THE QUAKERESS.
On returning from my protracted visit to Fairmount, and resuming my pastoral labours, I was gratified by the eager welcome I received from the people of my charge. During my absence the pulpit had been regularly supplied by a succession of ministers of various religious denominations—men who had never subscribed to an act of uniformity imposed by human legislation, but yet, in all their public ministrations, they closely adhered to the unity of the faith, because they received the Bible as the rule of their religious belief and practice. On looking around my congregation, I missed a venerable elder and several others, who had gone the way of all flesh; also, a few individuals and families, who had removed to other localities. Yet I was pleased to find that there was no perceptible decrease in numbers, and to learn that the harmony of my flock had not been in any way disturbed by strife and contention.
Amongst the various causes which lead to the peace and prosperity of a Christian church, the example and influence of females deserves a prominent place; it operates silently, yet powerfully, both to repress what is evil and to stimulate to what is good. Woman was first in the transgression, but in every age she has laboured to repair the evil which that direful calamity has entailed on the human race; and, though less conspicuous in her sphere of action than man, she has often equalled him in earnest devotedness, and has sometimes surpassed him in self-denying sacrifices and heroic sufferings. The apostle makes honourable mention of those women who laboured with him in the gospel; and it was my privilege and happiness to have some as co-workers, of great, if not of equal importance and worth. One of the most useful of these was Miss Chester, a diffident and unobtrusive woman, yet ever active in labours of love—doing everything with so much prudence and amiability that she neither provoked censure nor awakened jealousy or envy. She had acquired great aptitude in gaining the confidence of the females in the congregation, whose hearts the Lord appeared to be opening to receive the truth; she could go where the habits of social life forbade me to enter, and could gain information on the delicate question of personal piety, which would have been withheld even from my solicitations. In this way she acted as a pioneer, and often brought me information regarding individuals of whose religious awakening I might otherwise never have heard. The first time she called on me after my return, she had a great deal to tell me of what had taken place among my people during my absence; but the most gratifying intelligence of all was, that she thought her esteemed friend, Miss Osbourne, had become decidedly pious, though she had not yet openly avowed herself. Miss Osbourne was not one of my own people, but had been brought up in the Society of Friends, and had, to all human appearance, been a consistent adherent of that community. On making some inquiries as to this unexpected transformation of character and habit, I learned that it took its rise from a sermon she heard from Matt. vi. 5—"that they may be seen of men." While listening to the preacher, and when reflecting on what he said, she was convinced that it was contrary to the spirit of the New Testament for a disciple of Jesus Christ to assume any distinctive denominational sign, either in dress or style of speech—as it is holding out a secular mark to attract human attention; or if this be not the motive, she perceived that such was the result. From that time forth she exchanged the dress and speech of Quakerism for that which is in current usage in genteel life, believing that the best evidence of a living faith is to add to "faith virtue; and to virtue knowledge; and to knowledge temperance; and to temperance patience; and to patience godliness; and to godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity" (2 Pet. i. 5-7). On leaving me Miss Chester said—"The history of her religious experience will, I have no doubt, interest and gratify you. I have promised to spend an evening with her soon, and I hope you will accompany me; I am quite sure she will be very glad to see you."
Miss Chester having made an appointment with Miss Osbourne, the evening soon came round that we were to pay her a visit at her quiet residence, and Miss Chester having called on me for the purpose, we set out on our mission together. Just prior to this my first interview with Miss Osbourne, I had lent my chapel to the Friends to hold a public meeting, when I had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Joseph Gurney and another address a large and an attentive audience. To this meeting Miss Osbourne very naturally referred, thanking me at the same time, for this mark of respect for the body; adding, "I am no advocate of the esprit du corps. We may cherish our preferences, yet I like to see all true believers living together in friendly intercourse."
"It is, Madam, by coming into close contact we rub off the angular parts of our denominational character, and then, as a necessary consequence, we can develope the more sterling attributes of our renewed nature, as one in Christ."
"I think Friends have isolated themselves too much. They live in a little Goshen of their own, and cherish rather too fondly the idea that they, and they only, have a purely spiritual faith. They look on others as devotees of carnal ordinances."
"We receive the ordinances which are delivered to us in the New Testament, and observe them as tests of our subjection to the authority of Jesus Christ; but, in our judgment, they do not possess any inherent power to work in us the fruits of righteousness. We look through them to the great truths they symbolize. Baptism symbolizes the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Ghost; and the Lord's Supper symbolizes the shedding of blood for the remission of sins. And this Friends might have known long since if they had consulted our best writers; but this they neglect doing, and hence they do not know us perfectly. Indeed, they cherish many wrong notions and impressions about us."
"Yes; they move in a circle of their own, which is rather a confined and peculiar one. They do not like to cross the line which keeps them distinct from others. This I have long considered an evil, and I may say I have felt it to be one. Thus, when the controversy sprang up in America about the divinity of Jesus Christ, and which led to the secession of so many from the Society of Friends, I was in a most bewildered state; I had no previous information to help me to form a correct judgment on the questions in dispute and discussion."
"The tenacity with which the Friends adhere to the 'inward light,' which they imagine is given to every one, very naturally renders any laborious effort, on their part to understand the facts and the truths of the Bible a mere work of supererogation. They hand down, from one generation to another, a few distinctive opinions, which, combined with other causes, keep them a compact body and peculiar people; but I apprehend there is among them too great a lack of a diligent searching of the Scriptures, to ascertain how far these opinions are supported by Divine authority."
"I myself was very fond of this 'inward light' theory. It was to me, what the all-sufficiency of reason is to the rationalist. I was my own guide and my own authority. I could not stoop to receive instruction from prophets or apostles. But my faith in its infallible guidance has long since been shaken—I may now say, quite destroyed. I find it is not powerful enough to keep the Society of Friends from a gradual decay. They are dying off towards extinction, while other denominations are increasing in their numbers."
"I know some of the rising generation who have withdrawn from the Society of Friends and gone over to the Established Church. There was, I believe, a large secession at Manchester some few years ago?"
"Yes; but nothing shook the body so violently as the American controversy on the divinity of Jesus Christ. The shock was felt here, and Friends were not prepared for it. It led many to imbibe the Socinian heresy, and some became avowed sceptics."
"In relation to all controversies knowledge is power, but ignorance is weakness. If we are trained by a regular course of proper teaching to understand the distinct yet united truths of the Bible—the evidences by which they are supported, and the arguments by which objections to them are refuted—we are then prepared to withstand the shocks of heresy without being startled into scepticism by the imposing dogmatism or subtle plausibilities of its advocates."
"Very true; but Friends have not the advantage of such training; and therefore, when a controversial spirit does spring up amongst them, it becomes as a wolf in the sheepfold."
"But though controversy may do some evil, yet it may do some good; for in the spiritual world, no less than in the physical, stagnation is often more perilous and fatal than the most violent tempest."
"Very true. I know that the American controversy has done some good in England. It has awakened the dormant mind of Friends to a calm and close investigation of the subjects of discussion; and the result is, that the belief of many now rests on logical evidence, rather than traditionary testimony. Till it took place, and excited the attention of Friends, I always looked on Jesus Christ merely as an amiable and intelligent philanthropist—a model for us to copy after."
"But as there is an immense disparity between humanity and divinity—between a perfect man, and God manifest in the flesh—what effect did the first announcement of the divinity of Jesus Christ produce on your mind? Did it not startle you?"
"I felt an instinctive revolting against it. I felt more disposed to treat it as a legend, than look upon it as a fact."
"But why?"
"Because I thought it was not likely that God would manifest himself in the flesh, when he could so easily accomplish any beneficent purpose without stooping to such an act of humiliation and meanness. Indeed, for a very long time the more I thought of it the more I revolted against it. I loathed it, it was offensive to my taste; and I did not like to hear the question argued."
"But did it never strike you, when reading the gospels, that Jesus Christ attempted to make the Jews believe that he was a Divine incarnation? I suppose you must have read the following passage—'The Jews answered him, saying, For a good work we stone thee not; but for blasphemy; and because that thou, being a man, makest thyself God' (John x. 33)?"
"Why, yes; but I thought their accusation against him on this point, was a wilful perversion of his meaning—an excess on their part of malignant feeling."
"But did you never receive an impression, from the facility with which he performed many stupendous works, and his entire avoidance of all pomp and display, that he was a wonderful Being, something more than man?"
"Why, no. The truth is, I never felt sufficient interest in the question to pursue the investigation of it with attention. I revolted from it."
"But when you were forced to attend to it, in some measure, by the frequency of its discussion amongst Friends, did any other reason present itself to your mind as a constraint, or an inducement to reject it as a mere legend?"
"Yes; the absolute impossibility that two such dissimilar natures, as the Divine and human, could be united in one person."
"But did you never advert to the conjunction of the immaterial and material—two very dissimilar natures—in your own person?"
"I recollect hearing one Friend, who was arguing the question with another, advance that fact in confirmation of the proposition that natures very dissimilar to each other can be conjoined in one identity; but at the time I thought it more fanciful than correct. Indeed, I revolted against any evidence that was brought forward by any one in support of what I considered a legend, rather than a reality."
"But did it never strike you that his relative character, as the Saviour of sinners, involves in it the necessity of his being something more than a mere man, it being an absurdity to suppose that one man can save others?"
"I never adverted to his relative character at this period; I had no definite conception of it, nor did I wish to have. I did not feel that I needed a Saviour; I thought his being called one was a mere conventionalism—a mark of respect."
"At the time when the divinity of Jesus Christ became a popular subject of discussion amongst Friends, the question of his atonement was also agitated; what were your sentiments respecting it?"
"I repudiated it, as derogatory to the Deity."
"In what respect did you consider it derogatory to the character of God?"
"I thought it an impeachment of his benevolence to suppose that he would not exercise his clemency unless he was induced to do so by the shedding of blood. And I also thought it was an impeachment of his equity to require innocence to suffer and die in behalf of the guilty. All my feelings were opposed to it."
"But Friends in general have professed their belief in the reality and necessity of the atonement; and Joseph Gurney, who is an authority amongst them, has written in defence and support of it. Did you ever read his treatise?"
"It was put into my hands by one of our elders, who knew that I entertained some doubts on the subject. I looked into it, but as soon as I found that he attempted to support his views of the atonement by citations from the Bible, I felt that I could much easier reject the Bible as a revelation from heaven, than I could admit a dogma so utterly opposed to my reason. Indeed, I had become a confirmed sceptic, though I did not like to avow it, as I knew it would give pain to many for whom I had great esteem; and, besides, I did not like the idea of making myself the subject of public notice and remark."
"Did you, at this period, feel at ease—quite satisfied with yourself and your condition?"
"No; not quite. I sometimes felt an impression, and it was a very painful one, that I was not acting honourably nor honestly by standing identified with a body of Christians, after I had virtually renounced my belief in the articles of their faith. This greatly perplexed me. I knew not what to do."
"I suppose if you had openly avowed, what you had virtually done, they would have excluded you from their fellowship?"
"It is probable that a sentence of disownment would have been passed against me. This I should not have liked. It would have given so much pain to my parents."
"There is now, I believe, a change in your views of Divine truth?"
"Yes; and a great change, not only in my views of Divine truth, but in my appreciation of its importance."
"Will you tell me what was the means of leading you to receive the faith you once repudiated?"
"In the first instance, the reading of Dr. Chalmers' Astronomical Discourses weakened, in some measure, one very strong objection which I had long cherished against the truth of Christianity, and which I then considered invincible."
"I presume you refer to the objection which some philosophic sceptics have advanced against the Divine origin of Christianity, that it is monstrous to suppose the Deity would lavish on so insignificant a world as ours such peculiar and distinguishing attention as are ascribed to him in the Bible?"
"Yes. To suppose that he would make such costly sacrifices as the Bible says he did make, to recover such a puny race of beings from their degradation and misery, when, if they were swept out of existence, they would hardly be missed from the great field of the creation—was an objection which struck me with great force; and I long cherished it. It appeared quite insurmountable. But though the eloquent doctor, by weakening the force of a long-cherished opinion, cowed in some degree my sceptical spirit, it was not subdued—I felt more disturbed than gratified. Indeed, I felt so much annoyed, that I resolved I would read no more speculations relative to Christianity. I was determined to banish religion from my thoughts."
"Did you remain for any length of time in this state of mental isolation from all contact with the facts and truths of the Bible?"
"No; I really found it impossible to isolate my mind from them. The more I tried to do so, the closer did they cleave to me. I felt painfully annoyed by the ceaseless action of my thoughts and reflections. They disturbed me in my sleep, my dreams were often painfully exciting, and I often awoke in a tumult of mental emotion."
"Did this severe mental conflict subdue you to the obedience of the Christian faith?"
"No, no: quite the reverse. I felt, if possible, a more haughty indignation against the truths by which I was so painfully annoyed—they followed me as my own shadow. At length, I went so far as to resolve that I would rather avow my scepticism, than keep my rank as a believer."
"Then what led you to embrace the faith which you repudiated with such indignant feelings?"
"A most humiliating sacrifice of my integrity. It came about in this way. Joseph Gurney and a few other Friends met at my father's house to spend the evening; and as I expected there would be a religious service, I feigned indisposition as an excuse for not being present. I withdrew to my own room, and resumed reading Macaulay's Essay on Milton, but could not proceed with it. I took up another book, but soon closed it. I felt painfully restless—vexed that I was by myself, and mortified at what I had done. That night was a restless night to me. I had never before deviated from absolute truth. I was now sunk in my own esteem, and I felt that if my friends knew what I had done, and why I did it, I should sink in their esteem also. I retired to rest; but sleep was gone from me. When musing on what I had done, and what I must do in the morning, to carry on this work of deception, the idea rushed into my mind with terrific force—but God knows what I have done, and what I am now meditating to do to conceal my shame! Then I felt the pang of remorse. I had never felt it before. It was a strange sensation. I felt that I had fallen from my steadfastness."
Miss Chester had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, but on seeing her friend painfully excited, she remarked, "that the first convictions and impressions of conscious guilt have often a very singular effect on the mind. Some degree of perplexity is felt to account for them; but the most perplexing question is, How can relief be obtained?"
"Mine that night," said Miss Osbourne, "were very acute and depressing—almost overwhelming. However, I indulged a vague hope that I should sleep away my disquietudes, and be myself again in the morning, and feel as in former times. I resolved I would never again violate the sanctity of absolute truth."
"And did the morning bring relief?"
"No, Sir. It brought a rapid succession of strange and very painful emotions. I could neither banish nor repress them. I knew not what to do. I remained in my own room, for I was too excited to mix with the family. I spent a lonely and very unhappy day."
"Did you not attempt to pray for mercy to pardon the act of deception you had committed?"
"The idea occurred to me more than once. I had heard a Friend, some weeks before at a public meeting, discourse about the publican in the temple. His simple prayer came very vividly to my recollection; but my spirit was too haughty to adopt it. My convictions of conscious guilt had merely disturbed my quietude. They had not gone deep enough to awaken any alarm for my soul's safety. They inflicted torture, but excited no genuine penitence and contrition. I felt bewildered and unhappy. I knew not what to do."
"Did you long remain in this bewildered and unhappy state?"
"For several months, I was a living martyr to mental disquietude and restlessness."
"Did you search the Scriptures to see if you could find anything in them to minister relief to your disconsolate heart?"
"Such an idea never struck me. If it had been suggested to me, I think I should have scorned it as a fanatical idea. I had always looked upon the Bible as a compilation of strange writings, without unity, order, or authority. I had no more notion of deriving relief from them, than from reading any other book of history or ecclesiastic ceremonies."
"A melancholy proof, Madam, of the great defect in your religious training!"
"That I now feel and deplore. The Bible I now revere as the inaudible voice of the Lord speaking to the conscience and the heart."
"And how did you come to change your views as to the Bible?"
"One evening, while I was sitting alone, bemoaning my hapless condition, and mourning over the fruitless efforts I had made to regain mental tranquillity, the sense of conscious guilt became very, very acute, and very oppressive. It weighed down my spirit. It was at this time attended with some degree of alarm and dread. I began to think it possible that God would bring me before him in judgment. This was a new idea. I trembled when thinking of the probable issue—lost, lost for ever! At this eventful moment, when the dread of such a terrible issue was wringing and torturing my spirit, a sudden impulse, accompanied by a ray of celestial light—though then I knew not that it was celestial light—produced a deep conviction of the necessity of an atonement to expiate human guilt; and then I at once admitted the reality of the atonement made by Jesus Christ."
"Did these new discoveries of truth minister to your relief?"
"Not immediately; I was still bewildered and unhappy. I was trying to make myself good—trying to work out my own righteousness. But I could make no satisfactory progress. I thought at times that my heart was getting worse instead of better. I was treading on the verge of overwhelming despondency. I felt an outcast. In this state of extreme perplexity and mental torture, I betook myself to the Bible; but I did so more to divert my mind from its miseries than with an expectation of gaining relief. The Divine Spirit directed my attention to the passage—'If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. And he is the propitiation for our sins: and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world' (1 John ii. 1, 2). Had the Lord spoken to me from heaven, I might have been more startled; but there was such a sweet consolatory power accompanying the reading of the passage, that I felt it came from him. I was in a moment, in a calm of ecstatic emotion. I shall never forget the sensation. It was a sudden transition from torture to ease. I then felt, and for the first time, an intense glow of love to Jesus Christ."
"Did not the reading of that passage," said Miss Chester, "with its hallowed accompaniments, bring you on your knees before the Lord with weeping and supplication?"
"It did; but for a while, and rather a long while, surprise was the most predominant emotion of my heart. I was surprised that I had never previously felt myself to be a guilty and helpless sinner needing an Almighty Saviour. I was surprised that I should ever have felt a loathing and hostility to a scheme of salvation which is such a sweet and rich manifestation of the loving-kindness of God. And I was surprised that I could have lived so long without feeling a supreme love for Jesus Christ."
"Your experience, my dear Miss Osbourne," said Miss Chester, "is a fresh confirmation of a remark I heard a good minister of Jesus Christ make not long since:—A sense of NEED must precede all intense concern for our salvation, and all right apprehensions of the relation in which Jesus Christ stands to us. When this is felt, the veil of mysticism is taken off the truth which is deposited in the Bible; and it becomes intelligible and powerful. As our Lord says: 'They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick' (Matt. ix. 12)."
Several months elapsed before I had another interview with Miss Osbourne; but I noticed that her attendance at the chapel was regular and punctual. She listened with marked attention to the pulpit ministrations; but there was a pensiveness in her look, which still indicated mental disquietude. At the request of Miss Chester, I again visited Miss Osbourne, along with her. On expressing a hope that she was making progress in the path of life, she said, "I am still in a state of painful bewilderment, and still unhappy. I no sooner get over one spiritual difficulty than I feel perplexed and entangled by another. I find that the pursuit after truth lies through a thorny maze."
"I trust you are now thoroughly established in your belief of the supreme divinity of the Son of God, and of the reality and efficacy of his atonement?"
"O yes, I am. His divinity is written as with sunbeams; and I now wonder how any one can doubt it, who admits the authenticity of the Bible. And his atonement is equally conspicuous."
"What, then, is the fresh spiritual difficulty that now disquiets you?"
"I don't know whether I rightly understand the import of the expression which Jesus Christ uses—'Come to me, and I will give you rest.' It is evident he makes the present and future happiness of sinners to depend on a personal application to himself. Hence he says, 'All that the Father giveth to me shall come to me: and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' As this style of speech was never employed by any other prophet or messenger, it appears to constitute a peculiarity of great importance in relation to his supreme dignity. He cannot be a mere man who places such an inconceivable blessing on such an issue. But though I am convinced, after long and patient investigation, that our salvation is made to depend on a personal application to Jesus Christ, I often have this question pressed on my attention—How may I know if I have actually applied to Him in the exact way which the Scriptures require? To some, who are rooted and grounded in the faith, this question may present no difficulty; but to me it is one of great importance and of painful perplexity."
"One difficulty which attends the solution of this question arises from the very nature of the application which it supposes. If coming to Christ were a bodily act, and if the dependence to be reposed in him fell under the cognizance of the senses, we should be able to decide with perfect ease whether we have come to him or not. But it is simply a mental act, which may be performed even while the believer remains in a state of doubt. To believe or to trust in Christ, is the first act of the mind; but to come to a satisfactory conclusion that this act of dependence agrees with the requirements of the Scripture, supposes that a process of examination and comparison has taken place. I am to judge of my faith from its effects; as the worth of a tree is to be decided by the quality of its fruit. And here two questions demand my attention: first, What moral effects does faith produce? Secondly, Have these effects been produced in me? Faith purifies the heart from the love of sin; brings the distant and unseen objects of the eternal world to act with impressive force on the judgment, and affections, and imagination; induces its possessor to walk as seeing him who is invisible; to love the Redeemer with a supreme affection; and constrains him to attempt to advance the glory of God in the world by a life of practical devotedness to his will. These are some of the effects or moral evidences of faith; and if they always existed in their highest degree, we should have some certain landmarks of decision, when attempting to ascertain the genuine nature of our dependence on Christ, which neither sophistry nor unbelief would be able to remove. But as an excellent writer observes:—'The mind of every Christian experiences many alternations of holiness and sin. Temptations often and unexpectedly intrude. The objects which engross the whole heart of the sinner, unhappily engage at times in greater or less degrees that of the Christian. Nor is their influence always transient. David, Solomon, and other saints mentioned in the Scriptures, for a length of time sinned. Not a small number of sins are committed in thought, word, and action, in the brighter and better seasons; nay, in the brightest and best. 'I sin,' says Bishop Beveridge; 'I repent of my sins, and sin in my repentance. I pray for forgiveness, and sin in my prayers. I resolve against my future sin, and sin in forming my resolutions. So that I may say, My whole life is almost a continued course of sin.' This is the language of one of the best men that ever lived. A still better man has said, 'For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do' (Rom. vii. 19). If, then, the most eminent saints, in the most improved state of their character, and the most sacred seasons of their devotion, have the evidence of their faith weakened by the force of contrary evidence, ought it to excite our surprise if in us it is often obscured, and sometimes overbalanced?"
"Then I judge from the tenor of your remarks, that, for consolation and hope, we must turn from ourselves, and constantly depend on Christ as a Saviour; whatever may be the varying tone and tendencies of the heart."
"Yes; trust in him at all times—in sorrow, and in joy; when assailed by temptation, and in seasons of triumph; whether in transport on the mount, or abased in the valley—one undeviating act of the mind from the beginning to the end of the conflict."
Our conversation now turned on the honour which the God of all grace confers on an individual whom he condescends to admit into a state of fellowship with himself; and on the consequent obligation which this places him under to make an open and unequivocal profession of religion.
"Yes," said Miss Chester, "the noblest distinction we can attain to, is to be endowed with the faith of God's elect; but it is a distinction which often exposes us to the ridicule and the scorn of the world."
"The semi-Christians of modern times," I remarked, "are as ignorant of the relative dignity of the sons of God, as the ancient Jews were of the personal dignity of Jesus Christ. Nor ought this to excite our surprise, seeing that, as the apostle says, 'the world knows us not, because it knew him not.' But though the world be ignorant of our relative dignity, we ourselves are not; and yet there are some who appear ashamed of it. They desire to gain the crown of glory; but refuse to identify themselves with the disciples of Jesus Christ, that they may escape the odium to which they are exposed."
"There is in this," said Miss Osbourne, "a species of meanness, of which, I think, an honourable mind could not be guilty. But though some who have felt the power of truth to a certain extent, may hesitate to identify themselves with the disciples of Jesus Christ, yet they may be influenced by the purest motives. I have a friend, who has recently been convinced of the truth of the gospel; and yet, when conversing with an eminently pious stranger on some of its sacred topics, very ingenuously said, 'But, madam, I do not wish you to suppose that I am a Christian. I admire the doctrines and the precepts of Christianity; and I admire the character of those who display its moral virtues; but I dare not rank myself among their number. O no; I am not good enough!' Now, this friend has mental firmness enough to withstand the rudest shocks of reproach; but as she has not, in her own estimation, felt the transforming power of the truth, she cannot conscientiously identify herself with those who have."
"This," I remarked, "is neither a singular nor a hopeless case. The reluctance which your friend feels to make a profession of religion, till she is satisfied that she possesses the principle, is a decided proof of her integrity; and though she may remain in this state of dubious perplexity for a still longer time, yet she will never enjoy perfect peace, till she becomes decided."
"But ought a person to make a decided profession of religion before he has attained a full assurance of his personal interest in the redemption and love of Jesus Christ?"
"In my opinion, the very moment a sinner trusts in Christ Jesus for the salvation of his soul, he places himself under an obligation to render obedience to his laws. The first petition is, 'Lord, save, or I perish;' the next in order, and which should immediately follow, is, 'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?' He distinctly states what he would have us do:—'Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven' (Matt. x. 32)."
"But is it not a wise discretion to tarry awhile, to test the strength of the religious principle, before the garb of a public profession is put on? Should we not avoid precipitation in a matter of such importance?"
"But would you, during this probationary period, depend on your own moral strength to sustain the vital energy of your religious principles?"
"Certainly not."
"Then you would depend on the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ to preserve the vitality of your principles, while you are passing through this probationary period; the length of it to be decided by your own discretion."
"I would depend on him to keep me steadfast in his ways."
"And could you not depend on him with as much implicitness and constancy to keep you steadfast after you have put on the yoke of obedience, as you can when preparing to do it?"
"Most certainly."
"There is a little incident recorded in Matthew xvi. 21, which embodies one of the laws of the mediatorial government of Jesus Christ. 'From that time forth', that is, after his apostles had made a public avowal of their belief in him as the Son of God, he began to show unto them the coming events of his wonderful history. Yes, my friend, the path of duty is the path of safety, and obedience brings its own reward, as clearer manifestations of the love of Christ usually follow an open profession of devotedness to him."
"I remained a spectator the last time the ordinance of the Lord's Supper was administered at your chapel; I thought it a very solemn service, and I was a good deal impressed by it."
"I hope you have outlived the scrupulous objections of your educational training, and now admit that the ordinances of baptism and the Lord's Supper are of perpetual obligation?"
"I must confess that they have engaged some portion of my thoughts, particularly the Lord's Supper. I recently read Joseph Gurney's remarks on it, but they did not satisfy me. I thought them more ingenious than solid; and they seemed to me very much a piece of special pleading. From his book I turned to 1 Cor. xi., and I recollect saying when I had finished, the apostle Paul and Joseph Gurney don't think and write alike on this subject. As they can't both be right, one must be wrong; which shall I follow?"
"I suppose," said Miss Chester, "you don't find that a difficult question to decide?"
"Why, my dear, it is not a very easy matter to get over long cherished scruples—to obliterate early impressions, and adopt new religious habits and customs. But still, I must confess, that an inspired apostle is a safer guide, than an uninspired partizan writer. However, there is a previous question, which, if I may be permitted to mention it, I should like to have answered. What, in your judgment, are the spiritual advantages which are connected with the regular observance of the ordinance of the Lord's Supper?"
"In the first place," I replied, "it tends, and I think very forcibly, to give fixedness and solidity to our faith in the historic truthfulness of our Lord's sufferings and death. He himself instituted the ordinance, even before his death was accomplished; and he assigns his reason for so doing: 'And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body. And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins' (Matt. xxvi. 26-28). Immediately after his death, we find, by consulting the Acts, that his disciples partook of it in obedience to his authority, and for the purpose which he specified. The apostle Paul tells us that he had a special revelation from heaven in relation to it (1 Cor. xi. 23, 26). And this ordinance, instituted by Jesus Christ, and observed by all the primitive disciples, is handed down to us as a standing memorial of the wonderful fact that Christ died for our sins, according to the Scriptures."
"Yes, I see. Then this ordinance stands like a monument erected at the time when the event occurred, to commemorate it, and to perpetuate the remembrance of it?"
"It does."
"Then as people are not so foolish as to erect monuments to commemorate what never took place, the historic certainty of the death of Jesus Christ receives an indisputable confirmation from the perpetual celebration of the Lord's Supper?"
"Exactly so."
"This is a new idea to me, and an important one. Then I must disapprove of the conduct of Friends, who have not merely defaced this monumental pillar of the Christian faith, but entirely removed it. Why, the removal of a landmark is more like the work of an enemy, who has an interest in destroying boundary lines, than the work of a friend, who has an interest in preserving them. I wonder that Joseph Gurney did not see this."
"But this ordinance does something more than perpetuate a remembrance of the historic fact of the death of Jesus Christ: it is significant of its moral design. When he gave the cup of wine to his disciples, and commanded them to drink of it, he added, as explanatory of the purpose which he had in view by this arrangement—'For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins' (Matt. xxvi. 28)."
"Yes, I see it is this that attaches supreme importance to the ordinance, which would become an unmeaning ceremony if we exclude the atonement from our theory of belief."
"Very true. The historic fact, and its moral design, are inseparably blended; and the truthfulness of both is confirmed by the same ceremonial rite. When our Lord had supped, he took the cup, saying to his disciples, 'This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord's death till he come' (1 Cor. xi. 25, 26)."
"I am quite satisfied that the ordinance should be received by the disciples of Christ, in obedience to his authority, when they believe that they are his disciples. And I must say, that I think the Friends are wrong in rejecting it as an obsolete ceremony. By doing so, they remove an ancient landmark."
"It is worse than that," said Miss Chester; "it is destroying an ancient monument which was designed to perpetuate, as long as time shall last, a remembrance of the great event it was erected to celebrate."
"Do you," said Miss Osbourne, "administer the Lord's Supper indiscriminately to persons in general, or do you restrict its administration to the decidedly pious?"
"Amongst us Dissenters it is a test of character; none are permitted to partake of it, unless they profess repentance towards God, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ; and, at the same time, give some practical proof that they are renewed, and walk worthy of the vocation wherewith they are called."
"What is called open communion prevails, I believe, in the National Establishment."
"It does. The clergyman of our national church is the minister of the parish in which he officiates, and he baptizes all children whose parents wish him to do it; and unless they should be excommunicated, which is rarely done, they are treated as members of the church, and have the right of access to the sacrament of the Lord's Supper."
"Indeed! What! are any immoral persons ever permitted by a clergyman to partake of the Lord's Supper? I should judge from what I read in the New Testament, that it belongs exclusively to true believers in Christ."
"Yes; in National Establishments, all the varieties of the human character, from the most pious to the most profane, may be seen mingling together at the sacramental table."
"Indeed! this must be a perversion of the ordinance. The apostles, if I recollect rightly, required repentance towards God, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, as essential qualifications for admission into the church; and if any member walked disorderly, he was separated from Christian fellowship."
"It is so amongst us Dissenters. We do not profess to have a perfect church, but we do not suffer any one to remain in membership with us who dishonours his profession by any known act of impiety or immorality."
"That seems to me to be adhering to the rule of the Scripture."
"To that rule we should always adhere; and hence it is obligatory on all to observe the ordinance who are trusting in Christ for salvation. They should do so, as a visible expression of their subjection to his authority, and of their gratitude and love to him for his marvellous loving-kindness in shedding his blood for the remission of their sins, and for giving his life a ransom for their redemption. I recently heard an esteemed minister deliver the following address, just before the administration of the ordinance:—
"'We are now, my dear Christian brethren, going to commemorate the death of a beloved Friend, whose friendship derives its value from his death. We often muse with intense interest on the wondrous events of his wondrous life; we repeat to each other, with strong emotions of delight, his soul-inspiring sayings. But it is his death which enkindles the purest, the most powerful, and the most joyous emotions of our heart. It is true, he was crucified by wicked hands, but crucifixion touched no vital part. He could have lived on the cross as long as he pleased, free from pain, and with as much placid ease as, when seated on the mountain side, he dictated the beatitudes to his disciples. He could have stepped down from the cross, had he pleased, and arrayed himself with as much celestial beauty as when he stood transfigured on Tabor; and he could have changed in a moment the humiliating and conflicting scene of Calvary into the awful grandeur of the final judgment; and at his bidding the trumpet would have awakened the dead, to stand before him for their final sentence. But no. Such prodigies of power, and displays of justice were not to take place then and there. The only event to take place then and there was his shedding his blood for the remission of sins, and his giving his life a ransom for sinners. This he did, unsolicited, voluntarily, and cheerfully; and when he calls on you to take the cup, in remembrance of his sufferings and death, will you hesitate to do so? or can you do it with formal indifference?
'O for this love, let rocks and hills
Their lasting silence break,
And all harmonious human tongues
The Saviour's praises speak.'"
"I like the sentiments and expressions of this address; but I think you must admit that hesitation does not always bespeak reluctance."
"Very true; but it arrests the progress of obedience, and entails the loss of spiritual privileges and enjoyments."
"I hope, my dear Miss Osbourne," said Miss Chester, "you now feel no reluctance to yield obedience to the dying command of your beloved Saviour and Friend; and that you will, by one sacred resolve, yield yourself to him as one alive from the dead—have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life."
"A sublime termination to a painful, and often a depressing conflict! It would be wrong in me not to confess that I have derived instruction from the conversation of the evening. Some new ideas have been suggested to me, and some lingering doubts have been removed. My hesitation, which sprang from caution, rather than reluctance, now yields to a sense of duty. I will do what my Lord commands me; and because it is his command. You will both pray for me, that my faith fail not, and that I may endure to the end, steadfast in the path of duty."
She kept her promise; and on the first communion day, with us commemorated the death of the Lord Jesus Christ in the way of his appointment. Soon after, I received an interesting letter from her; and as its conclusion is an appropriate sequel to the long and painful conflict through which she had to pass, its transcription may serve as a guide and solace to others.
"'O, happy day, that fixed my choice
On Christ, my Saviour and my God!
* * * * *
Now rests my long-divided heart.'
"My experience proves the truthfulness of a remark you made in our recent interview 'obedience brings its own reward.'"
Those who have been early initiated into the Christian faith, and who have advanced, under judicious training, from one stage of inquiry and attainment to another, till they have acquired a perfect knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus, both in its unity and harmony, and who have felt it on their hearts, in the spirituality of its power, can form no just conception of the severe and often prolonged conflict to which others are subjected, who have not been favoured with similar advantages. They are in a moral condition somewhat analogous to that of the lonely traveller who, when on a strange road, is suddenly enveloped in a mist—hearing sounds of danger, while unable to discover from whence they come, why they are given, or how he shall effect his escape. Their mind gets bewildered, jaded, and paralyzed by its own fruitless labours and solicitudes; becomes irresolute, unwilling to relinquish the question of inquiry, yet unable to pursue it; and like the maniac amongst the tombs, seeks for rest, but cannot find it. The secret of relief to all such anxious inquirers, lies imbedded in the invitation of Jesus Christ: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matt. xi. 28). This invitation has ministered consolation to myriads; its efficacy now, is as powerful as it was when it first fell from his lips; and whosoever receives it in faith, and yields to it, will find rest to his soul.