A SABBATH MORNING AT FAIRMOUNT.
Having spent a few hours in meditating on the great facts of the Christian faith, an exercise in which I have for many years been in the habit of engaging on a Saturday evening, I retired to rest, and soon fell asleep; and in my sleep I had a dream. I dreamt that, under a serene sky, I was passing through a beautiful vale, belted on each side by a plantation of gigantic trees; and, on reaching the end of it, I saw a broad gravel walk, running along the margin of a rapid river; then turning off rather abruptly under the shade of a high mountain, winding itself gradually into a grove of large and beauteous shrubs, whose foliage surpassed, in diversified forms and variegated colours, anything of the kind I had ever seen. The soft breezes were laden with the most delicious odours of flowers; and the air vibrated with the music of its feathered tribes. I often paused; and while listening to the soft sounds of melody, and while inhaling the sweet fragrance, I felt an unusual elevation of spirit, a calm ecstasy of emotion. In about half an hour I came to a spot which commanded a bold view of an extensive landscape; but the most attractive object in this scene of beauty and of grandeur was a church, imbedded in an inclosure of evergreens. I now quickened my pace. As I advanced near it I heard the harmony of sacred song; but it soon died away into profound silence. The devotional part of the service was over before I entered the church, and the minister had named his text; but, from the tenor of his discourse, I judged it was "A Prince and a Saviour." The following is the only paragraph which was distinct and fresh upon my memory when I awoke, and it was delivered with an impressiveness of manner and intonation which kept the entire congregation in breathless silence:—
"He walked through the province of human misery and crime, a mysterious being, doing what He pleased, without ostentation and with perfect ease. He gave sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf; disease, in its multifarious forms of infliction, withdrew when He issued the command; the dead arose to do Him homage; the raging elements, when His disciples were in danger, hushed to a calm at His bidding; and the dumb became vocal in His praise. These were the triumphs of benevolence over the miseries of man, requiring, on His part, no privations or suffering to effect them. Shift the scene of His history, and what a sight do we behold! He is poor, homeless, and unpitied; often weary in His great exertions of beneficence; and sometimes having to endure the extreme of hunger and of thirst. His enemies revile Him as a fanatic; denounce Him as an impostor and maniac; and accuse Him of treason and blasphemy; and secretly conspire to put Him to death. The quietude of Gethsemane, where He was pleading with heaven in behalf of the people, is broken by the foot-treads of His betrayer, stepping in advance of an armed force; in the council-chamber of Caiaphas he is maligned and insulted; and when arraigned at Pilate's tribunal, He is scourged and condemned; and at Calvary they crucify Him between two malefactors. There this illustrious Prince bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?" The pathetic tones in which this sentence was uttered—there He bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?—bathed the whole audience in tears; there was a sudden pause, and its stillness awoke me.
"This," I said, as I came back to wakeful consciousness, "is a dream, which has called up day thoughts in the visions of the night; painting on the fancy, in vivid colours, the meditations of the heart. A dream! strange phenomenon! the mysterious action of the mysterious spirit, ever active, with or without the auxiliary aid of the senses; but the facts of this dream are the realities of absolute truth—the most wonderful and important realities within the compass of universal knowledge. I can reply to the questions of the dream in my wakeful hour. He bleeds; for what? The iniquities of the people. He dies; for whom? He gave His life a ransom for the redemption and salvation of man. Wondrous event!"
On looking out of my bedroom window, I saw the sun rising in his splendour; the winds were at rest, no clouds veiled the heavens in gloom. "It is," I involuntarily exclaimed, "a delightful Sabbath morning." Seeing Hervey's Meditations on my dressing-table, I took it, and read his "Descant upon Creation," closing with the following soul-inspiring paragraph:—
"Most of all, ye ministers of the sanctuary, heralds commissioned from above, lift every one his voice like a trumpet, and loudly proclaim the Redeemer. Get ye up, ye ambassadors of peace, get ye up into the high mountains, and spread far and wide the honours of the Lamb that was slain, but is alive for evermore. Teach every sacred roof to resound with His fame, and every human heart to glow with His love. Declare, as far as the force of words will go, declare the inexhaustible fulness of that great atonement, whose merits are commensurate with the glories of the Divinity. Tell the sinful wretch what pity yearns at Immanuel's breast; what blood He has spilt, what agonies He has endured, what wonders He has wrought for the salvation of His enemies. Invite the indigent to become rich; entreat the guilty to accept of pardon; because with the crucified Jesus is plenteous redemption and all-sufficiency to save. While you, placed in conspicuous stations, proclaim the joyful sound, may I, as I steal through the vale of humble life, catch the pleasing accents! For me the Author of all blessings became a curse; for me His bones were dislocated, and His flesh was torn. He hung with streaming veins and an agonizing soul on the cross for me. O! may I, in my little sphere, and amidst the scanty circle of my acquaintance, at least whisper these glad transporting tidings!—whisper them from my own heart, that they may surely reach and sweetly penetrate theirs.
"But when men and angels raise the grand hymn; when all worlds and all beings add their collective acclamations—this full, fervent, and universal chorus, will be so inferior to the riches of the Redeemer's grace, so disproportionate to the magnificence of His glory, that it will seem but to debase the unutterable subject it attempts to exalt. The loud hallelujah will die away in the solemn mental eloquence of prostrate, rapturous, silent admiration.
'O goodness infinite! goodness immense!
And love that passeth knowledge! Words are vain;
Language is lost in wonder so divine;
Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise.'"
On my way to the church, passing a cottage which stood a short distance from a foot-path I was crossing, I saw a man and his two sons at work in his garden; they made me a bow, which I acknowledged.
"Your cottage," I remarked, "is pleasantly situated; and you seem to have a productive garden, and keep it in good order."
"Why, yes, Sir; but it costs us a deal of hard labour."
"Have you a large family?"
"Yes, Sir, we have six children; and, thank God, they are as healthy as a spring morning."
"Who do you work for?"
"I and these two lads work for Farmer Goddard, who lives just over the hill, as good a master as ever hired a servant."
"What time do you generally devote to your garden?"
"Why, Sir, we give it a few odd hours in the week; but as that is not enough, we work at it on a Sunday morning till dinner-time."
"And what do you generally do after dinner on a Sunday?"
"The lads go on the green for a bit of a frolic, and I go up to the Plough, and spend a few hours along with some of my neighbours."
"Can you read?"
"A little, Sir; but my wife can read as well as any of my master's daughters."
"Have you a Bible?"
"Yes; but I don't read it much, because I can't understand it."
"Don't you think you could understand the following passage:—'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son.'"
"WE WORK ON SUNDAY TILL DINNER-TIME."
Vol. i. page 110.
"Why, yes, Sir; that's plain enough to be understood; but such poor folks as us can't afford to rest from labour on a Sunday."
"Do you think that God would command poor people to rest from their labour on the Sabbath, unless He knew that it would be for their good? And, besides, do you think that poverty will be admitted as an excuse for a neglect of duty? Suppose your master was to tell you to fetch up the cows from yon meadow, would your poverty be an excuse for not doing it?"
"No; to be sure not. I ought to do what master bids me."
"If, then, you ought to do what master bids you, ought you not to do what God commands you?"
"Why, yes, Sir; I must say that you are right."
"But you tell me that after dinner you go up to the Plough, where I suppose you spend some of your money. Now, your poverty ought to be an excuse to keep you from a public-house; but it ought not to be an excuse to keep you away from church."
"Why, Sir, I must say there is reason in what you say, but I don't spend much; and I like to have a little talk with my neighbours."
"But do you never think of another world?"
"Not so much as I should, Sir, I must say."
"Don't you know that you are born to live for ever? During the first period of your existence you have to live in this world, and this period is very short; during the next period of your existence you will have to live in the invisible world, and that will never end. And while here you are making preparation for your future and changeless condition of existence—for heaven, and its happiness and dignity, or for hell, and its misery and degradation."
"Why, Sir, to speak the truth, I never heard anything about this till lately; but last Lady-day master hired a fellow-servant, who has often talked to us on this subject; but I never give heed to what he says, because he is a fantic, so Miss says, who has just come home from boarding-school."
"A fanatic you mean; but that is a nick-name which people who have no religion give to those who have. Now, I suppose your fellow-servant understands more about the Bible and about religion than you do?"
"More than I do! ay, more than all the rest on the farm put together. He has got the Bible at his fingers' ends, and will tell the meaning, too, off hand; and master has taken a great liking to him, and is going off to his way of thinking, which, I hear, is a mortal sorrow to mistress and the young ladies."
"Does his religion make him wretched?"
"Why, Sir, it is commonly thought in many of these parts, and by many of the gentlefolks, that religion makes people unhappy; but I am sure that our Sam is one of the happiest men on earth. I have often said to my wife that there must be something in Sam's religion which we don't know anything about; because, let whoever will be dull and sorrowful, he is always happy."
"Yes, my honest fellow, there is more in religion than you, who do not understand it, can form any notion of. Religion is something more than resting from labour on a Sunday, and going to church."
"More than that, Sir! then I wish you would tell me what it is; for I always thought that going to church was all that God required us to do; and I heard mistress say so to master t'other day, and she was in earnest when she said it, for she spoke loud enough to be heard all over the kitchen."
"Yes, I will tell you with great pleasure. As we are depraved and unholy, more disposed to love sin than to hate it, the Bible tells us that the dispositions and propensities of our mind must be changed by a supernatural power; and when this change takes place, we become new creatures—old things pass away, and all things become new. And as we are guilty sinners, we must repent of our sins, and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save sinners, even the chief."
"Ay, I see, all this belongs to the mind, and is something different from merely going to church. Now I have often been to church, but I always came out just as I went in. I never heard anything that ever touched my heart."
Pleased with this reply, which seemed to indicate an apprehension of the subject, I replied, "Yes; you may go to a church, and return from it without possessing religion, for that has a peculiar and direct reference to the heart, which is by nature deceitful and impure. But yet religion is conveyed to the heart through the medium of reading or of hearing. Hence it is our duty to read the Bible and other good books, and to go and hear the gospel preached, because it pleases God, by means of preaching, to save them that believe."
"Then I suppose, Sir, you are now going to church; but as you are a stranger in these parts, perhaps you don't know that our parish church stands yonder."
"Yes, I know it does; but I am not going to that church, because the clergyman does not preach the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. He is a blind guide."
"No, Sir; on that point you are mistaken; his eye is as sharp-sighted as a hawk's; he is the best shot in the parish."
"I don't mean that he is literally blind, but spiritually; that is, he does not understand the religion of the Bible, and therefore he does not teach it."
"That's what our Sam says, and I heard mistress let fly at him rather sharply t'other day for saying so. But master now says the same thing, which, I am told by the dairy-maid, gives mortal offence to mistress and the young ladies. But I never knew master wrong in his judgment of men and things. Where, Sir, are you going, if one may be so bold to ask?"
"I am going to hear Mr. Ingleby, whose preaching has been such a great blessing to many of his parishioners and others."
"That's the parson our Sam goes to hear; and master has taken to go to hear him lately. He wants, so I have heard, mistress to go with him, and the young ladies; but they won't; they say he is a Methodist and fantic."
"Have you ever heard him preach?"
"No, Sir. I am told that his preaching drives people out of their senses, and I should not like to part with what little I have."
"Did you ever know any one driven out of his senses by him?"
"Why, no, Sir; and I must say that I don't much believe it; and for this reason, I always find people who like his preaching more inclined to do poor people good, than those who talk against it. Why, Sir, when my wife was last confined, we all thought that she would die; and it is wonderful how kind some of Mr. Ingleby's followers were to her. They gave her what she wanted for this world, and talked to her so kindly about another world, that she has taken a liking to them, and would have been off to their religion, but I would not let her. We have had more words on this subject than any other since we have been married, which is now eighteen years come Christmas."
"And do you think that you have done right by opposing your wife? Now, suppose you were to make up your mind to go and hear Mr. Ingleby preach, how would you like for your master to say to you, No, you shall not go?"
"I should not like it at all, because I think I have a right to go where I please on a Sunday, if I do my work in the week."
"Then, has not your wife a right to go where she likes to worship God, and get religious instruction, if she does her duties at home."
"Why, yes, Sir, and I sometimes think that I have done wrong by stopping her."
"Now, take my advice, let her go, and go you too, and hear and judge for yourself; and, take my word for it, you will never regret it."
I now left him, and hastened to church; and just as I entered, the venerable man read from the desk, "I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants." He conducted the devotional part of the service with great solemnity, and the congregation appeared to feel that they were under the immediate notice of the Holy One of Israel. After his entrance into the pulpit, he presented a short extemporary prayer with great simplicity and fervour, and then announced his text: Genesis xxviii. 16, 17.
I. It is the presence of God which constitutes the glory of the visible temple.
II. He is sometimes present when the worshippers are unconscious of the fact; and,
III. A belief of his presence is calculated to excite awe and delight.
As a few notes of this sermon may not be unacceptable to the reader, I will give them:
"That God actually dwells in the place where a pure worship is performed, we have the most decisive proofs. 'In all places where I record my name, I will come unto thee, and I will bless thee' (Exodus xx. 24).
"His presence is extended through all space, and operates with an undiminished force in every part of his universal dominion; but there is a more special manifestation of it where people assemble to praise and pray. And though scepticism may ridicule such a notion as giving locality to the Supreme Being, yet to deny it, is virtually to exclude him from the government of the world. But what attracts his notice? Not the rising spire, nor the tolling bell; not the Gothic arch, nor the Corinthian column; not the flowing vestment of the preacher, nor the purple robe of the hearer. These are the embellishments and attractions of human device, which may captivate and amuse the sentimental or the superstitious, but from such vain shows the Holy One turns away, to look with complacency on an object which a proud and sceptical world scorns to pity or to notice. 'To this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word' (Isaiah lxvi. 2).
"He is here, though you see him not, and though the sound of his awful and paternal voice is never heard; and when you come into his invisible presence, always remember that 'God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth' (John iv. 24). You must bow before him in faith, believing that his eye is upon you, and that he knows all the thoughts and desires of your heart; you must confess and deplore your sins, and pray for mercy, and for your eternal salvation in the name of Jesus Christ, giving thanks for every good and perfect gift which he has bestowed upon you. If you do this, then you may expect some special manifestations of his grace and love; but if you feel no emotions of reverence, of self-humiliation, or of gratitude, nor any intense desires for his favour and loving-kindness, then you stand chargeable—even though you may suppose you have done your duty—with the sin of hypocrisy or insincerity, and of you the Lord may say, 'This people draw near me with their mouth, and with their lips do honour me, but have removed their heart far from me, and their fear toward me is taught by the precept of men' (Isa. xxix. 13.)
"And, in addition to these exercises of mental devotion, you are to listen to what God the Lord will say to you in the ministrations of truth and grace, which His ministers are employed to conduct. We preach, warning every man, and teaching every man, that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus; but we warn and teach in vain, unless you believe, and receive the truth in love and gratitude, not as the word of man, but as the word of God; and if our warnings and teachings do not take effect, you will die in your sins and perish for ever. For how 'will you escape if you neglect so great salvation.'"
When going through the crowd, after the service of the church was over, I noticed the man with whom I had been conversing in the morning, a little way before me, with his wife and two of his children. When he saw me, he came up, and, thanking me for my advice, said, "I hope, Sir, I shall never forget this day; and I am sure that I shall often think of you when I don't see you."
As I was sauntering along, meditating on the realities of the visible and the invisible world, and offering my silent adorations and thanksgivings to Him who gave himself a ransom for my redemption, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me, and, turning round, I was rather abruptly addressed by a stranger, who said, "I thank you, Sir, for persuading my servant, Robert, to come to church this morning. He is a good servant, and a better informed man than most labourers; but he wants the one thing needful. Godly servants are a master's treasure."
"Am I addressing Mr. Goddard?"
"Yes, Sir; and if I mistake not, you are the gentleman who has called to see my friend, Mr. Pickford."
"Yes, I have visited him."
"I wish, Sir, you would come and see me. Your talk and prayer might do my family good, as it has done his."
"I am glad to hear that you are turning your attention to the salvation of your soul."
"Ah, Sir, I lived for many years, like most of the farmers in these parts, a sad heathenish life; and I should have lived on in this state till the hour of death, had it not pleased God to send me a godly servant. His plain and honest talk set me thinking, and reading my Bible, and then I went and heard the Rev. Mr. Ingleby preach, and the gospel came with great power to my soul. It opened before me a new scene of spiritual wonders, and a new source of spiritual comfort. But I am sorry to say that all my family are sadly opposed to spiritual things; they make light of them."
"You may live to see a change."
"I hope I may. But it is very painful, after being made alive from the dead, to see my wife and children living under the sentence of death. It makes my heart ache. What ought I to do?"
"Persuade them, when they go to public worship, to go where the gospel is preached."
"They object, Sir, and I cannot force them."
"Try the efficacy of prayer—the prayer of faith and of importunity—and calmly wait the issue."
We now parted, and when going by the church in which the Rev. Mr. Cole does duty, I picked up an elegantly bound prayer-book, and observing a fashionable couple at a distance, I quickened my pace, that I might restore what I presumed they deemed valuable, if their property. When I overtook them, I presented the book, and asked if they knew to whom it belonged.
"O dear," said one of the ladies, "it is mine, but I had not missed it. I thank you, Sir; we have heard a very excellent discourse this morning from the Rev. Mr. Cole. O dear," said the lady, "I think he is one of the most heavenly preachers I ever heard."
"Is his audience very large?" I asked.
"O no, Sir; only a few genteel people attend, and a few poor old people, who receive the sacrament money, and some gifts at Christmas."
"Then, I presume, there can be but little religion in the parish, for the population is very large."
"O dear, Sir, I assure you there is a great deal too much religion in our parish, and it is on this subject that Mr. Cole has been preaching so eloquently this morning."
"Why, Madam, you both puzzle and surprise me. Too much religion in a parish where the generality of the people forsake the church, and a minister preaching eloquently against religion, which he lives to inculcate and recommend!"
"I see you are a stranger among us," said the lady, "or you would perceive the force of my remarks. The people all flock to a church just over yonder hill, where a Mr. Ingleby preaches, and really, Sir, if you associate with them, you would soon become quite dull and melancholy, particularly so. Do you know, Sir, that they are so far gone from all the elegant accomplishments of society, as to say that it is a sin to play at cards, or attend a ball, or go to a theatre, or anything of the kind? O dear, if I should ever, by any misfortune, turn over to their religion, which I daily pray I may be kept from, I should be, as the apostle says, of all, 'one of the most miserable.'"
"Well, Madam, with your antipathies to their religion, one should suppose you are in no danger."
"O dear, there are strange things that happen, Sir, in the course of one's life. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, who live at Fairmount villa, which we shall see presently, were, a few years since, as gay as any. Mrs Stevens was never herself more completely than at a ball. She is a most accomplished dancer; her action is so graceful; and even now, Sir, she moves as if she were stepping on springs, which makes me think she has some secret longings to appear amongst us again—an event we should be so glad to see, she is such a choice spirit; but now, as the apostle says, 'they are carried away with this dissimulation.' They are now so religious that they read the Bible, and sing a psalm, and say prayers every morning and evening in the family; and I am told, but I should hope there is no truth in the report, that when Mr. Stevens is from home, Mrs. Stevens so far forgets herself as to say prayers to her servants."
"You should not believe everything that report says, Madam."
"O dear, I don't believe one-half, for I heard the other day that Mrs. Stevens really goes to see a poor woman of the name of Allen, who lives in this cottage which we are now passing, and that she descends so low as to say prayers to her."
"Why, Madam, report is very busy in your neighbourhood; I am afraid you are not living in peace."
"In peace, Sir; why, I assure you, it is the very worst neighbourhood I ever was in in all my life. I never hear one person speak well of another."
"How do you account for it, Madam?"
"O, Sir, it is religion which has done it. Not the religion of our forefathers, but the religion which is imported from t'other side of that hill. Do you know, Sir, that Farmer Goddard, who was one of the pleasantest men I ever knew, has lately got infected by it; and Miss Goddard, who has just finished her education at Mrs. Roper's, told us, as we walked together to church this morning, they can do nothing to please him. That when she wanted to go to Bath with Mr. Johnson, to see the Fall of Tarquin, he would not let her go, but had the rudeness to say she was going into the way of temptation."
"And do you think, Madam, it is right for a daughter to talk against her own father?"
"Why, to be sure, Sir, you now put a question which never struck me before."
"And do you think that a person of affluence and respectability sustains any loss of reputation by visiting the poor and afflicted?"
"O, no, I have often thought of doing it myself; but really, Sir, I don't know what I could say to them. I suppose it would be necessary to descend."
"Yes, Madam; the Lord of life and glory descended, when he assumed a human form to accomplish our redemption; but I rather fear, from the general strain of your remarks, that you have no accurate conception of the design of his mission, or of his death."
"O dear, Sir, I wonder at your remark. He came to teach us to be religious."
"And, Madam, the first lesson he has taught us is to this effect: 'Verily, verily I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'"
"Do you know, Sir, I never could understand the meaning of that language; and I have asked several of my friends, but they can't tell me; and one evening when I met the Rev. Mr. Cole at a card party, I proposed the question to him, but he was so much engaged that he could not attend to it."
"But you perceive, that unless we are born again, 'we cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.' I can tell you who can explain it to you."
"Who, Sir?"
"The Rev. Mr. Ingleby."
"O dear, you alarm me. Do you think I could ever go and ask him?"
"Would you then rather live and die ignorant of the meaning of the subject, than go and ask him to explain it to you?"
"Why, Sir, if I were to be seen speaking to him, my friends would cut me, and I should never be able to appear at any of our social parties."
"But, Madam, it is a serious thing to die without possessing that which Jesus Christ says is absolutely necessary to fit us for heaven."
"But, Sir, I am not going to die yet."
"I hope not, Madam, but you must die, and must stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, and then do you think that a recollection of your card parties will afford you any pleasure?"
"But I hope to prepare for death."
"Can you, Madam, prepare too soon, when you do not know but you may die suddenly?"
"O dear, Sir, the subject begins to depress me, and I must decline pursuing it any farther, if you please."
"Read, Madam, before you retire to rest this evening, the third chapter of the gospel of John; ponder over what you read, it may do you some spiritual good."