfigured on Tabor."
"Do you place much dependence on dreams?"
"I place dependence on nothing, Sir, but the exceeding great and
precious promises of my Bible; but it is delightsome to have, in
the visions of the night, the re-appearance of day-thoughts and
meditations; it is often then, from some cause which I cannot
explain, they are clothed in a more visible and substantial form."
"Now, Mrs. Allen, one more question, and I have done. Do you think
it possible for any argument to convince you that Jesus Christ is
not a real being, only an imaginary one?"
"Do you, Sir, think it possible for any argument to convince you
that you are not a real being, or that we are not all real beings,
only imaginary ones. The one thing is just about as likely to be
done as the other, and just about as easy."
I read part of the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, making
a few remarks on what I read, and then went to pray with her, Mr.
Tennent, from a sense of politeness, if not from a superior reason,
kneeling with me before the throne of mercy. As the storm was now
abated, and the evening far spent, we left her; but, on shaking
hands with her, Mr. Tennent gave her a sovereign.
We walked away in silence, but at length he said, "Well, Sir, if
your religion be, what unbelievers say it is, an invention, it is
a very soothing and inspiring one. On such an occasion as this we
cannot help wishing it to be real, even if we can't believe it to be
so."
"You see, Sir, it answers all the purposes of a reality at the great
crisis in the history of human life."
When we came to the cross-road where we were to leave each other, he
said, "Do you, Sir, remain at Fairmount much longer?"
"Yes, Sir, for some weeks."
"I should like another interview, if I may be permitted to solicit
such a favour."
We engaged to meet on the following Saturday evening, but we were
prevented. Towards the latter end of the ensuing week, I received
the subjoined note from him, which was brought by Captain Dunlop's
gardener, who informed us that his master was just dead:--
"DEAR SIR,--Before you receive this, I shall have left. What a
contrast have I witnessed between the cottage and the mansion! What
I have _seen_ and _heard_ during this visit will never pass from
my memory. If I could believe in the efficacy of prayer, I should
say, _pray for me_. We may never meet again, but should the Bible
ever be in later life as precious to me as it was before infidelity
corrupted my heart, you shall hear from me.--Yours faithfully,
"GEORGE TENNENT."
We had heard of the Captain's illness, at whose mansion Mr. Tennent
had been on a visit; but the announcement of his death startled and
depressed us.
"Why, gardener, your master's death has been very sudden."
"Yes, Sir, he wasn't ill more than five days."
"What was the nature of his disease?"
"Inflammation of the bowels, so I heard my wife say."
"Did any clergyman visit him during his illness?"
"No, Sir, no one was with him but my wife, he was mainly fond of
her, and she nursed him, and gave him his physic, and didn't leave
him, night or day, till he left us all for t'other world."
"I believe, gardener, he was an infidel, and did not believe in the
existence of another world."
"It happened to him, Sir, as it has happened to others before him;
when death got near him his infidelity forsook him, and then his
belief of another world was as strong as the apostle Paul's, so I
heard my wife say."
"Do you know how he felt in the prospect of dying?"
"I heard my wife say it was a dismal scene. She trembled at night
when she was left by herself with him."
"Do you know if Mr. Tennent saw him during his illness?"
"I heard my wife say that he saw him once, and they had high words."
"You don't mean they quarrelled."
"Why, no, Sir, not exactly that, but I heard my wife say that when
Mr. Tennent went into his room one morning, just after breakfast,
master said to him, _you see, Tennent, what you and your infidelity
has done for me_. _I shall go down in this storm, and be lost._ Mr.
Tennent said something in reply, so I heard my wife say, but I can't
mind what, for I have been in a power of trouble since master's
death, for he was a good master to me. He never went into the room
after that morning, so I heard my wife say."
"Do you know if he had any hope of salvation before he died?"
"No, Sir, I don't think he had. I heard my wife say that master said
next to nothing all along through his sickness, but that one awful
saying, _I shall go down in this storm, and be lost_. He said that,
Sir, so I heard my wife say, just as he was a-dying. My wife is in
sore trouble about master's soul, for he was a good master to her. I
tell you what, Sir, this infidelity is a bad thing. It makes people
bold in wickedness and contempt of God when they are in health,
but their courage leaves them when death comes. They are desperate
cowards then."
"Well, gardener, I hope it will be a warning to you."
"I hope, Sir, you don't think that I be an infidel. No, Sir, I love
my Bible, and so does my wife. An infidel! no, Sir; and I often
told master he would repent of it some day. I can't, Sir, get the
terrible words out of my ears--I shall go down in this storm, and
be lost. In that storm master did go down. Good night, Sir; it's too
awful to think about."
The funeral was conducted with great pomp; and when passing the
gardener's cottage some days afterwards, I stepped in and saw his
wife, who was in mourning for her late master. After a few leading
inquiries, I got her to tell me what passed when Mr. Tennent went to
see his dying friend.
"I don't mind all, Sir, but master said to him, you see Tennent,
what you and your infidelity has done for me. He then said something
about praying to Jesus Christ to save him, when master said to him,
why, how can I do that, when you have taught me to reject Him as an
impostor? I loved my Bible till I knew you; you made me ridicule it.
Mr. Tennent then went out of the room in anger, and never came back.
I felt for my poor master. It was very sad to see him go out of one
world into another, and hear him say, just as he was going, I shall
go down in this storm, and be lost. I have had no sound sleep since.
I can't get the frightful words out of my ears. I am always dreaming
about a boat turned over in a fearful storm, and master sinking in
the great lake."
THE BIBLE PRECIOUS.
Some few years after my interview with Mr. Tennent, and when its
vivid impressions had nearly faded from my recollection, I received
the following letter, which I read with intense delight:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--It is possible that you may have forgotten me long
since; but a slight reference to the remarkable incidents connected
with our interview, will probably bring me to your remembrance. We
met on a Saturday evening, in a woodman's cottage, at Broadhurst;
we afterwards knelt together in the cottage of a poor woman, who,
doubtless, has passed into a happier world long ere now. We parted
under an arrangement to meet again; but the sudden illness and death
of my old friend, Captain Dunlop, with whom I was then staying,
compelled me to leave his house rather abruptly. In a note which
I sent to you I remember saying, that if the Bible should ever be
again as precious to me as it once was, you should hear from me. And
now I redeem my pledge, which you will be kind enough to accept as
my apology for obtruding this letter upon you.
"When we met in the woodman's cottage I was a proud sceptic,
looking with haughty disdain and contempt on every one, illiterate
or intelligent, who professed a belief in the authority of the
Bible. But what I heard and saw that never-to-be-forgotten Saturday
evening, and subsequently in the death chamber of my old friend, was
like the shock of an earthquake; it shook my sceptical opinions from
their foundation, and so scattered them, that I never afterwards
could gather them up, nor did I ever make an effort or feel an
inclination so to do. The sweet calm of the poor woman's cottage,
when placed in contrast with the terrific storm of the mansion--the
assurance of the poor woman that she was going to heaven, and the
equally strong assurance of my old friend, Captain Dunlop, that he
was going to hell--were so strongly imprinted on my imagination,
that they followed me day and night. I grew sick of life, and more
than once was strongly tempted to hasten on a doom which I thought
inevitable, and which at times I longed to have decided and settled
for ever. I dared not enter a church; the sight of a Bible had the
same effect on my nervous sensibility which we may suppose the
re-appearance of a murdered man would have on the living monster
who took away his life; and when in company, if religion became the
subject of discussion, I felt interdicted from taking any part,
either for or against it. This painful state of mind continued
for more than two years; there was at times a lull in the storm of
anguish; but after a while it came back with still greater fury,
and, like my departed friend, I often said, 'Yes! I shall be a
wreck, and lost.'
[Illustration: MR. TENNENT AND THE TRACT SELLER.
Vol. i. p. 151.]
"But God, who is rich in mercy, whose eye is pity, and whose arm is
power (to quote your own expression, which I admired for its beauty
when you uttered it), in an unlooked for moment, and in a strange
place, brought about a wonderful change, by renewing me, I trust,
in the spirit of my mind, and bringing me again to say, 'Precious
Bible, what a treasure!'
"The means which he employed to effect this wondrous revolution
in my opinions and in my heart were very simple, but they were
effectual: he chose to let me see and feel that the work was his own
work. Such was the restlessness of my mind, that I was compelled
to keep perpetually moving about, that by seeing various sights,
and going into fresh society, I might be diverted from the gloomy
terror of my own thoughts, and the dread of what was to come. I
spent two years on the continent, but returned to England last
spring the same man as when I left it--with this difference, that I
seemed nearer the verge of absolute despair. After spending a few
weeks in London, and visiting many places in South Wales, I went to
Bristol, and then to Bath, and from Bath to Ryde, in the Isle of
Wight, where I took lodgings, making up my mind to stay there during
the summer. When returning one evening from Newport, I met a lad
with a small basket, who asked me to buy a little book, telling me,
as an inducement, that he had been walking about all day long, and
had not got enough money to buy a supper for his poor old mother.
His doleful tale touched my heart, and I gave him some relief, but
said, 'Keep your books, lad, they may be money to you.' We both
passed on, but when at some distance from each other, I thought,
perhaps he has in his basket something that would amuse me. I turned
and hailed him, and he ran back. On examining his basket I found
a largish lot of religious tracts; I took two, paid him for them,
put them into my pocket, and went home. I was so knocked up by my
long walk that I was soon in bed and asleep, and the tracts were
not thought of. The next evening, when sitting on a large stone
on the beach, looking at the ships sailing and at anchor, at the
varied movements of the sea-gulls, and the gentle ebbing of the
tide, I felt a momentary elation of spirit, such as I had not felt
for years; it was something like the sudden return of an old friend
after years of absence. I will not, Sir, trouble you by recounting
the thoughts that passed through my mind in this elysian reverie,
but one thought came and went so often, that it became the master
thought of this delightful mood of thinking. 'Yes,' thought I, 'man
has a capacity for happiness, why, then, is he not happy? Why am _I_
not happy? and why do I not enjoy life when I possess so amply the
means of enjoying it? What can be the reason why I am so cast down
and wretched?' On putting my hand into my pocket to get my knife, I
felt the tracts I had put there when I bought them, and I took them
out. Their titles, _Covey_[4] and _Poor Joseph_, had caught my eye
when I saw them in the lad's basket, and I was induced to select
them, imagining they narrated some interesting tale.
[4] See note, p. 58.