A SABBATH IN LONDON.
I n the institution of the Christian ministry, we have one of the most salutary provisions ever made to promote the improvement and happiness of man. If we suppose, with the enemies of Christianity, that it is of human origin, and that its functions are discharged by human agents, who are actuated and governed by selfish or ambitious motives, still it will occupy, in the estimation of every wise man, a high station, as a powerful ally to the cause of patriotism and of virtue. It enjoins on the various ranks and orders of society submission to the powers that be, and reverence for God; and it explains and enforces, with the utmost precision, our relative duties towards each other; while the veneration in which it is generally held in this kingdom is favourable to its influence. To say that every one is strictly virtuous who listens to its maxims of wisdom, would be to advance an assertion which facts would contradict; but if we judge from the present state of society, we shall be compelled to admit that there is a larger portion of virtue amongst those who attend upon a stated ministry, than among those who treat it with neglect and scorn. Hence its abolition would be a national evil, as disastrous to our moral improvement and happiness, as the triumphs of political anarchy would be to the well-balanced constitution of the British Empire.
But even this institution, with all its advantages, would prove comparatively useless were it not for the appointment of the Christian Sabbath; for such is the ascendency which the cares, the pleasures, the fascinations, and the commerce of the world have acquired over the public mind, that very few would have an opportunity to benefit by it, unless some specific portion of time was set apart for this express purpose. If the husbandman were compelled to toil in the field, and the mechanic to labour in the shop—if the tradesman, the merchant, and the other members of the community had to devote themselves to their respective avocations without any intermission, except what caprice or indolence might dictate, the minister of the gospel might faithfully proclaim all the words which relate to the life to come, but he would not be surrounded by a large and an attentive audience. The temple would be forsaken, and the powers of this world would so engross the attention of men, that those of the next would be generally, if not universally disregarded. To prevent this fatal evil, one day in seven is set apart, by the immediate authority of God, which we are commanded to devote to the exercises of private and public worship; but alas! how many treat this sacred injunction with contempt. Some in the higher ranks of life, who disdain to be thought religious, employ it as a day for travelling or for feasting; and multitudes of the lower orders, regard it as a day either for pleasure or for dissipation.
On the Sabbath after my arrival in London, as I was walking down Bridge Street on my way to Surrey Chapel, I saw a party of young people whose gaiety of manner ill accorded with the sanctity of the day, and just as I was passing them I heard one say, "Indeed I think we shall do wrong; my conscience condemns me; I must return." "There can be no harm," replied another, "in taking an excursion on the water, especially as we intend to go to chapel in the evening." "I must return," rejoined a female voice; "my conscience condemns me. What will father say if he hears of it?" By this time they had reached the bridge, and the foremost of the party was busily engaged with a waterman, while the rest stood in close debate for some minutes, when they all moved forward towards the water.
I watched the party as they went down the stairs to the river. Two of the gentlemen stepped into the boat, two more stood at the water's edge, and the females were handed in one after another; but I could perceive great reluctance on the part of the one who had previously objected, till at length she yielded to the importunities of her companions, and the boat was pushed off. It was a fine morning, though rather cold. Many, like myself, were gazing on them, when a naval officer called to them through the balustrades and said, "A pleasant voyage to you." One of the gentlemen arose to return the compliment, but, from some cause which I could not perceive, he missed his footing and fell into the water. This disaster threw the whole party into the utmost consternation; and each one, instead of retaining his seat, rushed to the side of the boat over which their companion had fallen, by which the boat was upset, and all were instantaneously plunged into the river. The scene which followed, when the spectators beheld this calamity, exceeded any I had ever witnessed. Some females screamed, the passers-by crowded together to the parapet of the bridge, and everything was bustle and excitement; boats immediately put off; and in a few minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing the watermen rescue one, and another, and another from a premature grave. Having picked up every one they could find, the different boats were rowed to shore, where some medical gentlemen were in waiting. But when the party met together, no language can describe the horror depicted on every countenance when they found that two were still missing.
"Where's my sister?" said the voice which had said, only a few minutes before, "There can be no harm in taking an excursion on the water, especially as we intend to go to chapel in the evening."
"Where's Charles?" said a female, who had appeared the most gay and sprightly when I first saw them.
At length two boats, which had gone a considerable distance up the river, were seen returning; and on being asked if they had picked up any one, they replied, "Yes; two." This reply electrified the whole party, and some wept for joy.
SABBATH PLEASURE SEEKERS.
Vol. ii. page 64.
"Here's a gentleman," said a waterman as he was coming up to the foot of the stairs, "but I suspect he's dead."
"Where's the lady?" said her brother, "Is she safe?"
"She is in the other boat, Sir."
"Is she alive?—Has she spoken?"
"No, Sir, she has not spoken, I believe."
"Is she dead; O tell me!"
"I fear she is, Sir."
The bodies were immediately removed from the boats to a house in the vicinity, and every effort was employed to restore animation. In little more than ten minutes it was announced that the gentleman began to breathe, but there was no allusion made to the lady. Her brother sat motionless, absorbed in the deepest melancholy, till the actual decease of his sister was announced, when he started up and became almost frantic with grief; and though his companions tried to comfort him, yet he refused to hear the words of consolation.
"O my sister! my sister! Would to God I had died for her!"
They were all overwhelmed in trouble, and knew not what to do. "Who will bear the heavy tidings to our father?" said the brother, who paced the room backwards and forwards. "O! who will bear the heavy tidings to our father?" He paused; a death-like silence pervaded the whole apartment. He again burst forth in the agonies of despair—"I forced her to go against the dictates of her conscience; I am her murderer; I ought to have perished, and not my sister. Who will bear the heavy tidings to our father?"
"I will," said a gentleman, who had been unremitting in his attentions to the sufferers.
"Do you know him, Sir?"
"Yes, I know him."
"O! how can I ever appear in his presence! I enticed my only sister to an act of disobedience, which has destroyed her!"
How the father received the intelligence, or what moral effect resulted from the disaster, I never heard, but it suggests a few reflections which I wish to press upon the attention of my readers. As the Sabbath is instituted for the purpose of promoting your moral improvement and happiness, never devote its sacred hours to pleasure and recreations. He who has commanded you to keep it holy, will not suffer you to profane it with impunity. He may not bring down upon you the awful expressions of his displeasure while you are in the act of setting his authority at open defiance, but there is a day approaching when you must stand before him as your judge. And can you anticipate the solemnities of that day, while continuing in a course of sin, with any other than the most fearful apprehensions? You may, like many, suppose that that day is very far off; but you may be undeceived by a sudden visitation of Providence; and in a moment may be removed from amongst your gay companions, to appear in his presence. And should this be the case, with what terror-struck amazement will you look on the awful scene around you; with what fearful and agonizing emotions will you listen to the final sentence—Depart!
Resist the first temptation to evil, or your ruin may be the inevitable consequence. "Indeed I think we shall do wrong; my conscience condemns me; I must return," said the unfortunate girl, when she got near the river; but having yielded to the first temptation, she was induced to overcome her scruples, and within less than half an hour from that time she was hurried into the eternal world. Had she refused when her brother solicited her to leave home, she might have lived to comfort her father in his old age; but by complying, she first lost her strength to withstand temptation, and then her life. What a warning! And is this the only one which the history of crime has given you? Alas, no! Have not many, who have ended their days on the scaffold, traced their ruin to the profanation of the Sabbath? This is the day in which the spirits of evil are abroad, enticing the young and the thoughtless to vice and impiety; and if you wish to avoid the misery and degradation in which others have been involved, devote its sacred hours to the purpose for which they were appointed. Attend some place of worship, where the truths of the Bible are preached with earnestness and power, and attend regularly; and though some of your associates may ridicule you for your habits of devotion, yet will you suffer yourself to be conquered by such weapons? The youth who regularly attends a place of worship on the Sabbath, and receives the truth under a deep conviction of its excellence and importance, often enjoys a high mental feast, and becomes imperceptibly fortified to resist the fascinations of the world; but he who spends the sacred hours in the society of the thoughtless, amidst scenes of gaiety and dissipation, becomes an easy prey to the worst of temptations, often retires to rest reproaching himself for his folly and impiety, and is gradually led from one crime to another till iniquity proves his ruin.
As I wished to hear a celebrated preacher in the evening, I asked Mr. Lewellin to accompany me, but he declined, for reasons which raised him in my estimation as a young man of prudence and consistency. "I am, Sir," he observed, "decidedly of opinion that London offers many temptations to professors of religion which require, on their part, constant vigilance to withstand; and one of the most specious is, the celebrity of popular preachers."
"But," I replied, "do you think it wrong to go and hear these ministers?"
"I would be cautious how I censured any one; but I certainly think that the love of novelty in religion often proves pernicious, not only to those who are enslaved by it, but to their families. Let me suppose a case. Here is a religious family who professedly attend the ministry of the Rev. Mr. Watkins, but the father is in the habit of hearing every celebrated preacher. Will not this roving disposition prevent his forming that attachment towards a pastor and his flock in which the essence of Christian fellowship consists? And will not the influence of his example have an injurious effect on his children? If he take them with him, he imperceptibly teaches them to believe that he is not so much delighted with the truth as with the agent who conveys it. And what is this but sinking the importance and value of the truth in the estimation of those whose hearts are naturally averse to it. If he refuse to take them with him, and compel them to go, while they are young, to their regular place of worship, yet, as he does not go with them, they are left without the controlling influence of his presence, and are exposed to the temptation of absenting themselves for some scene of amusement. If he leave his more stated minister to go after these popular preachers, unless he has a greater measure of prudence than such roving professors generally possess, he will institute comparisons in the presence of his children between them and the settled pastor. And will not this excite prejudice in their minds against the clergyman whose ministry they are forced to attend? Will not this prove injurious to them? Will not this tend to alienate their minds from the love of the truth, and to make them regard its accidental associations as the main thing; and by teaching them disrespect for their stated minister, they may, in time, turn away contemptuously from the message he delivers. And these are not the only evils which result from the indulgence of this roving disposition; it is invariably found no less injurious to the private reputation of a Christian, than to his domestic piety."
"But how so?" I replied. "What injury can it do the private reputation of a Christian?"
"Why, he will be regarded as an unstable man; and though he may have many virtues, yet if this imperfection be associated with them it will materially injure him. For what influence can an unstable man ever acquire, unless it be the power of doing evil? Who can respect him? Who can place any dependence on him?"
"But," I asked, "may not a Christian leave the ministry of one preacher, to attend that of another, without sustaining or producing any moral injury?"
"Most certainly," said Mr. Lewellin; "we are at perfect liberty to go where we please, and to hear whom we please; but we should avoid that fickleness of disposition, which is ever moving from one place to another. Some admire the last preacher they have heard more than any preceding one, and have the censer always ready to throw the incense of flattery around the next who may make his appearance. Instead of examining themselves, to see what progress they make in knowledge and in grace, and attending to the religious instruction of their children and their servants on the Sabbath, they are ever asking, Who is in town? or, Who is expected? But though I condemn most decidedly such a volatile spirit amongst professors, yet I think we ought to attend that ministry which we find the most profitable. The truth which we hear is Divine, but the agent who preaches it is human; and though the tone and the manner of proclaiming it will not add to its importance, yet it may tend to give it a more commanding power of impression; and hence, it is both our duty and our privilege to attend the ministry of that man, whose style of preaching is the most calculated to profit us. The poet in speaking of government, has said,
'Whate'er is best administered is best.'
The same may be nearly said with regard to sermons. There is not such a great difference between the thoughts and arrangements of one preacher and another as some imagine. But who has not been struck with the difference of the impression and effect? One man shall speak, and how dry, and sapless, and uninteresting is he! Let another deliver the very same things, and there is a savour that gives them freshness—the things seem perfectly new. One preacher, by his monotonous tones and manner, soon lulls us to sleep; while another, by his earnestness, his pathos, and his impassioned appeals—by the aptness of his illustrations, the chasteness of his style, and the unction of his spirit—not only fixes our attention, but penetrates the inner man of the heart; we feel ourselves subdued, enlightened, and powerfully excited by the Word of God. When a man of this attractive order appears in the pulpit, by the mysterious action of the sympathetic faculty, his presence is felt by the people, even before his voice is heard; and in the lines of Cowper we see a great moral fact, clothed in the vestments of poetic beauty:—
'When one that holds communion with the skies
Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings—
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship well freighted with the stores
The sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropp'd her anchor and her canvas furl'd
In some safe haven of our western world,
'Twere vain inquiring to what port she went—
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.'"
"But, Sir," I remarked, "if we do not derive improvement and consolation from the ministry on which we generally attend, we ought to attribute it to some fault in ourselves. I remember being very much struck with a remark which I heard a venerable clergyman make when addressing his congregation—'If, my brethren,' he said, 'you come to hear me preach, instead of hearing the truth which I deliver, be not surprised if you are permitted to go away without having felt its purifying and consoling influence. I can do no more than give utterance to the sublime doctrines and promises of the gospel; it is the province of my Master to make them effectual to your salvation; and if you neglect by strong and ardent prayer to implore his blessing, he will withhold it.'"
"A very just and important remark," replied Mr. Lewellin, "and one which I hope we shall never forget. We ought at all times to go into the temple in a devotional spirit, and to remember that as every good gift, and every perfect gift, is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, we should, in the most humble manner, invoke his presence; and then we shall feel less disposed to rove and less occasion to complain of the want of spiritual enjoyment."
We were now interrupted in our conversation, by the servant, who informed Mr. Lewellin that there were two gentlemen below who wished to see him. "Desire them to walk up. I am not aware," said Mr. Lewellin, "who they are; and I regret their call, as I am not in the habit of receiving company on the Sabbath." They entered the room, and after offering an apology for this act of intrusion, one said, "I know, Sir, you will excuse it, as I have made up my mind to go with you to chapel this evening, along with our friend Mr. Newton."
I did not immediately recollect this gentleman, though his manners and voice seemed familiar to me; but on hearing his name, I instantaneously recognized Mr. Gordon, whom I once met in the country[11] when enjoying an evening's ramble. "I am happy to see you, Sir" (addressing him), "as it gives me an opportunity of reminding you of a promise which you have not yet redeemed."
"Indeed, Sir! You have the advantage of me. Did I ever make you a promise, which I have not redeemed?"
"Yes, Sir, indeed you have done so."
"Where, and when, Sir, may I ask?"
"Were you never in a thunder-storm?"
"I beg your pardon. I hope you are well. I am happy to see you in London. I hope you will do me the honour of a call.—Why, no. I have not been able to inform you of the result of my inquiry; for, to be very candid, I have been too much engaged to turn my attention to it; but I have not forgotten it.—What a storm! How did you escape it? I took shelter in a cow-shed."
"I ran to a cottage, where I was kindly received, and in which I witnessed a deeply interesting sight. I regretted you were not with me, as I there saw an evidence in favour of the truth and the excellence of the gospel, which I think you would have admired."
"Indeed! what visible evidence do you refer to? A miracle?"
"If we define a miracle to be something above the production of human power, I should not hesitate to call what I saw a moral miracle." I then gave an account of the decease of the woodman's child, which he called a very interesting tale; but said he was not sufficiently enlightened to perceive how such a fact tended in any way to establish the truth or display the excellence of Christianity. "We may," he remarked, "have an opportunity to debate over it before you leave our great city; but, as we propose going to chapel this evening, perhaps we had better not begin, lest we should be obliged to break off the thread of our argument at an unfavourable point. But, though I have not investigated the important question which we discussed when we accidentally met, yet I will do it. You see the company which I keep (pointing to Mr. Lewellin and Mr. Newton) is a proof that I am religiously inclined; and, if a few doubts should still darken my powers of mental vision, yet the light which emanates from their chaste reasoning may ultimately disperse them, and we all may become believers together."
"A consummation I should hail with delight."
"I believe you, Sir; and I honour the motive which prompts such a devout exclamation."
On passing along Cheapside on our way to the chapel which Mr. Lewellin usually attended, we were astonished at seeing a placard, announcing that the Rev. Mr. Guion was to preach that evening at Bow Church, in behalf of the Church Missionary Society; and at my earnest entreaty, we decided on hearing him. By a statement he made at the commencement of his discourse, we found his appearance in the pulpit was in consequence of the sudden illness of a brother clergyman who stood engaged to preach on the occasion; and this accounted for our not hearing of this London visit when we were with him at Fairmount. Having my note-book in my pocket, and my pencils in good working order, I took down his sermon, and will transcribe from my manuscript a few passages, which, when delivered, made a deep impression on the whole congregation. His text was taken from 1 Tim. iii. 16, "And without controversy great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifest in the flesh, justified in the Spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into glory." His arguments in confirmation of the divinity of Jesus Christ were few, but popular and conclusive, yet not common-place.
"He was seen of Angels."—"Our knowledge," said the eloquent preacher, "of angels is very superficial; yet we know, they are beings of a superior order—holy, intelligent, powerful, and benevolent. Jesus Christ was seen of them, at his birth, during his temptation in the wilderness, when enduring the agonizing conflict in the garden of Gethsemane, and on the morning of his resurrection; and they came to witness, and to take a ministering part in his ascension, when he went to resume the glory which he had with the Father before the world was. This SEEING him, denotes the intense interest they felt in his personal honour, and in the design of his mission to earth. 'Which things,' says the apostle Peter—that is the sufferings of Christ and the glory that should follow—'the angels desire to look into.' They pry into and labour to comprehend the grand theory of human redemption; and watch with intense solicitude its practical working in the soul of man. Hence, our Lord says, 'There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.' Yes, brethren, these pure and exalted spirits become comparatively insensible to the glories of the celestial world, when in the act of seeing a sinner who is ready to perish, rescued from the fearful peril of his condition, as we should become comparatively, if not absolutely insensible to the grandest and most picturesque scenery of nature, if we stood on some eminence, gazing on the heroine coming out of her father's cottage, hastening to the frothy beach, springing into the fishing-boat, braving the fury of the tempest and the wild uproar of the storm, to rescue the shipwrecked mariners from a vessel sinking in the deep waters. For it is a law of their nature, no less than of ours, that gratification shall yield to sympathy, and that the sight of deliverance from fatal danger, shall have a more gratifying effect on a sensitive and benevolent heart, than the most brilliant and exciting scenes which can be presented to the imagination, or to the senses;—thus demonstrating by a process as certain as any undeviating law of the material economy, that every order of being, except infernal spirits, have an instinctive abhorrence of the disastrous crisis in the progress of suffering; and that they feel an ecstasy of emotion which no sights of grandeur or of beauty, and which no sounds of melody can excite, when they behold an unanticipated deliverance from some horrifying and fatal termination. There stands the poor criminal on the fatal platform, and the minister of death is near him, making the necessary arrangements for his execution; deep sympathy is expressed in every countenance, many sighs are heaved, and many weep; the silent prayer is offered up, and all are breathless, expecting the drop to fall which is to hurl him with convulsive agonies into the other world. But there is a momentary pause, as an act of homage to a stranger, who very unexpectedly makes his appearance. This stranger, to whom all the officials and the doomed man pay marked attention, is also an official armed with power, not the power of death, but of life; he is the herald of mercy; and with a loud voice proclaims his pardon. The multitude, long absorbed in sympathetic grief, now raise the shout of gladsome triumph, as they gaze on the once doomed man, as he passes from the death of agony and infamy, to newness of life; they revel in the excess of ecstatic bliss; and feel more joyful in spirit over this one criminal saved from the horrors of an ignominious death, than over a whole community of righteous persons who were never involved in a sentence of condemnation.
"He was believed on in the World."—"The testimony of the Bible, and the records of ecclesiastical history, attest this fact, Rev. vii. 9, 10; and he is still believed on in the world. I know, brethren, that many persons of refined taste, and exquisite delicacy of feeling, greatly admire the character of Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Joseph and of Mary; and they feel a deep interest in the perusal of his history. Their imagination expands in reflecting on that magnificent scene beheld by the shepherds of Bethlehem, when his birth was announced by the angel of the Lord. His healing the sick in the temple—his opening the eyes of blind Bartimeus—and his raising the only son of the widow as the procession was moving to the grave, has a fine effect on their sensibilities. The Transfiguration of Tabor sheds a halo of glory around his Divine form, which attracts and gratifies their love of the marvellous. They catch the inspiration of a powerful sympathy on seeing him bathed in tears, as he stands beholding in the distant vision the desolations coming on the city of Jerusalem. And when they gather around his cross, they feel intense regret, intermingled with no slight degree of astonishment, that one so kind, so humane, and withal such a friend to suffering humanity, should be so rudely and so cruelly treated, and the falling tear bespeaks the sorrow of their heart. Now go amongst these refined, these poetic, these sentimental believers in the Divine origin of the Christian faith, with the blood of atonement, and what consternation will you produce! They will soon evince a strange revulsion of feeling; the term itself is harsh and unintelligible; it is the jargon of the uncouth and the vulgar; the crucifix charms their sentimentalism—they abhor the cross. Go and talk to them about the necessity of believing in the Son of God to save them from perishing; go and talk to them about joy and peace in believing, and about the good hope through grace, and you will soon lose caste, and be sent adrift amongst the wild fanatics of the age. They will bow down and do homage to the Divine origin of Christianity—that ideal Christianity, which takes its nature, shape, and hue from the creations of their fancy; but let the Christianity of the New Testament come before them in her simple form—pure and spiritual, breathing her own spirit, speaking her own language, delivering her own precepts and her own promises, advancing her own claims, and offering her own celestial gifts, on her own humiliating and changeless conditions, and they will treat her, as the Jews did her illustrious Author, with contemptuous scorn; and would rather have her driven from the face of the earth, than be enrolled as her devotees, or retained as her advocates. Be it so. But this you regret, on their account, as you know that they who believe not, will die in their sins and perish for ever, even though superior intelligence be blended with the fascination of the most distinguished accomplishments. And you also regret this terrible calamity on your own account, as the pardoned criminal necessarily feels an abatement of his joy when set free, by knowing that others are left for execution. But you, Christian brethren, believe on Him, and have the witness within. You believe on Him, and love Him; and to you he is precious. You believe on Him, and know that all is safe for time, safe in death, and safe for eternity."
"Really," said Mr. Gordon, as we were walking away, "I am almost tempted to believe in the truth of the Christian theory, on two accounts—it brings us into such close contact with beings of a superior order, so that in passing into the invisible world, we shall find that we are known there; and then it gives such security to the mind against the horrors of death." A sudden storm of heavy rain prevented any reply to these half-serious, half-ironical remarks; but on taking leave, as we were getting into our separate hackney coaches, he added, "I will call to-morrow evening, after business hours, and chat over those grave questions; and perhaps I can prevail on Newton to accompany me. Have patience; I may become a believer in the course of time."