SATURDAY EVENING AT FAIRMOUNT.
I t was on a fine summer evening, when taking a solitary ramble, that I seated myself on the stump of an old elm tree, gazing on the splendour of the heavens and the beauties of the earth; thinking of the mysterious period when there was no sun, or moon, or stars; when there was no material universe or created beings; that I unconsciously fell into the following train of reflection. Here I am; but how came I here? Am I the child of chance, or the offspring of a wise and beneficent Creator? When I see a machine, I feel conscious that it was constructed by an artist; and can I suppose that the more curious mechanism of my body was formed by chance? Was it chance that placed my eye in the only proper position in the body to guide the motion of my hands and my feet; that stationed around it so many guards to keep it from injury; that has given it a mysterious power to travel over a wide and extended surface without fatigue; and to receive the exact form and colour of external objects on the dark canvas spread out behind the lens, without intermixture or confusion? Was it chance that constructed my ear for the nice discrimination of sounds; that let fall the ray of intelligence on my understanding; and gave to my fancy its capabilities to adorn the conceptions of my mind with the drapery of a beauteous imagery? And was it chance that gave to my tongue the sense of taste and the gift of speech? Impossible! I trace contrivance in all these astonishing arrangements and endowments, which demonstrates the existence of a God who made me. Was it chance that placed the sun in the centre of the planetary system; that impressed laws on those unconscious bodies which revolve around it, which keep them from deviating from their mysterious course; that set bounds to the sea, which it cannot pass; that gave to the air I breathe a salubrious and elastic quality; and enriched the earth with a prolific power? Impossible! In all these mighty works I trace the operations of intelligence and design. "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork." All nature is full of God. He shines in the brightness of the sun,
——"Refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees."
And does not the visible creation display the goodness of God? Pain is not the object of contrivance, which would have been the case had the Creator been a malevolent being. The eye is formed for the purpose of vision, not to be injured by the atom floating in the air; the ear for hearing, not for aching; the hand and the foot to be active and useful, not to be lacerated by instruments of torture.
The sun was now creeping gently down the western horizon; the sky was clear and bright, as on the eve of the first day of the creation; no sounds broke in upon my calm serenity, except the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep penned in a neighbouring fold; and, just as I was rising to a more glorious theme of contemplation, my attention was arrested by the appearance of a gentleman, who was walking along the bank of a river, gliding through the vale beneath me. His manner was singular. Now he advanced with hurried steps the distance of fifty yards, then suddenly stopped, looked round him, advanced again, again stopped, stood motionless, then approached the brink of the river, receded, walked up to the edge again, paused, appeared wrapped in deep and solemn thought, retraced his steps, abruptly stopped, fixed his cane in the ground, threw down his gloves, took off his hat, advanced, and fell. During the whole of these apparently mysterious movements, my sympathies were excited, and I was making every necessary preparation to save a soul from death. My feelings were too violently agitated to allow of cool reflection; but I could not refrain from paying the tributary sigh to that unknown cause of woe which appeared to be hurrying an intelligent and accountable being out of a world on which I had been gazing with so much delight, and sending him, stained with the blood of his own life, into another and a changeless economy of existence.
As soon as I saw him fall, I rushed forward; and, as the river was not more than a few hundred yards distant from me, I felt conscious that I should be able to reach him in time to save his life; but just as I was going to leap over the stile that stood midway between us, I saw him raising himself on his knees. I drew back, and looking through the hedge, I perceived that he had not fallen into the river, but among the high rushes that grew on its brink, and that he was not meditating the destruction of his own life, but the rescue of a little lamb, that had accidentally slipped into the stream. The transition of my mind from one of the most awful subjects of contemplation, to a touching incident of human benevolence, was not less gratifying to my feelings than the sudden hushing of the midnight tempest is to the mariner, who, having lost his compass, can steer his vessel only by the light of the polar star.
Curiosity impelled me to watch the movements of this stranger, and I beheld him cautiously removing the weeds which were entwined around the exhausted lamb, and then carrying it to its dam, which, I imagined from her bleating, instinctively knew the danger from which her offspring had been delivered. This sight brought to my recollection the language of the prophet, who represents the Redeemer as gathering the lambs with his arms, and carrying them in his bosom.
On perceiving the stranger advancing towards the stile which I intended to cross, I again seated myself on my former post of observation, and soon had the gratification of seeing him saunter up the lane. He was a young man, on whom the God of nature had bestowed a fine exterior form; and who by an action, which he was not conscious I had witnessed, had strongly prepossessed me in his favour. I arose on his coming near me; we exchanged the customary bow of polite recognition; and, after passing a few cursory remarks on the varied scenery around us, we moved onwards together, and were soon engaged in a very interesting and important discussion.
"I have, Sir," he said, "left the bustling city, in which I have spent the greater part of my life, to survey for myself those rural beauties and employments which I have been accustomed to view through the medium of the press."
"No fancy," I observed, "can paint the beauties of nature, in all their varied forms, and hues, and rich combinations. The landscape pleases when on the canvas; but there is no life, no motion, no sound, all which are necessary to make the representation really correct."
"True, Sir, but we are much indebted to the pencil for introducing rural scenes and scenery into our crowded cities, by which we are told, through the medium of the eye, that there are living beauties in nature which we may see. This is my first visit to the country. I have been wandering about for several weeks, travelling from village to village, and penetrating into woods and forests; trying to make myself familiar with the manners and habits, the sentiments and feelings, of the various orders of rustic life. I have conversed with the opulent and indigent farmer; with the man who holds the plough, and the man who drives the team; with the shepherd and the woodman; I have looked into their houses and their huts, and have investigated their plans of domestic economy; and I think I shall now return home with a more correct opinion of the actual state of things that I once entertained. The beauties of nature are more beautiful than I anticipated; but I have searched in vain for that rural simplicity, and innocence, and joy, which ancient and modern poets have described in such glowing colours. For simplicity, I have found rudeness; for innocence, low cunning; for contentment, murmuring dissatisfaction; for sportive playfulness, almost universal lamentation. To quote the language of a poet who first introduced scepticism into my unsuspecting breast:—
'I grant, indeed, that fields and flocks have charms
For him that grazes, or for him that farms:
But, when amid such pleasing scenes, I trace
The poor, laborious natives of the place,
And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,
On their bare heads and dewy temples play;
While some, with feeble hands, and fainter hearts,
Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts—
Then, shall I dare these real ills to hide,
In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?'"
"I have often been charmed with the pastoral life of the poets, but I have never found a counterpart to their descriptions. Theirshepherdesses are clothed with the verdant beauty of paradisaical innocence, and their shepherds are men of genius; the sky beneath which their ewes lamb and their dogs sleep, knows nothing of the war of elements; but when I visit the actual spots from whence they collect their enchanting imagery, I see the ponderous cloud overhanging the defenceless fold; and am soon convinced that
'No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse.'"
"The poets have long been practising an illusion on our credulity; and though, after the deception is discovered, we may continue to admire their highly-wrought descriptions, yet, the charm of reality having vanished, we feel dissatisfied."
"It is to be lamented," I replied, "that poets are not the only writers who try to impose on the credulity of their readers. The reading world, as it is called, revolves in a fictitious region; and hence, when its inhabitants come forth amidst the scenes of real life, they are apt to think, and feel, and talk, and act, like beings descended from an aerial planet."
"Your observation, Sir, is perfectly correct; but, in my opinion, no writers are so deserving of severe censure as religious writers. They represent as fact, what we know is fable; as real, what our intuitive sense teaches us is imaginary; and, by a dexterity which belongs exclusively to their order they try to beguile us of our innocent recreations, which they denounce as impure and pernicious, and enforce on us exercises at which our generous nature recoils; and have the effrontery to tell us, that if we wish for happiness we must seek for it in religion."
"That there has been deception practised by some religious writers no one can deny; but I cannot subscribe to every part of your sweeping charge. For if your remarks are to be admitted in their fullest extent of application, they would go to the entire banishment of all religion from society, which would be a fearful calamity—the experience of all ages and countries proves that no social fabric can be held in order and in harmony, unless its various parts are compressed together by the force of religious opinions and sanctions."
"Not, Sir, to the banishment of the religion of nature, which is simple and pure, but to the banishment of the religion of revelation, which is mystical and corrupt."
"And pray, my dear Sir, what is this religion of nature, which you say is so simple and pure? It is something of which I have heard, but I never saw its form or heard its voice."
"Why, Sir, it is that view of the perfections of the Deity which we discover in His visible works, and the consequent impressions which they make on our minds. How vast the power which has sprung yon azure arch over our revolving globe! What wisdom is displayed in the adaptation of every part of the creation to accomplish some obvious design! And it is evident, from the subservience of all things to the comfort and happiness of living beings, that goodness is an essential attribute of the Deity. It is in this vast temple, where he unveils his glory, that I offer up my orisons and my incense; and not on altars built by human hands, or within temples consecrated by priestly incantations."
"I agree with you, that power, and wisdom, and goodness, are displayed in the works of God, and that we may worship him either in the glen or on the mountain top, beside the running stream or within the recesses of pathless woods; but, as we are sinners, can we indulge any hope of mercy, unless he condescend to promise us forgiveness? And tell me from what part of the visible creation has the sound of mercy ever proceeded?"
"Why, Sir, we may presume that He who has made provision for all our temporal wants, has made provision also for our moral ones."
"We know, Sir, that the supreme magistrate feeds and clothes the state prisoner, but are we to presume, from this circumstance, that he will also remit his sentence of condemnation?"
This question produced a momentary embarrassment; but, after a short pause, he said, "I grant that a promise of mercy would be a more substantial basis for hope than a mere presumption resting on analogical reasoning."
"I thank you for this frank admission; and I think if you will investigate the subject, free from prejudice, you will find that the promise has been given."
"I know that the writers of your Scriptures have incorporated the promise of forgiveness in their scheme of religion; but I can never bring my mind to believe that they were authorized to do so by the Deity. I never can believe in the truth of Christianity. It is impossible."
"But, Sir, you will admit that it may be true, though you do not believe it?"
"Why, yes; my scepticism does not prove it false, any more than your faith proves it true."
"Now, let me suppose for a moment that it is true—in what an awful dilemma are you placed! Be candid. Are you convinced, by an unbiassed and dispassionate investigation of the evidences of Christianity, that the system is false?"
"Why, no; I have never examined them; and for this reason, I have never thought it worth while; because I cannot reconcile your doctrine of the atonement with the dictates of reason."
"But, suppose the fact of the atonement be established by proper, valid evidence, will your inability to reconcile it with the dictates of reason be any logical argument against it?"
"Most certainly it will, unless you require me to believe what I can neither understand nor comprehend; and, allow me to ask, what practical effect can be produced by the admission of any doctrine or supposed fact which is incomprehensible?"
"You believe in the existence of God; and that belief induces you to pay him homage; but can you comprehend the nature of his essence, or the modus of his existence?"
He was silent; I continued, "We have positive proof that the tides of the ocean are acted on by the moon. This is a fact, which nautical science compels us to believe; and the belief does operate on human conduct; but can you understand how its influence does act? But, waiving the introduction of other facts, which may be made to tell with crushing force against your proposition, that what is incomprehensible cannot put forth any practical power, may I be permitted to ask, what other specific objections you have to advance against the doctrine of the atonement, which is so distinctly and repeatedly brought forward by the writers of the Scriptures?"
"I have several; first, I cannot admit that the death of an innocent person can be accepted as an atonement for the sins of the guilty, without a gross violation of the laws of immutable justice. If I take for granted, what your Scriptures assert to be the case, that man is a sinner, and consequently under a sentence of condemnation, does not immutable justice require that he should stand responsible for his actions; how, then, can he transfer this responsibility to another, without disturbing the established law of moral order?"
"He does not make the transfer, he merely accepts it; the transfer is made in his behalf, by the authority of the supreme legislator; and Jesus Christ, to whom the transfer is made, willingly takes upon himself the moral responsibility of human crime and guilt."
"This certainly obviates one part of my objection, but still immutable justice seems to require, to quote from your own standard of authority, that the soul that sinneth shall die, that is, I suppose, shall endure the penalty of his own crimes."
"Yes, unless some intervening act of grace be performed, which acquits the culprit, without setting aside the authority of the law by which he is condemned. You recollect what is reported of Zaleucus, a king of Greece, at a crisis when the paternal affections beat in harmony with the claims of justice."
"It has escaped my memory."
"The case was this—he passed a law which doomed an adulterer to the loss of his eyes, as the penalty of his crime. His own son was accused and condemned; and the question arose amongst the people, Will the king's son suffer, or will the law be repealed? The king very soon settled the question—his son suffers the loss of one eye, and then, to save him from total blindness, he consents to lose one of his own eyes; thus bowing to the majesty of his own law for the suppression of this popular crime. Here we see how, by an expedient devised by paternal benevolence, the authority of the law was preserved, while the guilty culprit was rescued from the extreme severity of its infliction. And now permit me to ask, whether the development of the paternal affections, in conjunction with the mitigated severity of judicial infliction, had not a necessary tendency to excite amongst the people a more profound reverence for the law, while it increased their attachment to their sovereign, and their confidence in the equity of his administration? What adulterer could expect to elude the penalty of his crime after witnessing such a spectacle of justice and of benevolence?"
"Permit me to say, I cannot perceive the bearing of this touching fact, which you have imported from Greece, on my objection to your doctrine of the atonement."
"Indeed, I am surprised at that. The Bible tells us that God stands in the relation of a paternal sovereign, who commands our subjection to his laws, while he allows us to address him as our Father. These laws we violate, and the penalty is incurred, and immutable justice requires its infliction; he provides a substitute in the person of his only begotten Son, who willingly consents to accept the appointment, and actually suffers, the just for the unjust; dying to rescue the guilty from the horrors of the second death. Here we see the conjunction of justice and mercy, the blending of the awful majesty of the Sovereign with the tenderness of paternal benevolence; the law is honoured, while the culprit is pardoned; and the practical effect of this comprehensive scheme of grace is to increase our reverence for the authority of God, while it increases also our gratitude and love to him."
"If I admit, what you take for granted, that the Deity has given us a code of laws in your Scriptures, and that the violation of any of them does actually involve man in guilt and condemnation, then, in that case, your explanation is a fair rescue of the atonement from the grasp of my objection. But I have now to call your attention to another objection, which, I think, will give you a little more trouble. But, before I bring it forward, allow me to ask one question. According to your theory, unless I misapprehend you, the atonement is a simple vindication of the Deity's moral government, enabling him to exercise mercy in conjunction with justice; and thus uphold the authority of his laws, while he passes a sentence of acquittal on the culprit who transgresses or disobeys them?"
"Yes, my theory embraces that aspect of the atonement."
"Has it any other bearing?"
"Yes, it has an important bearing on man, in relieving him from the galling pressure of conscious guilt, and giving him peace of soul, combined with a hope of final salvation."
"It is this aspect of the atonement," said the stranger, "which constitutes the germ of my objection. The atonement, if a reality, is a fact of ancient date; and, like all other historical facts, it comes transmitted to us on the evidence of testimony; and it must, I suppose, be believed before it can exert any influence or power on the mind of man."
"Most certainly."
"This is the problem I want solved; is this supposed moral power emitted directly FROM the atonement on the human spirit, when it is in a quiescent state? if so, there can be no necessity for the exercise of belief; or does the human spirit extract it by the mysterious action of its own faith? if so, as the virtue itself is both intangible and imperceptible, and consequently inconceivable, how can faith, whose object of belief must be something definite, perform the supposed action?"
"Your question is a very subtle one, but it is not a very perplexing one, because it relates to a fact of a peculiar order, all of which are self-evident, while the nature of their influence or power, and the modus of its operation—i.e., the operation of the influence of the facts of the peculiar order—are shrouded in a veil of impenetrable mystery."
"Excuse me; but I don't take the drift of your meaning."
"You object to the atonement, because you cannot conceive how it can exert any effective influence over the soul of a man oppressed by a sense of conscious guilt."
"Exactly so."
"Well, I am now going to prove that there is no logical force in your objection, and I will do this by one analogical fact, which will explain, and, I think, confirm the correctness of my meaning. Take, then, human friendship. Is the moral power of human friendship a fiction or a reality? Take the look of friendship; is there no moral power in the movement and soft beaming of the eye, especially in the falling tear? Take the countenance of friendship; is there no moral power in the bland and bewitching smile? Take the bosom of friendship; is there no moral power in the suppressed groan or noiseless sigh? Take the hand of friendship; is there no moral power in the hearty shake or gentle squeeze? Take the tongue of friendship; is there no moral power in its expressions of sympathy, or its promises of fidelity? But, Sir, what is this mystic power, which is known to act with such efficacy on the troubled and downcast spirit in the season of its perplexities and sorrows? Can you tell me what it is, or how it acts? It is a mighty something, which, like an invisible spirit of superhuman benignity, moves without a shape, speaks without a voice, passes through all resistances of doubt and misgivings without an effort, laying the throbbing heart of the anxious mourner at rest on its own impalpable bosom, where it enjoys the solace and the calm of sweet repose. Thus we have, in the common occurrences of every-day life, a philosophical defence of the moral efficacy of the power which the Scriptures ascribe to the atonement, even though we cannot define its exact nature, or explain the modus of its actual operation. It is then, like the power of human friendship, a fact which evidence attests and which uniform experience confirms."
"I am delighted that my scepticism has supplied to you such a tempting background for the beautiful sketching of the mystic power of friendship true to life, with which you have now favoured me. But you have overlooked one important fact, namely, that the human spirit is dependent on her physical senses for the transmission and reception of the power of friendship."
"True, but only as the medium of transmission and reception; and this fact supplies fresh evidence to prove, that while you are compelled to admit, on the evidence of consciousness and testimony, the power of friendship, you can neither explain nor conceive the nature of its influence, or the modus of its operation. And it is to the same evidence I appeal in confirmation of the moral power of the atonement on the human spirit, and maintain that you have no moral, or even logical right to deny it, on the ground of my inability to give you all the explanations you may ask me for, when you yourself feel a similar inability to explain how it is that a self-evident friendship works so powerfully on the heart of sorrow and of perplexity."
"Well, then, I will admit, and most readily, that you have fairly silenced my objection against the atonement, on the ground of your inability to explain, or my inability to conceive the modus of its moral operation on the human spirit; but still I hesitate to admit its reality, because I do not feel its absolute necessity, either as a basis of hope or a source of mental ease and satisfaction."
"I once, Sir, rejected the atonement as you now do, but when I saw the malignant quality of sin, I could reject it no longer; and you will allow me to say, that if it be a reality, and you finally reject it, you will inevitably perish. Permit me, therefore, to advise you to read the Scriptures attentively, examine the evidences which they adduce of their divine origin, and implore the Father of our spirits to aid the perceptions of your judgment and the tendencies of your will on this important subject of inquiry. If, after this intellectual and moral process has been adopted, you are compelled to disbelieve the Scripture doctrine of the atonement, you will have the show of argument in your favour; but if you reject it without investigation, your folly will be no less apparent, even if it be false, than your guilt will be overwhelming, if it should be true."
"We must now," said the stranger, "leave this subject of discussion, and bid adieu to each other; but I will give you my pledge of honour that I will take your advice, and if you will exchange cards with me you shall know the result, though I cannot allow you to imagine that it will afford you any satisfaction."
"It may, and I hope it will."
The stranger (whose name I perceived, on looking at his card, was Gordon), on taking leave of me, said, "I have been watching yonder cloud some time, and am apprehensive a storm is rising; but I hope we shall be able to escape it." I now hastened towards Fairmount; but, as I had wandered the distance of some miles, I soon found that it would be impossible to reach it without having to encounter the threatening tempest. As I passed through a thick coppice, the birds sat in silence on the branches, or flew with rapidity from one tree to another; the wind blew with a deep and hollow sound; and then for a few seconds ceased its howlings, as if to recover strength to send forth a more dismal groan. On descending the slope which led into the vale, a streak of lightning struck across my path, and the loud roaring thunder, echoing through the valley, produced a universal consternation in its flocks and herds. A sudden darkness came over the whole horizon; the rain came down in torrents; and, having missed my path, I knew not which way to proceed.
After walking on a considerable distance, I saw a cottage, towards which I ran for shelter, and was welcomed in. The honest woodman immediately ordered his eldest boy to fetch a large bundle of sticks to throw on the fire; and I was requested to draw near and dry myself. Up in the chimney-corner sat a fine-looking girl, about nine years of age, whose eyes were bedewed with tears; another, about three years older, sat in the window seat wrapped in pensive sadness; an athletic youth, still older, was reclining himself against the table; and the father soon drew, from the deep recesses of a wounded breast, one of the most piercing groans that ever vibrated across the sensibilities of my heart. These symptoms of grief soon convinced me that I had retreated from the disorders of the physical world, to witness the convulsive throes of the social; and my spirits, which usually ebb and flow with the tide of feeling on which they are borne, began to sink within me. "I fear," addressing myself to the father, "you are in trouble?" "O yes, Sir! our hearts are all bursting; for death is coming to bear off our little Jemima. She is up stairs, where she has now been these eight days, and her mother has never left her, night or day. She is one of the best girls a father ever loved." "But death does not come by chance." "O, no; 'the Lord gave, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord;' but it is hard work to part. Do walk up and see her before she dies; but she is so changed!"
THE WOODMAN'S FAMILY IN TROUBLE.
Vol i. p. 105.
I entered her room, and soon perceived that death had cast his fatal shadow on her countenance, which still retained its beautiful form and expression. Addressing myself to the child, I said, "Do you think you shall die?" "Yes, Sir." "And if you die, where do you expect to go?" "To heaven." "What makes you think you shall go to heaven?" "Jesus Christ has said, 'Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'" "What do you understand by coming to Jesus Christ?" "Believing in him, and loving him." "Did you always believe in him, and love him?" "No, not till he inclined me; for if we love him, it is because he first loved us." "Then you can leave father, and mother, and all your brothers and sisters, to go to heaven?" "Yes, Sir; I have no wish to live on earth when I have the prospect of living a happier life in heaven."
The surgeon, who had been anxiously expected for several hours, now arrived. "Do you think," said the grief-worn mother, "our child is dying?" This question, though familiar to the humane man, was not heard without an evident emotion of sorrow. "While there is life there is hope; but I would not advise you to be too sanguine in your expectations; she is very ill." There was no burst of anguish at this reply. They all knew Jemima was dying, though they were unwilling to believe it; and though their pulse beat a little quicker on hearing this reply, and their faces turned paler, yet they stood pressing round the bed, as if to keep off the king of terrors, whose advanced guards had taken the forlorn hope.
We now went down stairs; and, as the storm was over, the surgeon left, but I could not leave. "Will you," said the father, "go to prayer with us? If it were not for prayer, and the hope which the gospel gives, my heart would break." With this request I complied; and while praying to the God of all grace that the little child might be favoured with the light of his countenance in her passage through the valley of the shadow of death, I heard the mother's shriek, which convinced me that she was gone. The children started up, weeping aloud, wringing their hands, and calling, "Jemima! Jemima! don't leave us." And the mother, with a softened melancholy of countenance, appeared among as, saying, with a faltering tongue, "She exclaimed, as I was raising her up on the pillow, 'I am going to heaven!' and fell back in my arms, and died."
I remained with them about a quarter of an hour, administering to them the consolations of religion, and then left them, in company with the eldest boy, who conducted me to Fairmount, which I reached about ten o'clock. I related to my friends the adventures of my ramble, which compensated for the anxiety which my long absence and the state of the weather had occasioned. When reflecting on this fact, and contrasting the bright prospect which the gospel of Christ unveils to the juvenile as well as to the aged Christian, with the dark and cheerless gloom of infidelity, I feel its immense superiority; and with emotions which no language can describe, I pay my adorations and praises to Him who brought life and immortality to light.