LETTER XXVI.
“And thou shalt go even to Babylon, and there shalt thou be delivered.”—Micah, iii. 9 to close.
To —
The painful business was now to be brought to a final issue. I judged, before-hand, how it would terminate—as these words followed me wherever I went—“And Paul dwelt two whole years in his own hired house, and received all that came to him.” The decision was appointed for the 6th of November; but, in consequence of the death of the much-lamented Princess Charlotte, it was postponed. A more gloomy month, I think, I never knew, especially the 18th when the solemn church bells minutely tolled for that amiable character’s funeral.
On Sunday morning, the 23rd, I preached my farewell sermon, on Micah, vii.—“Rejoice not against me, Oh, mine enemy; though I fall, I shall rise; though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light unto me.” I bade an affectionate farewell to my friends, nor did I prove a false prophet, as thousands have witnessed. Samson’s locks have grown again, and John the Baptist has risen from the dead.
The next day, in God’s strength, I went to Westminster-hall, and received my sentence. I had provided many things to address the court with, and could have put in fifteen affidavits, but I was advised by counsel not to speak a word, but quietly submit to the sentence, which I did; and, as soon as it was passed, my heart was at liberty, which it had not experienced for one year and three months before.—Newspapers and scribblers have asserted, it was pronounced to the great joy of the court, and gave great satisfaction;—but, if a rude rabble can be called a court, I am mistaken. And, alas! what is noisy breath! the applause of such mortals! when only about three weeks after, the same rabble had the daring impudence to hiss the very judge, on the same spot, in the matter of Hone! As in days of old, when the public cried “Hosanna!” one day, and in four days more, “Crucify him, crucify him!” So much for public applause or resentment.
In some cases we may truly say—
Careless, myself, a dying man,
Of dying man’s esteem;
Happy, O God, if thou approve,
Though all the world condemn.
I arrived safe at Achor Vale, and glad enough I was to rest from the long strife. I was delivered from the noise of the archers, the sounding of the mountains, and the horns of rams blown by goats, the braying of asses, and the grumbling of bears.
A variety of select portions of scripture, which had been applied to me some time before, came seasonably into my mind, and I found the Lord faithful to his word.
The idea of a prison had often struck me with horror; but I have always found, through many changes, we want a mind to our situation—as we shall never get a situation fully to our minds till we get to heaven. When I arrived, every fear respecting my treatment was banished; gloomy as it had appeared, all was to the contrary. I was received with the greatest civility by the unhappy company I met with there. A young man who had been an officer’s servant, proffered his services to wait on me, and rendered me very comfortable. The kind governor gave me one of the best rooms, and permitted me to have every convenience for sleeping I could desire, and all the books I chose to send for.—This alleviated my mind; and, altogether, at times I was nearly distracted with grief, the Lord held me up, kept me in my senses, and blest me in my soul.
I cannot help here remarking, that, many months previous to this, I had dreamed of the very room I was put into, with the kind attention of my wife, who had not long been dead at the time I had the dream, and which was, I believe, two years before the trouble took place. But this was allotted to another, who was very kind and attentive on that painful occasion. A variety of most distressing thoughts, at times, overwhelmed me. A separation from the house of God, the perplexities of the church, the hypocrisy of some of the preachers, the grief of my family, the loss of liberty, the company around me, the joy of my foes, and fearing the truth should suffer by my supposed and reported faults, with the length of time appointed me—these things, it was natural to suppose, must have created the most poignant distress. The many months before me seemed so many years; but this led me to reflect on an eternity of joy or woe, the final doom of the righteous and the wicked. Eternity! Eternity!—a pleasing and dreadful thought. This brought to my mind the solemn description of eternity, us written by the excellent Ralph Erskine, in his “Description of the Misery of the Wicked.” “Gospel Sonnets,” p. 62.—
“Ah I must I live in torturing despair,
As many years as atoms in the air;
When these are spent, as many thousands more,
As grains of sand which crowd the ebbing shore;
When these are done, as many yet behind,
As leaves of forest, shaken with the wind;
When these are done, as many to ensue,
As stems of grass on hills and dales that grew;
When these run out, as many on the march,
As starry lamps that gild the spangled arch;
When these expire, as many millions more,
As moments in the million, past before;
When all these doleful years are spent in pain,
And multiplied by myriads again?—
’Tis numbers drown the thought. Could I suppose,
That then my wretched years were at a close,
This would afford some ease; but, ah! I shiver,
To think upon the dreadful sound—for ever.”
But, as interested in the love of God, pardoned by the great atonement, and justified by the meritorious obedience of the adorable God-man Mediator; called out of darkness, and divinely influenced and kept by the power of God, the holy making Spirit, we shall enjoy a long, a blest eternity of joy, at the right hand of God. The thought is delightful. What will the joy be?—Hold out faith and patience.
Yours, truly, J. C.