HIS CHRISTIAN LABOURS.
Having become a subject of saving grace, Mr. Ellerthorpe felt an earnest
desire that others should participate in the same benefit. Nor was there
any object so dear to his heart, and upon which he was at all times so
ready to speak, as the conversion of sinners. He knew he did not possess
the requisite ability for preaching the gospel, and therefore he sought
out a humbler sphere in which his new-born zeal might spend its fires,
and in that sphere he laboured, with remarkable success, during a
quarter of a century. I now refer to the sick chamber.
During all that time he took a deep interest in the sick and the dying;
and for several years after his conversion, having much time at his
disposal, he would often visit as many as twenty families per day, for
weeks together. When Cholera, that mysterious disease, with its sudden
attacks, its racking cramps, its icy cold touch, and its almost
resistless progress, swept through the town of Hull, in the year 1849,
leaving one thousand eight hundred and sixty,--or one in forty of the
entire population,--_dead_, our friend was at any one's call, and never
refused a single application; indeed, he was known as a great visitor of
the sick and dying, and was often called in extreme cases to visit those
from whom others shrank lest they should catch the contagion of the
disorder. The scenes of suffering and distress which he witnessed
baffled description. On one occasion he entered a room where a whole
family were smitten with cholera. The wife lay cold and dead in one
corner of the room, a child had just expired in another corner, and the
husband and father was dying, amidst excruciating pain, in the middle of
the room. John knelt down and spoke words of Christian comfort to the
man, who died in a few moments.
[Sidenote: HE VISITS THE SICK.]
For years, he was in the habit of accompanying Mr. Jones, when visiting
the miserable garrets, obscure yards, and wretched alleys in Hull, and
was considered his 'right hand man,' in helping to hold open-air
services. They often went in company to such wretched localities as
'Leadenhall Square,' then the greatest cesspool of vice in the Port,
and, well supplied with tracts, visited every house. During the
intervals of public worship, on the Sabbath day, when he might have been
enjoying himself in the circle of his family, on a clean hearth, before
a bright fire, he was pointing perishing sinners to the Lamb of God.
When our new and beautiful chapel in Great Thornton Street was
discovered to be on fire, at noon,--March, 1856, he was at the bedside
of an afflicted woman, Mrs. Wright, speaking to her of her past sins and
of a precious Saviour. He had spent some time with her daily for months,
but just at this time he became Foreman of the Victoria Dock and could
no longer pay his daily visits to the sick, which greatly distressed
Mrs. Wright and others; but duty called him elsewhere and he obeyed its
voice. He says, 'I durst not make any fresh engagements to visit the
sick, and up to the present time (1867) I have rarely been able to
visit, except on the Sabbath day, all my time being required at the dock
gates. But on the Sabbath I love to get to the bedside of the sick;
nothing does me more good; there my soul is often refreshed and my zeal
invigorated.'
Those who are most averse to religion in life, generally desire to share
its benefits in death. Their religion is very much like the great coats
which persons of delicate health wear in this changeable climate, and
which they use in foul weather, but lay aside when it is fair. 'Lord,'
says David, 'in trouble they visited thee, they poured out a prayer when
thy chastening was upon them.'
[Sidenote: ACCOMPANIES MR. JONES.]
Nor would we intimate that none truly repent of their sins and obtain
forgiveness, under such circumstances. Though late repentance is seldom
genuine, yet, as Mr. Jay remarks, genuine repentance is never too late.
God can pardon the sins of a century as easily as those of a day. Our
friend was the means, in the hand of God, of leading many, when worn by
sickness and at the eleventh hour of life, to the Lamb of God. His
carefully kept diary records many such instances. We give one. He says,
'I remember one Sunday coming from Hessle with the Rev. C. Jones. Our
"hearts burned within us as we talked by the way," and when we got to
Coultam Street, a number of well-dressed young men overheard our
conversation, and began to shout after us and call us approbrious names.
Mr. J. talked with them, but to no purpose. Four months after, Mr. Jones
and myself went, as usual, to visit the inmates of the infirmary; Mr. J.
took one side and I the other, and when I came to a person who needed
special counsel and advice, I used to call my friend to my aid. Well, we
met with a young man who burst into a flood of tears, and casting an
imploring look towards Mr. Jones, he said, "O sir, do forgive me."
"Forgive you what?" said Mr. J. "what have you done that you should ask
_me_ to forgive you?" "Sir," said he, "I am one of those young men who
were so impertinent to you one Sunday when you were returning from
Hessle; do forgive me, sir." "I freely forgive you," replied my friend,
"you must ask God to forgive you, for it is against him you have
sinned." We then prayed with him, and asked God to forgive him. He was
suffering from a broken leg, and I often used to visit him after our
first interview. He obtained pardon, and rejoiced in Christ as his
Saviour. He was a brand plucked from the burning.'
[Sidenote: SICK-BED REPENTANCE.]
But Mr. Ellerthorpe also tells us that though he visited, during
twenty-five years, hundreds of persons who cried aloud for mercy and
professed to obtain forgiveness, on what was feared would be their
dying beds, yet, he did not remember more than five or six who, on
being restored to health, lived so as to prove their conversion genuine.
The rest returned 'like the dog to its vomit, and the sow that was
washed to her wallowing in the mire.' The Sabbath-breaker forgot his
vows and promises, and returned to his Sunday pleasures. The swearer
allowed his tongue to move as unchecked in insulting his Maker as
before. The drunkard thirsted for his intoxicating cups and returned to
the scenes of his former dissipations; and the profligate, who avowed
himself a 'changed man,' when health was fully restored, laughed at
religion as a fancy, and hastened to wallow in the mire of pollution. He
had scarcely a particle of faith in sick-bed repentances, but believed
that in most instances they are solemn farces.
Deeply affecting and admonitory are some of the instances he records. He
says, 'One night an engineer called me out of bed to visit his wife, who
was attacked with cholera. While I was praying with _her_, _he_ was
seized with the complaint. I visited them again the next day, when the
woman died, but the husband, after a long affliction, recovered. He
seemed sincerely penitent and made great promises of amendment. But,
alas! like hundreds more whom I visited, he no sooner recovered, than he
sought to shun me. At length he left the part of the town where he
resided when I first visited him, as he said, "_to get out of my way_."
But at that time, I visited in all parts of the town, and I often met
him, and it used to pain me to see the dodges he had recourse to in
order to avoid meeting me in the street.'
He also records the case of a carter who resided in Collier Street. He
was attacked with small pox, and was horrible to look at and infectious
to come near, but being urged to visit him, 'I went to see him daily for
a long time,' says John. 'One day when I called I found him, his wife,
and child bathed in tears, for the doctor had just told them that the
husband and father would be dead in a few hours. We all prayed that God
would spare him, and spared he was. I continued to visit him thrice a
day, and he promised that he would accompany me to class when he got
better. At that time he seemed as though he would have had me ever with
him. One day, as I entered his room, he said, "O Mr. Ellerthorpe, how I
love to hear your foot coming into my house." I replied, 'Do you think
it possible that there will come a time when you will rather see any
one's face and hear any one's voice than mine?' "Never, no never," was
his reply. I answered, 'Well, I wish and hope it may never happen as I
have supposed.' Now, what followed? He went once to class, but I could
not attend that night, having to watch the tide, and he never went
again. I have seen him in the streets when he would go anywhere, or turn
down any passage, rather than meet me; and when compelled to meet me he
would look up at the sky or survey the chimney tops _rather_ than see
me.'
[Sidenote: ADMONITORY INSTANCES.]
'On one occasion, when visiting at the Infirmary, going from ward to
ward, and from bed to bed, I met with a young man, S. B----. He was very
bad, and was afraid he was going to die. I talked with him often and
long, pointing him to the Saviour, and prayed with him. With penitential
tears and earnest cries he sought mercy, and at length professed to
obtain salvation. He recovered. One Sunday, when at Hessle, visiting my
dying mother, I met this young man, and I shall never forget his
agitated frame, and terrified appearance, when he saw me. He looked this
way and that way; I said, 'Well, B----, are you all right? Have you kept
the promises you made to the Lord?' A blush of shame covered his face. I
said 'Why do you look so sad? Have I injured you?' 'No, Sir.' 'Have you
injured me?' 'I hope not,' was his reply. 'Then look me in the face; are
you beyond God's reach, or do you think that because he has restored
your health once, he will not afflict you again? Ah! my boy, the next
time may be much worse than the last. And do you think God will believe
you if you again promise to serve him? He looked round him and seemed as
though he would have leaped over a drain that was close by.'
[Sidenote: HIS CHARITY.]
Conscience is a busy power within the breast of the most desperate, and
when roused by the prospect of death and judgment, it speaks in terrible
tones. The notorious Muller denied the murder of Mr. Briggs, until, with
cap on his face and the rope round his neck, he submitted to the final
appeal and acknowledged, as he launched into eternity, 'Yes, I have done
it.' But the cries of these persons seem to have arisen, not from an
abhorrence of sin, but from a dread of punishment; they feared hell, and
hence they wished for heaven; they desired to be saved from the
consequences of sin, but were not delivered from the love of it. Need we
wonder that our friend had but little faith in a sick-bed repentance?
Scripture and reason alike warn us against trusting to such repentance,
'Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that
shall he also reap. For he that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh
reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit
reap life everlasting.'
While our friend felt that he would have been unworthy the name of a
Christian had he not felt more for the spiritual than for the temporal
woes of his fellow creatures, yet the latter were not forgotten by him;
and it sometimes grieved him that he could not more largely minister to
the temporal wants of the poor, the fatherless, the orphans, and the
widows, whom he visited.
[Sidenote: HIS SELF-DENIAL.]
And perhaps one of the most painful trials a visitor of the sick endures
is, to go moneyless to a chamber that has been crossed by want, and
whose inmate is utterly unable to supply his own necessities; but when
the visitor can relieve the physical as well as the spiritual
necessities of the sufferer, with what a buoyant step and cheerful heart
he enters the abode of poverty and suffering! And his words, instead of
falling like icicles on the sufferer's soul, fall on it as refreshing as
a summer rain, warm as the tempered ray, and welcome as a mother's love.
Such a visitor has often chased despair from the abode of wretchedness,
and filled it with the atmosphere of hope.
[Sidenote: GIVES UP TOBACCO.]
Hence, that he might participate in this joy, and have wherewith to
relieve the needy, Mr. Ellerthorpe abstained from the use of tobacco, of
which, at one period of his life, he was an immoderate consumer. One
Sabbath morning, while he and Mr. Harrison were visiting the sick, they
met two wretched-looking boys, fearfully marked with small pox (from an
attack of which complaint they were beginning to recover), and crying
for a drink of milk. Their father, who was far advanced in life, could
not supply their wants. John's heart was touched, and he thought, 'Here
am I, possessed of health, food, and raiment, while these poor children
are festering with disease, but scantily clothed, and not half fed. A
sixpence, a basin of milk, or a loaf of bread, would be a boon to them.
Can I help them?' He gave the old man sixpence, while he and Mr.
Harrison told the milkman to leave a quantity of milk at the man's house
daily, for which they would pay. It was with a radiant face, and a
tremble of glad emotion in his voice, that our friend, in relating this
circumstance to us one day, said:--'I felt a throb of pleasure when I
did that little act of kindness, such as I had never felt before,' when,
quick as lightning, the thought crossed his mind, 'Why I smoke six
pennyworth of tobacco every week!' and there and then he resolved to
give up the practice. On the next Friday, when Mrs. Ellerthorpe was
setting down on paper a list of the groceries wanted, she proceeded, as
usual, to say, 'Tea--Coffee--Sugar--_Tobacco_--,' 'Stop,' said her
husband, 'I've done with that. I'll have no more.' Now, Mrs. E. had
always enjoyed seeing her husband smoke; it had often proved a powerful
sedative to him when wearied with the cares of life, and the numberless
irritations of his trying vocation, and therefore she replied,
'Nonsense, you will soon repent of that whim. I shall get two ounces as
usual, and I know you'll smoke it.' 'I shall never touch it again,' was
his firm reply, and ever after kept his word.
[Sidenote: HIS TEETOTALISM.]
A world full of misery, both temporal and spiritual, surrounds us, and
which might be effectually relieved, were all Christians, many of whom
are laggard in effort and niggard in bounty, to manifest a tithe of the
self-denial which Mr. Ellerthorpe practiced. 'What maintains one vice,
would support two children.' Robert Hall says:--It is the practice of
self-denial in a thousand little instances which forms the truest test
of character.' Mr. Fletcher, Vicar of Madeley, was on one occasion
driven close for means to discharge the claims of the poor, when he said
to his wife, 'O Polly, can we not do without beer? Let us drink water,
and eat less meat. Let our necessities give way to the extremities of
the poor.' And at a meeting held the other night, a donation was
announced thus:--'A poor man's savings from tobacco, £5.' And are there
not tens of thousands of professors who could present similar offerings
if they, in the name and spirit of their great Master, tried? Do we not
often come in contact with men who complain that they cannot contribute
to the cause of God and humanity, who, at the same time, indulge in the
use of snuff, tobacco, or intoxicating drinks; all of which might be
laid aside to the gain of God's cause, and without at all lessening
either the health, reputation, or happiness of the consumer? And are
there not others, of good social position, who do not give as much to
relieve the temporal sufferings of their fellow creatures, during twelve
months, as it costs them to provide a single feast for a few well-to-do
friends? The merchant who sold his chips and shavings, and presented the
proceeds to the cause of God, while he kept the solid timber for
himself, is the type of too many professors of religion!