The Story of the White-Rock Cove

by Anonymous

For here I must pause to observe that Mr. Morton's sermons were usually entirely beyond my childish understanding, and attention to them on my part was practically in vain; so that after learning the text by heart, which I was always expected to repeat perfectly afterwards, I used to spend a great part of the time remaining to me in a minute survey of all objects falling within the limited range of my observation, including especially the monumental tablets, of which there were many on the church walls; those on the right being for the most part to the memory of the Grants of Braycombe; those on the left to the successive rectors of Braycombe parish, who had lived and died after what seemed to me boundless periods of ministry amongst their attached flock.

Two of these tablets in particular had supplied much food for consideration in my early days.—I used to look back upon early days even at ten years old with a sort of affectionate patronage.—These tablets exactly corresponded with each other in size and position, and were both beyond the range of complete legibility, only words in capitals coming out distinctly. But these very words in capitals were the cause of my anxious meditations. For on the one hand I read the name of the "Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst, Rector," with, a line or two further down, "Mary, wife of the above;" whilst on the other, which was to the memory of my grandfather, my own name at full length, "William Preston Grant," was underneath the only other word I could distinguish, and that word was "Below." Many a Sunday did I ruminate upon the unpleasant contrast which, to my mind, was suggested by the two prepositions between the present condition of the Rev. Joseph Brocklehurst and that of my grandfather; and it was not without some hesitation that I revealed my perplexity to my father at last, by the abrupt inquiry, one day on our way home from church, whether my grandfather had been a very wicked man. Greatly surprised were both my parents at this unlooked-for question, and I believe not a little amused at the train of reasoning which had led me to it; but they took an early opportunity of taking me into the church, not on a Sunday, and permitting me to go near to the tablets, pointing out the connecting words which were not legible, and which supplied a full explanation of all that I wanted to know, and showing me that the below referred to the position of the family vault under the church, and the above to the relative position of the Rev. J. Brocklehurst's name to that of his wife.

Often after that explanation I thought, as I looked at the tablets, of the words my father said to me at the time: "Willie, there are many things in God's dealings with his children that are hard to understand here; by-and-by, when we see things nearer, in the light of eternity, we shall find out that our difficulty has just been because here we see in part—as you did the inscriptions—but then we shall see face to face, and know even as we are known."

There was another monumental tablet about which I thought a great deal, which preached to me a silent sermon as often as I looked at it. Under the name and date of birth and death of the person it commemorated were the words, "Prepare to meet thy God." I spent a long time looking for them in my Bible, and thought a great deal about the verse when I had found it; wondering whether the young midshipman, son of one of the rectors, upon whose monument it had been engraved, had thought about them too, or whether it was a sort of warning because he had not prepared. It was upon this latter train of thought, with reflections concerning Aleck and myself woven into it—I clearly not prepared, and wondering whether Aleck was prepared—that I found myself starting as I settled shyly upon my little corner of the chair, and looked timidly for my Bible in order to find the text.

What was my surprise when Psalm lxvi. 18 was given out, and the well-known words, so often repeated to myself, were repeated slowly and impressively by the stranger clergyman from the pulpit—"If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."

It seemed to me so wonderful and so strange that he should have fixed upon the very passage that I had thought of so often within the previous two days, that at first I almost fancied I was dreaming. But I felt still more surprised when, after anxiously attending to what was said for a few minutes, I found the sermon was as easy to understand as my mother's conversation after a Bible reading: all inattention was gone, and for the first time in my life I was listening with interest deep and anxious, whilst the clergyman, in simple language, explained the text so clearly that not one in the church need have gone away uninstructed.

The great question that I wanted to hear answered was, Whether, in my circumstances, with an unconfessed sin lying heavily on my heart, it was of any use for me to pray to God for Aleck?—what was the exact meaning of regarding iniquity in my heart?

The very first words of the sermon landed us in the midst of the question. "Unforgiven sin," said the clergyman, "is a barrier between our souls and our God." And presently afterwards he referred us to Isaiah lix. 2: "Your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear;" and to a long passage in the 1st chapter of Isaiah, finishing with the words, "When ye make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full of blood." Then he spoke to the congregation of the many Sundays during which they had come together to worship, whilst in the case of many of them their lives were unsanctified, their religion for one day in seven only, not for the whole week;—they loved their sins and would not give them up on any account, hoping to square their account with God by an outward attendance on Divine worship. It was all put in very simple language; and we were told to look back into one week of our lives to find out whether we were fighting against sin as an enemy, or cherishing sin as a friend: and if living in sin, as servants of Satan, we had the solemn truth to lay home to our consciences that our prayers never reached heaven; the promise, true for the children of God, that he would hear and answer prayer, was not true for those who were the servants or slaves of sin.

Then there was an appeal to those who felt conscious of sin and wished for forgiveness, and I felt I belonged to that class, and listened with increasing eagerness. Was it for them to say, "I must then reform my ways and make myself better before I can go to Christ for pardon?" Oh, no! The prayer of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner," was heard and answered. Christ's invitation was addressed to the weary and heavy laden, "Come unto Me." He died to take our punishment instead of us; and those who, instead of cherishing sin, felt it a burden too heavy for them to bear, were to bring it and lay it down at the foot of the cross, and find rest to their souls.

There followed a few words about sins forgiven being sins forsaken. Any person who had been in the habit of dishonest dealing would adopt habits of rectitude, and would make restitution when possible. Those who had uttered falsehoods would no longer persist in untruthfulness, but would speak the whole truth, even if to their own cost. And all this would be because Christ had forgiven them, and not in order to obtain forgiveness. I do not remember the rest of the sermon, but just at the end there was a beautiful piece about the happiness of finding the great barrier gone:—Just as when a little child, conscious of some wrong action, feels ashamed to meet the eyes of its loving parents, and is conscious of a separation that casts a dark shadow over all the usual home happiness, at last, with repenting heart and quivering voice, whispers in the loving ears of father or mother the secret trouble that lies heavily upon the sin-burdened conscience, and in the tender embrace of forgiveness finds pardon and peace: so with the sinner who has found peace at the foot of the cross; the barrier of separation is no more; the way into the holiest is made manifest by the blood of the Atonement; and the promise is written in letters of gold, "If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you."