I HAD been invited to preach for a few Sabbaths in a pleasant village
on the sea-board. During services, on my first Sunday's labors,
my attention was attracted to a tall, rough-looking man, of pale
countenance, on my right. Each time I glanced in his direction I saw
that his eyes were fixed upon me, as if he were intent to hear, and
yet with an expression that betokened any thing but sympathy with the
truths of the gospel. There was nothing in his personal appearance
that would lead one to single him from the throng of strangers in the
sanctuary, yet anxiety for his spiritual good arose in my heart, and
during the succeeding week I experienced a solicitude in his behalf
that could only express itself in prayer. Next Sabbath, on my return,
the stranger occupied the same seat, and while preaching I often felt
for him an interest so peculiar that I resolved to seek an interview
for religious conversation. Lingering to speak with Christian friends,
he had retired from the congregation before I had put my resolution in
practice.
"Who is the tall man that sat in the third slip on my right?" I asked
of a lady resident of the place.
"Oh," she replied, "that's Mr. L., a poor, wretched infidel, who don't
believe in the Bible, nor even that there is a God. A fearfully violent
and blasphemous opposer of religion, I can't imagine how he happened to
come to church to-day; he has not been within a Christian sanctuary for
years."
"It is singular, but without any knowledge of his condition, I have
felt an earnest desire to speak to him on the subject of his soul's
salvation. How do you think he would receive it?"
"He would swear at you terribly, I fear. Why, that man will stand up,
and dare God to strike him dead!"
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, and what makes his case worse is, he has a bad cough that may end
in consumption. When a coughing-fit comes on it puts him in a rage,
that vents itself in the most shocking oaths."
What I heard respecting the man of itself would not have disheartened
me. But there was such a thing, I remembered, as casting "pearls before
swine," and impressions were so trustless. Therefore, I deferred
calling upon him, as I had designed, that week; however, I was unhappy
from a conviction of neglected duty that no reasoning could remove.
Wherever I went, however occupied, his pale face would haunt me, and
mentioning the case to a Christian acquaintance, united prayer was
frequently offered for his conversion. I had determined to speak with
him the next Sabbath without fail. But he was not in his place. My
engagements were such that I could not conveniently visit him at his
home. Another week rolled by, and he was still missing.
"Where is Mr. L.?" I inquired, of the friend before alluded to; "I
'must' see him. I believe the Holy Spirit is impressing his case upon
my soul, and I shall not find peace till I have one faithful talk with
him, whether he repulses me or not."
"Ah, sir," was the reply, "you are too late!"
"Too late! What do you mean?" I asked, tremblingly.
"He is dead!"
"Dead?"
"Yes, his end was dreadful. A week ago last Thursday night he was
sitting, conversing with his wife, when, she says, something internal
seemed to break, sounding like the running down of a clock. Instantly
he sprang to his feet, exclaiming, 'My time has come!' then sinking
on his knees, he cried to God for mercy. His shrieks were heard by
neighbors living far away. In a few moments all was over,—he had
breathed his last!"
The intelligence smote heavily on my heart, filling me with an agony
almost too keen to be borne.
"Oh," I cried, "would that I had yielded to the Spirit, and not
lingered to question and doubt. Oh, that I had spoken one word to
him concerning his need of Christ!" I then related, with shame and
confusion of face, all my exercises in relation to the deceased.
"Strange," said my friend; "but that man talked much about you the last
week or two, and always in your favor. He uttered not a word against
your preaching. I know not but he would have welcomed any thing you
might have said to him."
He had heard something of the gospel those two Sabbaths; he had not
scorned what he heard; united intercession had been made for him; he
had cried for mercy at last; there was a gleam of comfort in these
reflections, but oh, what would I not have given to have had some
testimony from his own lips that he had renounced atheism, and cast
himself on this grace of the compassionate Saviour!
Christian reader, our fathers and mothers in Israel believed in the
office-work of the Holy Spirit; believed that he moved on the hearts
in which he dwelt to special labor for perishing souls. Have we not
wandered away from their simple, scriptural faith, and thus grieved
the Holy Comforter, and become unfruitful in the work of the Lord,
till it is to be feared that this blood of souls may be found on our
garments? Oh, if you would never know the bitter sorrow that to this
day overwhelms me, as Memory recalls that poor skeptic, yield to the
heavenly guidance, and fear not to speak when the Spirit prompts.
"NOT IN VAIN."
"MY first sermon," said a pastor, "what a vivid recollection I have of
it!" A ministerial acquaintance who was to spend the Sabbath from home,
on exchange, had invited me to ride with him to his appointment. On
arriving, he said,—
"I shall depend on you to preach half the day."
The afternoon was left for me to improve. There was a heavy rain,
and few ventured out, for which I felt more and more thankful as the
services advanced. My discourse, partly written and partly extempore,
sounded to my own ears like the "foolishness of preaching" indeed; and
with an inward resolution never again to commit the folly of speaking
from the sacred desk, I went home mortified, humbled, and desponding.
Some years afterwards, while settled over a church in Connecticut, an
acute bilious attack laid me by for a few weeks from the labors of the
pastorate. One day, while lying dejected on the sick-bed, a stranger
visited me. He was also a pastor, residing some twelve miles away.
After some pleasant, preliminary words, he said,—
"I have come on an errand to you. It is a message intrusted to me by a
dying woman. Do you remember spending a Sabbath in H— some years ago,
in company with Rev. Mr. F.?"
"I do," said I, while a quick flush passed over my face.
"Do you recollect what a great rain there was, and how thin the
attendance?"
"I could not forget it if I would."
"Well," said he, "I was pastor of that church then; we did not meet,
however. Two years after you were there, I was sent for to converse
with a lady about to die. She was ready for the messenger. 'But,' said
she, 'I have a special request to make of you;' then, referring to your
sermon, at that time, as being wonderfully blest to her, she added,
'I fear he went away discouraged, supposing he had done no good; and
I want you to tell him how God sent home that discourse to my soul,
that he may know that his labor was not in vain in the Lord.' And,"
continued my thoughtful caller, "hearing you were sick, and fearing you
might feel low-spirited in being unable to discharge your accustomed
duties, I felt it my duty to ride over and deliver my message now,
hoping it would cheer you in your afflictions."
"My word shall not return unto me void," says Jehovah. Toil on with
courage, all you who cultivate the harvest-field of the gospel here. In
a world of clearer light you shall reap in joy!