MORE THAN NOTION
by J. H. ALEXANDER
True religion's more than notion, Something must be known and fell.
JOSEPH HART
Illustrated by L. F. LUPTON
THE
FAUCONBERG PRESS
LONDON
Printed
for
THE
FAUCONBERG PRESS
60
Ealing Park Gardens
London
W. 5
at the
Burlington
Printing Works
Foxton, near Cambridge
ENGLAND
First
published 1964
New
Edition 1965
Reprinted
1967
Electronic
Edition 2003
This
electronic edition of the book has been produced with the kind permission of Zoar Publications who hold the copyright.
This electronic edition may be freely distributed and printed for personal use.
I AM delighted to hear that there
is a call for a second edition of this excellent book and am most happy
therefore to write a word of commendation for it. It came into my hands almost
accidentally. I had never heard of the author, but the moment I began to read I
was gripped and deeply moved.
There are some books of which it
can be said that to read them is an experience, and one is never the same
again. The extracts out of the lives of these various people who came in varied
ways to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ are, at one and the same
time, convicting and encouraging. Some were poor and ignorant, others well
placed socially, and learned and cultured; but all came to the same glorious
experience.
In reading about them one is shown
the vital difference between a head-knowledge of the Christian faith and a true
heart experience.
In recommending it to the
congregation at Westminster Chapel on a Friday night I said that it should be
made compulsory reading for all theologians especially, but it will prove
valuable also to all who long for a vital Christian experience.
Many who have read it as the result
of my recommendation have testified to the blessing they have received. In one
church known to me the reading of the book by one man led to a prayer-meeting
such as they had not experienced before.
In these superficial and confused
days I thank God for a book such as this and pray that He may bless it to
countless souls.
D. M. LLOYD-JONES.
Westminster Chapel, London.
A note on the title
True religion ought always to be
accompanied by deep feeling. It must be so because of its spiritual character. No
one laid more emphasis on the spirituality of religion than its founder. In
order to enforce the vital necessity of spiritual experience the Lord Jesus
frequently resorted to the use of paradox as when He said, 'He that findeth his life shall lose it but whosoever loseth his life for my sake shall find it'. It was,
therefore, natural that the spiritual-minded believers at Pulverbach should
turn to the hymns of Joseph Hart. For this minister had
passed through deep waters himself and his hymns, though often quaint, are
unique in their use of the paradoxical method. We can do no better to
illustrate the point than by printing the lines from which our title was taken.
Vain is all our best devotion,
If on false foundations built;
True religion's more than notion,
Something must be known and felt.'
"Tis
to credit contradictions;
Talk with him one never sees;
Cry and groan beneath afflictions,
Yet to dread the
thoughts of ease.'
' 'Tis
to feel the fight against us,
Yet the victory
hope to gain;
To believe that Christ has cleansed
us,
Though the
leprosy remain.'
'To be steadfast in believing,
Yet to tremble, fear, and quake;
Every moment be receiving
Strength, and yet be always weak.'
To be fighting, fleeing, turning;
Ever sinking, yet to swim;
To converse with Jesus, mourning
For ourselves or
else for him.'
THIS story begins in the remotest
depths of Shropshire at a place called Pulverbach. It lies under the ridge of
the Longmynd. Just as up on those moors on a hot summer day a fire will
sometimes burst out with no apparent cause, so in the days of Napoleon certain
local people suddenly received amazing experiences of a religious character.
The first to be affected was a
rough farm-girl named Sukey Harley. And just as sparks from a moorland fire are
carried along by the wind and start fires in other places—so the sparks of true
religion spread to other lives. The fire was kindled in the neighbouring
rectory. Parson Gilpin belonged to a family famous for its piety. There was a
Gilpin who had been known as 'the Apostle of the North'. He had barely escaped
a martyr's end by the timely death of 'Bloody' Mary. Another Gilpin was among
the army of Puritan ministers who were driven out into the wilderness on Black
Bartholomew Day, 1662. But this Gilpin now worked at the treadmill of formal
religion and it was among his daughters that the vital spark was kindled.
Things began to happen. Other lives
were touched. Two of them were artists, one of whom was a French aristocrat. He
saw a vision of Christ in his London lodgings and eventually succeeded
Huntington as pastor. The other artist, a deacon in the same Church, used to
travel the country teaching art in the noble families. He also instructed the
little company of believers at Pulverbach— but not in art. There was also the
parson's son, also a clergyman like his father. He found that the new wine
would not go into old bottles and finished up as the minister of a humble conventicle in the town where he was formerly the Vicar!
Then there was the gay and careless Bengal officer who needed a mortal illness
to bring him to his senses.
Incidents such as these were
written down by the Gilpins and others. They were printed at various times
during the nineteenth century, there being eleven books in all. The author and
her husband visited the tiny Shropshire hamlet and explored the neighbourhood
in search of additional gleanings of information which she has cleverly woven
with excerpts from the books in such a way as to form one connected story.
From the historical point of
view this book covers a small facet of the minor revival of religious
experience which had begun with the ministry of William Huntington. Indeed it
was among the members of the coal-heaver's flock that these Shropshire believers
found others with experiences like their own. They joined no denomination but
were content to be called simply Christians.
Under the leadership of humble
weavers such as William Gadsby and John Kershaw,
scores of gatherings similar to the one at Pulverbach sprang up in certain
areas of the country. Although these believers were mainly to be found among
the very poor there was always a sprinkling of the
gentry. Just as in Huntington's congregation there were lords and ladies, so
among the pastors there were at least three, William Tiptaft,
Frederick Tryon, and J. C. Philpot, who like Bernard
Gilpin had seceded from the ministry of the Church of England. The movement
gained momentum and has persisted to the present time and now numbers some four
hundred congregations scattered up and down the country. It is said that these
people still value the same kind of religion as that which came to Pulverbach.
The publishers of this book are
convinced that it will be of special value at the present time. The last few
years have seen a widespread revival of interest in the doctrinal side of
religion. People are beginning to return to the Bible. The writings of the
Reformers and the Puritans are selling as paper-backs. There are Calvinists in
our Universities. Something has seemed to be stirring but as yet without
tangible results. It is almost as if we have reached the end of a beginning.
Many seem to be like hounds at fault and to be asking 'where do we go from
here?'. It is axiomatic that healthy Christianity consists
of doctrine, experience, and practice. Religion should go from the head to the
heart and from the heart to the hand. It is in the matter of getting doctrine
into the heart that this book may prove of value. It is not possible to read of
what happened to these early nineteenth century believers without one's own
religion being tested. Some who are at present perfectly content with the
religious ideas they have, may find on reading this book that they are only
infants in Christianity. They may even be brought to question whether they know
anything of true heart religion at all!
The subject material of this book
presented some intractable problems. First, there was the verbosity of these
people. Then there was the similarity of many of the experiences described.
This led to a similarity of expression in their writings. Present day readers
could almost have been forgiven if they had concluded that the faith depicted
in the book depended on a certain phraseology and that
experimental religion is the whole of Christianity. By a judicious pruning of
adjectives, by the introduction of descriptive matter, and by arranging the
various extracts so that they make a connected whole, the author has, we
believe, produced a book which retains what was valuable in a readable form.
The publishers were convinced from
the first moment they set eyes on this manuscript that it ought to be
attractively produced. While there are certain readers who because of their
interest in the subject matter would buy the book whatever its format, it is
obvious that it would be likely to do more good among the ordinary public if it
had a pleasing dress. It is with the view of making the book live for the
general reader that we have commissioned a set of twenty-four illustrations by
L. F. Lupton.
THE FAUCONBERG PRESS,
London, 1964
SECOND EDITION
WE are gratified by the demand for
this book from quarters in which it will do most good, and feel encouraged by
the testimony of Dr. Martyn Lloyd-Jones which we
print as a foreword to this second edition. The necessity for a new printing
has enabled us to introduce an index and a Gilpin genealogical tree, which we
trust will assist the reader to place the various characters in their proper
family relationship, and thus add interest to the narrative.
THE FAUCONBERG PRESS, London, 1965.
CONTENTS
PART I - THE
PREPARATION OF THE HEART
CHAPTER
PART II - THE ANSWER OF THE TONGUE
CHAPTER
8. MR.
BOURNE'S MORNING READINGS
PART III - THE UNITY OF THE SPIRIT
CHAPTER
16. SAMUEL
HUGHES, A SHROPSHIRE MINER
IN Pulverbach Churchyard, nine
miles out of Shrewsbury, stands a large memorial stone over a family grave. It
records the names of nine of the family and their parents, and has the
beautiful words on it Blessed be God for the grace
given unto them through our Lord Jesus Christ, whereby they lived in His fear
and died in sure and certain hope of life eternal. Glory be
to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.
Not very unusual, you will say.
There must be thousands of such tombs in the old churchyards of England. True,
but the interesting thing about this family, the Gilpins, is that they have
left records of their lives and the way 'whereby they lived in His fear'. These
are not just jottings about providential troubles and deliverances, interesting
as these always are, but, as one puts it, 'faithful records of what each of
them felt to be the teaching and leading of the spirit of God' in their lives.
'So original and so memorable are these,' says their nephew, Dr. Richard
Benson, 'that it did not seem right that they should continue to be hidden in
manuscript now that the last of that large and gifted family has passed away.'
So in 1895 he published what had been hidden, and called it Memoirs of Six
Sisters. He had already published the Life and Letters of their brother,
Bernard Gilpin.
Perhaps some readers have these books
on their shelves, and perhaps a volume of The Life and Letters of James Bourne.
But they may not have had the opportunity of reading seven or eight other books
connected with these, or thought to arrange them chronologically. A research on
these lines has most beautifully revealed the sacred Hand that drew these lives
together like pieces of mosaic, so that the whole makes a perfect picture. And the theme of it all? This can best be worded in a
quotation from one of Bernard's letters:
'The Lord's work, from the
beginning to this day, has been to take for Himself a people out of the midst
of another people. Even where false religion is rampant, it is often found
there are a few simple confused saints, who, though outwardly bound up with the
mass, are inwardly separated from them. The Lord sends a minister of His own,
gradually to call out these hidden ones.'
The books are all now long out of
print, but lest the modern reader feels they are also out of date, my hope for
him is that he may presently be filled with the same astonishment that made
Henrietta Gilpin exclaim, 'What? Now? In 1832 is there
any religion like this really existing? Are there any living
in these days to whom the Lord really and sensibly speaks, and to whom He
manifests Himself in this beautiful manner? I thought all such things had
ceased since Bible days'.
But Henrietta found they had not,
and so, I hope, may you. Behold, therein shall be left a remnant that shall be
brought forth, both sons and daughters: behold, they shall come forth unto you,
and ye shall see their way and their doings: . . . And they shall comfort you,
when ye see their ways and their doings, and ye shall know that I have not done
without cause all that I have done in it, saith the Lord God. Ezek. 14, 22-3.
THE PREPARATION
OF THE HEART
IN the winter of 1806 the living of
Pulverbach in Shropshire was given to the Rev. William Gilpin, M.A., then about
forty-eight years old, the retired principal of Cheam
School, Surrey. This school had been founded by his father, the first Rev.
William Gilpin, known in his energetic retirement to Boldre
in Hampshire, as the author of Forest Scenery and a leading artist of the
'Picturesque' school. Throughout the arduous years father and son gave to Cheam the school attained a high standing for the education
of gentlemen's sons, and indeed was it not the one chosen in 1958 by Royalty
for the 'Prep' school education of the Prince of Wales?
In his diaries Mr. Gilpin gives his
wife much credit for the success of the school. Doubtless in those days when
boarders only went home once a year she was as a mother to many of them. (It
was through an ex-pupil, Lord Kenyon, that the Pulverbach living was given.)
Mrs. Gilpin was a Farish of Stanwix,
near Carlisle, a distinguished family. Her father was Canon of Carlisle and a
brother was a Professor at Cambridge. That she had such an influence in the
school is the more remarkable as she was, during those years, occupied with an
ever-increasing family. There were twelve surviving children when the family
moved north. Very little emerges about her in these records, but is it
far-fetched to see the reflection of a cultured and mature outlook in the fact
that the daughters were sent about when occasion required to places as far away
in coach miles as Cumberland, Leeds, Somerset, Cambridge, and London? Those
were times when a clergyman's daughters did not stir far from home, yet these
journeys are mentioned as being undertaken with neither timidity nor
excitement.
With parents such as these the
daughters would not lack in whatever education was possible for them. At this
time there was only one son old enough to have come under his father's scholarship—William,
now eighteen and a student at Cambridge.
It was a gloomy time in the history
of England. Napoleon was spread-eagled over Europe, winning battle after
battle. England had now lost William Pitt the Younger, and was struggling along
with an incompetent government. Martello towers were being built along the
South coast and fears of an invasion were very real. Frances, one of the Gilpin
daughters, never forgot that time, and years later records, 'During the years
1804 to 1806, when a national calamity threatened our country, I can truly say
that God was my Refuge. The 118th Psalm and the latter part of the 8th of
Romans were on this occasion so applied to my heart that I found real support
and comfort from them whenever the fear of an invasion came into my mind, which
was very, very often'. (She was then between ten and twelve years old.)
But they were moving now up into
the heart of rural England. News of battles would reach them, true, but we get
no more notes about invasion fears. Elizabeth, the eldest, was twenty, then
came Margaret, nineteen, Matilda, seventeen and devoted to her brother at
Cambridge, Charlotte, fourteen, and Frances, thirteen. Then
two close friends, Mercy, aged ten and Jane, eight; two little boys, Charles,
seven, and Bernard, four. Last, there was baby Catharine, perhaps in the
care of Rebecca Kingwell. Mr. Gilpin had spent two
intermediate years in Somerset, and Rebecca was a native of Stoke-under-Ham,
near Norton. A young woman of twenty, she remained in their service fourteen
more years before marrying John Hughes, of Pulverbach, when thus Shropshire
became her home.
Church Pulverbach, locally known as
Churton, lies down the Northern slope of the
Longmynd, that beautiful tableland rising to sixteen hundred feet high in the
west of the county. The little church and its surrounding graveyard take the
highest point in the village, and in those days many a pleasant home clustered
near. Some are long gone, some remain, as the
Elizabethan house, now a farm, the timbered Churton Cottage,
and some stone-built cottages. The old rectory was an Elizabethan building, but
a new one was built for the Gilpins. Whether they began their life in the old
one and saw the new walls rising on their behalf or came into a brand-new house
at once we do not know, but the new one certainly catered for a large family.
It is a spaciously-built four-square house with large windows, especially to
its downstairs rooms. There was a bakehouse, laundry,
and servants' wing at the back. From the upstairs windows there are fine views
of the Wrekin out east, standing alone out of the
Severn plain.
A village in those days was a small
world of its own, with the gentry, farmers, craftsmen, and peasantry. The
social divisions were clear, but no one disputed them and cordiality abounded.
The days were full of hand labour, as well for ladies sewing all the household
linen as for labourers scything meadows and miners shovelling coal. The coming
of night closed down the whole landscape. Indoors the lamp in the parlour or the
tallow-dip in the cottage created a world of shadows, and children undressed by
candlelight and lay awake in the dark.
Pulverbach was so situated that the
rector's daughters, walking or driving, could become acquainted with widely
differing types of people. A tranquil dairyland
sloped away to the east, and in this direction they later had as friends the Oakleys, farmers of Moat Farm, Stapleton. Their house was
then handsome with black and white timbers, a moat and a causeway across it. It
can still be seen and although sadly defaced it contains a lot of finely carved
panelling.
Nine miles to the north-east lay
Shrewsbury, just far enough away to have the allure of a big city. There was
quite an interchange of visiting with urban friends and clerical families.
On the south-west rough roads clung
to the side of the Long-mynd and many footpaths wound
over the heather and bilberry-clad hills. Here tinkers and gipsy-like families
eked out a poor existence in every sheltered hollow or 'batch'. (Pulverbach, as
all the Gilpins called it, was probably spelt with a 't'
at one time, and modern maps and signposts have revived that old spelling.) The
moor is about nine miles long, and when snowbound in winter has swallowed the
life of many a poor man struggling over the tracks against the wind. Indeed,
the December fair at Church Stretton was commonly
called Deadman's Fair, because of the toll the
Longmynd took of benighted, tipsy home-goers.
From the tops range after range of
Welsh mountains fill the western horizon, Wenlock Edge the eastern. The immediate foreground is
seamed with explorable dells where sheep graze. The
hawk hovers here; the peewit calls. In summer it is
idyllic, bracing, the air humming Miles of walking over heather on this plateau
must have given great pleasure to the Gilpin boys.
Immediately below Pulverbach to the
north there lay in those days a stretch of shallow coal-mines, with their
attendant cottages, a squalid region called Coal-pit Lane. There were many
small hand-worked coal-mines in these regions—fringe areas to the large Welsh
mines beginning to develop further west. It was a poor living for the miners.
Drink took the wages from wretched wives and hungry children, and the Gilpin
girls must often have witnessed disorderly scenes and heard coarse talk as they
visited here and there.
'The parish of Pulverbach,' writes
Dr. Richard Benson, 'like most rural parishes in those days, had no school. The
children were widely scattered, and some that lived among the hills were almost
wild. From the first the Gilpin family took much interest in their welfare,
endeavouring to collect and teach them.'
How would the classes go? A form or
two pulled out and set beside a wooden table—perhaps twice a week at some farm
in the hills, twice near the collieries, twice at the Rectory itself?
Certainly, in Mercy's day it is schools in the plural that are mentioned, but
no description has been left of them. We are left to imagine the scene. The
teachers—Elizabeth, Matilda, Charlotte, Frances—in the pleasing dress of the
time, high-waisted fichued
bodice, long skirt with single flounce (white in summer), moving among the
clustered children; the little ones doing pothooks, the older careful
copper-plate writing on their slates, then standing together, hands behind
back, saying the Commandments, the Creed, the Magnificat,
some Psalms. There would be singing, probably from Dr. Watts' Hymns for
Children, for there was little else to choose from. At the end of the allotted
time the children would be sent running home, one with an apple for a prize,
may be, and the young teachers would fold on their capes, set on their bonnets
and return home, perhaps in the pony chaise if they were far from home.
'In the case of Matilda
especially,' we read, 'this work became a matter of serious spiritual exercise.
Knowing something herself of the true teaching of God, she was made earnestly
to seek that He would in the same manner teach them.' This must mean that
Matilda did not allow it all to become parrot-work, but gently impressed the
truths of God's holy Word on her pupils, especially as they grew older.
Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, would often be needed as her mother's right
hand, Frances married later on, Charlotte died, but Matilda was faithful to
this teaching work for twenty-six years. It says of her that at one time when
leaving home to go South 'she was especially anxious
with regard to leaving the children in whose behalf she had for so long felt
such deep interest. While in prayer for them she received a sweet assurance
that the Lord Himself would bless them, which enabled her entirely to commit
them into His hands'. It is therefore interesting to read that years later when
the Lord's blessing was shed on many in Pulverbach 'this was especially seen in
the case of several who years before, when mere
children, had been taught by Matilda, and concerning whom she had received the
assurance that the Lord would bless them.'
What was this 'true teaching of
God' that Matilda had had? Like Samuel hearing the Word of God in the temple,
so she was quite sure she heard the voice of God in her childhood. She wrote
the experience down at the time, and reiterated it later with a comment or two.
She was eleven years old and was afraid of God,because, she says, she felt that all her thoughts
about Him were wicked and she could not stop them. 'I opened my Bible,' she
writes, 'and read the words, "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found; call
ye upon Him while He is near". I shut the book more
unhappy than before, for that verse brought my sin to remembrance, for I
wanted to fly from Him, not to seek Him. I ran into the garden frightened at my
own thoughts. [It was the garden of Cheam School.] I stood under a large cedar tree there, not
knowing what would become of me. But just at that moment I felt all my wicked
thoughts were gone, and I only desired to seek and find that God whom I had
tried to fly from. I felt He bid me seek Him, and not try to fly from Him, and
He spoke the words inwardly upon my heart, "Seek ye the Lord while He may
be found; call ye upon Him while He is near". At the same time a cry rose
in my heart which brought Him very near. It was as if I heard Jesus Christ say
unto God He had taken away my sins and I should go to heaven when I died, for
He had died. And I felt He was God. Again He said, "Incline your ear and
come unto Me; hear, and your soul shall live".
Oh, the happiness I felt! I ran about the garden in an ecstasy of delight,
saying, "Now I have found something that can never be
taken from me". But it was all a great secret in my heart. I could
tell no one, for I knew the Lord had done it. He had put that cry into my heart
which none but He could give, for it went straight to Him.'
Throughout life the remembrance of
that day was several times revived, once especially by the words from the
Gospel, "When thou wast under the fig-tree I saw
thee".
'But a change came,' her later
account records, 'and my religion became a burden to me. That cry was still in
my heart and never really ceased, but I thought it was no prayer. The verses in
the Bible against hypocrites used to frighten me, and became a burden for
several years.'
This seriousness, then, pervaded
Matilda's character while she continually looked for the Lord's teaching on her
heart. It was the souls of her pupils that she prayed for with much tenderness.
Having a clergyman for their father meant that the lives of these daughters
followed a religious routine, but it seemed to be a conventional one, nothing
more being looked for than a familiarity with the Bible and devotion to their
daily work and the Church services. When the Holy Spirit began to move in the
heart of one and another His work seemed puzzling to them, and for many years
they felt the lack of an interpreter.
Matilda says that she 'scarcely
ever heard such things as the Lord's leadings of His people spoken of. .
Jane says, "I had hitherto
spoken to no one on the subject'.
Mercy says, "Very little that
I heard on the subject of religion did strike me as meaning the inward teaching
of God." It was this inward teaching that drove each one, independently to
commit her thoughts to paper. Do not visualise these girls as absorbed in
diary-writing and introspection— their days were too fully occupied—but an
accumulation of thoughts would now and then find relief in some upstairs
note-book. Sometimes the entry is connected with immediate affairs, sometimes
it is a retrospect. Sometimes there is a gap of a few weeks, sometimes of
fifteen or twenty years. About this writing Mercy wrote, years later, that one
day the Lord's light 'shone back on all His leadings during my life. It was as
if He placed a chart before my eyes and pointed out everything to me. The word
seemed spoken to me—I guided thee, though thou didst not know Me: and the
impression was so clear that on the following day I began writing an account of
the Lord's dealings with me, nor can I set aside what I then wrote even if it
is covered with confusion so that the true light is obscured'.
It is from records such as this,
and from letters, that most of the quotations in this book come.
The first sorrow that struck the
family was the death at Cambridge of the student, William, at the age of
twenty-two. He was Matilda's favourite brother, only about eleven months older
than her, and Cambridge was so very, very far away—no hope of seeing him. Again
we are shown Matilda's feelings.
It was in February, 1811. She
writes (some time later), 'I shall never forget the grief of heart that was to
me, and the great rebellion of my heart against that stroke. I felt nothing I could do could bring me to submit to it, for he was my
favourite brother whom I loved above all. I knew not why the Lord should deal
thus with me. It was in my heart as if He had wronged me, and I could not bear
to think of it. This went on and on as if all my happiness in this world was
for ever cut off. I knew not at that time how to bring this sort of trial to
the Lord. I tried to stop my rebellious thoughts. I found this impossible, and
thought indeed it was impossible for God also. But at that time He drew near with
the word, "Therefore My people shall know My
name; therefore they shall know in that day that it is I that speak". But
it seemed impossible for God to teach me to know His name. But as I said that
word Impossible in that moment He made me to know something of His power. He
made me to stand in awe of Him and to receive into my heart the words
"Therefore My people shall know My Name" as a promise from Himself to
me. For one fortnight I was kept trembling and looking unto Him for the
fulfilment of it. At the end of that time He did reveal to me something of the
name of the Lord "merciful and gracious, slow to anger, forgiving iniquity
and sin". This made me sink lower and lower till He said to me. "The
Kingdom of God is within you," and there I felt it. I understood it not,
but I felt it. I listened to His voice alone, speaking upon my heart the words
of everlasting life, telling me of His great salvation while as yet I knew not
what those things were of which He spoke. My soul was filled with His praise, and
I thought His praise sounded forth from all the creation of God for that all my
sins were pardoned'.
Thus was she comforted over
her brother's death, and was made willing, she says, 'to cast myself and all my
concerns at His feet, and the hope came in that He was my God and my Saviour
and had done all things well'.
She lived in this comfort for
almost three months, but then a change came, and she felt that the mercy of the
Lord was about to go from her, which it seemed to do to some extent, for she
adds, 'In my ignorance I thought the Lord could never return when I departed
from Him, for my own iniquity led me away. All my prayers and all my righteousnesses were now made abominable to me. This,
coming after I had known His mercy, was the cause of great perplexity; for I
knew not that the sin that dwells within would remain unto the end, and I
thought, how could He return again? I had lost my way to the Lord, and knew not
how to find Him'.
But the Lord had an instructor in
view for Matilda—an unlikely person, we would think, for the cultured girl busy
with her teaching and with the interest of the younger sisters growing up round
her, friends visiting at the Rectory, and so on. A poor woman aged about thirty
came to live in the parish. Her name was Sukey Harley, and Matilda was just
twenty-three when she first met her.
SUKEY HARLEY, whose name before her
marriage was Overton, was born at Prolimoor, in the
parish of Wentnor on the Longmynd. 'She was naturally
of a lively, cheerful disposition, particularly frank and warm-hearted. She was
prompt and energetic in all her proceedings, truly sympathising to those
persons whom she knew to be in distress, and heartily willing to show a
kindness to any who needed it whenever occasion served. Her husband, Charles
Harley, was a sober quiet industrious man, who gained a livelihood as a day
labourer among the farmers.'
Some years after the Gilpins knew
her, Jane took down an 'account from her lips', from which these extracts are
taken.
'There were sixteen of us
altogether. Two or three died in infancy. I was the youngest but one, that was Winney. My father died when I was only three years old. My
poor mother was left in great distress. It was never in her power to put me to
school. I was never taught anything about God in my childhood, nor about His blessed Son, Jesus Christ. The only thing I
can remember learning when a child was the Lord's Prayer. We were taught to repeat
that after we were in bed every night, and they called it "saying our
prayers", but what it meant I knew nothing about. We were often sore clemmed in our childhood and I had many gloomy thoughts. I
was always an odd one.
'When big enough to go out to
service, I was hired at a farmhouse. I made a good servant. I loved work. The
farmers were all glad to get me into their houses, I
got through such a lot of work, and was as fond of frolic and play. I gave free
licence to my tongue. To my shame be it spoken, I could hardly open my mouth
but I would fetch an oath; it was dreadful.
I married very young. My husband
was a very quiet, steady, and sober man. He was never fond of drink, nor of levity of any sort like the rest of the young men. I
used to despise him in my heart and say, well, what a fool I have got for a
husband!
'Once I remember on a Sunday
morning he said to me (but very mildly), "Sukey, you ought to get me a
clean shirt to put on of a Sunday and a pair of stockings mended, like any
other poor man's wife". I was sadly cut down at this remark, and I thought
to myself, Well, what an oafish wife I must be not to know this before. I
wonder how the other women do? The next Saturday I
went round and peeped into all the neighbours' houses. I found all the women
busy washing their husbands' and children's things. I was badly hurt to find
that I hadna treated my husband as well as the rest
of the folks. I went home and washed and mended his shirt and stockings. Ever
after that bout I took care to have a clean shirt and stockings for him against
Sunday. But we neither of us knew any more about the Sabbath than the beasts of
the field.
'We went to live at Church Stretton, where my child was born. Afterwards we lived for
a short time at Dorrington, and then removed to Ryton. We were at this time very well off—mighty well to
live. We kept two pigs; we had enough and to spare no lack of this world's
goods. I made a sight of money — that was all I cared for in this world. I made
acquaintance with all the idle, frivolous girls in the village. I should think
that there was not the like to be found in all the country — hooting and
bawling, shouting, gam-mocking, and romping. On the
Sabbath morning we used to collect together in a large barn, dancing and
revelling and fooling away the time. I was a very good tuner on the fiddle and
they used to dance. This is the way my Sabbaths were spent.
'But for all this I was proud
enough of my moral conduct. I never went further than what I have named in
profligacy. I thought I was a mighty good sort of woman and very moral. I never
told a lie, so far as I remember; it must have been the Lord that kept my black
tongue from telling lies in the days of my ignorance. My word would settle a
dispute amongst the neighbours, I had such a character
for speaking the truth. There was the same black deceit in my heart as in any
other, but it was the Lord who gave me a real abhorrence of falsehood.
'I never thought about such a thing
as religion. To be sure I used to hear talk sometimes, but it was with deaf
ears. I used to answer it to myself— Well, it's for
the gentlefolks to mind religion and for such as are
fine scholars. I used to wonder sometimes on a Sunday what the folks went to
church for. I used to see 'em pass to and fro and I
would like puzzle my mind a bit. Then I would consider, well, this is for the gentlefolks. I was not suffered to take any formalist ways.
What I was I was, out and out before all, brazen-faced.
'The first thing that gave a turn
to my manner of living was being called on by two women, neighbours, who wished
me to go with them to meeting. I refused, but when they came again and pressed
me very much I began to fear they would call me a bad neighbour, so to please
them I went. I paid no attention to what was going on there. When I came home I
found that a currant cake I had made for my brother, who was sick at the Black
Lion, had been stolen out of my house. This made me so angry that I said I
would ne'er go to meeting any more. The next day came round and they came again.
I was still afraid of being called a bad neighbour so I yielded and went along
with 'em. When I came home I found my husband and
house and all had like to have been burnt! Charles had set his shirt sleeve on
fire and the flame rose up and caught the timber, and it had all like to have
been burnt. Now I was determined I would go no more to meeting, and when the
two women came next time, I said, "The devil has been at our house, I will
ne'er go with you any more".
'The meeting used to be held at one
of the women's houses. But these two would come and pester me to go to church
or chapel. I put them off a good while but they kept teasing me. At last I
said, "Well, I must have a new gown and a new bonnet and a new shawl, and
then perhaps I may go". I sold my pig and bought these things, and I went
with the women to church next Sabbath. I went two or three times in my new
things. The women were almost ashamed of my company, I had dressed myself out
such a sight, but they dared not say a word to me, fearing I should leave off
going. "Ah!" thought I, "I am now godly, I'm a right good
neighbour now." I made a god of these women, but I hated them. I kept
thinking all the while that they were gathered together against me, and so I
feared them, so feared of bearing a bad character with them. But I was ignorant
of a holy God.
'I followed the women two or three
times to church and chapel in my new things. It was now my trouble began. I
soon flung away the new things. I went such a sight to church, with my cap all
collared and the strings dangling about. Well, the women were ashamed of my
company then, just in the other extreme, but they durst not speak about it, I
was such an odd woman.
This was my trouble, the thought
that these women had got something that I hadna' got,
this was it that troubled me. All day long my thoughts were hampered, my mind
was tossicated about this thing—"What have these
women got? I wish I knew what they have got." Oh, I was weary in mind to
know somewhat about it. Nothing that ever I heard in church
or chapel at that time ever struck my mind. I never paid attention
there. My trouble wasn't brought on by the word of man. I could tell no man
what ailed me, not even my husband. I didna' know, I couldna' find out myself what was the matter. I would for
ever make some light excuse to know what they two were about. I would peep into
old Nancy Smith's door. She would come out, the big tears in her eyes and the
book in her hand. Well, I hated her. Then I'd go to the other.
"Sukey," she'd say, "do come and sit down and I'll read to you a
bit." Well I'd say and think to myself I do hate to come nigh 'em. Then I would look upon her countenance—Oh, what a blessed look I thought she had in the midst of
all her poverty and outward wretchedness. She is a deal worse off than myself, thought I, though I am miserable and she is blessed.
What does it mean?
'I began to think there must be a
God. Then I thought, these women know that God. They used to tell me I must
pray, so in hopes of knowing their God I did pray, that is, I said the Lord's
Prayer o'er and o'er and o'er again. (This was all the praying I knew.) I used
to take great notice of the clouds. Well, I'd think, what can it be? Is it
smoke out of all the chimnies gone and settled up
there? Then again I'd think it canna' be smoke;
sometimes they be all cleared off. Well, there must be a God to make these. I
now began to be in great terror. It's impossible to say what confused thoughts
I had at this time. But this was the way my God was leading me to Himself.
'One Sabbath when I was at church
this thought came to my mind, suppose those great big clouds should burst and
fall upon my head? Suppose this church should fall upon me? Well, I began to be
in such terror. Then I thought, it will not fall down upon those two women,
I'll get close against Nancy Rowland, then I shall be
safe. I made a great clatter in the church, changing my place. All the folks
would stare at me, I was such a poor crack-brained
thing.
'One day I went to Nancy Rowland's
as usual to see if I could find out what she had got. She said, "Sukey, do
come in and stop and take a dish of tea with me." I said, "Well, I
will". While the kettle was boiling, she read a tract to me. I never paid
the least attention to it; not one word could I tell what it was about. Her
children came in. She cut 'em each a slice of bread;
they took it and seemed thankful. They made their obeisance to me and went off.
Then Nancy took and cut me such nice thin slices of bread and butter, honouring
me like. I wondered at it and I looked at her poverty and rags. Well, I
thought, her has got something. I wish I knew what she has got. When I came
home it came into my head to take her some bread and bacon. I cut her ever such
a lot and carried it up to her house. I thought she would be glad of it and
think me such a good neighbour. She seemed to take so little heed of it; she
put her hands on the table and looked up. She was silent. I know now what she
was doing—she was giving thanks to God, but I then thought she ought to have
thanked me more. Ah! how ignorant I was.
'I went on in this way for
three-quarters of a year, all beside one fortnight. I was in a dreadful, tossicated state—the destitutes! creature on the face of the earth. I knew no God—that was
the thing that kept me so wretched. I was such a harum-scarum senseless thing,
and very wicked. Nancy Smith would often rebuke me —she lived so close up
against me so she heard so much of it. How I would curse and swear at the least
thing that put me out of the way. She used to put her head out of the door and
say, "Oh, Sukey Harley, hell will be your portion". I hated her. I
thought she would tell Nancy Rowland and they would think me a bad neighbour.
'I would sometimes think of that
word hell. This would fasten on my mind, this must be somewhat dreadful. Some
nights I would be afraid of closing my eyes lest I should tumble into hell. One
day I was fluttered about two little pigs. I couldna'
get them into the sty. I cursed and swore at them as usual. Old Nancy Smith
came and said, "Oh, Sukey, Sukey, thee must be born again!". Well, these words confounded me, they clean updid me. What can the old hypocrite mean? I soon clapped
the pigs into the sty and went off to Nancy Rowland's. I loved her better than
the other, because she was meeker. I said, "What do you think that old
Methodist woman says to me?" "What?" "Why," says I,
"she says I must be born again! Now, Nancy, how can this be? If it is in
the Bible I will believe it". She was silent, but she reached the Bible
and found the place, and read the words, "Except a man be born again he
cannot enter the kingdom of God". Well, did I believe 'em?
No. I had no faith; how could I believe? And I say, no sinner can believe, nor
do the least thing towards it, till the Lord is pleased to send him that true
faith down from heaven. Then he believes, but never till then. I could not
believe those words for all they were read to me out of the Bible. I said,
"Nancy, how can it be? And which way is it to be done? How is it I never
heard this before? Now suppose my mother is dead, why, what a thing this is,
and I never to hear this before. Well", I said, "what a lot here is
to be done. How am I come to this age, six-and-twenty and more, and never been
told this before?"
'Well, these words bided with me—I
could not get shut on 'em. "Thee
must be born again." I had no more understanding of them than a dead
corpse. I was rumpled and ruffled in my mind to find out the sense of these
words. I heard nothing of what the woman said about it, but I was led like to
ponder them over and over in my mind. I seemed to be all the while, in my
confused way, going to God, though for all I did not know Him. I did feel that
it was only He that could give me satisfaction. Oh, I thought, if I did but
know their God, then I should know all about it.
'Well, He was lugging me to Himself
all the while, but I was so ignorant and foolish I was as a beast before Him. I
often think of that verse—Psalm 73, 22. Aye, and I am
the very same now, just like a beast. Well, I began to grow worse and worse—more full of perplexed thoughts than ever. I was tossed to
and fro. What was I to do? The reason I don't know God is, because I cannot
read. Those two women are such fine scholars; they can read such a sight of
books. They can pray; they have got such a sight of prayers, and I only know
this one.
'Then I thought I must have a new
prayer, the old prayer won't do. I kept repeating it over and over again, but I
wanted a new prayer. I mourned, I cried to God to teach me a new prayer. Yes, I
asked my dear Father in heaven—for He was my Father though I did not know
Him—to teach me a new prayer. These words clapped into my mind—"Lord, lead
me into the true knowledge of Thy dear Son." I never heard that God had a
Son, yet these words came into my heart. It was the prayer God taught me
Himself; no one else taught me. I never, never heard what
those two women ""would be bantering rne
about. I was so tossicated with my own
thoughts I gave no heed to their words. The Lord put those words into my heart.
I seemed quite rejoiced that their God had taught me. He had eked out my prayer
a little longer, for I still kept saying the Lord's Prayer and added those new
words to the end of it. I never coveted any fresh words after this.
'Well, I prayed this new prayer for
about a'fortnight. On the Sunday night after the
fortnight I went with the women to chapel but Oh, what a dreadful state I was
in. I thought I was going to hell. What was the use of my praying any more? I
was tempted to giye in praying. I thought I should never
know their God. Before I went to bed I got into the dark corner, and, as usual,
I began in my way to pray those words. I thought I felt the devil pulling me by
the hair of the head, yet I held fast by the table. I was afeared
to go to sleep that night for I thought I should tumble into hell. 'On the
Monday morning while I was eating my breakfast (but I had no stomach to eat) if
was after Charles was gone to work, those words entered my mind—"Behold I
stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice and open the door, I will
come in to him and will sup with him and he with Me" (Rev. 3, 20). I said,
"That is the text the man had for his sermon last night". Well, it
was! But I hadna' heard it then. I heard it now,
though. All the words came quite plain into my heart. Oh, I thought, suppose it
should be their God at the door! Oh, how joyful I would get up and loose Him
the door. Now, I thought, I can ne'er give in praying, those words have
encouraged me so. I went up the ladder into my bedroom, and began to pray. I
made such a noise the folks might have heard me in the street. I was afeared I should frighten my child. I came down and looked
at her; she was a little one, eating her breakfast. I went up again and did not
stop long. I came down again and filled the child's bag with meat and sent her
off to school. I put her out at the door and locked and bolted it.
Then I said with all my strength,
"I will never open this door again till I know their God." I stuffed
the windows with all the old rags I could find: I could not bear the light.
Then I went down on my knees in the dark corner and began praying these same
words that I used to do, the same words over and over again—the Lord's Prayer
and "Lord, lead me into the true knowledge of Thy dear Son". I felt
as if I would have pulled the roof over my head, I went tearing and tearing at
it with such vehement earnestness. Well, who put that strong cry into my heart?
Was it from myself? No; but He gave it me and forced me to cry out, because it
was His own blessed will to hear me and answer me.
I felt Him come. It's past my
talking about! Such a wonderful time; it's clean past telling. No words can
express the feelings of my heart at this time. He fetched me off my knees. I
started up. I cannot find words to express the wonderful doings of that blessed
moment. Well, this is part of it. He showed me all my sins that I had committed
even from a child. Yes, that bit of pink ribbon I had stolen for my doll's cap, came upon me. Oh, he showed me my black desert, how I had
deserved to go to hell—what a reprobate I had been and how like a devil I had
walked upon the earth. How I had angered Him with my sinfulness. My heavy sins
and my vileness came upon me. Oh, He appeared such a holy God, such a heavenly
bright and glorious Being. Suppose He had said to me
then at that awful moment "Depart from me, ye cursed", He would have
been just, and to hell I must have gone.
'Oh, what a holy God mine is! Well,
I was lost; I couldna' tell what to do; lost in
wonder, lost in surprise. Yet all this time He kept me from being frightened—I
had been frightened, but not now: there was somewhat that held me from being
frightened. He seemed to tell me all my sins were forgiven. I had such a sight
inwardly of my dear Redeemer's sufferings; how He was crucified, how He hung on
the cross for me. It was as if He showed me what I deserved, yet He seemed to
say He had suffered that desert. It was as if He made it so plain to me, how
that He would save me, because it was His own blessed will to save me. It was
as if He had shown me how He had chosen me from the foundation of the world. He
would have mercy on me because He would have mercy.
'I never knew what sin was till
now, but He showed me what it was—how black, how dreadful. But He saved me till
I was so overwhelmed that I didna' know what to do. I
can truly say since that blessed morning I have a Saviour and a Redeemer, yes I
have. Ever since that blessed time my dear and heavenly Father has kept me in
His dear hands, and guided me and counselled me Himself.
'Well, I went and unblocked the
windows, cleared away all the dirty rags and let in the blessed light of the
sun, the glorious light, the Father's light. I unbolted the door and opened it.
I looked out. What a glorious sight! I saw my God in everything—the clouds,
those clouds I had so often puzzled over. My God was in the clouds. The trees,
the hedges, the fields, the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, showed
me that I had a God.
'All things were new to me. I was
unbound. I was loosed. Yes, I wondered at it. I went to old Nancy Smith's door
and looked in. I could not speak. She said, "Sukey, what's the
matter?" I could make no answer. Off I ran to the other. I was enabled to
tell her somewhat, but very little. I could not find words to express the
goodness of God to me. I now understood and believed those words, "Ye must
be born again".
'This blessed state continued a
good while; I felt the happiest creature, the joyfullest
woman on the face of the earth. My God enabled me from that very time to break
loose from all my vain companions; they thought it very hard, yes, and so did I
too, but my heavenly dear Father called me out from them, and I followed Him, I
dared not do otherwise; I was set clean off at a distance from them. Ever since
that blessed morning I have been a lone soul on the face of the earth: "A
sparrow alone upon the house-top". I often think of that verse; it suits
me.
'It was no great while after this,
I had a desire to read; I longed to read the blessed Word for myself. I got my
little wench to teach me the letters; she used to grow sleepy, so I would give
her two suppers of a night to encourage her; all the while I was praying to my
God to enable me to learn. She brought me on as far as this: "God is love;
God is light". These very words came over me; when I spelt out the words,
they came into my heart. I thought: my God is love, He is light, He can teach me Himself. I wanted no more teaching of Mary.
From that time I would take my book, and go down on my knees, and look up to my
heavenly Father and beg of Him to teach me. I used to spell out the words, and
then look up to know how to call them. Oh how I felt at these times! I can give
no description of my feelings, but I had this confidence given me, that He
would teach me to read His blessed Word; and He did teach me. It was surprising
how He put the words into my mind and memory; yea, I can truly say, I have been
taught of God.
'It was not long after this time
that we removed to Pulverbach, where we now live. I have known heavy seasons of
sorrow, great darkness, bitter distress; I have been sorely tempted of Satan
and plagued with the corruptions of my own heart. O the fiery darts of the Evil
One, they have pierced my soul through and through! Yes, I know what sore
temptations mean, yet in all this my God has been with me still. He has never
left me nor forsaken me. No, He has never suffered me to loose hold of that
blessed hope, the blessed assurance which He gave me that morning, that He had
made me His child, and that He would save me. It is my God who teaches me to
profit; it is He who brings comfort to me. He sends down His Holy Spirit into
my heart and brings my dear Redeemer's sufferings to my remembrance. Then I can
bear all. This is the thing that bears me up in the midst of all my sorrows.
'I used to attend the church, but I
could find no profit. They used to pelt me with books from the gallery, and the
farming men used to throw their sticks from the gallery at me below, but I
could get nobody to take my part, so I left the church. If they met me in the
lane or in the field they used to do all manner of things, mocking and
spitting, but the Lord was kind and I have had my heart full of mercy when all
this was going on, glory be to my Blessed Redeemer.'
One great sorrow of Sukey's that lasted for over twenty years was that her
husband 'could understand nothing of all this. Though a very sober honest man,
yet he was a great Pharisee. He saw no need of my dark times, and if in the
comfortable enjoyment of the Lord's presence it was quite nonsense to him. So
there was always that disunion. But this is the way my God leads me, and He has
brought me to know it. He holds me down with the one hand, and lifts me up with
the other. He chastens and cuts me with one hand, and strengthens and comforts
me with the other. O, the tender mercies of my God to me! How he has revealed
my Saviour to me! He blesses His word to my soul, and He orders my way before
Him, and sends down His Holy Spirit to comfort me!
'From the first of my heavenly
Father calling me I felt He had a people of His own on this earth, but where
they were to be found I could not tell. I longed to find them. I thought I
should see they were taught as I was. I seemed to be seeking them up and down.
I went to hear all sorts, and for a while I was deceived with some of them, but
afterwards I was perplexed in my soul and could not see the real work in them.
But my heart is knit to God's dear children whom the Lord has shown me are His
indeed.'
It can readily be imagined that
this account of Sukey Harley's conversion might be received with great reserve
by Matilda's parents—the 'gentry' and 'such as were fine scholars' to whom
church-going belonged, as Sukey put it. There was quite a scattering of 'Ranters' up and down the country, singing loudly of their
joys, and possibly they would suppose Sukey to be infected by these. But
Matilda, like Mary in the Gospels, pondered these things in her heart, and as
years went on used to take one and another of her sisters with her to visit and
talk with Sukey.
However, life was more than talk
and memoranda writing. There was much to do in the daily round set up by a
conscientious rector's wife. The visiting mentioned in the notes was not only
for Bible reading and improvement. The girls came into contact with sickness
and despair and death — often sharply sad for themselves when it was a little
pupil or older child of promise. They would take and help administer home-made medicines
and lotions according to their mother's advice. The sorrows and joys, births
and marriages in every family would be of interest to the Rectory. The
fluctuations of the coal-mines were always a source of anxiety to Pulverbach.
This was not the developing Black Country. Sometimes the mines were sold out
and there was no work until another buyer appeared. There were times when a
gang of men would go off to mines further away in Staffordshire or North Wales
and the wives and children were nearly starving until money was sent or the men
returned. Yes, life was serious in those days, and there was plenty to discuss
as the girls sat at their endless hand-sewing and cutting down cast-off
garments for the poor.
The recreations of life consisted
in being allowed books from Papa's library, in conversation and having
neighbours in for a dish of tea. The servants, off-duty, could join with the
older school children and embroider samplers under the Miss Gilpins'
supervision. One is still in existence, dated 1820, done by the girl who came
with the family from Somerset.
'Rebecca Kindwell
is my name,
England is my nation.
Churton is my dwelling-place,
And God--'
But Rebecca never finished the
line, 'God is my Salvation'. About that date she left the Rectory and married
John Hughes. By 1829 when her husband died she had five children. In her
struggling life she was always under the kindly eye of the Rectory, and later
in life the last line of that sampler was clearly fulfilled in her.
In 1816, a year after the Battle of
Waterloo, Frances Gilpin, the sixth daughter, got married. Frances was a gentle
girl, 'of a meek, retiring, and affectionate disposition'. Like Matilda, she
wrote a short review of her early life. 'From my earliest recollections,"
she says, 'I was drawn to love the Lord, to love those I thought were good
people, to love the Bible and all books I thought were good and religious.
These I chose to read and would put away other books as doing me no good. My
chief recreation was in searching out from the Bible texts on various subjects
and collecting verses under different heads to form prayers, confessions, and
thanksgivings. I delighted in this employment, nor did
I follow it as a duty. I used to feel very much surprised and distressed that I
could not keep my thoughts from wandering while at prayer and wishing to think
of serious things.
'When about twenty I wrote down
much, partly in the way of supplications. These writings I greatly prized, and
thought all who read them would prize them too. But a great fear came upon me
that it was all pride in me to write and prize them so much, so I had no rest
in my conscience till with great reluctance at last I tore them up. This
satisfied my conscience at the time, but I knew not that my pride remained.'
Shortly before her marriage these
words 'fell upon her heart with a sort of fear and caution, "Hear, O my people, and I will testify unto thee: O Israel, if thou wilt
hearken unto Me there shall no strange god be in thee, neither shall thou
worship any strange god". She could not understand the meaning of these
words, which, however, recurred vividly to her now and then as her life
proceeded, and eventually she clearly saw the application and importance of the
word so long hidden in her heart.'
Her husband was the Rev. John
Benson, M.A., of Bridgenorth, in Salop, a widower ten
years older than her, with one child, if not more. Her marriage opened a new
interest for her sisters, and soon we read of one and another visiting her. Mr.
Benson was for some years curate of Upton Magna, outside Shrewsbury. The rector
of that fine Church was the Lord of the Manor also, and his curates had to live
with him at the big house called Downton. From there
Frances could see on the horizon the hills of home, the Longmynd, and her
sisters could drive over and spend a summer day with her. It is a beautiful
part of the Vale of Severn, with Haughmond Hill
rising behind and the Wrekin on the left. Frances's
first boy was born at Downton in 1819. She had three
sons before she went south in 1825.
Mercy and Jane record a happy visit
to Downton in 1824. Mercy is described as 'most
loving and lovable in every relationship of life', but her notebook discloses
that everything had not always been happy in the recesses of her heart. When
only about ten she had been frightened with doubts about the existence of God.
Though I was but a child,' she says, 'also of a cheerful, contented
disposition, I remember how oppressed I was by these thoughts. My continual
inward thought was [like Sukey's] I want something to
make me sure of the truth of all I hear about God and heavenly things. As I
grew up I showed much love to the Bible and the ways of religion. I learnt to
repeat much Scripture by heart. I used to visit the poor and attend the schools
very zealously. This gained me the character of a religious person. Pride,
vanity, and a good conceit of myself soon crept in.
Yet I know that even then there was a "still, small voice" speaking
to me. There was still something in religion I knew nothing about. If at any time
I heard anyone speak of God's inward teaching it went to my heart immediately.
I said, "That is true religion; that is what I want".
'Once or twice my sister Matilda
told me of the Lord's dealings with her. Oh, how I longed that I might hear and
know the voice of the Lord speaking to me! The experience also of a poor
cripple whom I met with at Leeds much struck my mind. But I found no resting
place.'
Mercy, like Matilda, was comforted
by contact with Sukey Harley. She says, The outward
witness to the truth which the Lord was pleased to afford me while as yet I had
no inward witness was a poor woman who came to live in our parish. I felt that
her experience wonderfully set forth the truth of the Bible. It confirmed in my
mind all that I had for years felt sure one taught of God would feel. I used
frequently to go to see her, and seldom returned without finding my faith
strengthened and my hope encouraged, my own blindness and ignorance in the
things of God more clearly shown me, and an increasing desire being given me to
be taught of God as she was'.
Sukey must have been pleased to
welcome the rector's daughters to her poor cottage. Neither she nor they had
any spiritual leader in those days, each was taught alone and from above, yet
it appears from later comments taken down from Sukey that she had an
instinctive feeling for the children of God. 'You speak about my talking to
others,' she says. 'I am this sort of woman—I canna'
speak nothing till my Jesus comes and puts words into my mouth. Then I can
speak—oh yes, I can speak then. When the Lord bids me, I can talk to one or
another, and what I speak to them is according to my own experience. I tell
them the truth when I have liberty from the God of heaven. Then I can go, I can
go without any fear then. I donna
fear man—I want nothing else but liberty from the Lord. Some be faint, they be
weary, driven, searching all the while. They canna'
find the road, tossed to and fro, to and fro. They tremble, they pray, they
think God donna hear them:
they think there is no God. Oh, they be in a dreadful
distressed state. These be the children of God before
He has brought them to know Him. These be they I am
speaking of. How I love 'em dearly. I grieve for 'em, I mourn for 'em. I pray for 'em, I beg my God to have mercy on 'em
for His dear Name's sake. I find great power from the Lord in praying for them.
My Jesus tells me not one shall be lost. He will bring them all in His own
time. He will never forget His.'
How remarkably this reflects
Mercy's outlook! This is what she writes,
'At this time I left off speaking
to anyone on the subject of religion, under the idea of doing them good. I
still used to visit among the poor and read the Bible to them, but I would say
to myself, It's no good speaking on these subjects when I don't experience
them: the time, I believe, will arrive when I shall know the truth, and then I
shall be able to speak out of the abundance of my heart and to declare that
which I have seen and heard. Nor could I at this time so constantly read the
Bible to myself as I had done, or follow religious exercises. Often and often
when I went into my room for this purpose I would find myself utterly unable
either to pray or read.
In the year 1823 I went into Wales with
some friends, and here, empty and void as I felt, I would fain have filled
myself with the vain trash and treasures of this poor world. But there was
still a something that prevented my enjoyment of them, though I eagerly
followed after them in my imagination. I remember walking on the beach,
hearkening to the roar of the waves, with the most wretched feeling of
emptiness in my heart, and sighing because I knew not how to satisfy it.
Towards the latter end of the year
1824 my sorrow of heart increased, until one day I said to myself, I will go
and pray to the Lord to relieve me; it may be He will. I went to my room and
fell on my knees (I know the spot), and poured forth a prayer to Him whom I yet
knew not, but whom I believed to be "a strength to the needy in his
distress, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat". O with what
tender compassion did He at that time calm my troubled
breast and send me relief!'
About this time she went to Downton to stay with Frances, and this was very different
from her disconsolate visit to the Welsh sea-shore. 'Here,' she writes, 'the
Lord endeared Himself to me. The remembrance of His
mercy was much on my mind. How precious some of the Psalms were to me,
especially the 23rd. 27th,34th, 116th, and 103rd; also
the latter part of Is. 40. I used to read them over and over, and secretly
repeat them all day long, feeling their application to myself. The Bible became
such a treasure that to be left alone with it was my greatest happiness. It was
during my stay there that my sister Jane came over to see me and told me of an
experience she had passed through at Leeds.'
Jane and Mercy were close friends,
though Jane was a different personality from the 'lovable' Mercy. Jane was
critical, clever, and could be sharp tempered. But she, too, had been wading
through despairing thoughts before experiencing the 'exceeding beauty' she came
over to tell Mercy about. She was twenty-four, and had been on a visit to her
mother's sister, Mrs. Joseph Fawcett, of Leeds. Where
she expected to be happy she was miserable, and her fears rose to such an
agitation of mind that she dared not pray. O, she said, 'if I did but know that
the Lord had thoughts of peace to me and not of evil I should be satisfied!
After remaining one night a considerable time on my knees without uttering a
single petition, I arose to get myself a dry handkerchief, having wet with my
tears the one I had by me. While standing by the drawer, He who knew well how
to perform the cause I had in hand, suggested to my mind, "For what did
Christ die? For what did He suffer?" I fell again upon my knees and said,
"O Lord, remember that day— that day when the Saviour hung upon the cross!
Do remember that day!"
'I again rose, but with a full,
undoubted, and entire persuasion that now for the first time in all my life I
had put up a prayer that would not fail of receiving its answer. While
questioning with myself what these things could mean, there seemed presented
before me a tremendous mountain which I must pass over. I was greatly alarmed
and finding there was no means of escape, I said, "Lord, save or I
perish!" Instantly He drew near and said, "When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through
the rivers they shall not overflow thee".
'The next day,
June 11th, 1823 [she often reverted to this date in after life] as my Aunt Fawcett was reading the words, "I know the thoughts
that I think towards you, saith the Lord, thoughts of
peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end" (No! I can never forget it!) I saw a sea of
unfathomable love before me, and I did believe and had a sight of the love of
Christ which passeth knowledge. This was on a
Thursday, and the next Sunday that portion of the Gospel was made so real to
me, "Verily I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of
God over one sinner that repenteth". At the same
time I felt what I had never felt before in these words, "O sing unto the
Lord a new song: for He hath done marvellous things: His right hand and His
holy arm hath gotten Him the victory". And I said, Lord, thou has gotten Thyself the victory over my heart. Thou art
stronger than I and hast prevailed. And I sung a song of praise that day.'
This was Jane's experience and the
sisters found it wonderful to discuss it. Mercy says, 'It struck my mind very
much, and confirmed me more and more in the faith of God's inward teaching; and
also it encouraged my hope respecting myself, especially as I had a little
feeling now that He was beginning to instruct my soul. A short time after this
I returned home, and continued for a while to feel the Lord's fresh comfort in
my soul. But by degrees I lost it.'
Mr. Benson was appointed Rector of
Norton-sub-Hamdon in Somerset in 1825, and Frances
had to leave Shropshire, not to see it again for nearly forty years. It was now
an altogether bigger undertaking for the sisters to visit her, and when they
went they stayed about a year. Mercy was the first to go there, in 1826, and
entered with enthusiasm into the religious life expected of Rectory ladies. 'I
followed my own course,' she says, 'and becoming elated in my own esteem and
that of others, I made a great outward show of
religion. I went about endeavouring to turn, as I thought, sinners from the
error of their way, not realising that lies still compassed me about and a
deceived heart turned me aside.'
Again she writes, 'My views of
religion became very exalted. I would try and make myself believe the blessings
bestowed on the godly as recorded in the 91st Psalm and other places were given
to me, but I never could be satisfied on that point. The religion I heard
everywhere spoken did not satisfy me at all, although outwardly it was the same
as my own'.
Of Jane it had to be confessed:
'The power of that experience at Leeds subsided and she became much confused as
to the value of the teaching she had received. For some years she was left to
walk in the light of sparks of her own kindling, and to join in a mere
profession of religion, the smooth surface of this often being ruffled by
inconsistencies of behaviour. Temptation to pride and anger often had the
mastery of her'.
And Matilda writes of these years,
'As yet I knew not that the sin that dwells within must abide unto the end.
Often in the midst of my darkness the Lord touched my heart in the reading of His
Word, showing me His mercy and saying, "Fear not, I will be with thee,
even as I said". Yet again and again I drowned all in unbelief, thinking
it could not be really true. Thus I strayed from Him, though He was leading me
in a way I knew not, and kept up that cry in my heart and that look to Him'.
In 1828 Charlotte, the fifth
daughter, died. She and Matilda had always been very closely united in spirit,
and 'for some years before her death she knew what it was to have real
communion with God'. It is Mercy who records something of Charlotte's end,
beginning in great honesty by saying, 'So engrossed was I at that time with
worldly things in my heart that to wait on Charlotte in her illness, or sit
beside her and converse on eternal things was irksome to me, and if I could
release myself from it I was glad. But my conscience pricked me about that all
the time. Three weeks before her death I did give myself up to being constantly
with her, and the Lord was pleased to whisper to my
heart through a few words she said.
'One day as I sat beside her for
several hours, after she had been silent for a long time, she said in a very
low voice, though evidently in a tone of exultation, "I have got it".
I asked her what she had got. She replied, "O, ask me no questions; that is my secret". She then asked me to
repeat a verse of Scripture to her. I quoted, "My Beloved is mine and I am
his— the chiefest among ten thousand and the
altogether lovely". I know what I felt at this, for that peculiar
persuasion which the Lord had implanted in my childhood (that there was indeed
something to be obtained in religion) was not taken away, notwithstanding all
my frowardness. And now that I heard this truth borne
witness to by my sister my heart leapt within me. I kept her words by me, and
thought when she was able to speak a little I would again ask her concerning
this thing.
'A day or two afterwards I said to
her, "Will you, dear, tell me one promise that has been fulfilled to
you?" She said, "Yes, I will tell you, but it is my secret: I do not
know whether I ought to tell you my secret. Perhaps I will tell you a part of
it. The promise that was fulfilled to me was, I am thy
Husband. You know it is 'Thy Maker is thy Husband' in the text, but I had it, I
am thy Husband". And then she added, "I asked you to repeat a verse
and you said, 'My Beloved is mine and I am His'; also you said, 'The chiefest among ten thousand and the altogether lovely' and
the verse I stopped you at when reading John 2I was, 'Yea, Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee'." She continued, "Yes,
my Beloved is mine and I am His. Thou art mine! I shall not be ashamed. But,
Mercy, this is not all my secret. I cannot tell you all of it".
'Then, Charlotte,' said I, 'those
verses are also fulfilled to you, "The secret of the Lord is with them
that fear Him", and "I will give him a white stone, and in the stone
a new name written, which no man knoweth save he that
receiveth it", to which she said with peculiar
emphasis, "Yes, quite".
'Some hours before her death she
said with great difficulty on account of the oppression on her breath, "Is
this death?" and looking up, she added, "My Lord and my God!"
She was thirty-five years old'
The year 1826 was remembered by
Sukey Harley as the year her cottage was burnt down. Until settled 'under Brom Hill' near Wrentnall, Sukey
appears to have moved once or twice. This cottage that was burnt is described
as 'a lone house: no one lived within a half-mile except the man in the other
half of it'. The tragedy is described in Sukey's own
words.
'It was Sunday morning. I was
sitting alone; my husband and child were gone to Church. I was very poorly in
body and sore distressed in mind. My heavy sins lay upon my heart. My Saviour
had hid His face. My sinful heart and the crafty devil were all the company I
had; we were shut up in the house together. He told me that my God had clean
forsaken me, and that my blessed Jesus had hid His face from me for ever. He
said I was never a child of God; that I had been all these years in a delusion;
that my sins were too great to be pardoned; that I had sinned against
pardoning: that the just and holy God would never call me His child; and all
manner of things he crammed into my heart. One thing he said was that against
March when high winds blew, the house would be blown down, and I tumbled into
hell. Well, he had the upper hand of me, and I was sorely sifted in my spirit,
and had no one word to answer to him because I felt myself so cursed. Oh what a
woeful plight I was in on that dismal morning! I thought, well, what a thing
this is! Is it true? Have I been all these years in a delusion? Just as I was
thinking this, I perceived the smell of burning. The house filled with smoke,
and I said, What, is the house on fire? I was so weak
and poorly, I could hardly crawl to the door. I looked out and saw the roof of
my house all on fire. Now the devil triumphed; he told me, and he almost made
me believe it too, that this would never have happened to me if I had been a
child of God. What, he said, don't you think God would
defend one of His own children? You are none of His; you have been in a
delusion all these years.
'I stood upon the causeway, and
kept looking at my burning house; but from that day to this I could never
describe the deadly sickness, the frightful terror that seized my inmost soul.
Oh, it is very solemn to speak of. I believed the devil's lies and took it for
a real sign and standing proof that I was right down deceived in all my blessed
hopes, and that I should never be found among the true elect children of God;
and as I stood looking at the fire, I cried out with an exceeding bitter cry,
"I am undone, I am lost, I am undone for ever!"
'Was it my house I cared for? No,
but it was because I thought all my heavenly treasures were lost. Then I fell
down all along upon the grassy bank before my burning house. I had no power
either to attempt to save anything myself, or to call for assistance. As for
going into the burning house, I dared not do it. I thought the flames were
ready to devour me, and I was the guiltiest wretch; my sins, my black sins were
ready to swallow me up. I kept lamenting my woeful case. What, I said, is this
true? Have I been all these years in a delusion? Is my blessed hope come to
nought at last? Is my precious Saviour clean gone for ever? Will He be
favourable no more? Will He be no longer my Father, my Redeemer? Oh, what shall
I do? Then I began to think what a blessed confidence I had had in Him, and how
I thought He had told me Himself that I should be His child, and that He would
save me and be a Father to me, and an almighty Redeemer. Then I began to think
what a boast I had made of Him, and how I had published abroad to all the world that I had got a Saviour and a God: and now I
thought, Is it all gone to this? What, is all my hope gone? Oh, what shall I
do? Then I began to think what blessed things He had done for me. Why, said I
to myself, I thought He had been pleased to reveal His Name in me and teach me
to read His Word, and call Him my Saviour; and now has it been all a delusion?
How can this be? Did He not teach me to pray to Him? and
has He not times and times blessed His Word to me? And was it not Himself who
taught me to read His Word? I thought it was He, I thought He had done all
these things for me, and now is He going to forsake me? Oh, my woeful case, my
sins, my heavy sins, my black sins! Oh, this is what has done it, this is what has done it. I cried out like David; yea,
roared, in the dis-quietness of my soul.
'I suppose if anyone had come along
and seen me lying all along upon the grass, and my house on fire, they would
have thought me a desperate fool, and so I was, the devil's fool. But what
could they have known about that?
'Well, I kept crying and bemoaning
and lamenting myself thus. I hardly dared to look up to God for help; I thought
He was clean gone, I almost feared, for ever. My sins had hid His mercy from
me, and Satan told me my hope was gone for ever; all was lost. Ah,but it was not lost though;
that was a lie! The blessed and merciful Lord in heaven, He heard my dolorous
cry. Blessed for ever be His most holy and glorious Name, He heard my pitiful
cry, He saw my tears; He had compassion on me in His own time, He came to my
relief; He darted into my soul. He rebuked the tempter. Then was the devil
vanquished. The blessed Jesus put him to flight in a moment, and the blessed
Jesus took possession of my sorrowful soul.
'He brought joy in turn of my heavy
sorrow. He assured me over and over again that He was my Saviour and my
Deliverer, and that He would not leave me nor forsake me. I felt His precious
blood sufficient to wash away all my sins, and my soul was joyful in God my
Saviour.
'He strengthened me marvellously;
it is impossible for me to describe rightly the wondrous change He wrought upon
me. I who was so weak, so poorly, that I had hardly been able to crawl out of
the house, and throw myself on the grass, in one moment was strengthened and
invigorated and replenished with all I stood in need of. Then I banged into the
burning house; I cared neither for flames nor falling rafters, nor timbers, nor
yet for the devil my mortal foe, for my Saviour was with me; He
was my defence. Oh, how safe I was! How safe I felt in Him! He and I
were alone together in the burning house.
'First, I got hold of my box of
books, where my precious Bible was, and I flung it out of the window into the
garden; then I went upstairs and heaved up the tub where the bacon was. I had
been salting a pig that week; it was as much as two men could have carried
downstairs, the flitches and hams lay together in the
tub; I bore it up with the strength the Lord had given me, and by His help I
carried it downstairs and took it out of the house and set it in the garden.
Then I went to the clock and carried it out, weights and all. Then again
upstairs and began to throw out the bedding; and next I set myself to unscrew
the bedstead. While I was doing this, John Merrick, who had seen the flames at
a distance, came running out of breath to my assistance. Poor fellow, he came
wringing his hands, and making such an ado. Oh, Sukey,
Sukey, what a bad job is this. How did this happen? What shall I do? Oh, poor
fellow, if he could but have understood; but he could not have understood if I
had told him. This was no bad job for me, for by it I proved the tender mercies
of God to me unworthy. We soon got the bedstead down; then John went to the
corner cupboard; in it there were three cups and saucers and all kinds of
crockery ware, and there was a small jug of milk which had been given me in the
morning. There was no time to take anything out of the cupboard, but John tore
it away by main strength, dragging hooks and staples and all along with it out
of the wall. Just as he had done this, there came crowds of people hastening to
the place; they had seen the flames from a distance as they were coming out of
church, and men, women, and children all in a throng hurried to the spot. I had
enough helpers then. Ah, but it was the Lord who had done all for me. He had
brought that sweet comfort into my soul, or what good would such as them have
done for me?
'We soon got the house cleared. No
one dared attempt to save anything out of John Morgan's house, for the fire
having begun on his side of the house, the flames had
reached too high before it was discovered. The people were all satisfied about
it.
'I lost one small three-legged
table, which I had lent him. Besides that, there was not one thing missing of
all my goods. This was how the Lord would have it. It was all His doing. I
hardly knew what I was about all this time I was saving my goods,
my soul was so joyful in God my Saviour. I was clean beside myself, to think of
His wondrous love to me, unworthy, black, polluted, hell-deserving sinner.
'When all the goods were out of the
house, and the roof fell in, and the flames rose up, and the smoke, then I
looked and wondered at it. It was a fearful sight to think what my sins had
deserved, and what a deliverance the Lord had brought
me. My soul had been just ready to fall into the lowest hell, and He stretched
out His hand and plucked me from the burning. What great salvation He sent to
my poor soul in that hour of darkness! I could take no thought about my poor
body; but now He took care of that, and saved for me those worldly things which
in that hour of darkness I could take no thoughts about. Bless the Lord, 0 my
soul!
'When the people saw all the things
I had carried out single-handed, they looked and wondered; there were many more
things than what are named in this paper. My memory would not serve to tell
them all; the loaves of bread, and pork pies, a whole peck of flour, I got them
all out of the house together; how or which way I did it I cannot tell; but
this I know, when I came to look at the loads of things I had brought out by
myself, I truly wondered at it, and so did the people. Why, Sukey, they said,
you never brought out that, you never carried out this! What, all by yourself?
No, no (I might have said to them, but they would not have understood me); I
did it? No, it was my God. He carried the things for me. This I know, for I had
not the least power that ever was, till He sent that wonderful strength into my
soul; aye, and into my body too. So by this I know it was His doing. I was
wholly lifted out of myself, with the abundance of consolation which had flowed
into my soul, by His restoring to me those blessed and heavenly things which I
thought had fled for ever. I was taking no thought for my body, or earthly
goods, all the while I was carrying my goods out of the house. It was surely
the Lord who kept me alive that day in the midst of the fire. Yes, He kept me
alive and gave me life, both bodily and spiritually; so I say, Let Him have all
the praise.
'When I came to the
corner-cupboard, not a single cup was chipped, nor the least thing broken or spoiled
in any way. And there was the jug of milk standing on the shelf exactly as I
had put it in in the morning, not one drop, or but
one, spilled upon the board. Well, at the sight of that jug of milk, how His
mercies came afresh to my mind, to think that He should put forth His hand to
save my jug of milk! And the people all saw it and wondered at it; but as for
me, I knew how it was: it was the blessed Lord's doings, to teach my soul His
tender mercies.
'Well, the folks, they fetched a waggon, and put the things into it, and they were carried
up to Star Coppice, where my sister Winnie Roberts
lived; but I myself came down to Churton Square. Old
Mat Spencer asked me into her house, and fetched a bowl of water to wash me. I
was soot and black and smoke all over. Mr. Charles and Mr. Bernard came to see
me. Mr. Bernard said to me sorrowful-like, "Sukey, where will be your home
now? you have got no home"! Oh, I often think of
them words—"You have got no home!" But my home is in heaven—yes, it
is!'
YOUNG
MEN OF CAMBRIDGE
R. BERNARD?' Yes, the little boy
who arrived at Pulverbach aged four is now Mr. Bernard, a young man of
twenty-three and ready to be ordained deacon in London at St. Mary-le-bone
Church in May of that very year. Like his father and grandfather, he had taken
an M.A. degree at Cambridge. In the eyes of the family he had stepped into the
place of the dear William who had died there. Oh! what
an interest this must have been to Matilda. The family was familiar with the
Cambridge scene. Their uncle, Professor William Parish, was still there and the
Rev. Charles Simeon was still Rector of Trinity Church.
The influence, indeed the whole
life of Charles Simeon had made a powerful difference to the divinity schools
of Cambridge, and his name was known and reverenced far and wide. He had, by
this time lived down years of persecution from students and dons for the
faithfulness with which he proclaimed the Gospel in its fulness.
He says himself, 'I remember the time that I was quite surprised that a Fellow
of my own College ventured to walk with me for a quarter of an hour on the
grass plot before Clare Hall; and for many years after I began my ministry I
was "as a man wondered at" by reason of the paucity of those who
showed any regard for true religion'. 'A few men of influence,' says Dr. Moule, 'were in essential agreement with him from the
first, particularly Isaac Milner, of Queens', and William Parish of Magdalene.
Parish, the Senior Wrangler of I778, gentlest of men but having a noble courage
of convictions, was an able scientific student, and became Jacksonian
Professor in 1813.' [One of his old pupils tells the story that Parish was
examined before an early Parliamentary Committee on Railways. He gave it as his
opinion that steam-carriages might run at sixty miles an hour, though thirty
miles would be a better common pace. He was questioned no further; and he heard
afterwards that the Committee were unanimous in a private verdict of unsound
mind]
Professor Parish remained a close friend
of Simeon all his life. In 1815 we find Simeon was visiting the Parish
relations at Scaleby Castle, near Carlisle, where
Margaret, Mercy, and Catharine Gilpin went at different times. When a young man Simeon had counted among his friends John Berridge, of Everton, and Henry Venn, of Yelling.
Simeon 'deplored the coldness and slackness of Church life in the country
generally, and he looked on its real resuscitation as one of the sacred objects
of his own labours.' In a word, he was the father of Evangelicalism. He said at
one point, 'I am not much afraid of true religion getting too fashionable, for
I have been too long in the fore-front of the battle, and I know the enmity of
the human heart to it. But I do stand amazed at the marvellous change which is
taking place all round in all ranks'.
As a result of the training of
divinity students under Simeon there went out from Cambridge in those days a
stream of earnest,devoted
young clergymen, though Simeon knew, none better, that training could not call
down grace upon them. The names of three such come within the range of these
researches—Charles Jeffreys, Watkin
Maddy, and Bernard Gilpin.
Bernard had grown up into a clever
and charming personality. 'His natural disposition was kindly and he was
remarkably considerate for the feelings of others. These qualities, combined
with his general knowledge and more than common taste for the natural sciences,
together with his conversational powers, made him always an interesting
companion and greatly endeared him to many.' He took his vocation seriously and
always saw the hand of God in it. This comes out in one of his letters written
years later,
'I thank you for putting down the
short sketch of the manner in which you were induced to take Orders. All such
points as you refer to ought to be remembered: the true fear of God will make
us reverently to regard the least matter, even as "a sparrow
falling", in which we may believe His hand may be
traced. I remember on a certain day when I was a child and thought childish things,
in consequence of a word which my uncle Professor Parish, of Cambridge, spoke
to me, I was led to consider, and I think to pray to know what I should be; and
I was surprised at the clear steadfastness with which I was brought to this
point, "I will be a clergyman". During my second year at Cambridge I
heard a sermon on these words. "Whom shall I send and who will go for
us?" It brought me to such a state of religious feeling and a sort of
humiliation, though scarcely more than a kind of Babel worship after all, that
I often look back and think that though all was without form and void the
Spirit of God moved there. At the time of my ordination I felt nothing worth
noticing; you know what your heart is, and such is mine.'
Charles Jeffreys
and Watkin Maddy were both senior to Bernard by about six years. Maddy was born at Hereford, and confesses that 'in his
youth he was very fond of castle-building, and dwelt for days and weeks on
imperious imaginations'. When he was very young the sight of one eye was nearly
lost by an accident, and the other developed such a weakness that he became
very shortsighted. He went to Cambridge in hopes to
get a Fellowship and become a clergyman. Unlike Bernard, who was unperturbed at
his ordination, Mr. Maddy was made to fear the
questions that would be put to him, 'Do you trust that you are inwardly moved
by the Holy Ghost to take upon you this office and ministry, to serve God for
the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?' Answer, I trust
so'. This fear increased as the ordination drew on,and he made great struggles to stifle it. He also
feared if he became a Fellow of the College it might render him independent of
God. These two fears are the only things I remember,' he says, 'which bore any
resemblance to the fear of God in my younger days.'
Two things he wondered at. First,
that he was kept industrious at College, thus being delivered from much evil,
and second, a prayer he used to add to the formal ones, "O Lord,
strengthen and preserve my eyesight and my mental and intellectual faculties
that I may obtain a decent living". Both were wonderfully answered. On the
Sunday evening before the Senate House Examination his anxiety was extreme. All
the money that he could expect from home had been spent on his education and
his eyes had been weakened by reading, so he thought he would never be fit for
anything needing their use. If he got a good degree he felt he would be
provided for; if not, he had nowhere else to turn. Two friends came into his
room and tried to hearten him with loud mirth. This, he says, sent him nearly
wild and he told them to go. He was in a fever of excitement and said to himself, "It's all up. I shall get no sleep tonight and
be fit for nothing tomorrow".
In this state he picked up a Bible.
Although he had studied it so much he had never before
consulted it for direction or comfort to himself. He opened on Psalm 37,
"Fret not thyself . . . Trust in the Lord . . . Commit thy way unto the
Lord . . ." He read it all through and it fell like balm on his fevered
spirit. His pulse subsided and he had a good night's rest. He came out Second
Wrangler, much higher, he says, than he had any right to expect. His mind was
kept perfectly free from anxiety all the first half of the examination. He
remembers acknowledging God in this and thanking Him.'
After this, he says, he lived in
'luxury, sloth, and forgetfulness of God', but the fear about going into Orders
increased, as he could only hold a Fellowship for a certain time without doing
so. He felt unfit, and believed there was a something to be experienced which
he had not got. A friend once said to him, I would not go into Orders if I felt
as you do'. He kept having qualms and stifling them, and at last he took
Orders, deliberately against the light of his conscience. Then hardly a day
passed but he wished he had not taken them. He thought of Korah,
Dathan, and Abiram and felt
it was a crime to have said he was moved by the Holy Ghost to preach the
Gospel.
In a state of misery he went to his
friend Charles Jeffreys, whose rooms were near his
and whose friendship he had courted when his troubles came on, and told him
all, asking him to pray for him. Then he went back to his own room, fell on his
knees and prayed desperately. "Take away my stony heart and give me a
heart of flesh," was part of his prayer. To his astonishment light poured
in on his sad heart, joy came, and he blessed and praised God. He felt too,
what he had long prayed for, a real love to God's people wherever they were.
The feeling of guilt now gone, and
sincerely hoping to take a curacy he went forward to Priest's Orders and
retained his Fellowship. He toiled along with much Pharisaic fasting and
prayer, until he began to feel a hypocrite. Ministerial duties became irksome.
He neglected no duty, however hard, he says, though he seemed to have strength
for none, however easy! The Bible opened up and awed him and drew his heart.
The covenant of grace appeared glorious and secure, and he was sure God would
fulfil all His promises to members of Christ—happy people!
The strain of his preaching was
that none should shut themselves out by despair for the Covenant would meet all
cases. He tried hard to find a support for his own hopes, at first in an Arminian way, then as one prop after another fell by the
discovery of the lack of all good in himself, the
doctrine of election became sweet. There he saw a hope independent of his own
efforts.'
He now took the curacy of Sparkford in Somerset, and bid goodbye to his friends at
Cambridge. We will hear some more of him a few years later on.
Charles Jeffreys
was the son of the Rev. R. Jeffreys, for many years
Chaplain to the Honourable East India Company. The family—a large one—came home
to England after the death of the mother, about the same time as the Gilpins
were settling at Pulver-bach. They moved from one
rectory to another before settling at Throcking, near
Buntingford, in Hertfordshire.
Charles was reserved, quiet and
gentle, delicate too, suffering from asthma. 'He was a brilliant scholar,
taking honours as Second Wrangler when Professor Airey,
afterwards Astronomer Royal, was Senior. His talents and success entitled him
to expect great things for himself. Being naturally gifted
with a remarkable power of elucidating any subject that he handled, his sermons
before the University while Fellow of St. John's became deep, clear, and
spiritual expositions of the Word of God. The tenderness and deep
humiliation of his spirit cannot easily be conveyed.' Bernard says, I loved him as my own soul. His simplicity, humility, and
the clearness of his mind delighted me; and the depth of his views and feelings
in the Scriptures delighted me also'.
Buntingford was only twenty miles or so from Cambridge,
on the main coach road to London, and Bernard, whose home was so far away, must
have visited at his friend's house. For the next thing we find is that Bernard
became engaged to Charles's youngest sister, Henrietta, aged nineteen.
About this time Bernard, who was
newly ordained, became attached to a Church at Hertford—possibly St. Andrew's,
the Rectorship of which he received in 1829. The
young clergyman, only twenty-five, soon made a good impression in the town by
his zeal and by his conscientious visiting of the sick and dying. But, he
confesses later in life, 'my repose was partly in the bare hearing of Christ,
and principally in my religious feelings, affections, and works, my devotion,
zeal, and humility; which I supposed to be all genuine, of course. And as there
seemed to be the fruits of faith, the conclusion appeared certain that having
faith and works both, I was right on Scripture grounds. Yet I had sometimes a
conviction that my faith had no strong influence on my heart. And how could it?
For it was really only a shadow, not "the substance of things hoped for".
It had no power of God in it. It was, in fact, only opinion, operating to a
certain extent on my natural affections. I laboured to overpower this
conviction, as being only unsettling, and even unfounded in Scripture, which,
awarding salvation (though by grace as I even then owned) to a faith which is
accompanied with good works, seemed to my then blind understanding as really
witnessing to my safety. This conviction, however, would at times have proved
distressing had it met with any encouragement from my religious friends and
acquaintances; but they never even examined into the grounds of its rise. Their
principal endeavour (and mine with them) was to account and treat one another
as truly converted. This is called "walking in love"; and should any
seriously-disposed person express the conviction which I felt they seek to
overbear it without serious investigation: — "You must not give way to
doubts and fears, they are sinful; you must honour God by trusting in His
mercy." I received this poison and was lulled to rest by it, and I think,
since the time that I had became a zealous preacher I was in a much worse state
than before; being almost, if not altogether, one of those to whom Christ says,
"The publicans and harlots go into the Kingdom of God before you!"
'Thus was I resting upon my
knowledge and zeal. The light in me never effectually
discovered the root of spiritual sin in my heart, self-righteousness, pride,
carnal enmity, worldly love and unbelief; nor did such faith as I had bring
into my soul the power and love of Christ for it stood in man's wisdom (i.e. my
own) and not in God's power. There is a great deal of the theory of religion,
and resting in the theory, but very little indeed of the inward experience. If
a person who has been outwardly immoral or dissipated becomes the subject of
serious convictions, this is (very properly) encouraged. The man is then taught
that he is to close with Christ, and depend on Him, and so forth. When he
thinks he has done this, or other people think so, he is too often encouraged,
flattered, made a teacher of. A continual round of outward duties, attention to
public charities, etc., very, very often becomes the whole of his religion. But
now, people say, he is a Christian, he is not to feel doubts and fears, these
would dishonour God. God is his Father; if he should be gloomy he would
discredit religion. Thus are persons built up, filled with presumptuous
confidence; henceforth their whole religious life is an easy straightforward
course, and almost the only temptations they are aware of are temptations to
some outward sin of the flesh; if they resist these they are well pleased, and
can pray with great confidence. If they are in any measure overcome, in the
same degree their confidence in praying forsakes them, and they are not easy
until some fresh duty engaged in gives them a renewed hope that they are right
with God.
'This was my religion altogether
and entirely, except that I did not go so far as many have gone in the
practical, the self-denying part; I supplied that deficiency by a very clear
and exact arrangement of the Gospel doctrines in my understanding.'
Just at that time, amongst his
sick-visiting there was a case which interested and perplexed him, and which in
later years he was able to analyse and understand. A tailor in Hertford, John
Johnson, thirty-one years old, fell ill and his friends asked the young Mr.
Gilpin to visit him. He was a man of pleasant appearance, manner, and
disposition and intelligent in conversation. But, says Bernard, 'I never
conversed with anyone who seemed more resolved (though with much courtesy) not
to be talked into religion. His buoyancy of spirits made him shun the idea of
melancholy reflection, and probably his intelligence enabled him to discern
that many who make a high profession say much more than they really feel, which may have excited some disgust in his mind. I
soon observed in him a disposition to evade my visits, and more than once his
wife gave an excuse for his not seeing me.
'One Sunday afternoon I made a
further effort, and actually met him at the door, so he turned back and asked
me in. I am ashamed when I consider my own unfitness at that time for the work
I so eagerly engaged in. I used indeed often to begin to fear that I was
talking beyond my depth, and, as it were, setting forth a God unknown to
myself, but before this fear gathered force, or rather to prevent its doing so,
I would, with eager zeal, speak afresh, and if I could say anything affecting
or forcible, would conclude I had done a good thing. I now assured Johnson he
ought to attend to religion, that it was highly dangerous to neglect it, that it was necessary that he should believe in Jesus
Christ, for his own works could not save him. He showed by his answers that he
had neglected the Bible and was careless and ignorant. However, before we
parted a few things I had said seemed to have fallen with some weight on his
mind, and from then on he was more cordial and seemed really glad to see me. He
had an abscess at the knee-joint which got worse and confined him at last to
his bed. But he appeared almost from that very time to begin to read the Bible
more seriously.
'The concern and attention of this
man surprised and pleased me. I did really desire his happiness, yet rather
sought how I might approve myself to him and others as an able minister, than
how to bring my own case and his before the Lord continually for light and
direction from Him. Early in October I went up to Pulverbach, to witness the
last days of my sister Charlotte, to whom I was greatly attached. During my
absence Johnson appears to have been visited by the mighty hand of God, and
thrown into a state of great alarm on account of his sins and lest he should
never be saved. His wife sent for me, but I was away; they sent repeatedly, and
now Johnson thought my absence was a judgment from God on account of his sins
and a token that he should never find mercy. But being thus cut off from the
hope of help from me he was led to earnest and continual prayer, and after some
time he found encouragement and hope to spring up in his mind, accompanied with
much light in the Word of God, which became very precious to him, and was his
most constant companion from that time up to the day of his death.
'On my return home I went as soon
as I was able to see him. He welcomed me most cordially and related with
tenderness and simplicity the trouble he had passed through since we had met,
and the happy issue of it. I did not understand the nature of this spiritual
work in his heart, but remember that his words left in me a very deep
impression of truth. Yet those very transactions he described which had brought
him to feel God as present in favour with himself,
rather estranged him from me, I having had no knowledge of this secret of the
Lord's presence. I was aware (though I would hardly acknowledge it even to
myself) that he was describing what I could not understand, the reason being
that "the natural man receiveth not the things
of the Spirit of God". Though this conviction pressed me, I someway
deceitfully shrunk from it, through the unbrokenness
of my heart, that I might keep fair in my own eyes and maintain my false peace.
'It cannot surprise anyone that, in
such a state of heart, I endeavoured during all my visits to make the
conversation as general as possible. I read much to him out of the Scriptures,
and when he tried to express the deep feelings which had followed his
meditation on particular passages I admired them as well as I was able, but
never probed his heart, never endeavoured to trace the operation of God's
Spirit there, for I had no knowledge of it myself. I paid some attention to his
expressions of joy and confidence, but little regarded those that betokened
brokenness of heart and abasement before God. Finding myself encompassed with
difficulties, and being afraid (I am sorry to add) of his discovering this I
forbore to visit him as often as he expected; for which neglect, being at times
pressed in conscience, I would return to him for duty's sake.
'A strong evidence of the reality
of his religion was the power, depth, and fulness he
often, or rather daily, used to find in the Scriptures. It was clear from what
I related at the beginning that at the time of my first visit he neither knew
nor revered them; but from the month of November 1828 till his death the
following June his whole heart was engaged in prayer and meditation upon them.
He searched all parts of them and though he had not the advantage of a
spiritual minister, God made him wiser than his teachers; yet granted him such
simplicity that he never seemed to be aware of his superior attainments
himself. I remember often having observed with surprise (not then knowing the
tokens of the true work of grace) that his frames of mind were so exceedingly
variable that I never could be sure beforehand in what channel his conversation
would run. When he felt the actings of a lively faith
and the peace of God in his conscience he was unmoved by pain or anxiety, but I
often found him in a low distressed state from a sense of sin and an inability
to realise the consolations of the Spirit. In consequence of my own spiritual
blindness I looked upon this as a proof of weakness and want of establishment,
and I never knew how to examine the causes of these repeated changes.
'When his illness increased his
joys at times rose higher. His spirit seemed to be like a bird let loose. As
the spring of 1829 advanced his sufferings became very great. In one convulsive
fit which was unusually severe his wife thought him in the last extremity, and
he appeared entirely insensible, his features expressing great agony. But he
revived, and his wife expressing grief at the severity of his pain he surprised
her by answering, "Really I felt no pain at all. I was more
happy than I can express. I was only conscious enough to suppose that I
was dying, and I kept inwardly smiling to myself at the thought".
'I began to feel a regard for him,
and indeed a reverence and esteem which altered the character of my visits. His
conversation affected me deeply and at times when he could not speak I enjoyed
sitting by his bedside in silence. Whenever on entering his room I found him in
such a serious frame that he could scarcely notice me I was glad that I went,
but if he met me with a lively smile as much as to say "Come and enter
into my joy", I wished I could have left the room unperceived.
On Sunday, June 21st, Johnson drew
to his end. 'As soon as the evening service was over I went to his room. My
wife [This was Henrietta Jeffreys] who felt an interest kindred to mine, accompanied me. He was already
past all power of speech, and was at times greatly convulsed, but we continued
silently watching him, without in the least shrinking from the scene, till some
time past midnight, when he slowly expired. I feel an increasing hope that the
mercy of God, Whom I then knew not, guided me in all these things and I felt
"It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of
feasting; for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his
heart".
'Alongside this case of Johnson's
was another under my close attention. It was a friend of his—J. E. about the
same age, and of the same trade; indeed they had worked together. He was a man
of quick parts, and being fond of lively conversation he had mixed with
profligate and infidel companions, by whose influence and books his imagination
had become polluted and his outward conduct immoral. As long as he was in good
health he gloried in being an infidel; when visited with sickness he had
repeatedly been the subject of horror and remorse. About three months after
Johnson's conversion this man was seized with a violent inflammation on the
lungs. His illness became desperate and threatened, should he even survive the
immediate crisis, to issue in a rapid consumption. Being a single man and utterly
prodigal in his health, he was now so destitute that he was removed to the
parish workhouse. The terror of his mind was beyond all former precedent. He
cried out, even as he was carried through the street, that he was lost for
ever, without the least gleam of hope. This struck horror into the minds of
several who heard him. Johnson heard of it and immediately sent to entreat me
to go to his friend.
'I went. The scene was an awful
one. He seemed almost in an agony of death, and kept declaring that he had no
hope. I begged him to compose himself and to listen to me. I told him that his
friend Johnson had found mercy, and pointed out to him the way of salvation
through faith in Jesus Christ. He became silent and listened. I spoke very
freely and felt no reserve or embarrassment. He thanked me most passionately
for coming, and said he would seek God's mercy.
'I felt very sanguine respecting
him, and was surprised to find I could speak much more freely to him than I
could to Johnson. I visited him frequently and he assured me my conversations
did him good. The horror of his mind was speedily dissipated; he began to drink
in my instructions with avidity. He said he prayed fervently and his hopes were
continually raised higher and higher. Several persons who came to see him
expressed their astonishment at the change. The affection he expressed for me
was beyond measure great.
'Contrary to all expectation, he
began to recover. He continued devoted to religion and expressed great delight
in the hope of attending Church and especially of seeing his friend Johnson,
now of one mind with him in religion as formerly in irreligion. His continual
desire now seemed to be to study difficult questions in religion and to apply
to me for their solution.
'Johnson was highly gratified by
hearing from me so favourable an account of his friend and looked forward to
meeting him again. As soon as E. was able to walk, they met and talked some
time together. Johnson's hopes fell. He found no stability
nor sobriety of mind, but a flightly
imagination, unbroken heart and fleshly admiration of persons. Alas! I may say
that I myself gave to E. all the religion he ever had. All the fire within him
was of my own kindling, and he was in the strictest sense my own convert. No
wonder Johnson said, shaking his head, "Nothing there, I fear".
'The event too fully justified
Johnson's fears. E. began to show less and less consistency. He was gradually
drawn away and after a lapse of some months studiously avoided a personal
interview with me. I have observed him frequently at a distance turn short
round or slip aside the instant he caught sight of me.'
These two cases, running alongside
each other and with such different outcomes, confounded the young clergyman for
a long time. Thus was he, like his sisters, led to ponder upon what a true work
of God upon the heart could be.
MY mother having died in India
while I was an infant' (writes Henrietta) 'and my father being much engrossed in
human learning and not till many years afterwards impressed with the importance
of religion, I do not recollect receiving any religious instruction beyond
hearing a chapter in the Bible and one of Spinks'
prayers read duly morning and night in the family. I was also required to take
my stand among my brothers and sisters while we repeated the Church Catechism
with perfect correctness to my father every Sunday evening. This was followed
by the reading of a sermon. I used to pay little attention to these forms;
indeed I found them most irksome, my spirit being wholly set on this world.
'When I was about nine years old my
eldest sister was reading to us one day from the Scriptures, and coming to that
chapter where the "sin unto death" is spoken of, she stopped to
comment upon it, saying that it was a mystery and no one could tell what that
sin was. I felt while she was speaking an amazing curiosity to know what that
mysterious sin could be, and something seemed to whisper, "Commit that
sin". I was in the greatest horror and tried in vain to drive it away.
"How can I commit it?" said I to myself, "I don't even know what
it is." Still I was tormented to such a degree that at last I shut myself
up in a cupboard and tremblingly said, "I commit it". Thus I sought to
obtain quiet, but the moment the words were out of my lips I was terrified and
would have borne anything to have recalled them! I feared greatly but still a
hope glimmered within that perhaps it would not be charged on me, that perhaps
it was kept secret on purpose to keep people from committing it. With this
little hope I knelt down and begged the Lord earnestly to tell me if I had
committed it. I had never in my life heard a word that could lead me to think
that God ever sensibly speaks to the heart of His people nowadays, and
therefore I have often been surprised since to think what could put me upon
asking such a thing. I kept begging and watching for an answer, but days and
nights passed and nothing occurred from which anything could be gathered, and by
degrees the pleasures of childhood wore away my terrors. The remembrance only
recurred to my memory many years afterwards.
'When I was about fourteen I was
confirmed, when I set hard to work at my religion, often making great efforts
and then giving them all up. I was at boarding-school, and sometimes worked up
a very strict line of religion. As I patiently endured some ridicule and stood
through one or two strong temptations, I began to think myself established. At
seventeen I finally left school and returned to live with my family at Petersham, near Richmond. Here my religion seemed to
flourish. I became more earnest and constant in private prayer and more
self-denying in my daily walk. I have often looked back with surprise at the
strict scrutiny I used to keep over my thoughts and actions. Though I was
perfectly my own mistress and my time was at my own disposal I seldom ventured
to undertake the smallest employment [like the Gilpin daughters she taught
village children] without seriously asking myself whether it would be more
pleasing to God than anything else I could do. This obliged me sometimes to
sacrifice even my strongest inclinations which I found very painful, but was
supported by the thought that I must surely be a converted character.
'Sometimes I would set apart a day
for self-examination and humiliation before God, go over a catalogue of sins
and even lie prostrate on the ground, weeping and confessing my sins. All this
I used to suppose must be godly sorrow and genuine repentance, though I now see
nothing in it but what was self-wrought. In this way I went on, supposing I had
found all that was to be found in religion, and nothing now remained but to
persevere to the end and so be saved.
'I was in this state when one
morning I rose and, while dressing began, as usual, to repeat hymns and psalms.
All of a sudden it was darted into my mind, "What is the use of all your
prayers, etc.? You had better leave them alone, for it
is impossible you should ever be saved. You have deliberately and of free
choice committed the unpardonable sin." And immediately the transaction I
have already mentioned from my early childhood was brought quite fresh to my
memory. My spirit was thrown into great flurry and alarm and I tried hard to
fortify myself against it by reminding myself how pious I had become. Just at
this moment the bell rang for family prayer and I went down. It happened that
the chapter in course was not read that morning, but instead of it that one
which contains our Saviour's mention of the sin against the Holy Ghost, saying
"it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world neither in the world
to come". I cannot describe the terror that seized me while these words
were read. It seemed to me that the remarkable circumstance of this chapter
being selected just after the convictions I had had upstairs was ordained to
prove my guilt and stop my mouth. My whole soul was in an agony. I shut myself
up in my room and spent the day in anguish. I felt forbidden to open the Bible
or pray, yet I can never forget the value and blessedness I then saw in the
Scriptures and the envy I felt towards those who might read them. At last I
ventured to go and tell my distress to one of my sisters. She answered that the
exact nature of that sin was not revealed and therefore it was not our part to
enquire into it. I replied that I feared the way in which I had committed it,
cut off all hope that I was mistaken in the sin, for that I had actually been
so mad as to say, whatever it is, I commit it. I then confessed all the
circumstances to her, which quite staggered her. After some silence she only
said, "Well! It is astonishing how wicked even children can he!" Thus
I got small comfort from her, and went again to my room worse than ever.
'At last as I was wandering about the
house, I found a heap of books that had laid undisturbed for a long time, and
idly picking up one I was struck by its title, The Redeemer's Tears, and
sitting down on the floor I opened it. Bound up under the same cover was a
little treatise called On the Sin against the Holy Ghost, addressed to Tempted
Souls. I was agitated and astonished. I had never before in my life met with
anything on the subject and I began to read it with deep attention. The author
did not enter much into the nature of the sin but showed clearly that such as
are under the guilt of it are destitute of the strivings of the Spirit in their
hearts, and "if the love and favour of God seem more desirable in your
eyes than anything else you have not been suffered to sin, the sin unto death".
He showed that it was the malice of Satan that was molesting one who was
haunted with this fear. I found it all encouraging, and hoped it would prove
true for me. Still in some doubt, I thought, however, that I would venture to
the evening service, as the bells were just then ringing. In the First Lesson
these words fell most sweetly upon my spirit, "Fear not for I have
redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name, thou art Mine". All my
fears vanished, and from that hour to this they have never been suffered to
return upon that particular subject.
'A week or two afterwards I went to
re-read the tract, but it was not in the book nor any
allusion to it in the index. I could not tell what to make of this, but so
certain was I that I had been made to read it there and that it now was not
there that I was ready to think it miraculous, but I never told a creature what
had happened. Several years afterwards this mystery was cleared up thus.
Another sister and I were sorting my father's books after a family removal and
we began talking about them. She said some good men were often injudicious, and
mentioned the publishing of treatises on the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost,
which, she said, was the very way such things were put into people's heads.
' "Have you ever destroyed any such treatises
then?" I asked.
' "Yes," she answered,
"There was one in one of our books and I got it out without hurting the
book at all, and the place too where it was noticed in the table of
contents."
' "I know what the book was," said I.
"It was Howe's Redeemer's Tears."
' "What then, had you seen it?" she asked.
I only said yes, but I felt a good deal, and thought what a mercy it was that
although it had been for years in the house she had not been suffered to lay
hands on it till just after it had done what it had for me.
'After I was thus delivered from
that temptation I went on very smoothly and I think I can say that "after
the strictest sect of our religion I lived a Pharisee". Alas it is awful
to think how I, like others in this state, could talk and teach of Christ, and
fill my long prayers with the continual mention of His name and righteousness
and yet know nothing in the world about Him experimentally. As for sensible
answers to prayer, I may say I never looked for any; and the forgiveness of
sins I thought would of course take place without our knowing it, if we were
very religious. As I made sure of my being in a state of grace it is no wonder
that I had often seasons of much happiness, which I took for the peace of God,
and thought it a token for good, as the Word says, "Rejoice
evermore."
'In this state I continued till
some time after my removal with my family to Hampstead, and then I remember two
occasions when my confidence received a sudden shake. The first was this. I
came out of my room more than ordinarily happy and well satisfied after my
earnest prayers, when as I was going downstairs I was arrested by this
question, "Are you sure you are born again?" "Yes," I
answered, "surely I must be." The question was repeated. I stood
still and wondered what could put such a thing in my head,
and answered as before, bringing up a few Scripture proofs. Again the same
question was repeated more solemnly, and as it were preceded by a
"Nevertheless". I was chilled throughout in a way I cannot describe
but tried as it were to have the last word. Still it presented itself and I had
to go away with it sounding unanswered in my heart. This caused a dreadful
feeling: I thought it came from the enemy and wore it off by constantly resisting
it.
'The second occasion was just
before a communion service. I had been preparing myself all week with long
self-examination. If I remember right, I was engaged in earnest prayer and had
been blessing God for enabling me to devote myself to His service. At that
moment I was conscious of an inward conviction that all this
my religion was to come to nothing—to be utterly destroyed. I thought
this came from my own imagination and coolly tried to turn my eyes another way,
but it increased to a most positive intimation of the dreadful truth, for
dreadful it was to me at that time, as I thought it implied final apostasy from
grace.
'The terrifying effect of this
abode long; indeed it never wholly left me for I believe the hopeless feeling
it wrought went far towards making me reckless and desperate in the spiritual
declension which began soon after. In a few weeks more I found I had lost all
relish in religious duties; I gradually left off private prayer and
watchfulness and at last got quite thoughtless and worldly. I had indeed
intervals of bitter misery, in which I would strive, as it were in the very
fire, to regain what I had lost.
'We had now removed to Buntingford and I was just twenty years of age. I was
looking forward to my approaching marriage with a sort of hope that in becoming
the wife of a clergyman the sense of responsibility would urge me to greater
exertion to regain and maintain my religion.'
This, then, was the Henrietta who
devotedly accompanied her husband to John Johnston's dying-bed. Bernard, in one
of his letters, says of her, 'My dear wife had been,
before I knew her, built up to a wonderful height of religion: but as all she
had attained to had over and again been reduced to nothing, she had fallen into
a kind of despair, attributing the fault entirely to herself.
She continues: 'It was somewhat
more than a year after my marriage, on May 5th, 1830, that I began to feel a
return of more abiding concern for my soul. I received a shock on that day by
hearing of the sudden death of a worldly relation in the prime of youth and
health. This caused much working of fear in my heart. That summer I felt to be
getting into a worse state than ever and the enmity of my heart was aroused in
a way I had not felt before. At times I felt irritated, as I may say, against
the Lord for not giving me better success in my religion!
'Besides this, some of those books
which had been my greatest favourites now excited in me bitter indignation.
They really had a legal bias but I supposed them to be faultless and that my
dislike was only against that which was good, yet I could not restrain it. I
was beginning to be brought into a state of spiritual poverty, and therefore,
like the Israelites who could not deliver the tale of the bricks without straw,
I hated the taskmasters. This arose to such a height that one day I took up Doddridge's Rise and Progress and angrily flung it across
the room, resolving never to pick it up wherever it might fall. It alighted on
the top of a high wardrobe, and I do not recollect that I ever saw it again,
though for a long time I used to feel guilty whenever I thought of the top of
the wardrobe!
'During that year and the next my
state grew worse and worse. I gradually lost all power to offer one connected
prayer, though I had formerly been very fluent. I would kneel down with my
heart very full, but so dark and confused that I could not put two words
together and would remain perfectly dumb for a long
time and then rise without having uttered a word. I remember well when I would
bemoan myself to my dear husband, in the thickest of my darkness he would say
to me, "I believe some day you'll find that self-righteousness has in some
way come in, but I have not light enough to explain how".
'I could not believe this then,
because in the letter I did so strongly hold Christ to be all in all. Another
thing he used to say which I could as little believe was, "I believe
firmly that God has begun to show you some especial thing, and I hope we shall
both be enabled to watch what it is". But I seemed reduced to such a sense
of blindness that really some qf the rooms in the
Rectory used, for a long while after we had left that house, to convey to my
mind the impression of dark rooms without windows, from the exercise of mind I
had gone through in them!'
[Actually the old Rectory of St.
Andrew's stands in an open, sunny position above a wide curve of the river,
which is dominated there by the beating waterwheel of a very ancient cornmill.]
In the Spring
of 1831 the Pulverbach family lost their beloved mother. Bernard and Henrietta,
with their first little daughter, Elizabeth, born in January, made the long
journey north. Perhaps it was Henrietta's first glimpse of Shropshire and as
the coach came up the Church Stretton valley the
beautiful folding hills fresh with April green would surely impress her,
especially after the enormous open landscapes round Buntingford.
She had met Mercy already, for Mercy records journeying during Bernard's
wedding year to Buntingford (the wedding itself
perhaps?), Cambridge (the Parishes), and Hertford. But with what interest she
would meet the others!
Elizabeth, the eldest, had just
returned from Leeds where Aunt Charlotte Fawcett had
died, preceding her sister Mrs. Gilpin by only three weeks.
'Before she died Mrs. Gilpin said,
"I am not triumphant like that dear sister of mine, but I have peace.
There was a cloud, but it has passed, it has passed. Eye hath not seen nor ear
heard the glories of that glorious change. I shall behold them soon. I shall
sing Alleluia! Alleluia! I shall be washed in the blood of the Lamb. I shall be
clean and white. I shall have the white robe, the fine linen which is the
righteousness of the saints, and join the blessed company in that joyous song—Worthy is the Lamb that was slain".
After that the hushed house, the
black clothes, and the funeral cortege winding up the lane to the church. Did
Henrietta see anything of Sukey Harley? We cannot know, but we feel Sukey would
have understood her and would have felt a great affection for 'Mr. Bernard's'
young wife.
Mercy says, 'The year 1831 was a
year of severe trial in our family. Our dear mother died, and other afflictions
followed quickly upon this. And oh! there were moments
in this and the following year when my heart seemed ready to burst. I felt that
if some relief (which when brought, I believed to be of the Lord) had not been
given at the moment it was I should have sunk'.
Matilda also speaks of great sorrow
in these years. We are not told of the nature of it all, but that it broke out
after the death of Mrs. Gilpin seems to show the loss of a guiding and
controlling hand. When probing into family records one can only conjecture
about some items; it would seem indelicate to pursue concealed sorrows. In this
connection one wonders about the youngest of the family, Richard, aged
twenty-four at the time of his mother's death. His name appears on the family
tree and on the back of the tombstone (he died an old man at Hawkhurst in Kent). But there is no trace of him in letter
or diary. Just at this time Frances had her fourth son and named him Richard.
Could it be because anguish and love over a defaulting brother were in the
forefront of the family's feelings just then? On the other hand what acute
grief can enter a family through a love affair going awry.
All or any of these heart sorrows could be included in Mercy's remarks, which
certainly suggest that the family had their share of the sufferings of this
life, and their spiritual introspection was by no means only in the abstract.
Bernard and Henrietta returned, of
course, to Hertford. Henrietta's Account continues,
'After I had gone on thus for a
long time without finding any answer or light on my path, or hearing anything
from others that could explain my case, I began to give up all for lost. I
resolved to try no more, except I used to repeat as I went about,
Lord, I am weak, be Thou my might:
Lord, I am blind, be Thou my sight.
Here I seemed at the worst, for
having given up all hope of finding religion I was dreadfully afraid of death.
And to make my fear greater, the cholera came to our shores and at last to our
town and very door! This greatly alarmed me, but I did not betray my fears to
others, and seldom spoke of religion to anyone.
'One evening I visited a sister who
lived at Hertingfordbury (a village a few miles out
of Hertford). Charles was there.' [Her brother Charles, a Fellow of St. John's,
Cambridge, about this time had the Tutorship offered him, and to the
astonishment of all his friends, religious and worldly, refused it. 'That which
staggered his mind,' says Bernard, 'was the lightness and ease of the
prevailing profession of religion. Persons started up into evangelical
ministers who really knew nothing of the inward teaching of God, who knew nothing
of the inward cross.' Bernard was forced to say that at this time
'he—Charles—saw the same superficial character in my religion that he saw in
others, and he was led, and that I can testify with the best reason, to doubt
of my state altogether!'] Henrietta goes on: 'Charles shared my husband's duty
at that time for a while and I had been a good deal in his company, but had
never said a word about religion to him. However, that evening at my sister's
he said these words in an accidental way, as it seemed: "It is very easy
for a person to have an amazing deal of outward religion, and of closet
religion too—prayer, reading, self-mortification, and everything else that
seems good—with their mouths, heads, and as they think their hearts full of the
name of Jesus Christ, while they are all the while turning their backs upon Him
and utterly disregarding the salvation He wrought".
'This remark fell with an
unspeakable weight on my spirit, and the words "Thou art the man!"
sounded through my heart. My sister thought the statement unguarded, and said a
good deal to soften it down. He heard her through, and then quietly repeated
all, even more strongly than at first. I believe I betrayed my emotion, for I
remember he spoke to me afterwards, but I was so utterly amazed that I neither
heard nor heeded a word more that either of them spoke. How I went home I know
not. I only seemed to come to when I arrived at my own door. Then I remembered,
with great regret that I had not asked my brother to explain to me what the
fault of such a religion was. These words came unsought into my mind, "And
they shall be all taught of God". Oh, I thought, that is only in the Old
Testament spoken to the Jews. It doesn't allude to the cases of individuals
like me in such a literal manner as I should need. Soon after I opened the
Testament on the place where Jesus renews that promise, saying, "It is
written in the prophets, And they shall be all taught
of God". It came to my heart very sweetly for a while. That night in my
room I felt a great spirit of prayer come upon me and a resolution to cry till
I obtained this effectual teaching from God. I knelt down by my bedside and
thought I could not rise from prayer all night, but almost before I could lift
up a thought to the Lord a wonderful inward light flowed into my soul
accompanied by a verse in the Revelations which contains the word
"FREELY". "Whosoever will, let him take
the water of life freely." It was only the word "freely" that
was spoken to my soul, and that with indescribable
power. It spoke thus: "Let go all your prayers, all your earnest spiritual
desires, all your victories over sin and self. Turn away your eyes from
beholding such vanities and take my salvation FREELY". The feeling
conveyed to my mind was that that one word "freely" filled heaven and
earth. The light that came with it and the discovery made by it astonished me
so, that I was quite overcome.
' "Oh," I said to myself, "does every
Scripture doctrine contain such a depth within it when revealed by the Spirit?
I wonder whether anyone else understands the word 'freely', and if they do I
wonder they can help speaking more of it to each other!" Many such things
I said in my ignorance, thinking I should have such wonders to tell of it,
whereas when I tried to explain the word to others I found I was only saying
the oldest and most commonplace things such as I myself had over and again
taught the schoolchildren. The difference lay not in the letter but in the
experience and power. I was like one that talked strangely to my religious
acquaintances—not that they denied the truth of what I had found in the word
"freely" but rather spoke thus: "Of course it is so. Have you
never known that before? Don't you remember the Scripture says so and so?"
as if I could have learnt it from the letter alone!
'For some time the effect of this
sweet manifestation of the truth to my heart abode with me and often returned
afresh in a remarkable way, bringing, as I prayed, the impression of a bright
light and also such a sense of nothingness while the Lord Jesus carried on
alone the work of my salvation. This happened in May, 1832 (when her second
daughter, Annette, was born) and lasted a fortnight or three weeks, but so
ignorant was I that because the sensible feeling of this experience did not
abide I to a great extent gave it up and should never have been able to give a
consistent account of it had it not been sweetly revived many times since.
'Several of my sisters had
separated from the Established Church, but I was entirely unacquainted with
their principles, and when I heard that my brother Charles, after leaving
Hertford with the intention of merely passing a day or two with them, had found
such union with the members of their connection that he had determined to stay
among them, I felt astonished and mortified, not doubting but that he was sadly
beguiled. And I was the more dis-sappointed as I had
held him in very high esteem ever since what had passed at Hertingfordbury.
'At the end of August I had to pass
through London, and I slept one night at my sister
Harriet's home (Mrs. Col. Nicol). I had no intention
of speaking to her on the subject of religion, but a few words passed between
us as we were about to part next morning. She began to say something on that
subject. I interrupted her by saying, "I really am not able to judge
t>f anything you advance, for I am very ignorant".
'She answered, "Dear sister,
pray don't be too sure you know what being ignorant and blind means".
I rejoined, "O, but I am
ignorant and blind, and that to such a degree that for months together I have
not been able to make out the simplest prayer, but just to repeat over and
over, Lord I know not what conversion means. Thou knowest.
O give it me".
'Her emotion betrayed the pleasure
and surprise with which she heard me. And for my part I was fully as much
surprised at the lively interest and tender sympathy excited in her by a
confession of what seemed to me so bad. After covering her face with her hands
quite silently, she at last said rather abruptly, "Then how can you keep friends
with such authors as Doddridge? What can you find in
them to suit a case like what you describe?"
' "Well," I said. "I think they must
have been very good men and I can't see any error in their works, but I must
confess that my Rise and Progress lies covered with dust at the top of an old
wardrobe where I flung it in my despair, but I always thought I did very
wrong."
'She smiled significantly, as much
as to say I should see more on that subject bye and bye, and she put into my
hands Hart's Hymns, and a manuscript book containing copies of a few letters of
Mr. Bourne and Mr. Burrell. We parted with more than usual affection. Indeed I
felt then, for the first time in my life, a little spark of the true unity of
the Spirit. This, however, was soon obscured, for shortly afterwards
circumstances occurred which excited strong prejudices in my mind against my
relations and their friends, whose conduct and sentiments were represented to
me under a load of evil report.'
Bernard says of these people at
this time: 'I knew nothing either of the principles or practice of Charles's
new friends, a small congregation in London neither belonging to the
Establishment nor to any of the principal non-conforming denominations, but
thought I might safely condemn them as verging to some dangerous extremes. They
were little known and very reserved. Some that were highly esteemed among them
were persons destitute of refinement and learning. Any logical blunder or
vulgar prejudice which I could detect amongst them I made the most of in my
mind to their discredit, being secretly indisposed to demean myself by
associating with them. Charles having settled amongst them and closing against
himself an opening of most flattering promise in the University of Cambridge
greatly grieved me'.
Henrietta continues: 'Throughout
the rest of that year I went on by myself, groping for the wall of salvation
like the blind, and notwithstanding my resolutions to the contrary I was
conscious of my eyes being often turned towards my brother Charles and his
friends as being possessed of something I had not found. This was strengthened
by reading the letters my sister had lent me. Had I read these letters before I
understood them at all I should probably have seen little more than common
things in them. But now, if I may so express it, I understood them sufficiently
to see how little I understood of them. And they made an impression on me I
never can forget. I would read them until I was lost in wonder, and would keep
turning back and back almost every half page I read, to look at the date,
saying:
' "What? Now? In 1832
is there any religion like this really existing? Are there any living in these days to whom the Lord really and sensibly
speaks, and to whom He manifests Himself in this beautiful manner? I thought
all such things had ceased since the Bible days. I can scarcely believe it
true, yet I feel that this letter is no lie, and written by no liar."
The inward drawing I now felt to go
and hear what they had to say came, I believe, from the same source as with
Cornelius, whom God directed to send for Peter to hear words of him; which
words his heart had been prepared to receive, and so had mine. And I had no
more will or power to disobey the inward voice than he had. Accordingly I made
an excuse for going to London in January 1833, having heard nothing from them
in the interval.'
THE ANSWER OF THE TONGUE
WHO were these despised friends of
Charles Jeffreys? They were members of the
congregation of Joseph Francis Burrell in Titchfield
Street, off Oxford Street. They did not attach a denominational name to
themselves. It was just 'the ministry of God's word'. The original members had
belonged to the congregation of William Huntington, preacher and writer raised
up by God in the 18th Century to shake His people out of the slumber of
formalism and the errors of John Wesley's Arminianism—Universal
charity and the winning of Heaven by zeal and good works. Huntington had had a
large chapel in the West End, and when that was burnt down another and a larger
one was at once erected. He had a crowded congregation to whom he preached
doctrines and experience described thus by J. C. Phil-pot : 'He denied the law
to be a rule of life to a believer, but contended for manifestations of Christ
to the soul as a vital point; he insisted on a personal experience of law and
Gospel, of condemnation and acquittal, and enforced all he taught by a most
wonderful command of the Word of God, which he seemed able to quote in the
fullest, freest manner from Genesis to Revelation, and applied with a point and
pregnancy peculiar to himself.
The congregation used the hymns of
Joseph Hart, a minister of an earlier generation than Huntington, but one who contended
for the same truths, embodying them in verse, which, 'used in the praises of
the Lord in the house of the Lord, stamped him as a far-reaching and efficient
teacher'. To quote George Alexander of Birkenhead, 'Not only in his clear and
bold declaration of truth in doctrine, but particularly as an experimental
hymn-writer, pouring forth his soul in the sweet experience of vital godliness,
does Mr. Hart shine in the firmament of the Church militant'.
Huntington died in 1813, and his
congregation, we read, 'was scattered to all winds, many people separating from
the truth'. By the time we come to 1833 Henrietta Gilpin met a settled
congregation who had striven to cleave to the truth through evil report and
good report. Their pastor was Joseph Francis Burrell.
He was born in 1770 in Molsheim, a small town in Alsace on the borders of France
and Germany, and was brought up a Roman Catholic, being taught, he says, 'to
worship idols of gold, silver, wood and of stone, the work of men's hands,
being nourished up greatly to admire the fabulous accounts of innumerable
popish saints, as well as terrified with the preposterous details of their
conflicts with the Devil in person'. His father after having served thirty
years in the army had a small place given to him with several privileges, but
as he had a large family he could not give Joseph the education he could have
wished. 'My mother,' he writes, 'had a sister whom she had not seen for twenty
years. She was a most accomplished woman in all polite learning, and being
mistress of several languages, she had travelled in divers
countries of Europe with people of distinction as their interpreter. At last
she settled in Paris with her little son and as her husband had left her, she
made use of those talents and gained a very comfortable living. She gave her
son an excellent education and he soon became very proficient in the art of
music. She got him appointed one of the secretaries to the French Ambassador
then going to England, where she also followed him, but he soon after returned
to Paris, and became a teacher of music and was so successful that he became
famous in it. And now my aunt remembered her sister and directing a letter at a
venture, enquired after my mother. My parents had had the sorrow of losing all
their large family except my eldest brother and myself. And now my aunt offered
to take charge of us and give us a suitable education.'
Against this new background the
young Burrell developed with great promise, having every advantage, first in
Paris, and later at Laroche Guyon
where the Duchess of Amville lived, whose castle was
the rendezvous of learned men in the summer season. A special favourite of hers
was M. Lamblardie, a clergyman ex-professor at the
University of Paris, and now tutor to Joseph Burrell; through him Burrell had
access to a noble library. Thus, he says, he spent several years, closely
applying himself to various pursuits, never failing to rise at four in the morning, such was his delight in study. 'In the midst of all
my daily occupations,' he says, 'religion was not the least of my cares,
especially as I now might be considered at the fountain head of it, for I went
every morning to hear Mass said by my tutor or one of his vicars. My tutor had
taken great pains to fit me to become a worthy member of the Church of Rome,
and no youth could have taken more pains to seek the favour and approbation of
God than I. But alas! all that I remember of those days amounts to this, that
notwithstanding all my efforts, vows, prayers, tears, penance, and grievous
acts of mortifying my flesh, yet the devil and sin had the dominion over me. For I was selfish, proud, and conceited, and loved worldly
applause. I found also, as I grew up, dreadful risings of secret lusts
which I often endeavoured to subdue by fastings,
beating myself, and frequently kneeling upon a sharp stick in order to mortify
myself before God, but all to no purpose. To my astonishment I grew worse and
worse. . . .
'At the age of eighteen I had made
such progress that my friends thought me fit for almost any employment, and an
influential friend soon told me that through his interest at Court [It was the
elegant court of Louis XVI's days, fated to a
terrible dissolution] he had got me appointed secretary to the Baron of Eskar, General of the army in the Netherlands. My friends
were vastly pleased with this step on the road to preferment and my aunt
delayed not to equip me in the best manner she could. I was now hurried into
the midst of a gay and splendid world, where I certainly should have been
drowned in destruction had not a good and gracious God watched over me, and
disappointed my towering projects. I was introduced to the Baron's
father-in-law, M. La Borde, accounted to be the
richest man in the kingdom. He was immoderately fond of music, on which account
I found great favour with him after he had heard me perform on the pianoforte.
I found that all my former pursuits and studies came now into great use, for my
musical and drawing talents joined with polite manners rendered my company agreeable,
principally to the ladies, while the facility of conversing about almost every
subject rendered it also acceptable to others.
Though all things concerning my
present situation in life seemed to promise fair, yet as the Lord had designed
better things for me he suffered me not to take root in this barren soil. One
thing was found lacking in me which proved an
insurmountable obstacle in my way; I could neither soothe the vanity of the
great nor flatter their vile passions. I soon found that the Baron was an
ignorant, vain, and vicious man and at length I dreaded to be alone with him,
and showed, at last, my displeasure. He now altered his conduct towards me, and
no doubt prejudiced M. La Borde against me. I was
released from my services and, by the watchful providence of God, from a most
perilous situation. No doubt but my aunt saw much deeper into the snares I had
escaped, but being a prudent woman she did not enter into any explanations. She
very soon put into effect a project for our going to London where my cousin
(her son) had settled after his marriage, and where he was doing extremely well
in the profession of music. So, although he made a great many objections she
was not discouraged, and receiving his consent at last we took leave of our friends
and left France, arriving in London in the month of May, 1788.
'How can I look with indifference
at the dreadful Revolution in France which proved so destructive to thousands
by the sword of war, murders, famine, and other calamities? Humanly speaking, what
might have been my lot if the Lord had not been pleased to bring me out in due
time? The General, who had lived in great splendour and nourished himself and
his lusts as in a day of slaughter, at last was starved in a corner of Germany.
As for M. La Borde, he turned much of his immense
property into ready money and conveyed one million sterling over to England,
intending to make his escape there, but being informed against he was
apprehended and shortly after was guillotined. Thus the
mighty perished, while a poor insignificant creature like me was marvellously
preserved that I might see the goodness of God in the land of the living.
Oh, how later I was made to see how God had wrought on my behalf though I was
ignorant of the mighty Hand that girded and led me.'
Mr. Burrell had been earnestly
warned by his tutor to take great care not to be entangled by the 'heretics of
the worst sort' with which England was full. 'As you
value your life, flee from them, and remember that there is no salvation
anywhere but within the pale of the Church of Rome.' The young man assured his
tutor that they should never make a proselyte of him. But it was a remarkable
thing that from the beginning of his life in London to his death he never went
to any Roman Catholic places of worship! The example of his cousin and family
gave the blow to his religious fervour, for they professed no religion at all,
and soon took him with them to 'routs, plays, operas, and gay assemblies'.
These effectually banished every serious thought from his mind. He spent
several months preparing for his music-teaching and learning English. His
cousin proved a hard master, for he had kept an exact account of all that had
been spent of Joseph's education and intended he should pay it all back, adding
thereto an 'enormous sum' for his board and lodging. All this took him several
years to pay back. His aunt, sickened at this treatment and finding life
uncomfortable with her daughter-in-law, returned to France. 'I lost in her a
true friend,' says Burrell, 'and her departure was productive of many changes
and calamities which overtook me.'
The young man was now left to
pursue his own life, and confesses that he thought himself much better than
many young men, 'Because I kept the best of company, led a comparatively
innocent life, was very assiduous in business, comported myself with great
propriety in the world, and was esteemed and well spoken of by everybody'. He
speaks of pupils among the aristocracy, of 'happening to sup with the Dowager
Lady Littleton with whom he was perfectly well acquainted', and so on. But he
wore out his strength, for after walking great distances, and in all weathers,
to his different pupils, he spent his evenings out late when he should have
rested. 'I used to dress and equip myself as gay as possible and went parading
on the devil's ground, intruding into many places at the hazard of my life, and
though I had at times a sense of my danger, yet I could not refrain from
running headlong into, the way of temptation. But never in all my life before
did I find such dreadful work in my conscience. O how I endeavoured to resist, and what a dreadful conflict I found it, yet I
seemed hurled forwards as with a tempest. Thus was I torn to pieces for many weeks.' In fact, he presently fell a victim to a young woman
he met with in this environment, and in the end married her, under many false
pretences to both her and his own relations.
For several years Mr. Burrell went
through great depths of terror for sin in his conscience. This was the direct
work of the Holy Spirit on his heart for he knew not a word of Scripture nor
met with any religious person or book. He said later that 'as I have since had
the most wonderful, clear and undoubted fellowship with God in Christ so that
by faith I have heard His voice, felt Him near, and have delighted in Him, just
so (dreadful it is to think of it!) did I at this time have sensible and horrid
fellowship with the Devil; having a clear perception of his presence; knowing,
feeling, and evidently experiencing that he influenced me in all things. Guilt,
horror, and despair followed me so that I felt as if I was possessed of the
Devil. I really believe that the Lord in infinite wisdom suffered me thus to
wade through the bottomless mire of sin that I might be enabled to speak a word
in season to many in like case'. He became ill, he recovered, he had terrifying
dreams, he had awful views of the immense majesty of God, and at length says,
'The Lord who had instructed me with a strong hand, led me gradually to His
dear Son, by causing that word to fall into my hands which in former days I
ignorantly despised. The very name of Christ now began to captivate my mind,
and I greatly desired to know more about Him. This was granted in the following
manner.
'As I was one day passing through
Swallow Street I saw a book in a shop window entitled The Life of Jesus Christ,
or the Harmony of the Gospels, by John Locke. I bought the book with great joy,
really believing I was now in possession of the greatest treasure under heaven,
although I knew not the subject matter it contained. The love I found to this
book was so great that I anticipated the pleasure of reading it while I was
engaged with my pupils, and used to run home at full speed to be at it again, and even had it next to my plate when at my meals. No
poor creature could be more blind and ignorant that I really felt myself, yet
not a word I read fell to the ground, for the life and power communicated by
the word was truly marvellous, and filled me with such desires, groanings and anxious expectations after Christ that I can
truly say I was in pain to bring forth. The spiritual labour of my soul, in
meditation of the things of God and in seeking rest was so great that my whole
frame was influenced with almost unbearable weariness. It is really wonderful
how I was enabled at all to teach my pupils, seeing that my soul was
continually swallowed up with the things of another world.
In the month of December, 1792, as
I was one evening sitting by the fireside reading to my wife in my precious
book, I felt at intervals a most extraordinary power from the Word, which
increased especially when I came to these words, "I am sorrowful even unto
death". Such a scene of the sufferings of Christ was suddenly discovered
to me that my heart was ready to break. I faltered as I read on, endeavouring
by all means to refrain myself before my wife, but found it hard work. When I
came to these words, "It is finished!" I could refrain no longer, and
suddenly my eyesight failed me and I lost sight of every object in the room. It
appeared as if a great light shone within me, and I saw before the eyes of my
understanding the Lord Jesus Christ hanging on the cross in the agonies of
death. I broke out into the most bitter weeping and
lamentations. I sunk down in the chair, scarcely knowing where I was; and
though my eyes were closed, yet I was steadfastly looking at the blessed object
before me, deeply feeling His sufferings with a mixture of sorrow as well as
comfort and delight which cannot be described in human words. My wife being
utterly astonished and confounded at my behaviour cried out, "You fool,
what are you doing?". But the divine vision shone
brighter and brighter, and I lay in the arm chair more than half-an-hour
without being able to sit upright; feeling no use in my limbs nor power to
speak through the excessive crying which had swelled my throat; but seeing,
hearing, and feeling things altogether wonderful, and impossible to describe or
utter.
'At last I gradually came to myself
and could hardly believe I was the same man. Before this wonderful change took
place my soul was daily most terribly influenced with unconquerable fears about
death, hell, eternity, and destruction so that every object round me only
contributed to communicate distress and misery; but now, everything I beheld
seemed to conspire to increase the peaceful felicity of my joyful heart. As
previously I could scarcely attend my pupils for sorrow of heart, so now I
found it difficult to attend them because my joy was so great. I was often
obliged to wipe the tears from my eyes, for a sense of Christ's dying love
followed me wherever I went. It is said that Constantine the Great saw a cross
in heaven with these words, "In this conquer". So I evidently saw for
many weeks that blessed object day and night continually in whom indeed I was
made more than conqueror. Often I could not go to sleep, being engaged for
hours in sweet meditations. One night in particular I felt a more than common
power upon my soul, and as I looked with intense desires I saw Him again, not
as crucified, but as risen from the dead, and He appeared surrounded with
unspeakable light and glory. I looked at Him with holy astonishment and saw His
wounds, but especially His pierced side, from which the blood appeared to stream
forth abundantly and in which in another moment I seemed bathed, for in a
transport of affections my soul had hastened to Him and clasped Him in my
arms.'
(Mr. Burrell often referred to this
wonderful manifestation in after years.)
'Grace is known by its fruits,' he
continues, 'in vain therefore do men in a religious profession talk of
experience, comfort, and joy, if these teach them not to deny all ungodliness
and worldly lusts. Salvation was now come into my soul; it was become like the
temple of God, and Christ as in old time drove all thieves out of it. I was not
only afraid now to offend God, but even the least of the creatures he had made.
Those lusts and fierce temptations under which I had groaned for years all
vanished away, for the gracious Lord purified my heart to such a degree that I
could not endure the least thought of foolishness, levity or uncleanness. I
really loathed all my former sources of information, so after examining my
books, I sold some and others I burned. Some of the books might have been of
great use to me since, yet I repent not that I parted with them, because it has
been a noble proof of that beauty, glory, and excellency
I had found in my gracious Saviour. Thus the Lord alone did lead me, and that for many weeks, and truly there was no strange
god with me; for as yet I knew neither preacher nor any professor of religion.
I felt myself indeed not to be of this world, even as Christ is not of this
world; and the joy of the Lord within me was so great that I really thought that
my time on earth would be but short; for I had no one about me who could tell
me that I was so highly favoured for the very purpose to enable me hereafter to
bear the cross, and to endure with Christ a great fight of afflictions.
'Now though I knew not the Word of
God, which commands the assembling of his people together (for as yet I had
only seen the Gospels), yet I found an increasing desire and strong impression
upon my mind that I ought to attend some place of worship, but where I could
not tell. Though I had no understanding as yet to discern any difference
between the Church of Rome and any other persuasion, yet it never once came
into my mind to go to one of their churches. The Lord who had hitherto led and
instructed me, suffered me not to fan into the hands of blind guides but
brought me to sit under a minister of His own sending, who was to feed me with
knowledge and understanding.
'My landlord, with whom I had never
exchanged more than five words, attended the chapel of Mr. Huntington, and it
was strongly impressed upon my mind that this was the man I was to hear. I now
asked him about the time of preaching and whether there would be room for me.
He seemed not a little surprised at my questions, as I had many times before
sadly annoyed him with the noise of my pianoforte on the Sabbath day. However,
he agreed to take me with him next morning to the chapel. I was ready to go at
eight o'clock, but was told it wanted two hours yet to the time. We arrived.
Everything I saw now appeared entirely new to me: the modest gravity of the
people, the order in which they sat, some reading in books, others softly
conversing together (about Christ, as I thought); in short, they appeared like
a company of angels to me, and I felt a most fervent love towards them. But
when the first hymn was given out, and was descriptive of the crucified Saviour
I could hardly contain myself.
Poor sinners, sing the Lamb that
died
What theme can be so sweet?
His drooping head, His streaming
side,
His pierced hands and feet;
With all that scene of suffering
love
Which faith presents to view
For now He lives and reigns above,
And lives and reigns for you.
'Surely, I said in my heart, this
is the house of God and He is here of a truth, for otherwise, how could these
people sing the very experience of my soul? When it came to the sermon, as ]
had never heard any experimental preaching nor read any other parts of
Scripture but the four Evangelists, I found myself unable to understand what
the preacher said for near an hour, when suddenly the good man altered in his
preaching and said, "Now I will come down to you". Now indeed I was
filled with wonder and admiration for he described the state of a sinner at his
wits' end with misery, and the reception he meets with from Christ. Thus it pleased
the Lord Who had so mightily began the work in me to carry it on by leading me
where His Gospel was preached in truth.'
Mr. Burrell was a faithful hearer
of William Huntington for twenty years, and stood by him through thick and
thin. Hunting-ton became famous for his eccentricities, but Burrell's answer to
an offended professor of religion reflects his life under that ministry.
'God Himself brought me under his
ministry and has manifested him to me as His own servant: him I must hear, and
none else, for under him I am much blessed. His infirmities, which I perceive
as well as you, nevertheless lead me incessantly to pray for him, and the
gracious Lord answers me with joy unspeakable, so that I seldom have a barren
opportunity. I find life, love, and power flow into my soul; which sweetly
influences my life, walk, and conversation. The pipe through which I suck these
blessings at present appears to be neither gold, nor
silver but the liquor is truly the new wine of the Kingdom. Is not the excellency of God's power seen in His earthen vessel? If our
confidence is never to be fixed till we see perfection in man we shall never be
at a point. But we are to stand, walk,-and live by the faith of the Son of God Whose perfect work the good man preaches. The devil will not
fail to magnify those evident blemishes in the real ministers of Christ, in
order if possible to render their labours ineffectual; but God defeats his
designs by enabling His own people to cast their burden upon Him.'
Indeed he was able to say 'I was
made to run the heavenly race with such divine vigour and gladness that I could
have sat and heard the joyful sound all day long without being tired. I grew
now as fast in knowledge and understanding as I had before in experience, and I
was filled with unspeakable comfort and admiration at the discoveries I made in
the mysteries of the Kingdom of God, which things exceeding delighted my soul'.
Mr. Huntington told him he must buy
a Bible, which he did, and of this he writes, 'My love to His Word became more
vehement, so that the Bible was now my companion and delight daily. I was led
to pray most earnestly that His Word might dwell in me richly, not to furnish
my head but to my edification, comfort, and His glory. I often said,
"Lord, I beseech Thee, for Christ's sake, that as Thy mercies have
abounded towards me, who am most unworthy, that Thou wouldest
humble me to the uttermost under a deep sense that Thou alone art the author of
all these things. Pardon, Lord, if I ask amiss, but grant, if consistent with
Thy will, that I may be spent in Thy service, to proclaim Thy glorious power,
and that sinners may be converted unto Thee. Condescend to give me an holy call, that I may know Thy will, but let me not run
of mine own head".
'Many will say on reading this, Certainly here is a marvellous relation of spiritual
visions, love, joy, and unutterable peace, but where is the trial of faith and
the path of tribulation?' There came plenty of that, as recorded in his book
Zion's Waymarks. 'By the time I had been six years in
a profession [of religion, i.e. a member of Huntington's Church] new scenes
opened and new trials came on of all sorts, but especially in providence. My
backslidings were many, which made my gracious Father to follow me up with many
deserved blows. These all had this blessed tendency to humble me greatly under
the mighty hand of God.'
After the death of his first wife,
who seems to have been a continual trial, Mr. Burrell married the sister of Mr.
Blake, a very close Christian friend who later became Huntington's son-in-law.
With her he lived in complete harmony for ten years, and her death he felt as a
great sorrow. They had one son, who died as a young man, in India; also two
daughters, the elder of whom became, later, an honourable member of his Church.
The younger daughter lost her reason as the result of a fever, but was able to
live at home with the family. His third wife was a widow, Naomi White,
Huntington's daughter.
'My shattered vessel,' he wrote
about this time, 'which had been in many storms for some years past, seemed now
to have arrived at the desired haven. The Lord brought me again to the days of
my spiritual youth, when His Word was so exceedingly sweet and precious to me
that I have pressed the Bible to my bosom, and with uplifted eyes and heart
loudly praised and blessed my most gracious Father in Christ for His
unspeakable gift.
'I shall never forget the sorrow I
felt when I heard of the death of our pastor. I could not speak a word, but in
a moment of time I saw, in spirit, the whole of his numerous congregation
scattered into all winds, and when I called upon God and said, "O Lord,
Thy servant is dead; but Thou art alive for evermore", I felt my prayer
sensibly go up with acceptance and felt the sweet approbation of God.
"Lord, there is nothing too hard for Thee," I said, "As Thou
hast taken Thy servant from us. I beseech Thee let a double portion of his
spirit rest upon me." Notwithstanding, the mighty workings I felt
concerning the ministry I was determined to stick close to the means, and
prayed heartily for those ministers we had left. I felt a most wonderful love
to God's own sheep and was exceedingly grieved to see them scattered. On the
other hand God gave me to see the backslidings of many,
and that an evident degeneracy had already taken place. I found my mind
singularly led out to grasp all the weapons of our warfare against these evils;
this especially sounding within me—"Wherefore rebuke them sharply, that
they may be sound in the faith".'
Mr. Huntington died in 1813. The
deacons very soon found out about Mr. Burrell's call to the ministry. But from
a vehement longing to proclaim the Gospel he was thrown down into dejection and
terror. His diary gives a remarkable account of his exercises in this matter.
'When the Lord was with me,' he writes, 'I have mounted up with wings as an
eagle, feeling within my soul unspeakable utterance, and matter enough for a
thousand discourses. But God tried me with disappointments, and permitted men
to set themselves against me; yet there was at the bottom a firm expectation
that the time was at hand.'
Not long afterwards an upper room
(licensed for public worship) was found in a mews, and there one Sabbath
morning, August 8th, 1813, Mr. Burrell, with a feeling of great weakness and
much bound in spirit, endeavoured to give an account of the reason of the hope
that was in him to a few that assembled, declaring what God had done for his
soul; and in the evening, the place being so crowded that some were alarmed lest
the floor should fall in, he related in a broken manner something of his
spiritual call to the ministry. After it was over, many crowded round, and
urged him to find a larger and more comfortable place. [Mr. Huntington had left
his chapel to his widow, but she refused her consent to Mr. Burrell preaching
there, although all four of the trustees wished it.]
'I thought now,' says Mr. Burrell,
'that the bitterness of death was passed, and God
would strengthen me more and more to bear witness of the things He had showed
me. But God has chosen His people in the furnace of affliction and His fire is
in Zion; young ministers have as much need of it as any, if not more so;
therefore lest too much honour should puff me up, humbling dispensations were
sent, that before honour there might be humility.'
A zealous friend soon heard of a
suitable place where Mr. Burrell might preach on the following Friday, and gave
notice accordingly. But he was in great confusion, and to add to it, he saw
before him several whose faces daunted him, 'famous in the congregation, men of
renown', whose wisdom, judgment, and longstanding
profession were enough to dismay him. While endeavouring to speak from the
words, "Not of works, lest any man should boast", feeling himself no
more master of the subject than an infant, a heavy .cloud came gradually over
and obscured the room, so that he thought it was getting late, and concluded
hastily before the time, without clearing his subject up. Some murmured, some
showed their disdain, his best friends were dejected and sad, and himself felt so oppressed that he could not speak. Here, he
thought, all his preaching had come to an end. Satan said to him, You have run and God has not sent you; therefore has He in
anger broken you in pieces. God has no need of such an ass and ignorant fool as
you are; return therefore to your painting.
Alluding to these trials he
observes again, 'Woe to those deluded men who rush into the ministry without
those needful instructions! For how shall they be able to lead a poor and
afflicted people? Many in our days step into a pulpit with light and unhumbled hearts; they build up hypocrites in a
presumptuous confidence, and sing songs to a heavy heart; they encourage them
and "say unto them that despise Me, The Lord hath said, Ye shall have
peace; and they say unto every one that walketh after
the imagination of his own heart, No evil shall come upon you; but the children
of God are sent empty away".' (Jer: 23, 17.)
Mr. Burrell was brought through
these heavy trials and received a most blessed visitation from the Lord, which
enabled him 'to kneel down before God to thank and bless Him for the strength
He had hitherto given to me, and even for the shame, confusion, and mortifying
lessons He had taught me! I believed from my soul that the Lord would bring
good out of all these seeming evils, and that for shame I should have double.'
For the next few years Mr. Burrel’s diary reveals that his business declined sharply
after he began to preach, and that the burdens of his house and family, the
ministry, and his own weak health kept him constantly at the feet of his God.
After having a considerable number attend his preaching, he was gradually
deserted by some of the more influential members of the late Mr. Huntington's
congregation. This wounded him deeply. But a powerful pen was granted to him,
and his printed treatises 'show that he was at that time like Jeremiah, a man
of contention against both professors and profane, and his spirit was earnestly
moved to testify strongly to the truths he had received'. After about six years
of preaching it became evident that very many of those who had followed him at
first were quite alienated in spirit from him. On the other hand, a company of
faithful stedfast friends had become fully united in
spirit, both to him as their pastor and to each other.
At some period Mr. Burrell gave up
his tutorial work with music pupils, but continued his art work. He had
pictures hung in the Royal Academy fairly regularly for very many years. (Some
of his work may be seen now at the Victoria and Albert Museum.) In the London
Directory of 1842 there is an entry, 'Joseph Francis Burrell, patent medicines,
No. 9 Great Titchfield Street'. No. 9 is a house on a
corner, and there Mr, Burrell apparently provided for himself, his wife and two
daughters, by selling the decoctions of the day.
And who knows what godly words
might have gone with them from time to time?
'Patiently and assiduously,' writes
a friend, 'did this good man continue to the end of his life in the ministry he
had thus begun. He moved to a house, No. 9 Great Titchfield
Street, to which belonged a large room fitted up as a chapel, and there he
preached every Sunday, morning and evening, and Wednesday evenings, never
absent from his post except on a few rare occasions through illness or visiting
his friends in the country. He seldom visited, even amongst his own people.' He
says himself, 'I know not what it is to enjoy one day's health, being afflicted
continually with a most grievous bilious complaint [an ulcer?] which constrains
me to take more medicine than perhaps all my
congregation together. Six or seven months in the year I never go out of my
house except to the chapel, which is on the ground floor. I fear that every
winter will make a full end of me, my lungs being so delicate that the least
cold influences them to an alarming degree. I have preached twice with a
blister on my breast; I always feel like a dying man, finding no rest in my
body, and I am a wonder to all that know me. Yet my infirmities have been so
sanctified as to be esteemed rather blessings than otherwise; for in answer to
prayer I have been so amazingly strengthened and comforted that I have preached
for two hours with such strength and power as if nothing ailed me'.
'Every Monday evening a company
assembled at his house, with whom he used to converse in a most beautiful and
edifying manner of the things that belong to salvation; being sometimes led out
in a remarkable manner to dwell upon the great truths of the Gospel and the
work of the Spirit of God, so that those who heard him could not withstand the
blessed influence, and felt that faith came by hearing. The joy of his heart
used to shine in his countenance, and the love and
tenderness of his spirit was sweet indeed. Persons who did not know him
personally, but only knew that he kept himself very much apart from other
Churches and ministers, often supposed he was harsh and bigotted,
but nothing could be more different from the truth, and a word spoken in the
spirit of love and the fear of the Lord was sufficient to open his heart.'
One of Mr. Burrell's deacons was
Thomas Nunn, a provision and tea merchant, of Great James Street, Bedford Row.
A small volume of Posthumous Letters is all that can be traced of Mr. Nunn. A
letter to his friend Mr. Yeomans, in April, 1840,
gives a glimpse of his character. 'It is now nearly twenty-six years since our
little Church was formed and we deacons set apart to our office. At that time I
was very reluctant to be one of them, and I prayed Mr. Burrell that he would
not nominate me, as I felt I should bring no honour to the cause of God, not
having been of any account in the old Church, and especially as I had not been
set at liberty so as to have a strong confidence of my state, which thing I was
looking after much in those days. But these arguments proved vain. The
minister's and people's voice brought me to submit to the dispensation, though
at the time it was very grievous to me. But what was
worse was that when we stood round the pulpit and Mr, Burrell prayed over us
and set us apart to our office, this thought fell upon me with a most deadly
weight—that I should prove just like Nicolas, one of the seven deacons chosen
in the Acts, who, according to Augustine, fell into many awful errors. And what
seemed to confirm that it should prove so was the first letter of his name
beginning as mine! With this weapon Satan has, over many years, greatly
distressed me, but I have since seen that the Lord permitted it so that He
might take a sweet advantage of it to make me watch and pray.
'Another thing I feel the Lord has
over-ruled for my good in putting me in this position of deacon is the
continual fear about the necessity of making an open confession of Christ's
name, and of being an example to others. This has caused me to put up some
thousands of petitions and has often made me groan, being burdened.
Nevertheless, it has not been all sorrow. The good Lord has at times comforted
me much, and enabled me to believe that he put me into this office for the very
purpose that it should be a continual maul on "the old man of sin"
and by His blessed fear it should at all times be a check upon the rampant
corruptions of my heart.'
Like most London merchants of those
times Mr. Nunn lived on the premises of his provision business, with its
'counting-house'" behind. The house was large, and around 1830 Mr. Nunn
had inaugurated a weekly evening meeting there on a Thursday, partly because he
was growing 'chesty' as he calls it, and could not always get to hear Mr. Burrell.
Members were invited to speak out of their experience,
or the deacons and pastor would introduce a subject and speak upon it in turn,
any present adding comments. These meetings were often times of comfort and
encouragement to many, who testified of the presence of the Lord among them as
they 'spoke one to another' in the praises of their dear Redeemer.
James Abbott, another member, was a
native of Braintree in Essex; his parents were poor but religious people. He
was a shoemaker by trade, and used to go from place to place in search of work.
When quite a young man he became a hearer of Mr. Huntington, along with his
brother, William Abbott, who was afterwards a minister of the Gospel at
Mayfield in Sussex. After the death of Mr. Huntington he joined the Church of
which Mr. Burrell was pastor. There he gave out the hymns and led the singing
for many years. This was not always easy to Mr. Abbot. 'Once,' he writes, 'the
house I now live in was in danger of falling by reason of the foundations
giving way. I could not but see the kind providence of God in my discovery of
the state of the house. Going into the cellar in the day-time with a candle (a
thing I very seldom did), I perceived the brickwork bulging in, all rotten and
ready to fall. The sight alarmed me, and I fetched a bricklayer to look at it.
He persuaded me there was no danger, and I being willing to believe him went
about my business. In the evening, walking through the City, I had a most sore
conflict, seeming like one surrounded with enemies and was almost overcome in
endeavouring to resist them, and so bewildered in mind I hardly knew where I
was. I stood still for awhile in the street to recollect myself, inwardly
crying to the Lord to subdue the powerful evils of my nature, and to bring my
thoughts into captivity to Himself.
'When I reached home the first news
I heard was that we must get out of the house that night, for my wife had
fetched another bricklayer who assured her that it was not safe to stop another
night, for the house might fall instantly. This alarmed me so much that I
hardly dared go upstairs to get a few things for our use to take to a
neighbour's house till ours was repaired. I felt such condemnation; I
acknowledged the Lord would have been just had He suffered the house to fall
and bury me in its ruins, and glad was I when I got
safe out of it! This was on a Friday. The next day I felt
calmer and begged the Lord to give me sensible manifestation of His loving
kindness towards me, for I was not altogether as I wished to be. When
the Sabbath came I was not disappointed. In the morning I had a good time, and
in the afternoon was comfortable with some friends. But when I went to chapel
in the evening a gloominess came on me, and after
sitting down in my seat such fears and confusion that I felt as if I should
fall into black despair. What hard work it was to give out a hymn and sing: but
this I must do! It seemed as if I were placed in this position to be made
manifest to all as a hypocrite. In singing the hymn I found a little cessation,
yet during the prayer my mind was sadly tossed with the tempest, and so
continued until Mr. Burrell had gone on in his discourse for some time. But
when he spoke of the glorious person of the Son of God who was made manifest to
destroy the works of the devil my fears began to subside. I was all ear and now the word became precious, for love flowed in
with it. Well may Peter say, "To you that believe He is precious" for
the love of Christ, enjoyed in the soul, sweeps away all our doubts and fears.
What a change! I wish to set it down on paper but I lack words. It was a
memorable time: the last singing that evening was quite different from the
first and second. Perfect love had cast out fear. Joy and gladness and
thanksgiving and the voice of melody was now heard in my soul, attended with
contrition, godly sorrow, and that repentance that needeth
not to be repented of. Tears of love and gratitude flowed down, which I hid by
hanging down my head. I wanted some retired place where I could have given full
vent to my feelings. O what a mixture is felt at such times! What holy awe and
reverence of that great and glorious name—"The Lord, the Lord God merciful
and gracious, long-suffering and abundant in goodness and truth; keeping mercy
for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by
no means clear the guilty."
'Here the Saviour of sinners
appears precious, who stood as our Surety and in the eye of Justice as a guilty
sinner, and therefore could not be cleared until He had paid the uttermost
mite: and this He did that we might be cleared. O amazing love, which melts the
soul in the dust of humility! A sweet mixture indeed! It is unutterable.
All this I felt some measure of. It enlarges the soul towards all that fear
God. At such times I am led to beg that He would be pleased to grant such
things to all that seek His face, and that those who complain of barrenness and
deadness of soul might be led earnestly to seek so as to prevail; that they
might magnify the Lord with me, and that we might exalt His name together. At
such times there is no contractedness, no narrowness of mind. Nor is there any
boasting, or saying, "Stand by thyself: I am holier than thou". No,
it is rather—I am more vile: how is it, Lord, that
Thou shouldest look upon such a dead dog as I, so
brutish, so loathsome in Thy sight, and now in my own sight too? Wonderful! But
so it is. The Father views all his elect in the Son and one with the Son. I
little thought when I went through the City on Friday in such a plight as if
the whole frame of my nature was set on fire of hell, or when I heard of my
house being ready to fall and found such condemnation, or when I sat in chapel
in such a doleful situation that so great a blessing was at hand! But that was
the way I was to be prepared for it.'
James Bourne, another member, was
the son of a country gentleman of considerable landed property in Lincolnshire,
but being the youngest child of a first marriage he was left very
unprovided for when, at fifteen, he lost his father.
Like the poet Cowper he suffered an unhappy school
life, being sent to Louth Grammar School (as a boarder, it appears) from the
age of four and a half! where he was treated miserably
by the master, who continually punished, disgraced, and disheartened the boy.
'I must acknowledge,' he says, 'that my natural disposition was volatile and
that I was a boy that had no mind for study; nor did the master attempt to
correct this deficiency but was always jeering and setting me at nought, so
that at last I entreated my friends to let me go to another school in the same
town. Here I made more progress in one year than in all the time before, and regained my lost character.
'In the same town I had a brother
articled to a solicitor. He had joined himself to the Methodists, and I, too,
became one of them. Being a school-boy at a public school I was presently
noticed by all parties: flattered and admired by the Methodists, laughed at by
others, and scorned by my school-fellows. I had to endure much reproach in the
boarding-house from those around me, but this text continually followed me:
"Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of
man be ashamed when He shall come in His own glory, and in His Father's and of
the holy angels!"
'When I left school, though not
quite sixteen, I went to London. I tried in various ways to seek for occupation
but was not a proper judge of what was likely to prove advantageous to me, nor
had I as yet learnt that all things are sanctified by the Word of God and
prayer. After various unsuccessful attempts to engage in some
line of business I at last settled in Manchester. Here I addicted myself
to visiting and amusements, and by this means soon lost sight of my profession
of religion. I could not quite forget the little understanding I had of divine
things, and there were many vices I dared not enter into as others did. Thus
the Lord kept alive in my conscience that spark which he had put there, though
balls, card-parties, and the like occupied nearly the whole of my time, till my
little patrimoney began to sink. I was intimately
acquainted with many good families in the neighbourhood (what is called the
best company in the place), and their homes frequently became my home, but at
last, for fear of losing the wreck of my property I left the place.
'For about two years I wandered
from place to place being unsettled in my mind and unprovided
for, and often fearing I should come to disgrace and ruin.
'One day I was so cast down and so
ill-treated by some with whom I had resided a few weeks that I felt overwhelmed
with grief. I went to my bedroom and fastened the door, and then fell on my
knees, and with all my heart and soul cried to the Lord as nearly as I can
remember in these words: "O Lord, what shall I do to maintain myself? I
cannot endure this miserable way of living". No sooner were these words
out of my mouth than it was impressed on my mind You
must draw. I was quite surprised, and though as yet I knew not the Lord yet I
considered this a plain direction from Him, and I at once gave up all other
plans and began to occupy myself in the art of drawing.
'I immediately went to a kind and
wealthy relation, who gave me time and opportunity to practise drawing. Not
having the means of paying for instruction I was obliged to work hard to attain
to any degree of skill. I have often wondered how the Lord blessed me in my
endeavours to sketch from nature, which was one essential point. My first
attempt was at the Lakes, where I made a hundred sketches, which were very
profitable to me in various ways for forty years. The following year I went
through Devon and Cornwall, and was equally successful there, and in this way I
became well supplied with materials to work upon.
'I had the opportunity of a journey
to London and with my little store of knowledge in the arts I called on an old
school-fellow and told him very frankly my history. He was immediately
interested for me, and said if I could settle in London he would introduce me
to the Countess of Sutherland and Lord Spencer, who was then Lord of the
Admiralty. My heart throbbed, knowing my deficiency, yet it seemed an opening I
dared not set aside. I found immediate employment in these families, and
through many anxieties and fears laboured hard to make myself equal to my
engagements.
'It has been very surprising to me
that my first employment was in families which, though of high rank, were as
little acquainted with the arts as I was. But it pleased God to increase my
talent gradually so I gradually rose to be employed by those who were better
acquainted with the arts.'
[Mr. Bourne exhibited pictures at
the Royal Academy many years. They were mainly landscapes, and some of his
beautiful aquatints can be seen to-day at the Victoria and Albert Museum.]
'Now London once more became my
home,' he continues, 'and having parted with all those friends with whom I had
lived in dissipation and gaiety I began to think of religion again, and was
willing to hear the most noted preachers up and down London. I went on in this
way three or four years. My landlord once said to me, "As you are so fond
of hearing preachers I wonder you do not go to hear Mr. Huntington". So I
did, and thought him the most agreeable preacher I had ever heard. I continued
to frequent his chapel together with the Established Church for two years. I
was anxious about my soul but had no understanding of what secret communion
with God was. I used to pray, as I thought, but never waited for an answer: I
supposed I should get that in heaven, not now. About this time I met with Mr.
Hunting-ton's book, The Barber, and the Lord was pleased by this book to
discover the nature of my profession, that it was altogether vain, and would by
no means stand when the rain began to beat and the winds to blow, but would certainly
fall, because founded on the sand. This by the power of God swept away every
refuge of lies I had been hid under, and left me without a hope and yet not
without a cry. This led me to hear more attentively the author of the book: I
was in earnest now to seek salvation but found I had lost my way. It was by
very slow degrees that I could at all understand the Word, though so faithfully
preached, but I felt I was a lost sinner and the minister told me how such were
to be saved, and the Lord made me very much in earnest to seek in the way I was
directed by the Word.
'My custom was to spend my summers
in the country with families of rank, in the way of business. As the time drew
near for my leaving town I felt afraid lest being deprived of public worship I
should defer that which my heart was now set upon—a
knowledge of Christ by the remission of sins. After performing the journey with
a young gentleman of the Temple we parted and I went to the house of a friend.
I found the family were absent from home but had requested me to stay as long
as I liked. I went to bed fatigued and full of fears but when I awoke in the
morning I felt something I did not quite understand. I was particularly
cheerful. When I arose the happiness greatly increased. I found the burden of
all my sins, which had so sore oppressed me, was gone, and I could do nothing
but bless and praise God's Holy Name. I had never heard anyone speak of this
happiness, but I felt it was what the minister had set forth by the Word as the
revelation of Jesus Christ to the soul. I knew the voice, according to the
Scripture, "Therefore My people shall know My Name: therefore they shall
know in that day that I am He that doth speak; behold it is I". I was now as sure of eternal life as of my existence, nor had
I a shadow of a fear about it. Though after this I had many changes, yet did it
effectually show me that the Lord had given me spiritual life.
'About this time I was meditating
one day on what the Lord had done for me. I was surrounded by outward difficulties,
yet was my heart kept peaceful; and I felt greatly afraid of losing my peace,
for I was naturally lively and easily betrayed into levity. And as I was
mourning over this and regretting before God the sad places into which I should
fall (if suffered) in consequence of it, these words were spoken on my heart,
causing much surprise—"Never fear but you will have affliction enough to
keep that down". And so it came to pass.
'I had some friends who had been
very kind to me in many ways, but in consequence of my being much concerned
about the salvation of my soul I became a continual reproach to them so that
they now turned to be my enemies. I dined with them, I think twice, and was
going a third time in my simplicity, not knowing there was any harm likely to
accrue to me, but within fifty yards of their door these words were whispered
in my heart with mighty force, "Eat thou not the bread of him that hath an
evil eye, neither desire thou his dainty meats; for as he thinketh
in his heart so is he. Eat and drink, saith he to
thee, but his heart is not with thee. The morsel which thou hast eaten shall
thou vomit up and lose thy sweet words". This made me return home
immediately, and as soon as my back was turned to their house I found such
peace flow in as I cannot express. But my friends had been exceedingly
profitable to me in a way of business and I foresaw that a total separation
would be a heavy temporal loss. I continually felt something painful in my
communications with many with whom I had formerly associated. All our
employment, pleasures, conversations, and prospects differed so much that I saw
it was impossible for me to continue on an intimate footing.
'Then came a memorable occasion
when my kindest and wealthiest relation withdrew his affections from me and
became my enemy because I feared God. When this circumstance took place I was left destitute, without money and without friends, nor
could I see anything in the dispensation but God's anger.
'I walked down to Brighton and
lodged with a poor God-fearing woman, whose counsel and conversation I found to
be both sweet and wholesome. But I was often exceedingly cast down finding my
money nearly spent and little prospect of being supported without the patronage
of my friends. I often feared both my money and my religion would end together.
At length I received a letter from a gentleman in London promising me immediate
employment. This encouraged me much and proved an opening in Providence which
did not close for many years.'
But not only was Mr. Bourne called
to part with his worldly friends; his religious friends now turned against him.
His Outline continues:
'I had two friends about my own age
[thirty-five now] with whom I had often taken sweet counsel, and whom I had
often freely reproved for what I saw inconsistent in their conduct. One night
in the middle of private prayer in my own room and not thinking of my friends I
was stopped with the words, "Suppose you were called upon to give up your
friends?" (alluding to these two). I was greatly
surprised and replied I could not do that; but I recalled my words and said,
"O Lord if Thou wilt enable me I can give them
up". Upon which these words followed: "You will be called to give
them up for ever". This startled me and I was filled with fear but could
not tell what it meant and it all passed from my mind until on the following
Sunday we met as usual, when, to my great surprise they told me they could no
longer associate with me and begged me to leave them. I went home very sad and
solitary, fearing they had discovered I was a hypocrite and unworthy of the
notice of any of God's people. I think I never cried to the Lord in such agony
of spirit before. I seemed on the brink of despair, for the people of God (as I
believed) having judged me altogether wrong it was needless for me to eat or
drink for nothing but hell. Added to this, my two friends went to Mr.
Huntington and gave such an account of me as to cause him to direct his utmost
severity against me from the pulpit, which made all who knew me to avoid me.
'My health became impaired. I could
not properly attend to my business. One morning I feared I should really die in
my despair and be forever lost. I said in secret, if nothing appears in my
behalf before seven o'clock this evening I am gone for ever. While I was in
bitter cries before the Lord, lying on the floor in a state of utter
hopelessness, these words were gently whispered in my heart, "Thou shalt return in the power of the Spirit". It was
repeated to me seven times and broke my heart and set my soul free from the
misery and bondage I had laboured under so long. Now I knew by the power of the
Word that the Lord Jesus Christ was my Saviour, and my comfort was so sweet
that I could not describe it. The Lord was with me now though my friends had
forsaken me. This comfort abode with me for many weeks, only now and then
interrupted by some sudden reproach cast upon me; for no one would receive my
testimony or even hear it. One day a person in the chapel told me I must not
sit where I usually did. Those who took part against me drew over many to their
side, and I became of small estimation. I used to be pointed out as the
apostate, and many would cross the street rather than meet me. But as often as
these deep wounds were opened in my soul the Lord would pour in the oil and
wine. I now believe that God's purpose in all this was to humble me and to
separate me from false professors.
'During this sore trial I was
visited in my sickness by a medical man who attended the same ministry, and he
kindly sent a friend to see me. This friend was Mr. Burrell, and his
conversation with me then formed the beginning of that bond of unity of spirit
which I believe will continue to all eternity.'
In a letter to Mr. Bourne about
this time Mr. Burrell said, The more I dive into this matter the more I am
convinced that the hand of God is in it; and instead of being ashamed of your
acquaintance I think myself highly honoured of the Lord to be made an
instrument of some good towards you. I know that reproach will break the heart,
but our good Father will heal it. Your being able in the strength of the Lord
to stand against friends as well as foes will greatly redound to the glory of
God's grace, and you will perceive that the faith of God's elect, the rich gift
of God, is not to be daunted by either men or devils.'
The friendship—indeed the love—of
these men, pastor and deacons and the Church they served deepened through the
years, and now, in the 1830's, a beautiful unity held them together.
Speaking of a Church that lacked
this, Thomas Nunn says, They do not seem to know each
other in the bonds of the Gospel. There is little or no uniting together for
prayer and often speaking one to another, so as to know and feel for one
another, in all the afflictions that each member is suffering—which has been
our great mercy in our little Church'.
Another source of unity was the
correspondence of James Bourne. His work often took him away for weeks at a
time, but his heart was with the chapel and its members, and he wrote
constantly to one or another letters which were full of spiritual help derived
from God's Word on his heart. He gives a glimpse now and then of his solitary
position in these families:
'I am now separated from friends
and from the Church, but not separated from the Word, nor from that
"little Sanctuary" which God has promised to be to His people,
wherever He carries them. Surrounded with temptations, and often feeling much
distance and many fears, I find it hard fighting, especially if the throne of
grace is inaccessible. While this is clear I feel power to cast my burdens upon
the Lord, but if sin cause Him to depart then I seem
to toil all night and get nothing. The more I see of the riches and vanity of
this life, in the way of my business, the more I wonder at the discriminating
grace of God; and while I pity the portion of the great, I do from my very soul
adore Father, Son, and Spirit for the great salvation brought home to my soul.
With every kind remembrance to the Church, and the pastor at the head of them
who are, I believe, at this moment assembled for public worship, in which my
spirit joins most sweetly and cordially.'
Writing to a
young friend years later Mr. Bourne says, 'You cannot understand how
that the Lord has called us to an active life; you cannot see that almost all
the trials of the fathers (in Scripture) were concerning temporal things, which
the Lord made spiritual trials to them. He has always dealt so with me. My
heaviest afflictions have been outward, and the Lord has left me to sink under
them, and by them driven me to cry mightily to Him. In all my busiest life,
mingling with the highest rank and finding myself
absolutely shut up with them Sundays and other days, I found this was no source
of bondage. Why? Because I proved the Lord had placed me where I was, and
therefore I found His promised help; and those seasons were often the most
fruitful of my life, the Lord keeping His watchful eye over me in such a way as
to preserve my spirit in that spiritual liberty which He has promised to His
children'.
As he experienced the changes of
the Christian life—the lagging, the spiritual sleep, the alarm sent out on
account of it, the confession of sin, the prayer needed—so he was enabled to
commit these things to writing, as he says in one letter: 'Is this gracious
dispensation come upon me for myself alone? O Lord, if it be for the good of
Thy people, give me time, talents, and power to tell to others what Thou hast
done for my soul, that I may, by the help of Thy Holy Spirit, rightly instruct
and encourage such of Thy desponding flock as fall in my way; for I, of all men
most weak, have been surprised with the loving-kindness and tender mercy of God
in Christ Jesus. But there is something further—that I should not only receive
this precious salvation and declare it, and comfort others by it, but be found
so walking as not to stumble those whom I counsel, nor
grieve those who hear that I prevail with God. As I have "received Christ
Jesus the Lord" so must I learn "to walk in Him" in godly
simplicity and transparency. This will preserve the unity of the Spirit. It is
repeatedly and wonderfully set forth in the Word'.
He says in his own Memoir 'I have
often wondered at the sweet and powerful sense of the Lord's presence I have
felt while writing. What has often surprised me, and also filled me with awe,
is the weight that the Lord has given to my exhortations, both for instruction
and reproof as well as consolation'.
These letters were often handed
from one to another, copied out sometimes, and much prized. It was some of
these which Mrs. Nicol had lent to Henrietta, and
which had opened such a new world to her wondering eyes.
HENRIETTA'S London relations lived
in Marylebone, a district rising just then into the
handsomest suburb of London. The beautiful houses of Regent's Park stood
glittering new, each with its busy stable and smart equippage.
Broad Walk was a regular promenade of fashion. John Nash had completed the fine
curve of Regent Street and the prosperous Londoners thronged these parts with
their carriages and horses. One of the Jeffreys family had a villa on North Bank, its gardens sloping to the
busy Regent's Canal. Charles took a house in Dorset Place (now gone), off
Dorset Square, and Mrs. Nicol lived in the same
vicinity.
But Henrietta breathes not one word
of all this. Her heart was bent on meeting these servants of God she had read
about and Charles had told her about. She goes on with her Narrative
:
'I was kindly received,
and introduced to some of their friends, especially Mr. Abbott; and in the
evening we met for the purpose of their entering into conversation with me. I
felt much embarrassed at first, expecting, from past experience, that I should
have great difficulty to convey to their minds any just idea of the state I was
in. But no sooner had I begun to stammer out a few words, all in confusion,
than to my surprise I found them received with entire sympathy, and such a
perfect understanding of my meaning that whenever I was at a loss to express
myself, my sentence was taken up and finished for me exactly to my heart's
content. Mr. Abbott, who especially spoke on that occasion, took up the thread
of what I was trying to say, and described the secret workings and windings of
my experience so minutely and so faithfully that it seemed little short of a
miracle. This was new indeed to me and it convinced me that the truth of God
was among them, in the same way that the woman of Samaria was convinced that
Jesus was the Messiah when she said, "He told me all things that ever I
did: is not this the Christ?".
'I found my heart to join in
unreserved union with theirs; and though I heard many things in their
experience far above what I had yet reached, yet even such things did sweetly
accord with and explain to me what little I had been brought to the knowledge
of.
'The instruction I received here,
combined with the various exercises I had gone through, enabled me to form a
decisive judgment, and one which I know will be found according to truth, of
the zealous profession I had formerly walked in. It was crumbled to dust before
my eyes, so that there was not found in the bursting of it "a shard to
take fire from the hearth or to take water withal out of the pit". I saw
it to be a tissue of refined self-righteousness; and the sum of all that can be
said of my then state is, that I had "a zeal for God,
but not according to knowledge". All my attainments in that kind of
religion I did now heartily renounce, and have never
since desired to regain them.
'I now returned to Hertford very
happy, sweetly assured that I was in the footsteps of Christ's flock. But being
still very ignorant of the Lord's way of dealing with His people I took for
granted that the light and comfort I now enjoyed would abide and increase, and
that I should never get into such darkness again. Little did I know the
difficulties that lay between me and my soul's desire (to obtain the testimony
of God by the witness of the Spirit on my heart).
Little did I think I had almost everything to learn, and, if possible, more to
unlearn. I feared opposition from without but knew next to nothing of the
opposition from within; the opposition that my own heart would still keep up in
every form against the new principle implanted, as it were a grain of mustard
seed, and which would be amply sufficient to destroy it if it were upheld by
any power short of the power of God. I had to discover that the discernment of
a sin is one thing and the power to subdue and expel it quite another.
'The joy I had felt when I first
returned from London presently abated, and my impatient expectation of finding
great things all at once was disappointed. Especially I found that the earnest
spiritual violence with which I made sure of taking the Kingdom of Heaven by
force was not at my command, so that I too often felt as dead, hard, and
indifferent to all spiritual things as possible. I did not understand this in
my ignorance; therefore it disheartened me and filled me at times with doubts
as to the truth of those things I had lately heard and believed. I had felt
confident that I should henceforth be proof against all that I might continue
to hear laid to the charge of those whom I now so highly valued, but in my dark
and bewildered state I found this was by no means the case. Someone informed me
that certain among my friends were actuated by a very bad spirit, and at once
Satan filled my mind with suspicions and crowded in proofs with such force that
I was carried away. He made it seem clear that they were walking in a false
light, insomuch that I resolved to renounce all further intercourse with them,
and trembled at the narrow escape I had had of being entangled in a dreadful
snare. But still the question would obtrude itself "What then will you do?" ... I do not think I ever felt such anguish as now
filled my soul. Go back to my old profession I could not. At last I cried out
in misery, "There's no way—all men are liars, all, all!".
At this moment these words were spoken to my heart with indescribable power,
"I am the way, the truth". In an instant I was delivered from all my
trouble, and the discovery of this way was as new to me as if I had never heard
of it before. Well may the Lord say, "Behold I make all things new"
even in this sense; for I am sure that the very oldest and most well-known
truth, when revealed by the Spirit to the Soul, is new indeed; yes, again and
again, as often as it is revived.
'I was now full of joy, and made to
feel Christ alone was enough, so that for some time I ceased to think of any
man. But when by degrees I called to remembrance my London friends, I found the
present light shone upon and revived what I had before felt among them; so that
my union with them was sweetly confirmed. Afterwards I was reading the Bible
and came upon this verse, "... Who of God is made unto us wisdom, and
righteousness and sanctifica-tion and
redemption". I felt an awe
on my spirit in considering what a depth of truth lay under these words, and a
longing desire that the Lord would some day open them to me by His Holy Spirit.
'The next day there was a religious
meeting to be held at our house, and I attended as usual. [Henrietta, says her
biographer, was by degrees finding it impossible to maintain communion with
those who did not see the danger of an easy profession of religion, and was
specially tried in attending certain meetings that had for some time been held
at the Rectory by the easy and confident manner in which the promises of
Scripture, any real entrance into which she found it so hard to obtain, were
handed about from one to another.] Though I had so lately been happy, yet my
spirit sank to such a degree that I believe I looked more dejected than usual,
for the lady who conducted the meeting [doubtless far older than the young
Rector's wife!] addressed herself particularly to me. I quite forget what she
said, or what I answered, but I well recollect that she rejoined again, in a
tone of expostulation, though I had not referred to the text, "Well, but
surely we know that Christ is our wisdom and righteousness and sanctification
and redemption", and then she looked round the room for confirmation of
her too confident assumption. Some motion of assent was immediately made by all
except one, whose case strongly resembled my own. I can hardly convey an idea
of the way in which these words, so lightly spoken, fell on my spirit. In the light that I had obtained the day before I saw so clearly
the hollowness of that showy profession that I was compelled from that time
forward to withdraw from all connection with it.
'It was a great mercy to me that my
dear husband gave me full permission to act according to my conscience in this
and other cases. In truth the very same work was being carried on in his heart,
and wholly independent of what was passing in mine, except that the account I
gave him of my first visit to London tended to convince him that those who had
conversed with me were themselves taught of God. He had not been in the same
state with myself formerly, accordingly there was
afterwards some variety in the way we were severally led. Yet I think I may say
that the teaching in his heart and mine did truly harmonise so that we found
sweet unity of spirit continually.'
And how, now, did things go with
Bernard?
'When first I discovered that the
work of grace in dear Henrietta corresponded with what was set forth by our
friends in London as the saving work of grace and would lead her in spirit to
be united to them, I was greatly afraid; my heart sank within me,' he says. 'My
wife being exercised in mind with a conviction deeper than I had yet felt of
the greatness and difficulty of vital religion, was led freely to converse with
some of these persons and to hear their counsel. They manifested so deep an
acquaintance and solid understanding in every part of personal religion, such
humility, tenderness of spirit, and reverence for God and His holy Word, that
when the result of this interview was communicated to me I was afraid of daring
any longer to fortify my heart against them. Not that I was brought to
understand how far they were right and others wrong; but the fear of God so
fell upon me that I began to feel, with dismay, that I was wrong myself. Who am
I, I began to think, that I should rest in my natural faith and intellectual
religion, which enable me to split hairs in doctrine, but leave me always in
the dark as to my actual state in the sight of God!
'Very soon after this I received a
particular help as I was walking up and down in my study, meditating thus:
"I have always imagined I believed that real conversion is God's gift. It
comes to this with me now—I must ask if it will please Him to grant me this
mercy for Jesus Christ's sake". The help I speak of was not any bright
hope that this would be granted, nor any beam of light to show me what the
blessing was: but my mind sensibly received a new direction, and with it a
spirit of anxious prayer, which, though often damped for a time, has never left
me since. I saw that I understood but little, had no real contrition, no solid
hope, no appropriating faith, but now, instead of labouring to frame these
things, I saw that God's way set before me was to ASK for them; and that my
sensible destitution of them all must be a matter for continual confession in
prayer.
'In January 1833 (soon after my
mind received the new direction) I was preaching in the evening from these
words, "Thou art my servant, O Israel, in whom I will be glorified".
My discourse was, in the letter of it, very evangelical, but I felt deep
misgivings that I lacked a spiritual understanding in the power of the
doctrines I set forth. And my concluding words were to this effect:
"Knowing that neither you nor I can possibly enter into these truths
aright without the special favour and power of God I charge it both on you and
on myself to be instant in prayer day and night for this divine blessing".
The words were only common, but I perceived a power as I pronounced them, then
new to me, which. I believe I may add, has never since
quitted me in preaching. It was not elevating, but humbling, as though in my
spirit I sunk out of the pulpit amongst my people and was made in simple
earnest to look up, with such among them as feared God, for everything from
Him.
'All my laborious preparations for
the pulpit faded out of me from that hour, and I waited on the Lord with
fervent supplication to be Himself our teacher and to
teach me what to say. The very next week I expressed my confusion, fear, and
hope, the awakening and humbling I had begun to find, in a sermon on these
blessed words, "Jesus saith unto him, I am the
way, the truth and the life". From that time the opposition against me
began; for some of them felt the sword of the Spirit cut asunder their flimsy
profession.
'My friends in London (for so I
began now to find them) when they perceived this tender conviction and serious
seeking in me, were ready to acknowledge it at once as the hand of God for
good. They showed an anxious caution themselves lest they should darken counsel
by words without knowledge, but their fixed principle always was that what I
had begun to feel, namely, real tenderness of heart, the fear of God and an
anxious spirit of prayer accompanied by self-mistrust and humiliation, were the
seed of all vital religion; that through the maintainance
of the very same things they had been brought to all they had ever enjoyed; and
that whenever any are preserved in this spirit it is manifest that God is
leading them, though in "a way they knew not". Such as David, such as
Paul will come down, and gladly too, even though they have been at times
"caught up into paradise and heard unspeakable words" to commune
heart to heart with those who only begin to draw near, as I then did, for the
first time, to the thick darkness wherein God dwells. And I am sure I found
this with some of my friends, and knew it was "the unity of the
Spirit" to be preserved "in the bond of peace"; that it was the
unity of the brethren, pleasant and good, which David describes in Psalm 133.
Nor can I describe to my reader the amazing difference I found between this
kind of communion, which was both heart-searching and encouraging, and my
former communion with others, which, invariably induced a false confidence, a
secret self-pleasing, and so a deadening of spiritual conviction in my heart.'
It was as early in their
acquaintance as this that the Gilpins first invited James Abbott, the
shoemaker, to stay with them awhile. He was a widower then, aged sixty-one.
Perhaps it was in reference to this humble yet godly man that Bernard wrote,
'If we would really maintain spiritual unity, we must expect that it will please
God to search out and to mortify the secret pride of our hearts. Perhaps our
taste is very fastidious, or our attainments in one direction or another
considerable? (Or we may only think them so!) Then it will be a hard matter to
discern the power of God manifested in mean earthen vessels, and very hard to
overcome our desp prejudices. And I am sure in these
matters I have had discoveries of my sin which have made me to tremble lest God
should leave me to myself.
[James Abbott visited them several
times in the following years, and they and their friends held his conversations
and letters on spiritual things in high estimation. 'Mr. Gilpin had such a
sense of the blessing conveyed through his means,' we read, 'that he
affectionately spoke of him as their Archbishop Abbott', alluding to the good
archbishop of that name in the days of James I. 'So brightly,' adds the writer,
'may shine the grace of God in wisdom, patience, humility, sincerity, and love,
and so useful may it make a man in the Church, though devoid of this world's
wealth and of all the advantages of learning and of shining natural gifts.']
Bernard continues: 'When the power
of these things first began to work in me the effects could not be hid. They
obliged me to withdraw from taking an active part in many things, even some
things in themselves good, which I would willingly have attended to had I been
able. Sometimes I thought I should be utterly confounded, since I, a teacher
myself, who had been telling people for years how needful it was for them to be
religious, must now become only a seeker. However, though I can truly say I was
greatly confounded before God, I was never confounded before the people; nor,
through His singular mercy, moved out of the way. Now, though I preached with
much more tenderness and deep self-application than before, I began to perceive
I was disliked by many, and many charges were advanced against me. But, being
made very cautious in my walk, these resolved themselves into one, perhaps the
hardest of any to bear with patience—that however well I meant I was greatly
clouded in my understanding (if indeed I had any!) and perhaps partly
deranged!'
As for those undenominational
London friends Bernard felt at first that he 'could not bear the prospect which
I thought this union unfolded of reproach and trouble, as well as perhaps in
the end (in my individual case as a minister) separation from the Church, my
place in which afforded me at that time my only means of support. But God
enabled me seriously to ponder the matter, and to lay aside all thought of
those dreaded consequences. I was both directed and encouraged to seek to
improve the reproach I suffered by the timely correspondence of one of these
London friends, so that I felt both in this and the other varied trials in which
I was soon involved, that real Christian friendship and sympathy is
invaluable.'
And what did the Gilpin family
think of this leaning towards unorthodoxy in Bernard, one of its youngest
members? Matilda had gone to Norton to visit Frances, and although her visit
was planned for a few months only it resulted in her absence for many years.
While at Norton Matilda and Frances
received several letters from Bernard, enclosing some of the MS. ones handed
about in Mr. Burrell's congregation. 'From the knowledge she herself had of
experimental religion. Matilda at once understood their language. Never, but in
the case of Sukey Harley, had she been acquainted with any who manifestly
walked in such frequent communion with God as those friends evidently did. She
had often secretly believed there were many such instances amongst the people
of God on earth, and had prayed that He would bring her into communion with
such.'
Of Frances we learn, 'She received
much spiritual profit by the clear and faithful testimony given by these good
men (made known to her through her brother at Hertford) according to which they
walked in the fear of God. By this means she was encouraged to visit and
converse on the things of God with several in her neighbourhood who manifested
the fear of God'. These two sisters, then, would perceive Bernard's position
with great sympathy.
At Pulverbach it was different. We
read Mercy's account. 'I remember how I felt when I read my brother Bernard's
first letter to us stating the change that had taken place in his soul. My
father was ill when the letter arrived, and he gave it to me to open and to
read over by myself. I took it into my room at night and read it. It was on
December 18th, 1833. I was exceedingly alarmed at what my brother said. I
thought he had surely imbibed some of the errors of the day. That chapter
setting forth how it will be at the end of the world, that many false prophets
and false Christs shall arise and deceive if it were
possible even the elect, fell with a weight upon my mind. I thought surely
these days were now already coming, and feeling as I did that I had no
certainty of the truth stamped upon my own heart, my soul was thrown into
confusion and terror. I thought it cannot be that I shall escape being
deceived, for I am altogether ignorant of what the truth is. I fell on my knees
at the foot of the bed and said with much anguish of spirit, "O Lord, I do
not know Thy truth. I am quite ignorant. Wilt Thou teach me?".
I deeply felt at the moment that if I trusted to man's teaching my soul would
be lost.
'In my distress I wrote to my
brother under the idea that he was wrong, but he answered me in the same strain
as before, and soon after my sister Matilda began also to write to me in the
same manner, and I knew not what to make of it all. However, my fears and
secret desires to be taught aright did not continue long, but by degrees wore
away, and were succeeded more and more by prejudice and enmity against all my
brother and sister said; though I think a secret feeling that perhaps they were
right would often press on my mind.
'At this time I was left to find
pleasure in the world more than I usually had been, and the secret hope of
attaining to something in religion as yet unfelt, which had been kept alive in
my soul, began to fail. I used to find myself saying, Perhaps,
after all, there is not more to be found that what I have attained to: so I may
as well cease to expect anything. I spent a week in Shrewsbury at this time,
and all these temptations and snares were then especially leading me astray. I
found when I returned home a friend had come to visit us who had imbibed Irvingism. [Edward Irving, a Scotch Presbyterian and friend
of Thomas Carlyle, had made a great name for himself in religion with a gift
for oratory but held several grave errors, such as the attainment to angelic
gifts and Christ's liability to sin: he lost himself in the end in a morass of
"prophesyings" and "unknown
tongues".] I heard much that she said, and hearkened attentively to it,
and at times was inclined to think it was the very religion I had been in
pursuit of when I had so earnestly desired to find the inward experience of
many passages of Scripture that would come upon my mind.'
So Mercy was no help to her brother
at this crucial time. Neither it would seem, were any of the others, who must
be included in his statement—'Now also I began to be beset in all directions by
the kind solicitations of many of my former friends and my relations, who did
not in the least enter into my feelings, but were strongly persuaded that I was
wrong'. These 'kind solicitations' changed, as the months went on to 'The
indignation of my congregation, the contempt I was treated with, and the
alienation of some of my dearest friends and relations'.
The crux of Bernard's outlook at
this time is stated thus: I laboured most of all, in preaching and
conversation, to prevent my hearers from resting at ease on an uncertain
foundation. One great hindrance I began now to feel in a more special and
pointed manner than ever before. This was the fact that the occasional services
of the Established Church do most of them involve a principle which
increasingly appeared to me unsound, namely, that they refer to all persons
alike addressed in them as being in the way to heaven. When I first began to
feel myself seriously embarrassed by this I was severely tried indeed. I had no
wish to be a Dissenter, nor to plunge myself, as it
appeared, into great trouble by abandoning almost the whole of my income.
Besides, I perceived I had been first awakened in the Establishment, and my
ministry there had for a time been attended with some evident marks of the
blessing of God. So all I found I could do was to "withdraw into the
wilderness and pray".'
In June, 1834, Bernard received the
following letter from James Bourne in London:
'Dear Sir,—Half-an-hour ago I had
little thought of writing to you so soon, but hearing of your present trial
excites me to pray that as you partake of the affliction of the children of God
so you may also of the consolation. I believe you have been led in godly
simplicity to beg of God to clear your way and to show you how you ought to go:
so I believe that He will unfold the mystery in a way that we cannot in anywise
foresee. Perhaps this very circumstance which seems big with ruin will, by the
Lord's help, give you power to bear witness to the truth where you were least
likely fo have an
opportunity of so doing. My prayer for you shall be that you may be fortified
and emboldened to bear a clear testimony of the hope that is in you, and that
you may give a scriptural ground for your proceedings, and may find power to
leave the event with the Lord, and be much in prayer to be at His disposal.
'I have often, in the course of my
life, been in such intricate circumstances as to think there could be no way
opened for my escape; but by giving myself to prayer I have been astonished to
find, when the time has arrived and I have almost despaired, the Lord has
spoken these words, and others of the like sort—"The battle is not yours,
but God's"; "Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge,
even the Most High, thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee, neither
shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling". I have found the verity of these
precious words; and they have silenced all my fears and strengthened my hopes
in future difficulties.
'Be very particular to attend to
this my request: if any plans in the flesh are proposed in your mind, or any
schemes of human prudence are held before you, reject them as you would a
viper, and for this once try what being a fool for Christ's sake will do. Let
patience have its perfect work; rely, if possible, on the Lord; be much in
prayer, night and day; and believe me, the weaker you feel, and the more
sensible you are of your want of power to manage the matter, so much the more
likely you are to meet with God's protection. "He giveth
power to the faint, and to them that have no might he increaseth
strength." May the Lord protect you and Mrs. Gilpin, and make you willing
to be nothing—hard lesson! Here let me quote for you both a part of our late
friend's prayer—"O Lord, keep me very low, O keep me very low indeed! O
Lord Jesus, do Thou do it, and save me as Thou didst her who sat at Thy feet,
and washed them with her tears, and wiped them with the hair of her head: and
Thou saidst her sins, which were many were forgiven,
and she loved much". Get here, and all outward difficulties are easily
righted. "The Lord exalts them of low degree, and to the poor in spirit
salvation is sent."'
Evidently about this time a patron
of the family, Lord Bexley (who had years before
offered Bernard a post in the Bank of England), made several 'kind and indeed
generous offers' of help in this time of difficulty, and Bernard sent the
letter on to his mentor for advice. For on June 22nd, we have this reply from
Mr. Bourne.
'I would first consider the letter
you have received which appears to have been written with much kindness. If I
were to answer it I would not advert to the outward circumstances, but if
possible, with the utmost godly simplicity declare that you are under spiritual
difficulties and are making the Lord your refuge; that you by no means dare to
run from your post, where you believe that God is instructing you. What the
Lord may do for you is yet undiscovered; but you mean not willingly to give
offence, nor to flinch from the cross when offence is taken against the truth.
Be as short in your answer as such received kindness will admit of. Be on the
defensive, explain nothing, clear nothing, leave as
much difficulty upon curious enquiries as you can. "Be wise as
serpents." Make God your counsellor, keep very
private, very silent. While you are secretly labouring with God, He will openly
work for you. To move out of the furnace before the Lord moves the cloud, would
to me appear a very black mark. As I said in my last, "Venture to be nought". It will do you both good. Therein lies your safety and happiness. The road to it lies through
many prickly thorns— to lose a good name—to be counted a fool for Christ's sake
to be hated for the same cause. Sometimes heaven and earth seem combined to
bring on our ruin; and so they are. There must be a downfall of the old man; he
must be crucified. Here you will learn not to trifle with the message on which God
has sent you.'
All this counsel was exactly
aligned with Bernard's feelings and was accepted with gratitude by him.
'It was not until July 26th, 1834,'
he says, 'that I found any light in my dark way. I was greatly agitated in mind
on that day, fearing lest I should too lightly handle those points which gave
me so much concern relative to the abuse of the Lord's supper.
It greatly distressed me to notice the blind devotion evinced by some in their
attendance upon the Lord's table. I bent my whole
strength, as God enabled me, against this subtle self-righteousness. This day,
while I continued walking and crying in my heart to God, I thought my whole way
seemed to get darker and darker, and my fears rose higher and higher. At last
the impression deepening and clearing in my mind of the danger, especially in
this self-confident age, of mingling the precious with the vile, I sat down and
relieved my feelings by writing to my Diocesan, Dr. Kaye, and acquainting him
with my intention to make a few verbal alterations in the sacramental,
baptismal, and burial services of the Church to obviate the objections I felt
concerning them. Many objections started up in my mind as I wrote, but all
these were over-ruled by an authoritative intimation that the time was now come
for me to act, and that longer delay would be sinful.
'I perceived I must be cautious to
yield to no persuasion, to leave my public charge voluntarily, for indeed it
would only have been dishonest to profess to be thus requiring time for
reflection or taking advice when in fact my mind was fully made up, and that by
the mercy and guidance of God Himself. [Actually, the Bishop did later suggest
a voluntary retirement for a time.] After some time, the Bishop answered me
with great moderation, and after I had rejoined, he chose to remain perfectly
silent till official complaints were made of my non-conformity, when he was
obliged to interfere. The matter was finally settled not till June, 1835.'
This interim period was very
valuable to Bernard, who sums it up thus: 'I was kept, by the mercy of God,
more desirous of pondering the path of my feet than of looking before me to
future events, which seemed, if ever I anticipated them, only portentous and
gloomy. I had a deepening impression of the difficulty as well as the
importance of the work of personal religion; that the spiritual work of God in
the heart, and the clear manifestations of it, and the continual progress of it
in ourselves, and as far as He directs our influence, in others also, are the
great objects of the desire, prayer, and spiritual labour of every true
believer. Hence I never led my people aside to those superficial questions
which my outward situation seemed rather to invite me to consider. And I know
that in this cleaving altogether to that which is spiritual, I enjoyed a sweet
testimony at times that God was with me of a truth, and made His own word,
delivered by me, not to return void. So that these were the golden hours of my
ministry in the Establishment, and I dared as little to shorten them by a day
by any hasty act of my own, as to protract them beyond the time when God should
appoint their termination.
'We naturally find distasteful the
humbling power which the real entrance of the grace of God to us proud sinners
always brings with it. We would leave it wholly out of our account, if we
could. But the members of the Church militant cannot continue in a thriving
spiritual state without the sore exercise of the cross, which is both outward
and inward. And if the power of the Spirit be on us, we shall not be able to
make light of this cross—a disposition which is most opposite to that wrought
by grace. Indeed, throughout the whole of man's walk in the power of the Gospel
there is the continuance of this broken and contrite heart which God will not
despise. This is the very thing which makes the true Christian life and
Christian conflict seem mean and inglorious in the world. Every other conqueror
rejoices in his strength, but he who follows Christ in the regeneration finds
his strength only made perfect in weakness. And it is very generally the case,
on certain prominent occasions, that the strength is
hidden while the weakness is made manifest.'
As the Bishop left Bernard's case
in abeyance, so we will leave Hertford for a short time and meet one of the
other Cambridge young men again—Watkin Maddy.
R. MADDY was curate at Sparkford in Somerset. He was a bachelor and lived alone
with a servant. He says that his prevailing sin was an inordinate love of
eating! This caused him much worry, and sometimes, although throughout his
sermon-preparation he was thinking of his dinner all the time, he would not
touch it when it came, as a penance! [Nowadays one wonders if he suffered from
some complaint?] It was a very big thing with him.
Once he fasted all morning, wrote a sermon on 'Men ought always to pray and not
to faint' but found he could not pray. He felt he must give up the
conflict—that he was an apostate! 'I rode out, thereupon,' he says, 'to a poor
cottager I used to visit, and told him I would never go to heaven, but, I said,
let us pray (as was my custom at the cottages of the poor). I then fell on my
knees and sort of howled rather than prayed— "Lord, hear an apostate"
or some such words, and soon left to go home. The poor man, moved by my
distress, followed at a little distance. Satan said, Kill yourself, several
times to me, but suddenly Jesus seemed to look down from heaven, and
immediately I began to bless and praise Him. The temptation left me, and I
turned back and told the poor man he need not fear for me, for I'd been
blessing God.'
This blessedness soon left him, and
later on an incessant prayer of 'Lord, have mercy on me', helped him. He now
wrote to his friend Charles Jeffreys, giving a few
hints of his feelings, and saying, 'I feel I am in the strong hands of God, but
whether it be to purge a fruitful branch or to cut off an unfruitful I cannot
tell'.
Charles sent this letter to Mr.
Bourne, who had been spending that summer (1832) with a large family in Tonbridge, and who had written to his cousin, There seems a great stir among our strangers. I shall be
truly glad if Mr. C. J. (who could this be but Charles?) comes out on the right
side of the Slough of Despond. I hope he will take no hasty steps to settle his
matters'.'
Mr. Bourne replied to Charles, 'My
dear Sir,—I have for this last year been frequently going to Greenwich
Hospital, and could not but remark how often a lame pensioner was coupled with
a blind one; and so I cannot but call to mind how in my early days before I had
much understanding in divine things as respects myself, I was often obliged to
bear testimony to many truths which as yet I had not fully proved. This seems
in a measure to be your present case with your friend. The presence of the
Lord, it is true, is with both you and your friend, but something further is
wanted before you can be satisfied what this presence is for, whether for
judgment or for mercy. Now, if you can prevail upon the Lord Jesus Christ to
hear your prayers, and can in any wise perceive that He has kind intentions
towards you, even in the most distant hope, and that only for a very short
time, yet while it lasts, it will draw forth such an expression as this, "I
LOVE THE LORD because He hath heard my voice and my supplications". I was
in deep sorrow and trouble, in gross darkness and ignorance, but in calling
upon the name of the Lord I found Him merciful. Having believed and received
this, I can declare it to my friend, and recommend to him to be exceedingly
diligent at a throne of grace. There is no end of instances in the Word of God
of men calling upon the name of the Lord in their distress, but not one
instance of a failure; and it is here added (Ps. 118) "The Lord answered
me, and set me in a large place". I am sure that if both you and your
friend make not God your strength in all the perplexing dispensations that are
come and are coming over your heads you will not find the salvation that you
seem to be seeking.
'Be faithful to the utmost of your
spiritual understanding, and enter not into any other field. As your friend
wants spiritual counsel tell him all the truth, and fill not your letters with
deviations on other subjects, which will certainly blunt the edge and divide
the attention, half for the world and not half for the Lord. I hope it will
please God to direct you, that this labour of love may
not prove in vain.'
This letter was treasured by Mr. Maddy. He writes, 'As when I had that glimpse of the Lord I
had had such a feeling (of love) for a moment, this gave me at times a little
support. Indeed, this letter was my main support for some months'.
Friends used to tell him he must
exercise faith. They lent him books, but some of these made him afraid. He sought
help all round, but had the words on his mind, 'He shall save them from
deceit'. He had to put down some books because of their deeply disguised Arminianism, and said, 'How different this is from the
Bible. That judges me, condemns me, and yet attracts me. But these speak of
comfort yet fill me with fear and suspicion'.
'His health becoming poor, his
friends persuaded him to go to London for a while. He had to take lodgings in
London, and feared that he would fall into some great sin. He was afraid that
the situations in which his fancy had placed him when castle-building in youth
would now be realised and he would end in some terrible crime! Enmity to God
now arose in his heart. Previously he had enjoyed his devotions, his prayers,
reading and sermon-preparation, but now he lay in bed as long as he could each
morning, and made such devotions (which he dared not give up) as short as
possible. 'Lord, I put myself into Thy hands,' he would say, and read a verse
or two as he opened on to them, though often he found to his dismay he lit upon
verses about Judas, or something alarming. He tried to keep fast days, but
found they got muddled away and he was left without benefit from them.
At last Mr. Bourne, 'who had often
spoken to him about his soul', asked him to occupy part of his house. Mr.
Bourne lived at No. 7 Somerset Street, which used to run from Orchard Street to
Duke Street behind Oxford Street. [A short street of high town houses, it has
now been swallowed out of existence by the transport department of Selfridge's Stores.] The lonely young man was glad to do
this, and began to attend Mr. Bourne's family readings. At first he could not
understand Mr. Bourne's commenting on the Minor prophets,
having thought those books only belonged to the Jews and their history. But
gradually he saw, with Mr. Bourne, a great deal of teaching in them profitable
to the souls of God's people in all generations, and sometimes felt, 'It's me
those words are for!'. By this mode of instructions, he says, 'I was turned
from some vain schemes, as, for instance, running away to America'.
He attributed all the early part of
his trouble to his disobeying God by entering Orders, and used to pray for a
way of escape. He spoke to Mr. Bourne about taking pupils, put some
advertisements in the papers, and soon had some pupils.
Mr. Bourne's teaching was gently
continued to him by letter now and then. 'How often my friend has opposed
himself,' he wrote once to him, 'and what false reasoning he makes use of to
quench that little spark of fire which I trust is yet in the temple of his
heart and will be found a fire that shall never go out but is kindled to
eternal life! I have often been greatly surprised in my conversations with you
at the turns you have given to some of the simplest things in experience that a
child of God is instructed in, saying I have no real spiritual life, or, I do
not read the Bible enough, or I have too much to do in the world therefore I
cannot attain to what I want. If this or the other were better managed, you seem
to think, then your prayers might be heard. True. This
is a way of man's devising, but is not the way of the Spirit. Mourning,
self-despairing, trembling, fearing—all denote the state of a coming sinner,
one that supposes himself to have neither life nor light yet pines for the
mercy of Christ. Such obtain help in time of need and receive God's Word by the
mouth of His servants.'
Mr. Maddy
presently gave up his curacy in Somerset, and settled in Mr. Bourne's house as
a private tutor for university candidates. He never married, but remained a
faithful attendant at Mr. Burrell's chapel and a lifelong friend of the Bournes.
Mr. Bourne says of these morning
family readings in his home, 'Family afflictions brought a stricter attendance
on family prayer. [This was during the spells when he was in London, perhaps a
few weeks or even months at a time.] A portion of time allotted to prepare for
this was often a source of great comfort and communion with the Lord, and this
brought great savour in our worship to those who heard it; several friends
living near became constant attendants'.
And who should be one of these
favoured attendants but Miss Matilda Gilpin! Yes, it became her turn to
experience personally the 'answer of the tongue', for it was in April, 1834,
that, she writes, 'a way was opened for my going up to London, where I should
see those people who I had heard of from my brother Bernard, and whom I felt
sure the Lord had taught to know His truth. O how I longed to hear what they
said among themselves concerning His teaching on their
hearts! But as the time drew near many fears arose in my heart. I was afraid of
being deceived. I was afraid in going to London lest anyone should speak to me
about the Lord's dealings'.
It was probably Henrietta's sister,
Mrs. Nicol, who introduced Matilda to the Bournes.
'What I heard at Mr. Bourne's
family readings,' she says, 'sank down into my heart as the truth indeed. But
in my confusion I thought all that I had felt formerly was a deception, and I
disputed every hope that came into my heart. I kept looking onwards for a new
way to open before me which would be light and have no darkness in it. One day
Mr. Bourne spoke on the words, "God dwelleth in
the thick darkness'', and I felt something within myself which made me think,
"Is God really dwelling in the thick darkness that is in me?". This
made me pause, but I understood it not. Another time he spoke on the words,
"The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee". Then on the
words, "God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all". But I
understood it not. Again, he spoke of God's controversy with His people as
lasting all their lives through because of their sin. Then I thought,
"What does Mr. Bourne mean, for surely the work of God is perfected in
him?". Many such-like things passed in my mind
during the first thirteen months of my stay in London, but I was riveted to all
I heard notwithstanding the darkness of my mind, which often brought me into
great perplexity.
'A little light shone one day while
I was at Mr. Nunn's, where a number of them met together. They were speaking of
the tribulation through which the Lord leads His people. This was very striking
to me, who had scarcely ever heard such things spoken of before, though I had
often felt them. While I was considering this, Mr. Bourne spoke of putting our
mouths in the dust if so be there may be hope. I wondered at all I heard; and
in the glance of a moment a light shone into my heart, showing me that true
religion is in the low depths of humiliation before God. Yet still I did not
understand it aright and kept looking for the Lord to reveal Himself in some
new way.
'Then one day Mr. Bourne said
pointedly to me, "If the Lord ever spoke one word upon your heart, eternal
life was in that word, whether you took notice of it or not". I did not
dare to believe it true, yet soon afterwards, didst not Thou, O Lord! bring back to my remembrance the way Thou hadst led me from the time I was eleven years old, and the
words Thou didst speak upon my heart then and at other times? And didst not
Thou bring up again that which Thou hadst wrought for
me, out of the fiery furnace into which it had been cast? And dost Thou not
now, especially in these latter years of my life cause me to weep before Thee
in the acknowledgement of all my sin, and make Thyself
known as wounded for my transgressions, bruised for my iniquities? O Lord, is
it not thus that Thou dost deal with me for Thy name's sake, that Thou mayest be glorified?'
The youngest Gilpin daughter,
Catharine, now steps upon the scene. She is described as 'in many respects a
remarkable person. She was naturally studious and reflective, and when religion
took serious hold of her heart she entered into the subject with the deepest
interest. Once being very earnest in prayer and searching the Scriptures, she
says she caught a glimpse of the power that was in them, and was encouraged to
follow on to know the Lord, but her earnestness was checked through a dreadful
fear which afterwards fell upon her while intently praying that if she persevered
she would lose her senses'. She writes, 'If God had made me really honest in
seeking Him, this must have been a craft of the devil to keep me from the
blessing I sought'.
In the year 1833 she went with
Mercy to visit their relations at Scaleby Castle near
Carlisle, and while there she read a book on the Divine sovereignty of God,
which made an impression on her mind. She says, 'After
this my prayers were to this effect—O Lord, Thou hast said none can come to
Thee except Thou draw him: O be pleased to draw me! And I felt a constant
desire to be satisfied that I was thus drawn.
'Just at this time my brother
Bernard wrote to me about the change which had taken place in his mind on the
subject of religion, and how he had been led to regard as essential these very
doctrines. I felt a desire to see him, and also my sister Matilda, who was then
in London. So I went to London in June 1834. [Catharine was then twenty-nine.]
My sister talked much with me, for her mouth seemed quite opened. I soon became
greatly perplexed, and kept answering her thus, "I know I have not got
true religion, but I do pray for it, and is not that the right way, for what
can we do else?"
To this she replied, "If your
prayers are not the dictates of the Holy Spirit upon your heart, you may give
them all to the wind".
[This may look harsh in writing.
Look and touch from the loving Matilda doubtless softened it. Yet, as appears
in the sequel, it was used of God to awaken Catharine's very soul.]
'I shall never forget,' she
continues, 'the alarm and confusion this occasioned me. I left her and went
into a room by myself, but felt my mouth stopped altogether from being able to
utter one petition except "Lord, wilt Thou, wilt Thou, wilt Thou save my
soul?". At that moment every feeling of my being
able to get that mercy for my own prayers or seeking was quite gone. I saw in a
new light that it depended on the Lord's good pleasure and mercy alone to
bestow on us the power to use the means He had appointed for salvation; that we
could not pray except He first gave "the Spirit of grace and of
supplications". Now this was not new to me in word, for I had often heard
it said, and could say it myself; but the spiritual power and authority with
which it then smote my heart was new, and it brought me to this point—that
there was not a hair's breadth of difference naturally between me and those
that should never be saved. I believe if the fear this brought me into had
continued I could not have supported it, but as I uttered the words, "Wilt
Thou" it pleased the Lord instantly to relieve me by some belief that He
would. An impression seemed to pass over me like this—"He willeth not the death of a sinner". "I am
merciful, saith the Lord." And I felt this was
the only way that true hope could come into our hearts.
'I soon returned to Matilda after I
felt this relief, and no more confusion remained on my mind as to the meaning
of her conversation. I quite understood her whole drift and fully closed with
it, and saw in a very clear light that whatever prayer reaches the ear of the
Lord of Hosts and finds access to Him must first come from Him. I saw how very
delusive an error on this point is, how far it leads us from the humbling power
of that truth—"By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves,
it is the gift of God". I now felt I had got a light in my heart which it
was out of my power to impart to another: for it had come to me by the entrance
of that Word which giveth light and understanding to
the simple.
'We did not long remain in London after
this, but went together to our brother Bernard's at Hertford. While there I was
disposed to be exceedingly private and was led to much diligent meditation and
reflection on these subjects. I read many excellent letters which Bernard and
Henrietta had received from their friends in London, which were made very
useful to me, and I increasingly felt I had found that secret which none can
find except it be given them. And I saw how impassable
is that gulf which God has fixed between His people and the world.
The thought of going home to
Pulverbach and having to speak to my relations and friends about these things
became at this time exceedingly distressing to me. At last, on September 17th,
my distress seemed to have reached its height. In the evening I went and sat
down by myself in a small room in St. Andrew's Rectory to consider what I
should do when the time came that I must go home. I had not been musing many
minutes before the vain idea of my being able to speak concerning these things
according to my own judgment, and so as to shelter myself, was entirely taken
away. It was put into my mind most distinctly—"Thou shall speak My words, the words that I put into thy mouth thou shalt speak". I felt in my spirit as if turning every
way to see if by any means I could avoid doing this thing, but every way was
shut against me except this one in which ] certainly must go.'
It was indeed a big thing that
Catharine faced, for now the Pulverbach family had become 'a house divided
against itself. It must have been a great comfort to
Bernard to have his older sisters Matilda and Frances and his younger sister
Catharine on his side, and sweet must have been their concord as 'face answered
to face' in this conflict about his ministry, but he still had to record that 'to
oppose the will and entreaties of those who were near and dear, relatives or
familiar friends wrung my heart with anguish'.
About this time Mercy was gently
brought round to take his part. She records it thus: 'It pleased the Lord at
this time to begin to instruct me in His truth and to shine with a little light
into my dark soul [after being taken up with her Irvingite
friend]. I found some return of tenderness and much pondering upon the subject
of religion. One night (it was July 13th, 1834), I
received two letters together from my sister Matilda. I opened them quietly in
my room just before I retired to rest. They made me still more and more
thoughtful. The thought struck me that I had never yet been brought to feel the
evil of my nature, and how could I feel my need of a Saviour? I instantly began
to pray, but a great awe came over me, for I thought how could I bear to have
my sin laid open before me? I trembled exceedingly as I knelt before the Lord
and said, "O Lord, I can but leave all this with Thee".
'Just at that moment, as I prayed,
Sukey Harley's conversion came upon my mind—the awful view she had on the one
hand of her sin and her desert, and on the other of the mighty deliverance
wrought out for her. In consequence of this I added in my prayer, "But if
Thou showest me my sin, show me also the Saviour's
righteousness". This I repeated over and over. I then went to bed, but it
was a night to be remembered by me before the Lord. Many passages of Scripture
were spoken on my heart that night. One was, "Behold, I stand at the door
and knock: if any man hear My voice and open the door,
I will come in to him, and sup with him and he with Me". I remember how
forcibly this word came to me. It was as if I heard the very sound of knocking
at the door, and it awoke me. There were three other verses that were very
strong on my mind—"I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear
them now". "Who may abide the day of His coming? and
who shall stand when He appeareth?" "Can thine heart endure, or can thine
hands be strong in the days that I shall deal with thee?" These verses
made me tremble, for they seemed to forewarn me of something fearful; yet did I
feel an inexpressible tenderness and love in the manner in which they were
spoken on my heart: and these were added, "He knoweth
our frame; He remembereth that we are dust".
'For three successive nights at
that time the Lord was pleased to visit my soul, and those three especial
verses were spoken each night, and then were added . . . "Eye hath not
seen, nor ear heard ... the things which God hath prepared for them that love
Him". For about three weeks I felt the savour of these things on my soul,
and it was very blessed. Yet I knew not what it meant. After these things my
prejudice and enmity against Bernard and Matilda and against all they said fell
to the ground, for I believed in my heart they were walking in the truth. My
great desire now was to see someone who could tell me more about them.'
Catharine continues, 'I felt no
power or commission to go immediately to Pulverbach, and remained in Hertford
three weeks longer, during which time Mr. James Abbott came there, and I think
I may say indeed that his words fell on my heart like rain on the mown grass.
The impression made will not soon be forgotten, especially from his comment one
morning upon the parable of the two debtors: "We don't like to come to
that—they had nothing to pay I" No, I thought, that is the very thing we
will not come to, and that it is that makes the bar between God and us. And
instantly a conflict took place in my heart whether I would choose to be led in
God's humbling way that would lay my pride in the dust or go on in a smooth
path that would lead to ease and quiet in the world. And the mighty overcoming
grace of God, I believe, was manifested in my heart enabling me to prefer the
former way, and beg of the Lord to lead and guide me in it. Soon after this I
returned with my sister Matilda to London and attended Mr. Burrell's ministry
for about two months from that time. I felt that it was indeed the truth to my
heart. On the first Sunday as the lines were sung,
Whatever loss you bear beside O
never give up this!
my heart joined in a holy resolution never so
to do, though I felt my way beset with difficulties on every side.
'I was also able to attend Mr.
Bourne's morning readings, and heard him expound every chapter from the middle
of Hosea to the middle of Zechariah. And I cannot describe the light and
instruction, power and authority with which his words were brought home to my
heart. This instruction, together with the preaching, and the conversations of
other friends, had a living and abiding influence.'
IN case Bernard's troubles seem to
twentieth century eyes to be unduly magnified, let us try to visualise life in
the 1830's in a small county town like Hertford. The localised range of
interests meant that everybody knew everybody else. In London the troubles of
Mr. Bourne, Watkin Maddy or
Mr. Burrell passed unobserved in the wheeling life of the metropolis. In
Hertford every movement at St. Andrew's Rectory was becoming a matter of
gossip. The unorthodox views of the young rector [the church is in the middle
of the town] made endless talk. The long-resident families of the town, some of
whom took umbrage and removed themselves to another church, would have much to
say over the tea-table, over the dinner-table, and not just for a day or two—it
went on for years. There was also the overpowering disdain of the Church
towards non-conformity of any sort.
The moment there is a stand made
for the truth in Christ, Oh! how sharply the world,
and especially the religious world, watches the daily behaviour of those who
try to so stand. Looking back at that time Bernard says, 'You know some of the
things that happened. They were enough to frighten me in the foresight: the
indignation of the congregation and the contempt I was treated with [and
Bernard was not an aggressive type, but a 'kindly man, remarkably considerate
for the feelings of others']; the alienation of some of my dearest friends and
relations; my long conflict about the Church, because by the grace of God I was
fully purposed that I would not stir except He made my path clear. Yet now I
can acknowledge that all these trials were good: they did me no harm at all,
except that they wounded my pride incessantly, and they brought me more nearly
to be nothing that Christ might become all.'
But his Lord did not leave him to
battle entirely alone. Just at this very time a young man about his own age was
drawn by divine Providence to come to Hertford, and thus began a friendship
that strengthened the hands of both of them for the rest of their lives. The
friendship had a quiet beginning. The young man was William Lockwood Maydwell. Educated at Harrow, and trained as a solicitor,
he arrived in Hertford in 1834 having heard of a suitable professional opening.
He had no acquaintance in the neighbourhood, and was greatly dejected
immediately on his arrival, so much so that he decided to leave again, and took
some steps to that end, which were, however, frustrated. His friends and family
after a short time found for him a far superior situation, and pressed him to
accept it, but this also he declined.
Mr. Maydwell
later gave a slight sketch of his early years before coming to Hertford. 'How
deeply I had felt for years,' he says, 'the natural pride and conceit of my
heart. I remember in youth that my sister to whom I was much attached was at
one time very anxious that I might be converted, and would often reprove me for
my evil ways, but I refused to listen to her. At that time I was both proud and
immoral, and she used to speak to me of the power of Jesus to save, saying He
is both God and man. It seemed as if I had never heard this before, for I had
lived like a heathen, and I replied to her, "Do you really believe this? I
never will believe it".
'The first thing that effectually
roused me was the sudden death of my mother. My sins were then set in order
before my face and I felt certain that hell would be my lot. That winter was a
dreadful time to me. I was indeed in intense soul-trouble and was too proud to
own my feelings. I have often sat with my sister, pretending to read a
newspaper held before my face lest she should see the anguish on my
countenance.
'About this time I went with my
father and sister to my uncle Lockwood's house at
Lowestoft, of which place he was rector. Here my father was taken ill, and I
was in a grievous state of rebellion against God. I remember one day going upon
the beach in great agony of mind, and seeing no one there I resolved to try to
pray once more, and if God would not hear me to throw myself into the sea. But
my heart was like brass. I knelt down upon the sand, but could not pray a word,
and nothing seemed to hold me back from self-destruction but the fear of
distressing my sick father.'
Mr. Maydwell
had gleams of comfort at times, but as they were unaccompanied by any spiritual
discovery of Christ in His blessed Gospel, he did not understand the ground of
them. He said he often felt an intense gloom come over his spirit and over
every object he looked upon. This was especially so when joining in parties of
pleasure, which he frequently did, and though inwardly sad he made himself appear the gayest of the company.
As he thought over these things and
sometimes spoke of them he began to be considered a religious man, both by
himself and others. He had many religious friends, to some of whom he was much
attached, looking up to them as far more advanced in faith than himself. They were such as easily persuaded themselves that
they were right, and wanted to persuade him he was right also, so the only
fault they found with him was that he was unhappy. 'We have faith,' they said,
'and it makes us happy, and you have nothing to do but to believe and you would
be as happy as we are.' He would sometimes tell them a little of his gloom, but
none of them were willing to enter into his feelings, and they represented this
gloom as the result of his wilful unbelief alone.
He sometimes seemed sensible that
the fault was not wholly on his own side, their conduct often leading him to
say, 'How is it that their strong faith does not influence their life and
change their state, as I am sometimes sensible that my little faith influences
and changes mine?'.
This was the state he was in when
he came to Hertford, a lonely young man of thirty-two, deeply in earnest to
attain the true power of religion, conscious that he had never found it, and
much dissatisfied with himself, and fearing he would never find what he was seeking
after.
He found one prayer in his heart,
but being ignorant of the dealings of the grace of God he did not at the time
recognise in this the love of God to his soul. The prayer was the third verse
of Psalm 43, 'O send out Thy light and Thy truth: let them lead me; let them
bring me unto Thy holy hill and to Thy tabernacles'. He said that for several
months—nine at least—these words were present with him by day and by night,
waking or sleeping. Spending most of his leisure time alone, he would over and
again repeat the words, but felt notwithstanding that his heart was hard and
dark.
'How often,' ejaculates Bernard,
writing his Memoir later, 'has he in succeeding years encouraged a tender faith
in others by his own example, and shown them that such a cry out of a sensibly
hard and dark heart is a blessed proof that the true light has begun to shine
there! How often also he used to amplify this word of life in his soul, and
show us what a fulness there is in it! He would lay a
great stress on the word truth. "We must (he was wont to say) not only
find light, but the truth itself from the Lord. I used for many years to think
it would be impossible to be fully satisfied that I had found the truth in a
world so full of conflicting opinions as this is. But,
blessed be God, He has discovered to me the Truth itself in His light, so that
I have not the shadow of a doubt upon this question—'what is truth?' for I know
it. It is Jesus". He would also say, "See the fulness
of David's words, 'Let Thy light and Thy truth lead
me: let them bring me unto Thy holy hill and to Thy tabernacles'. It is not
enough to find a leading except that leading be effectual and so end in our
being brought to the right point. Blessed be God for bringing me there!" '
Mr. Maydwell,
looking for a church to worship in when settling in Hertford, found that the
Rector of St Andrew's was 'everywhere spoken against', and soon resolved to go
and hear him. 'He was too desponding in his own mind to enter into the state of
others, but he went induced partly by kindness to one under reproach, and
partly by a sincere desire to profit by instruction wherever he might find it'.
The effect of the first sermon he
heard from Bernard was peculiar. He was surprised to find that, contrary to all
religious advice which had been profusely offered him, he was not censured for
being unhappy. He found the gist of Bernard's sermon to be, 'If you are unhappy
it is because you need more of the divine gift of faith to enable you to lay
hold upon Christ, and you must ask for this faith, and wait upon the Lord till
He works it in your heart, as He surely will do in due time to all who are poor
and needy in soul. To abide steadfastly waiting for Christ, however unhappy you
may be at present, is better than to heal yourself by
the efforts of a self-wrought faith. This last ends only in an unsound healing,
which will not stand the trial.'
He was at first afraid of taking
the consolation which this line of teaching offered to him. He had a high
regard for his religious friends, and thought to himself, 'Surely they must be
right, and they all blame me for not assuming this faith at once, and so being
freed from all trouble of soul. My cordial agreement with the sermon I have
just heard rather makes me suspect it must be unscriptural, for a man in the
bad state I am in is more likely to reject the truth than to love it: I resolve
to come here no more'.
Still, as opportunity after
opportunity offered, he felt constrained to go and hear, and the relief it
afforded him became more and more confirmed. Gradually, as he ever afterwards
fully acknowledged, the Lord opened his eyes to see that the advice Bernard
gave him was according to the Word of God, as in the beginning of Psalm 40:
"I waited patiently for the Lord and He inclined unto me, and heard my
cry. He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out
of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock and established my goings".
It was still with difficulty that
he consented to a private interview with Bernard, and when this took place he
gave him a number of his friends' letters, begging Bernard to read them
attentively. I found,' says Bernard 'the very same fault running through these
letters which I had before found in my own early ministry, and which had caused
what I may call a revolution in it. The letters were rather persuasives
to him to heal himself by the Gospel than to wait upon Christ to heal him.'
In exchange, Bernard lent him a few
of the MS. letters of his friend Mr. James Bourne. He promptly read these, and
acknowledged at once that the simplicity and spiritual power he perceived in
them convinced him that the writer had real communion with God, the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost. In June 1835, he received a letter himself from Mr.
Bourne, as follows:
'Dear unknown Friend,—I am glad to
see your letter to Mr. Gilpin and that it has pleased God to give you some
discernment between the dead professing Church and the true Church of God. I
cannot but hope the Spirit of God has made you to feel the inefficiency of the
one and the desirability of the other; for the gay professors of the present
day are not denied any of the pleasures and fashions of this world, and if you
in your measure are dead to these through the fear of death and a broken law,
to such the Gospel is sent. You must not be disheartened because you find not
abiding peace. Judgment most commonly precedes mercy, and there is pulling down
before building up, and breaking the clods and ploughing before sowing. None of
these things are pleasant spiritually, though both safe and necessary.
'Be not discouraged if the
assurance of salvation does not come about according to your notions of it; nor
think that your safety consists in attaining to high things at once. "To
this man will I look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at My word."
'The despondency you speak of is to
create a feeling sense of your weakness, and train you not for high things, but
for small things; to hear the truth from a child; to think it a wonder of
wonders if the Lord should condescend to visit you in ever so little a way by
the ministry of a poor despised man. The great and mysterious work of grace in
a sinner's heart is not wrought in a day, there is so much to be pulled down,
put off, denied, and crucified; and the Lord can do nothing but with broken
hearts. O may the Spirit of God quicken you! I hope you will be able by the
grace of God to abide by the Word in this time of persecution and disgrace.
Christ "made Himself of no reputation". Can you find power from on
high to give up your reputation? Or will the.love of
this present evil world in a profession entice you to betray him? May the Lord
greatly enlighten and comfort you, and discover to you more and more the safety
and sweetness of that salvation which is treasured up in Christ for all
afflicted consciences.
From your
unworthy servant in the Lord, B. J.'
'From this time,' says Bernard,
'all his suspicions left him. He was enabled to choose for himself the way of
"patient waiting", though this is really identical with the way of
tribulation. From that time to the end of his life, he became more than a
brother to me; and I thank God to this day for the great benefit I found, both
privately and in my ministry, from his counsel and friendship. I had just then
began to stand in need of such a friend, and Mr. Maydwel's
cordial approbation of my line of conduct strengthened my hands when reproach,
opposition and misconstruction from almost all quarters besides, tended to
weaken them. We neither of us felt strong, but weak; yet Christ's strength is
made perfect in weakness! 'Twice only during this period, I thought I discerned
what the eventual direction of God would be after the dissolution of my
connection with the Establishment—even the continuance of my ministry in
Hertford. On the first occasion I was exceedingly cast down, almost without
hope; on the second I found a measure of strengthening peace, as though it were
said of me, Who art thou, that thou shouldest be
afraid? and as if in the strength of that great
comfort I could say to anyone who should venture to express a wish for the
continuance of my ministry, "License a room for me, and I will stay
amongst you". I thought also of the door mentioned in Rev. 3. 8,
"Behold I have set before thee an open door, and
no man can shut it". Yes, I said, if I may but
have grace to stoop so low as to enter into that door.'
Bernard received the official
communication of the acceptance of his resignation on the day before
Whit-Sunday, June, 1835, and the very next day after he ceased to be Rector of
St. Andrew's, he was asked to preach in the house of an aged friend, Mrs. Tims. This old lady had arrived in Hertford in 1829 with
her daughter: they had asked the young rector to look them out a suitable
house, and he had done so. They attended his ministry when it was in a state of
'abundance of zeal'. The old lady (eighty-five that year) had been for twenty
years looking for joy and liberty in Christ and never finding it. The fault had
been with her teachers,' says Bernard, 'rather than herself,
and I was just such another of them, "who see visions of peace for
Jerusalem when there is no peace". Sincerely religious, she had been
induced from long habit to conceal the secret depths of fear and conviction
because she found scarcely any who could in the least sympathise with her and
direct her how to overcome them in the right way. During the time of Bernard's
difficulties, Mrs. Tims had been staying at home
through increasing weakness, but she had learnt from her daughter the new tenor
of his preaching. Bernard avoided calling on these two for many months, fearing
they would scorn him, but one day, feeling a "Peradventure" upon his
mind he went to see them. To his surprise the old lady gave him a most cordial
welcome, and soon drew from him an account of his hopes and fears. She said
they quite agreed with her own. "I used to be afraid," she said,
"you were setting forth yourself too much. Your words never touched my
inward case".
"No wonder," said
Bernard, and then told her of the help he had received from the London friends.
"Mr Bourne would always caution me against neglecting or brow-beating any
humbling spiritual convictions in myself or others. When any persons express
fear or conviction it is so common for the religious counsellor to say, 'Don't
give way to this weakness. Be diligent in God's service and you'll soon be
better', or 'Believe—only believe', with no distinction between natural faith
and spiritual. It is better to look and wait for a living hope. The Greek word
living implies a hope that breathes, desires, expects. And where do we look?
Why, to Jesus. Ask! Ask!".'
While Bernard found an increased
unity with the mother, he found an increased separation from the daughter. Once
when he called he found Mrs. Tims ill and afraid of
death. Why?, he asked her. 'Oh, it is the conviction
of my self-righteousness', she said. Her daughter tried to comfort her. 'I'm
sure you're not self-righteous', she said, 'I hear every day your prayer to be
saved by Christ's blood'. But Bernard said, 'I know what you mean, for your
treacherous heart is self-righteous still'. She looked at him as one who truly
understood and sympathised, but the daughter was not pleased. To his comments
she put up the usual common objections which amounted really to the belief that
'of course' her mother was right with God by the consistent and religious life
she had led.
Bernard tried to avoid seeing the
daughter, but presently found that her conscience was being truly enlightened,
and her objections were rather to get at the truth. 'How patient was the Lord
Jesus,' he ejaculates, 'with the woman of Samaria, showing neither surprise nor
disgust at the ignorance of her answers!'. By degrees
the younger woman's spirit changed; she became poor and needy, and later said
that the special means used by God was the example of lowliness, earnest desire
and contrition set before her in her aged mother.
'Mrs. Tims
gradually emerged out of all her clouds and darkness into a state of great
spiritual clearness, and often of the most divine consolation. Her words
entered into my heart, and mine into hers from then onwards.'
At her house, then, Bernard was
asked to come and expound. He did so, taking as a text Micah 7. 'I will bear
the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned against Him, until He plead my cause. . . .' Though 'the flint was not turned into
a springing well in my heart', says he, 'it was in hers; which she afterwards
told me. This was, I believe, intended by God to encourage me, and it did so.
My aged friend, though she had been all her lifetime a member of the
Established Church, and was attached to it, felt no disunion of spirit with me
in consequence of what had taken place. Previous to this I had been often
tempted to think that my influence with her would now be impaired and my
instructions no more prove of use, but so far from this being the case she
increasingly felt and owned the blessing of God as resting on her soul through
my ministry, from this time till her most triumphant death in the ensuing
December. Indeed the whole of her spiritual conflicts and the victories of her
faith during those months proved to me like one impressive "Yea and
Amen" from the Lord to the truth and power of that Gospel which I had
begun to realise.' Her daughter remained a true friend to the Gilpins all her
life.
'Very soon after my removal from
St. Andrew's several of my congregation [Mr. Maydwell
would be one] were actuated with a quiet gentle spirit, and a large room was
licensed wherein, without any interruption, we continued to meet.'
During this interim period, before
a chapel was built for Mr. Gilpin in Hertford, he went to live at Hertingfordbury—possibly with that sister of Henrietta's
who is mentioned earlier. Circumstances were now very different for Bernard and
Henrietta and their little family—two daughters and a baby son.
His biographer notes that 'with a
mind constituted as his was, Mr. Gilpin painfully felt losing the society of
many intellectual and esteemed friends with whom he had been connected in the
Church of England. This trial he was in some degree sensible of to the end of
his life. But he was, nevertheless, kept stedfast,
aware of God's infinite mercy in opening his ear to the words of James,
"Hearken my beloved brethren, hath not God chosen the poor of this world,
rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which He hath promised to them that love
Him?" and in granting unto him that poverty in spirit, meekness and grace
which Christ has blessed'.
He was not alone in his family in
those sacrifices for conscience' sake which he was led to make. He was
descended from the venerable Bernard Gilpin, the 'Apostle of the North', Rector
of Houghton-le-Spring, who only escaped martyrdom by the death of Queen Mary;
and from Dr. Richard Gilpin who was Rector of Greystoke
in Cumberland in the reign of Charles II and who resigned his living under the
pressure of the Act of Uniformity.
JANE'S ILLNESS
WE must go back a little way to pick
up the thread of Catharine's account of things. She had gone to Hertford and
London almost in the capacity of an investigator. She had seen, had heard, had
understood, and, as she said, 'the thought of going home to my friends
and having to speak to them about these things
became exceedingly distressing to me'. She obviously anticipated arguments
about Bernard and Matilda in her father's study, in her older sisters'
bedrooms, and in the drawing-room with the family friends. She prayed much: she
was keyed up to be ready, but on arrival she found that things had taken an
unexpected turn. Jane was seriously ill—indeed, spiritually ill, it might be
said—and instead of the family engaging in verbal arguments, the Lord set
before them a living demonstration of the helplessness of human will-power and
the reality of His free gift of mercy 'to whom He will have mercy'.
'At last the time came,' writes
Catharine, 'when I felt I must go home to Pulverbach. At seven o'clock in the
morning of December 22nd, 1834, I took my journey. When I arrived at the
Rectory, which was not till the middle of the day following, I went into the
house almost trembling, and my sister Mercy came out of the dining room and
took me into a room alone, and with affectionate tenderness told me, what I had
only imperfectly heard by letter before, that our sister Jane was very ill, and
very low in her mind. I presently went up to see her.'
The case with Jane was that she
felt she had all too lightly handled those things that the Lord had shown her,
that she had become very much lifted up in herself, saying, my prayers, my
faith, my trust have procured these blessings for me, but she thrust away from
herself, she said, whatever she thought would make her unhappy, such as
conviction of sin and the knowledge of her own heart. Writing about it later,
she says, 'For two or three months before my illness I had been strongly
convicted of the sinfulness of my heart and life by an awful feeling under that
verse, "If we sin wilfully after we have received the knowledge of the
truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for
sin". This subsided when I was first taken ill, but gradually returned and
my trouble increased to a fearful extent. It was as though God told me Himself, and that in a voice too powerful and dreadful to be
misunderstood, that the threatenings contained in His
word against the ungodly were the lot of my inheritance. Oh! I would fain have
turned my eyes from these threatenings to the sweet
promises contained in other parts of the Scripture, but how could I? That was
where I erred before. I thought they were all mine. I wanted none now to press
me to take the promises. Oh, I was glad, strange as it may appear, I was very
glad, when I found that Catharine, who was the first person to whom I opened my
mind, pursued a different course. She attempted no such vain comfort. She had
been with some who had had experience of these matters themselves and had been
enabled to teach her another lesson.
'After making some enquiries about
Bernard, I said, "Well now, tell me, how do those
you have been with talk upon the subject of religion?". "Jane,"
she replied, "religion with them seems to be the most humbling work in the
world." I believe I received these words humbling work as a message from
God. I then told her something of my distress, and that I was almost without
hope. "Jane," she replied, "do you not think you feel what is the truth? The threatenings of
God against sinners do belong to you. They belong to us all, till He of His own
free grace takes them out of the way. As to His promises, He must give them to
you before they are yours. We cannot apply them to ourselves. It is vain to
attempt it. Salvation belongs altogether to God. It is His gift. Of this,
however, you may be sure, that those to whom He giveth
it will be made to feel their own ruined state by nature and to acknowledge His
righteousness in the punishment of their iniquity, and to feel they are at His
mercy whether He will save or condemn."
'It would be impossible for me to
describe the effect these few right words had on my mind. I had not one word to
answer, for I was powerfully convicted of the truth of God, but a distant ray
of hope did glide into my heart that perhaps this was the way He dealt with His
people, and that He might "return and repent and leave a blessing behind
Him".'
Catharine, writing to Matilda,
says, 'I felt a great drawing of affection to her. It was wonderful how she
received the words that were put in my mouth to answer her. The Lord had long
been preparing her by some heavy afflictions and she was now brought into a
most humble spirit so that she was just like a child. I always agreed with her
as to everything she said respecting her own sinfulness, and told her we could
none of us feel more sinful than the Scriptures represented us to be, nor more
so than God well knew we were, or would be, when from eternity He made an
everlasting covenant which He would have respect unto without looking unto
anything in us. I could not help speaking thus to her, for you know that truth
has been brought with much power to my own soul, so that I spoke what I felt.
She seemed fully to feel the truth of it, and observed that we could be saved
no other way; we must become as little children.
'We had much to fear on account of
the great increase of her illness. On Thursday, which was Christmas Day,
neither Mercy nor I could leave her throughout the whole day. Her conversation
was of the same sort but uttered with great earnestness and authority of
manner. To anything I say she has but one answer "It is the revelation of
God's wrath in my soul, and it is not that I am afraid I shall be, but that I
am consumed by it. O Lord, rebuke me not in thine
anger, neither chasten me in Thy hot displeasure". She said that verse and
others like it were so powerful in her heart that it led her to ponder over the
sufferings of Christ, and being made partakers of them. "It says we must
be," she said, "but we cannot stand it, neither you nor I."'
Mercy says, 'Hearing Jane's bitter
cries sometimes quite overpowered me. But Oh! what added to our inward fear and
suffering at that time was that not only had we then placed before our eyes, in
our sister, a living witness to the truth of that incontrovertible doctrine—
"it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth
mercy", but also that it pleased God we should at the same time see it
evidenced before us that the will of man and carnal reason will dispute on this
point, though firm as the pillars of heaven'.
This refers, says her biographer,
to 'the strenuous opposition to this doctrine maintained by her beloved father
and many of the religious friends of the family'.
Catharine says again, 'She would
ask if there was any hope for her; she was like no other person. Sometimes she
was in great terror, saying that such blasphemous thoughts were given her to
think she was afraid she must speak them; but I think she never did. Also she
would say, "Now He is going to give me up and now I shall be gone for
ever!". I think I should have felt it all as a
matter for rejoicing in hope if it had not been for the bewildered state of her
mind at times, which did render it too, too distressing for me to witness, and
when I saw that her soul was, as I may say, beyond the reach of any help from
us, I left her, and Mercy did likewise. We could only find comfort in reading
such Psalms as the 38th and 39th. We felt as though there was not a word in the
38th, for instance, but what in a measure might be said to be fulfilled in her.
I did feel it for her, and I felt a persuasion that in God's good time help
would come. One night she had lain for some hours so still that we could hardly
perceive she breathed, and we were afraid she was dying'.
At this time these three sisters
were very closely drawn together. Mercy had been longing for Catharine's return
from London. She said, 'My soul was intent upon hearing what she had to say of
my brother and sister, and the other friends she had been with. All she said
sank deeply into my heart, nor could I resist one word; for it came powerfully
to me that the Lord had put His truth into their hearts, and I dared not
controvert many things that she repeated which she had heard said by one and
another. I remember the expression by one who had the witness of the Spirit in
his heart—"I am more certain of these divine verities than I am of my own
existence". I felt real gladness of heart that such certainty could be
attained, and a very encouraging hope that I should one day possess this
confidence of faith in my own soul'.
'The Lord seemed to guide us,' says
Catharine, 'in much mercy in all our dealings with Jane. What I said seemed to
enter her heart as the truth of God, and the presence of God was truly with us
in a wonderful way while we conversed together. Yet none can imagine the trial
which some things occasioned me; but the Lord had so effectually convinced me
of the truth and had put such a power of it into my heart that I could not dare
to compromise the least part of it. Indeed He did give me and my two dear
sisters a very firm persuasion that though our sins were as the hairs of our
head yet that we were on His side in this trial—that the battle was not ours
but His.'
Jane went down into the very depths
in her illness (which lasted about six weeks), and then was granted a most
sacred revelation of the sufferings of the Lord Jesus Christ, which she was
able to describe a little later. She never forgot this to the end of her life.
She had sunk down, she says, to that place where hope
never comes (and she really believed she was there) when the Lord Jesus drew
near to her. She saw Him as 'a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and,
she says, I stood before Him in silence. I dared not ask Him to save me. We
spoke not, but we gazed on each other. Then He laid His hand upon me and made
me feel that He loved me with a love that knew no bounds. And he communicated
into my soul an unutterable love towards Him, so that I grieved for Him with
unspeakable sorrow. Then the whole place where we were became changed. Hushed
was the windy storm and tempest, the tremendous power and fury of the enemy was
driven far away, and behold, my soul found a place of deepest rest with Jesus
Christ in His own grave. And in this holy place of deepest sorrow I was shut up
with Jesus Christ alone. I am sure the things He was pleased to teach me here
were great and mighty things, and altogether too wonderful to be in anywise
understood by the natural heart, and too mysterious to be set forth by words;
but God teaches man knowledge in that way which pleases Him. And surely I can
say "O Lord Thou hast searched me and known me. Thou hast beset me behind
and before and laid Thine hand upon me. Such
knowledge is too wonderful for me: it is high—I cannot attain unto it".
And I can also say, "Thou hast known my soul in adversity." 'Now when
it pleased Him, and when the number of days was accomplished, He caused me to
feel a hand that touched me, and a voice spake to me
saying, "Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise
from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light".
And immediately I received strength to raise myself up in the bed whereon I had
been chained down, as it were, hand and foot, with no more power to move than a
corpse, insomuch that I did believe my soul had left my body. Yes, "the
dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God", and so did I. And I arose
and sat up in the bed. From that time I daily felt a replenishing of health and
strength. But the feeling I had when I found myself again a living soul upon
the earth was exactly as though I had left my Lord behind me in the sepulchre,
and I kept mourning many days, like Mary weeping at the door of the sepulchre.
I knew I had looked on Him whom my sins had pierced, and I did "mourn for
Him as one mourneth for his only son" and was
"in bitterness for Him as one that is in bitterness for his
firstborn". But that sorrow was not without hope. There was an ineffable
sweetness in it, that made me love the very name of
sorrow. And I often think of the words He spoke to me in that deep, deep
sorrow—"Ye now therefore have sorrow, but I will see you again and your
heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from
you".'
Jane gradually recovered her health
and strength, but it was by very slow degrees indeed. She writes:
'One time I had a very distressing
dream. It was that someone put a Church prayer-book in my hand and told me to
find the service for Christmas day. I began to search through the book over and
over again but could not find it. At length the words "Blotted out"
were fearfully portrayed before my eyes and I awoke in a great fright. This
dream brought a dreadful gloom over my spirit. I thought surely it could mean
nothing else than that Jesus Christ was never born for me. I got up and tried
to find some way of escape but my very foundation seemed removed: it was no use
to pray without Christ and surely it was clearly made out to me that the
Saviour was never born for me. After I had finished my breakfast I threw myself
on the sofa and there I lay like one bereft of all good. During the morning
Catharine came into the room. I had not named my trouble to anyone. She said,
"Shall I read you a chapter?" and turning over the leaves of the
Bible she said, "I think I will read this". It was the second chapter
of Luke. O how wonderfully blessed this her choice of that chapter appeared to
me, for I felt quite sure that none other than the Lord Himself had
directed her to it as He knew the anguish I lay
under. As she read the horrors of the dream and the temptation vanished, and I
felt I was still within the precincts of mercy's door, still allowed to hope in
Jesus the Friend of sinners, the "Saviour which is Christ the Lord".'
The long dark winter nights shut up
in her room, probably within a curtained bed, at last gave place to
emergence—and we read of the sisters taking her into the garden one warm day in
January. 'As I was wheeled round the garden,' she says, 'my eyes rested upon a
fresh-blown flower and I had such an unutterable feeling of blessedness as
altogether passed knowledge. It must have been one drop of heaven's bliss which
the Lord Jesus Christ distilled into my soul. Truly I can testify "He maketh poor and maketh rich; He bringeth to the grave and lifteth
up again". That feeling lasted but one single moment as I passed that
shining flower and the recollection of it is present with me as often as I look
upon those same yellow blossoms when they open in the spring.'
Mr. Bourne wrote his first letter
to the sisters at this time, having heard of Jane's illness and the strain the
others were under.
'Your sister now knows some little
of the meaning of this,' he writes,' "The publican, standing afar off,
would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast,
saying, God be merciful to me a sinner". It is not—"/ have nothing to
fear: I never doubt the mercy of God" with many other such words. Oh no! but now it is—"Wilt Thou, canst Thou, have mercy upon
me?" Oh how the language changes when the fire has taken hold of the poor
soul, and has begun with a most vehement flame to burn up much pride, vain
conceit and frivolous profession, that would never bring any glory to God!
'If ever we are vessels meet for
the Master's use, we shall have need of sharp work and much cleansing for that
honourable purpose. A bad servant will leave the dirtiest corners: but in this
fire, as your sister says, how are hidden things sought out, as well as
counsels of the heart which we in false liberty seek deeply to hide!
'Under your present difficulties
you have need of a Stronghold, and I am sure He is nearer than you are aware
of, and you will find "double" for all the sorrow you have had. Your
casting-down is that you may long remember the wormwood and the gall; that your
soul may have them still in remembrance and be humbled within you; that there
be no trampling on the blood of Christ nor lightly esteeming the Rock of our
salvation; no flourishing profession covered with a double deceit, but
transparency and godly simplicity; no kings and lords, but little children whom
Christ can take up in His arms and bless.'
Much as Jane valued this letter,
she was able to say later in a letter to Bernard, 'I speak the truth when I say
that it was neither you nor Matilda nor Catharine nor Mr. Bourne nor Mr. Abbott who struck into my heart the things I have
received. Nor can I say that any one of these I have named
nor yet any other person was even the means made use of in the first instance
to convey these things to me. For God Himself, with a voice too terrible to be
disregarded spoke to me out of the whirlwind, and then when I expected nothing
but destruction behold, glad tidings of great joy, tidings which could not be
believed they were so great! Nor did I believe them at that time. All this you
have heard before and also of that little hope that was brought me by Catharine,
who, coming from your company, was sent to me with living words, whereby I
received a most sensible reviving, like life from the jaws of death. And if our
dear father could but believe it, he would know it too. He would say,
"What? is this it that I have been shutting my
ears against and hardening my heart unto? and now,
behold, it is become my very life!" '.
It is only in such an oblique
reference that we see a little of the division of the family. By the omission
in any of the papers of the names of Elizabeth, Margaret and Charles, we have
to suppose they were on their father's side at this time. So, doubtless, were
the servants and visiting friends, not to mention acquaintances round about.
Says Mercy, 'At that time I felt in such a dark and bewildered way that I saw
not a step before me, but felt much instruction from what is said in Luke 14
about counting the cost, and thought surely the Lord was showing us that it was
no light and easy matter to follow Him, but one of most solemn concern. Nor can
I express how the reply that was made by one at that time did thrill through my
heart oftentimes—"Lord, I will follow Thee, but let me first go and bury
my father and bid them farewell that are at home at my house", but the
answer as often came, and was too penetrating to be disregarded, "He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me;
and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is
not worthy of Me. He that findeth his life shall lose
it, and he that loseth his life for My sake shall find it".
'I cannot forget the feeling which
Mr. Bourne's first encouraging letter to me brought. It was such a sweet
surprise. He said, "Behold the eye of the Lord is upon them that fear Him,
upon them that hope in His mercy, to deliver their soul from death and to keep
them alive in famine" (Ps. 33, 18, 19). When I read these words my mind
was looking straight towards you, since which time I have seen your letter [to
Matilda] and am exceedingly desirous to write to you what has been much
impressed upon my mind. I see you question whether you can give up all for
Christ, and add "All must be forsaken". What is this all, or what is a part of it? I suppose in general terms,
that inefficient profession you have hitherto lived in, in which are included
many erroneous and fatal heresies, disputing the sovereignty of God and His
eternal choice of His people, and the final perseverance of the saints,
depending on the immutable purpose of God in Christ Jesus. Your religion was
not the religion of the Bible, for these truths, or some of them, were left out
of your creed, and instead of them were put in what is called 'deep piety'—that
is, dissembled love, sober looks, many works of outward kindness towards the
Church.
'I would have you very tender of
God's teaching, and not hold fast that which He bids you let go. Let the Word
of God be your rule; it will make a straight line for your feet and teach you
well to ponder your path. Withdraw from that which you see was your downfall.
Ascertain by earnest prayer whence your profiting is to be derived. Take heed
of the dangerous and stupefying effects of remaining in the use of such means
as you have seen by the Spirit's teaching to be delusive. I know the perplexing
fears and dark mistrust that you must feel; and if under these sensations you
are led to an ungodly compromise, you will perceive the Lord will show His
displeasure by double darkness, and confusion that may be felt. I desire to
write most cautiously and tenderly, yet I dare not hide all I know. If you are
determined to live godly in this present evil world you must be hated of all
men, and be a living reproach to all the dead professors about you. If you love
this world, and the applause of those that walk in what is called deep piety,
you will never know when real good comes, but will be like the barren heath.
Let me entreat you all not to trifle with the light and convictions you have,
but to be much in earnest with the Lord to arm you against all enemies, and
make you willing (as you say) to give up all for Christ. It will be presently
noised abroad that "Mercy also is gone on pilgrimage". Let them say
all manner of evil against you falsely for Christ's sake—you shall rejoice in
your portion when the King says, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit
the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world". "Then
shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the Kingdom of their Father"
though now covered with nothing but reproach. Yours in the
Lord, J. B.'
By these letters, with their
penetrating honesty, we can gather that these three sisters were now looking at
the same problem as Bernard's—a need to withdraw from the Church in which they
had been brought up. Their positions were strangely similar in one point—that
they were not permitted to leave their appointed place; Bernard had to brave a
derisive Hertford, the three sisters became the gazing-stock of their village.
There the similarity ended. Bernard stepped into a licensed room and was backed
by kind friends: the sisters had no alternative place to worship in, no teacher
to guide them. Bernard had Henrietta in the haven of his home: the sisters had
to face daily the affronted members of their own family. 'Mr. Bernard's'
defection had doubtless been discussed throughout Pulverbach: now the whole
thing came closer with three from the very Rectory itself finding fault with
the Church ministry. It must have been doubly painful to the old Rector, doubly
stinging to the family. It is hardly surprising that the sad word 'bitter' is
used to describe letters to Bernard from his father. 'We cannot wonder,' writes
Jane to him, 'at the great distress and anxious perplexity which our dear
father's letters occasion you. O if he did but know how it was and what it is
which has caused this most perfect difference between us, how surprised he
would be, and how all his strong reasons would fall to the ground at once!'
Mr. Bourne did not consider the
Rector's reasoning 'strong', and wrote one day, 'I have seen your Father's
letter to Miss Matilda. It has exceedingly excited her, but I am in hopes she
will make manifest that like Ruth nothing but death shall part between her and
the Church of God, and not that, we trust. But I never read so long an account
of confusion before—and that from a Doctor of Divinity ruling a flock over forty
years. The whole discovers an entire want of spiritual discernment, also a
perfect ignorance of what he does want, no conviction by the Spirit set forth,
no trembling at the hand of God upon him under his present dispensations, no
light upon his path or in the word of God'.
As Jane recovered
from her illness, though slowly and with many 'sinkings'
again, as she called them, the sisters were encouraged by Mr. Bourne to seek
communion with a few others likeminded. 'Till it please God to appear for you,' he wrote, 'I would
advise you that seem united in spirit to fix certain stated times for divine
worship, and let nothing interrupt you; reading the Scriptures or some good
author, beginning with one of Hart's hymns and prayer. I believe if this be
tenderly watched and diligently attended to, spiritual life will be maintained,
and you will find the Lord as good as His word—"I will be to them as a
little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come" (Ezek. 11, 16).
If such measures as these seem to meet your wishes, may the Lord prosper them,
and make manifest his approbation by his presence. But if a thousand excuses
are made, I fear spiritual death will come on.
'Your sister [Matilda] is every day
with us at our morning reading. I am continually exhorting her not to be here
for two, three, or four years, and then to leave us just as she came, but that
she may be able, as the Apostle says, to "make her profiting to
appear". I earnestly desire she may be watchful and sober, and let no
outward circumstance divert her attention from what the Psalmist sets forth
—"One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may
dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of
the Lord and to inquire in His temple". I could wish you to find the same
sweet power and light that I at times find in the Word, the savour of which
sweetly mixes itself in all my worldly engagements, and affords a comfortable
prospect of a good hope in my end. That hope you now have found counteracts the
despairing thoughts you once laboured under. Deal tenderly with every check
your conscience gives, and this will keep it tender.'
Their difficult position is again
reflected in a letter Mr. Bourne sent them later in the summer, in reply to one
of theirs. 'Perhaps,' he writes, 'through Satan's temptations you have sought
for a cessation of arms, and have desired to rest upon your oars, and have sent
over to the enemy some conditions of a truce. If so, no wonder you cannot pray,
as you say; this is the most effectual way of stopping all spiritual
intercourse. Our time is always ready, and we think we discover many things,
especially when the natural passions are excited upon spiritual objects. We
believe all things, we hope all things, and feel such softness upon our spirits
that we think our loving hearts can never rise up against God, let him do what
He will. We think we see the very way He means to lead us, and are quite armed,
as we suppose, for the battle; that the Lord has so taken us out of the world
that neither the laugh, nor the scorn, nor the kindness which is offered shall
move us from the zeal we feel for the Lord of Hosts. But now comes the Refiner,
and by due degrees makes manifest that all this is not pure gold; and the
discovery sinks us amain. Our zeal abates; our
spiritual strength withers; and we begin to perceive we are not so near
heaven's gate as we supposed. But the Lord will both search His sheep and seek
them out, in this tremendous cloudy and dark day, and will "feed them upon
the mountains of Israel and by the rivers", signifying both the waters of
life and waters of affliction. These shall be good feeding pastures, though
thus mingled with gall; for by sanctified afflictions our proud hearts are
brought low. Do not be disheartened. "I will seek that which was lost, and
bring again that which was driven away (by temptation), and will bind up that
which was broken (in judgment), and will strengthen that which was sick
(spiritually)".'
Thus their fatherly correspondent
steadied them in their waverings, and the next year
was able to write, 'I cannot but admire how the Lord is bringing to light a
little lot of His sheep in your dark corner; and how you find out one another's
spirit, and what unity is felt. A few broken-hearted, cast-down afflicted ones
can understand one another. They know the voice of the Spirit that speaks in
them; and thus they fold together and Christ their Shepherd leads them.'
IT was a September day in 1836.
Charles, Elizabeth and Mercy had been visiting friends in Bishops' Castle, the
busy little town to the South where the stage-coaches from Wales came in. Now
they were returning, Charles driving the pony-chaise. They knew the road well,
the winding lane that clung to the side of the Longmynd with steep footpaths
cutting down into it. At last they saw the roofs of Castle Pulverbach and began
the descent of Cothercott Hill. Suddenly the pony
took fright and bolted. Charles struggled with it, Mercy clung to her seat, but
Elizabeth, with a scream, leapt out. It was only a matter of moments before
Charles had mastered the pony, but those moments meant death for Elizabeth. She
lay unconscious on the road. Charles ran for help, Mercy to her sister. She was
carried into a nearby farmhouse.
Jane tells about it in a letter to
Matilda. 'I was at Stapleton at Mrs. Oakley's when her daughter came up and
said our father's curate wished to see me. I went downstairs, and his face
betrayed marks of great emotion. I said, "What is the matter?" He
said, "They have met with an accident coming from Bishop's Castle". I
pressed him to say no more for I saw he was scarcely able to speak. I got
silently into the carriage and we drove gently home. I can only say that during
that time my thoughts were as still as stone. During that most solemn drive
this verse came with great force and meaning to my mind—"Is anything too
hard for the Lord?".
'When I arrived at home I heard the
particulars of the case. At about eight o'clock our brother came in. He said he
thought before he could hurry back again all would be over. I felt as Mercy was
with her it would be my part to remain where I was. She was entirely insensible
to every outward thing. O what a night it was! I thought, as I lay sleepless,
many things which it would be impossible for me to put down on paper. I think
my chief, my only concern was about her precious soul; but I was so dumb I felt
no power to pray, only as it were now and then a
simple earnest glance was given me to send up into heaven on her behalf. This
thought comforted me—her salvation did not depend upon my prayers. If the
Saviour is interceding for her is not that enough? I think I had a hope—may I
say a good hope for I never felt a hope like it— that He was interceding for
her.
Some of
Elizabeth's letters, written not long before this event had expressed much
searching of heart and perplexity on the subject of religion. Who were they to? Bernard
or Matilda? 'From some passages in them it would seem that she had at
times been favoured with a spiritual hope in the mercy of God through Christ,
so far as to say on recovering from an illness that she had sensibly felt the
Saviour's intercession to the Father, "Lord let it alone this year also,
till I shall dig about it and dung it", she had felt, too, that time was
added to her life wherein He would complete the work He had begun. 'And if,' to
use her own words, 'I could not say with Hezekiah "Thou hast" yet I
could say "Thou wilt cast all my sins behind Thy back".'
'As the day began to dawn,'
continues Jane, 'I felt wonderfully soothed and comforted by the thought, Who can tell what the Lord may be doing for her at this
moment? Who can tell the marvellous work He may be carrying on in her soul? I sent
early to enquire at the farm how they were. The message came back,
she was still alive and had spoken some words. In about two hours our brother
came home. He told me she had said, "It's wonders!".
As soon as I heard that I felt still more to hope in the Lord that His hand was
upon her for good, and that her soul was precious in His sight. I thought none
can tell the wonders that may have been wrought in her, and for her, and
revealed in a measure to her during those few solemn hours. For though she appeared
totally unconscious, yet from my own experience I can truly say that in that
state the Lord may indeed and in truth work wonders. "Is anything too hard
for the Lord?"
'On Mercy telling her that Charles
was there, she said during the few moments of consciousness, "O then he
escaped?". Charles went to her and spoke her name. After an interval she
said very distinctly "It's wonders! Glorify!
Mercy!". Her lips still moved, and it was thought
she uttered the words, "Jesus! Redeemer!".
After this she relapsed into a state of unconsciousness, and in a little more
than twenty-four hours after the accident she breathed her last. [She was
forty-nine.]
'It was rather a remarkable thing
to our minds that afterwards when Mercy and I began to talk quietly over these
things and to compare our feelings together, there was a very striking
agreement between us respecting that hope about her which I cannot help
thinking the Lord gave to each of us in a day of bitter sorrow—a hope which
made us feel that though indeed He had visited in judgment yet He had not
removed His mercy from her. When her breathless remains were brought home and
laid in the study I was able to go and look upon them and kiss them and stand
over the coffin with nothing of the shrinking arising from my natural
disposition. I did not put the least force upon myself, but those natural and
oppressive feelings were at the time taken away from me, and I almost felt that
in that solemn chamber of death I could have lifted up my voice and sung, and
my song would have been "of mercy and of judgment". Through all the
darkness there has been as it were the appearance of a great light, and such
support and comfort vouchsafed that for my own part I could never have believed
it possible to have felt the like under such circumstances.'
This tragedy, a great shock to the
whole family, was particularly felt by the second daughter, Margaret, who calls
it 'an hour of great affliction because of her great loss'. Margaret had
apparently been especially dependent on Elizabeth. At the age of twenty her
life had taken a strange turn. We read this about her. In 1807, while the
family was settling in at Pulverbach she was on a visit to her uncle Professor
Parish, of Cambridge. 'She was a lively girl, very happy in her expectations from
the world and very full of the hope of blessedness in the next world. She
attended the ministry of Charles Simeon, and one Sunday in church she was
smitten with the deepest fear of the death of her soul. She became, she says,
as one who had never known the remission of sins nor obtained that peace the
Redeemer came to earth to give to lost sinners. She was as if she had never
heard of the righteousness of Christ, so far He seemed to be removed from her.
She could not bear the sorrow that came upon her without hope of salvation.
Through the pressure and continuance of this sorrow, which was quite
overwhelming to her, her mind sustained a shock that left it to the end of her
life in some measure impaired in clearness and strength. For' some years she scarcely
spoke.'
She was eventually delivered from
this great heaviness, and was also the subject of several
remarkable dreams which she felt were given for her comfort. There is no
record of her taking any active part in the religious dissensions of the family.
Possibly she could not fully enter into them, and preferred to shelter behind
her father and elder sister. After the death of Elizabeth she went up to
relations at Allonby in Cumberland for a long visit.
She was able to write an account of a visit she paid to a lady there, which
drew a long letter from Jane full of good counsel, which she hoped Margaret
would be able to read to her friend. Indeed Jane's letters since her illness,
'when she felt called upon to bear a testimony to the truths that had been taught
her were most faithful, though in herself she shrank from trying to instruct
others. Several friends found her a most valuable correspondent'.
Down in Hertford about this time
Henrietta was but just recovering from a severe illness in which she had been
afraid of death, feeling she had lost the Lord's presence through the
backsliding of her heart. With gradual returning health a hope arose that
better things were in store for her, and indeed the Lord graciously returned to
her in so clear a manner that she wrote it down.
'I awoke from a rest with these
words, "I will not leave you comfortless" very gently whispered, and
the next day the Lord did indeed fulfil this promise with much greater power
than I had ever before experienced. About noon I went into my husband's study
to rest and soon afterwards a feeling came over me that I had never experienced
before but once, in a much less degree. As Hart expresses it "I felt
myself melting away into a strange softness of affection". My spirit fell
down before the Lord, and sweet comfort flowed in from Him. My husband was in
the room, and though I knew he would have rejoiced in my joy, yet at that
moment I wanted to be quite undisturbed and to hearken what the Lord would say
concerning me. So I restrained my feelings, though with much difficulty, and
multitudes of passages of Scripture kept pouring into my mind with wonderful
sweetness and power. The enemy tried to mar my happiness, by hurling many
accusations against me, but they were all answered as fast as they came. My
husband soon left me, as he had to visit a friend in Hertford, and would not
return till late. He perceived something unusual was passing in my mind, and
therefore to avoid disturbing me he went out quietly, and also gave orders to
the servants not to go up to me at all unless I should ring the bell.
'Soon after he left the power and
sweetness I had enjoyed began to subside. I felt sorry for this, but thought to
myself we are not to expect such great indulgences to be lasting—to have them
at all is a wonderful favour. Then these words were whispered to me, "He
made as though he would have gone further, but they constrained Him, saying,
Abide with us ... and He went in to tarry with them". Such a suggestion
seemed to me a promise of the like happy success, and so indeed it surely was;
for on my pleading it earnestly as such to the Lord, He owned it by an
immediate fulfilment. All my comfort came again, if anything increased, and tarried the whole of the day. I had no thoughts to spare for
my meals. The hours came and went without my observing them, so that, as I did
not ring the bell, I saw no one till my husband returned at night. I cannot
describe what I felt during the whole of that day. I remember I did sensibly
receive answers to petitions long past, and even quite forgotten by me, till
recalled to my recollection. These very petitions, at the time of my making
them, had, I well remember, seemed to myself as if put up against a dead wall.
Now it appeared to me that the Lord had dealt more wonderfully with me than
with anyone else; for I could believe none were so
undeserving as myself, none so helpless, none so obstinately opposing. I could
unreservedly thank Him and bless Him for all that He had done to me, even to
the taking away of my two little boys [one at five months, and one, "a
dear child of fair promise" at fifteen months —a blow most overwhelming at
the time]. My whole soul, filled with gratitude, said, "Lord, I never knew
it was for this!".
'Though the enjoyment gradually
abated that night, yet a very sweet savour remained with me for a long while. I
never afterwards could think of it suddenly without a thrill throughout my
frame, and I used to say, "Lord, I know of a truth that Thy love is better
than wine—the wine of all earthly enjoyments whatsoever".'
In the following month of that year
Port Vale Chapel was finished for Bernard—'a commodious chapel in a very
eligible situation'. Bernard and Henrietta went to see it. 'Everything respecting
it was exceedingly to our mind,' writes Bernard in his diary, 'but all this
added to the weight on my spirit. I cried much in spirit that the Lord would
not suffer a smooth exterior to lull us into deceitful security, or into pride
and spiritual barrenness. I ascended Port Hill with my dear wife to see a piece
of ground on which the builder thought he could erect a suitable house for us.
Though I long to remove her to an elevated spot I became exceedingly cloudy in
my mind, and was afraid of the secular part of the affair, lest we should
engage in worldly scheming; and I felt some thankfulness that the plan seemed
on examination to be impracticable'.
On October 7th the chapel was
opened, Bernard preaching from the 66th Psalm, 'Blessed be
God which hath not turned away my prayer nor His mercy from me'. Referring also
to the methods by which God teaches and perfects His work of mercy, set forth
at large in that Psalm—'Thou, O God, hast proved us; Thou hast tried us as
silver is tried . . .' and through all this God brings His people into 'a
wealthy place'. This wealthy place is verily spiritual enlargement in Christ.
Bernard did get a house in an
elevated position for his wife the next spring—at Bengeo,
a suburb of Hertford up Port Hill, and writes a beautiful petition for a
blessing on it in his diary, ending with 'That Thou wouldest
mercifully fix the bounds of our habitation, blessing and overruling our
exertions so that we may be well settled, but not in the spirit of the worldling who says, "Soul, take thine
ease".'
To return to
Pulverbach. It was in
1837, after she had fully recovered from her ilhiess,
and the family had recovered from the shock of Eliza's death, that Jane in her
visits to Sukey Harley took down the story of her conversion 'from her lips',
as she puts it. She wrote this out and sent it to London, where it was handed
round for perusal from friend to friend. When it came into Mr. Bourne's hands
he could not resist writing to Sukey, which he did as follows: 'I have read
your Account with great delight and spiritual refreshment; and bless God for
displaying His sovereign pleasure in choosing out of a wicked world the least
likely in all the village where you dwelt. You can never boast of your goodness
or natural wisdom, but can with me say, "It is of His free mercy He has
saved us, by the washing of regeneration". True enough, you could not find
out how you were to be born again; yet you at last perceived that this
spiritual wind blew where it listed, though you could not tell whence it came
or whither it went: "So is everyone that is born of the Spirit". I
was much encouraged by your description of the way the Lord taught you to read.
Is anything too hard for Him? No. This ought to encourage you and me to come
boldly to a throne of grace with all our wants, and not (as we are so ready to
do) go everywhere else. We have all a most foolish feeling that an arm of flesh
can do wonders: but this is one thing the Lord will be continually striking at
all our days, and will never cease to show us by various means that none but
Jesus Christ can do helpless sinners good.
'How the Lord in all your ignorance
instructed you agreeably to His written Word! [Mr. Bourne in a letter to
Catharine says, "Is it not marvellous that a poor creature like Sukey Harley,
living in a wood, in that corner alone should be the object of God's care, and
that by His grace she should be able to describe the work of salvation upon her
own heart, and that her description should exactly agree with the testimony of
living saints, and of those that are gone before, and above all, with the Word
of God?"]. There is no salvation for sinners but through Jesus Christ.
This revelation was made known to you and the Lord the Spirit put that prayer
into your heart, "Lord, bring me into the true light and knowledge of Thy
dear Son". This prayer was heard, and He came into your heart with all His
saving benefits. Thus His coming drove out all other objects—all your fiddling, dancing, swearing, and all other vanities the
Lord cast into the depths of the sea of His love, and left you no desire to
return to them. "What fruit had you in those things whereof you are now
bitterly ashamed?" What fruit? Misery and wretchedness was the fruit. But
what fruit found you in the revelation of Jesus Christ to your soul? The fruit
was love, joy, peace, goodness, mercy and many more fruits of the Spirit; which
are always found when He has possession of the heart. And when we walk in the
Spirit and in the sweet enjoyment of these things, what a discovery by the
Spirit we often find of the pride of the heart! These evil beasts will show
their heads; that corrupt principle called the old man will often seek for the
mastery and fight for it too! This is the reason the Lord tells us to endure
hardness as good soldiers, and put on the whole armour of God, not our fleshly
armour, but God's strength which shall be made perfect in our weakness. This
causes hope to abound and courage to increase, and we again press on, and
Christ our Captain never leaves us, but leads us on to victory. May this be
your happy lot, not to be discouraged because of the way, but rather look at
the almighty arm of our blessed Redeemer, and see if we can sink with such a
prop That holds the world and all things up.'
It seems to be around this time
that Sukey's husband began to join with more
understanding in her spiritual things. The thought of him apparently lay upon
Mr. Bourne's heart, for we find another letter addressed to Sukey beginning,
'What an inexpressible mercy it
would be for your husband to come to the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ in
his old age. Let me ask you, Charles, what do you know of these things? If you
say that few and evil have been your days and you feel it a truth, do you ever
go and tell this to the Lord? For He only can mend them and give you grace and
understanding to come to Jesus Christ for mercy and pardon. If you mean to be
happy, be much in prayer; and when you read, search for the Lord in His word as
for his treasures, and you will be surprised how He will condescend to speak to
you by it. Be not a stranger to the new birth. "Ye must be born
again." This is something that Sukey so long sought for before she could
find, and yet did not seek in vain. Take heed, be of a teachable spirit, and be
not wise in your own conceit; be very especially cautious not to lay a
stumbling block before each other's feet, for that would soon hinder your
prayers. The fear of God will prove "a fountain of life, to depart from
the snares of death".'
Then he goes on to exhort Sukey not
to lose sight of her sister. 'Remember, Sukey, you have been long strangers in
a strange land. Watch over her and see what the Lord is doing, and whether you
can help her with your prayers. Show her the way to the Lord Jesus Christ. I
think I hear you say, But how shall I show her? By telling her of the many
years of fears and sorrows you have had and how the Lord made you to write
vanity upon all created things; when you despaired of all things,
and most of yourself, then the Lord Jesus came to your help and saved you. Tell
her to give Him no rest but to cry night and day. Tell her to watch if she ever
gets answers to prayer; be sure to cherish such answers and magnify the Lord
with thanksgiving for them.'
Thus Mr. Bourne's ministry by
correspondence began to spread among one and another in Pulverbach.
AS it was exceedingly painful to
Mercy and Jane to withdraw from their father's ministry, so we find they are
very reticent in telling about it. Mr. Bourne had suggested that several of
them could meet together in a friend's house for a little service, but in the
fierce publicity of a village it is not surprising that we find Mercy saying,
'For two years [after his first letter to them] I shrank from making a more
open profession, though my convictions of the necessity of giving up all were
too strong in my mind to be set aside. Those verses were pressed upon me,
"Whosoever shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before My
Father which is in heaven, but whosoever shall deny Me before men him will I
also deny", and Jeremiah 14 concerning the false prophets, and other
passages, filled me with dread. Oh! how these
Scriptures and others of the same import did pierce my soul, and both outwardly
and inwardly I felt the truth of those words—"I am not come to send peace
on the earth, but a sword". But the tender compassions of the Lord were
often very soothing to my troubled mind. Once when I was enabled more than
usually to commit my cause unto Him He whispered to my heart that when the time
came He would give strength and power.
The Lord led me during each week to
look for His blessing to rest on me on the Sabbath day, and He gave me faith to
believe it should be so, according to that word "Therefore I say unto you
what things soever ye desire, when ye pray believe
that ye receive them and ye shall have them"; and then He remembered the
word on which He had thus caused me to hope. For it seemed to me as if His
going forth was "prepared as the morning" on these Sabbath days, for
when I would go and seek for Him with all my heart and all my soul He would be
found of me by the way and opened to me the Scriptures. The treasures of His
word seemed unfolded to me. Those verses about the water of life were one day
unsealed to me—"Whosoever drinketh of the water
that I shall give him shall never thirst, but the water that I shall give him
shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life". I
thought I had a little experience of this as if something had begun to flow in
my heart that would never cease. It was very surprising and very precious to me
to feel these things, for I used to be puzzled at those expressions. And there
was a verse in Haggai which had come on my mind a few years before during that
barrenness I had been so sensible of and which now came with
understanding—"Is the seed yet in the barn? yea,
as yet the vine, and the fig tree, and the pomegranate, and the olive tree,
hath not brought forth: from this day will I bless you". This verse led me
to take a retrospective view of my whole past life which seemed to unfold more
and more to me.'
In one of Jane's letters we get a
glimpse of the sort of accusations thrown up at the sisters. 'One of our
friends told Mercy that we were under a fearful delusion. Mercy says she felt, Well, there is no refuge for us but in the Lord! She was
enabled to make God her refuge, and she found a sure standing place. About
three days after that I was walking in the garden and pondering over all these
things, and our friend's dreadful warnings about "acting under Satanic
influence", and that "Satan would turn our accuser" kept
uppermost in my thoughts, because I know something of the meaning of having
Satan turning my accuser. Then I had an impression of these words, like the gentlest
whisper, "If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much
more them of His household?". It made me exclaim,
O! If I could be quite sure that indeed I am one of His household, I should not
care what all the world would say against me. I could
bear testimony that
Though our cup seems filled with
gall There's something secret sweetens all.
I could not help saying, Surely this can never be the work of Satan! He would never
have brought me to say with all my heart,
How harsh so e'er
the way,
Dear Saviour, still lead on : Nor leave us till we say,
Father, Thy will be done.
Finish, dear Lord what is begun.
Choose Thou the way, but still lead
on.
So that in the end Mercy and I were
abundantly confirmed in the truth of the very things we had received, even by
those very means which were made use of to terrify us out of them!'
The sisters had little other
companionship. In the home were their grieved father, the silent Margaret, and Charles,
pursuing his poetical dreams. [He left drawers stuffed
with poems.] When Matilda or Catharine came at different times, Mercy says she
felt it a most sweet token of the Lord's favour, and once when Bernard was able
to come, she says, 'When I saw my brother it was to me like Jacob's heart
reviving at the wagons of Joseph'.
We can gather a few names of such
as might come to a little service as Mr. Bourne recommended. Of course there
would be Sukey Harley and her husband and daughter. There was a Mrs. Jones, a
neighbour, and her daughter, Margaret, about whom Jane says, 'You cleaved to us
in a way none other of our Shropshire friends have done', by which, in the
context, she meant friends of the same social standing. There was Mrs. Morris,
the school mistress: possibly the first appointed under the National School
scheme which began in 1833. She was very fond of Miss Matilda and is described
as 'a woman of very lively conversation.' It is to this time, too,that the quotation in Chapter
I refers about Matilda's pupils, and how 'the Lord's blessing was shed on many
in Pulverbach (on Mr. Bourne's first visiting them) and this was especially
seen in the case of several who, years before, when mere children, had been
taught by Matilda and concerning whom she had received the assurance that the
Lord would bless them'. Maria Carswell, a miner's
wife, Betty Mathews, Molly Chidley, and one or two
more made up the number. Perhaps about fifteen altogether?
Enough, at any rate, for the
fatherly Mr. Bourne to write one or two letters that could be passed round from
one to another. The first is dated May 1st, 1837, and is addressed to 'The
Church of God, or Little Hill of Zion, at Pulverbach in Shropshire'.
'I have been much pleased with the
accounts which my friends have lately sent, and I cannot but be thankful to see
that teachable spirit which so much abounds, and its sweet effects. Godly
simplicity is an inestimable grace which will stand the furnace, and never
shines more brightly than when depressed and surrounded with all sorts of
perplexities and difficulties. (Then comes some advice to
Mrs. Oakley.) Be constant at a throne of grace and watch how the Lord
receives you there. If you find shyness or difficulty of access then be sure
something is wrong, and turn your prayers into confessions, and tell Him He is
the light of the world, and He alone can discover the hidden deception of the
heart; and be sure you seek to feed spiritually on "the unleavened bread
of sincerity and truth" (I Cor. v. 8). I often
beg that I may be made and kept transparent; this is in opposition to a double
mind which shall obtain nothing from the Lord. I am truly glad to hear that
there are a few among you who are seeking for the water of life.
'The young man you speak of appears
very hopeful, and I hope the world may not draw him aside from "the
simplicity that is in Christ". Tell him to seek most earnestly for that
rich treasure, the fear of God. Tell him to read his Bible and pray over it,
and confess his sins to the Lord Jesus Christ. Tell him also to beware of the
public house, and shun it as he would the devil, either to receive wages, or
meet sick clubs, or for any other pretended necessary purpose. Attending
funerals of the dead, eating, drinking, carnal company and publicity of all sorts
tend to deaden the soul and make the spirit flat when we return in private
before God.
Tell Sukey Harley to watch over
him, and like a good mother in Israel to pray for his spiritual prosperity. May
you all preserve the unity of the Spirit and have the testimony of God that you
are of one heart and one way.'
In another such letter he says, The communion of saints is what I wish much to impress on
your minds, that each of you may learn by it to bear one another's burdens, and
so fulfil the law of Christ. Miss Mercy will, by such communication, learn a
purer language, and be led to consider that whether the vessel be mean or not,
yet the treasure in it is infinite; and therefore, when addressing herself to
such, it is as in the presence of God, whether she be instructing or receiving
instruction. This ought to put an awe on our spirits,
while we are acting as lively stones in this spiritual house. This will be a
comfort to the little few that are watching over one another, and you will be
jointly encouraged to see the work of God go on in the midst of an enemy's
country'.
It was their sister Matilda in
London who first suggested that Mr. Bourne might visit Pulverbach and speak to
them. Mr. Bourne was now sixty-five years old, and his tutorial work had come
to a gradual finish, so that although he still lived by his art, selling his
pictures to art shops, he did not travel about as he had done so many years.
However, he says, 'the loss of my business did not mean the loss of employment,
but it pleased God to turn it into another channel, and thus to sanctify my
many afflictions to the good of others. I was, at length, brought from these
small beginnings (the morning readings) to be more publicly exercised. For two
months before I took my first journey to Pulverbach it was much impressed upon
my mind that no good would come of it unless, like Paul on his dangerous
voyage, I was found in the exercise of the same means, namely, abstinence from
self and prayer to the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord put great tenderness into my
heart, and a blessing from the words in Exodus 33. 12 to 19, afforded me the
sweetest assurance of the Lord's blessing and approbation, removed all my
anxiety for the time, and made me quite willing to be at His disposal'.
Mercy made a short Memorandum of
this period, in which she says, 'I have been made to regard the Lord's sending
the word to us through Mr. Bourne as a token from Him of His mercy. It has
often come to me in a very serious way and filled me with a sweet sense of the
love of God. But indeed my hope was tried to the uttermost. O, what it is to
feel as if the promise of God was coming to nought! This I felt at one especial
time when the providence of God seemed to run counter to the spiritual hope,
and I was brought to see that all strivings, hopes, expectations, desires and
prayers, must be given up, for the Lord alone to be exalted. None teacheth like God. I think I knew at that time something of
what it was to weep before the Lord; and I surely believe He regarded my low
estate; for the applications that were made to me in my great sorrow were so
sweetly reviving to my troubled soul. One was about the Shunam-mite's
son—his death after she had received him as such a blessed gift from the Lord,
and afterwards his resurrection to life. Another was about Hezekiah: the
sentence of death was passed upon him. but it was
revoked. O how I felt the tender pity of the Lord in applying with such power
these things to my heart, and thus bringing up from
the grave my dead hopes! I verily believed I should see the goodness of the
Lord in this thing, and I had a very special hope also at this time about the
communion of saints, and that one day many should be joined together in the
Lord in this place, with one heart and one soul. Yet in the long continuance of
the trial many fears would again arise in my heart, and many doubts would at
times sink me very low. Yet the word of the Lord, on which He had caused me to
hope, sustained me'.
The postponement of the visit after
its first being mooted was one of Mercy's disappointments. A young friend of
Mr. Bourne falling ill, the journey into Shropshire was set aside for awhile.
This friend was Henry Hagell, a young man about town,
living in the West End. Something had drawn him and his two sisters to attend
Mr. Burrell's Chapel, where, however, his rather frivolous character was not
appreciated by many. But Mr. Bourne felt an affection for him, and the Spring before had written him a kind letter saying, 'Your
frail appearance leads me to hope you will listen to my recommendation. I have
a friend who is the best Physician I have ever met with. I entreat you not to
delay to present your case before Him. If you come with all your heart you will
not long be unnoticed, but will have some such kind word as this, "What wilt
thou that I should do unto thee?".'
In May, hearing
that he was now confined to his bed, Mr. Bourne called on him. Henry knew that he was considered by many
of his acquaintances to be very trifling and much amused with vain company, but
he told Mr. Bourne that few were aware of the anxiety of mind he felt under all
this appearance, especially now at sight of the precipice on which he stood,
fearing exceedingly lest the Lord should leave him without hope or help in His
mercy. 'O how deeply I feel the vanity of all things here below,' he said, 'and
the mercy of God in checking my career, and granting that the Bible should
sometimes speak so sweetly to me. It says, "I will pour water upon him
that is thirsty and floods upon the dry ground", and I am that dry
ground.' He was very sober-minded. Seeing some of his attendants laughing he
said, 'I cannot bear to see you laugh. I find it an awful thing to be in the
presence of God: He is so holy and I am so unholy. It is no time for lightness.
How foolish has my past life been, and how vain!
'When I think of the days of my
vanity, how the Lord would not let me alone but continually pursued me with
convictions of my many and great sins, till He brought me to this dying bed. He
now causes my meditations to be sweet, and though I am getting too weak to read
He brings whole chapters to my memory as if I were reading them and they are so
opened to my heart and so suitable to my case as I cannot tell you. My heart is
united to the people of God. Oh, how I love them, how I pray for them and
especially for my minister. How I long most ardently that my sisters were as
happy as I. I am lost in the contemplation of eternal life. I was asked
yesterday if I wished to read the newspaper. O no! I want nothing but good news
from a far country; glad tidings of salvation as revealed in the word of
God—that is my newspaper. The Lord is now gathering me. Who would have thought
of this when gross darkness covered my heart so little time ago?'.
Mr. Bourne said he found 'great
profit in visiting his dying friend', and he could not tear himself away from
London until he had seen his end. Henry once said to him that he had often sat
alone for hours meditating on what he had heard from Mr. Burrell in the pulpit
and his attention was so taken that he forgot to take his food. He used to feel
great anxiety as to whether he was sincere, and begged God to make him honest.
'Oh what goodness and mercy He has showed me on this dying bed in so short a
time. I feel a longing to be for ever with Him.' Mr. Bourne visited him for
about five weeks and felt it sweet to strengthen and confirm him. The day
before he died he said, 'They tell me the Queen is to be crowned on Thursday.
[It was the young Queen Victoria.] I shall be crowned before her with an eternal
crown, a crown of lovingkind-ness and tender mercy
that shall never fade away!'
A few days after
Henry's death Mr. Bourne set out for Pulverbach.
In summer the Shrewsbury mail-coach
left London at eight o'clock in the evening, and
before sunset would be thundering through deep country on the route later
carved out for the Great Western Railway. On such long journeys Mr. Bourne says
he liked to be immersed in a book to protect him from 'the slang on the
coach-top'. On the second day he arrived at his destination.
Of course he could not be
accommodated at the Rectory, where the old Rector, now eighty-one, doubtless
considered him the chief instrument in the dissaffection
of most of his family, and Charles appeared to 'care for none of these things'.
Mercy and Jane would be full of
trepidation and it is doubtful if they could do more than send a servant to
direct him to the cottage they had arranged for him to stay at. But he makes no
complaints. Late in the evening the Rector paid him a visit, and he says, 'with
some politeness welcomed me, but presently he changed his tone and said many
painful things which the Lord alone gave me wisdom to manage'.
'I went to rest after my tedious
journey and fell asleep, but presently awoke in terror and confusion of spirit.
The enemy told me I should be. driven out of the
village, exposed to shame, and reproached by all for a fool. I arose at three
o'clock in the morning to pray and to plead all that had passed before
respecting my journey. The Lord knew He had made me very tender and I was more
afraid of offending Him than of anything that could happen. I entreated Him to
show me His way, and to compose my troubled spirit, and these words came with a
divine and comforting power— "The battle is not yours, but God's . . ."
and "The Angel of God which went before the camp of Israel, removed and
went behind them". I now felt power to rest and fell asleep. I rose early
in the morning, and though my spirit was composed I felt I had received a great
wound. But the word of God was sweet: it shone into my heart, "They shall
not be ashamed that wait for Me". This gave me
courage, and thus equipped I was enabled to begin my spiritual labours.'
It must have been a great ordeal
for the sensitive Mr. Bourne. He was well used to travelling, of course, but
this time what a different environment he enters! Instead of the spacious
architecture and elegant furnishings of the homes of his aristocratic
pupils—and in his time he had taught a future Archbishop of Canterbury, a Prime
Minister and many titled people—he is housed in a small cottage. He cannot
stroll about as the anonymous art-tutor, but is stared at as a strange man of
religion as he passes down the coal-miners' lanes. He has to speak to a roomful
of strangers crammed round him in a cottage parlour.
Another letter gives an early
account of things.
'My dear friends [Matilda and
Catherine Gilpin]—Tomorrow will be Sunday and I hope and pray the Lord will be
with us. I purpose spending it at Sukey Harley's, which gives great offence. My
heart is united to her and her husband. I am greatly surprised at the knowledge
that poor woman has attained to, living in a wood, and never hearing anything.
The Lord has given her a diligent spirit and clear understanding. Her spiritual
language is very pure.
'The Lord keeps my spirit tender
and watchful. He shines in His word; opens both my mouth and heart, and I shall
be happy to hear that your sisters here find the same. They are narrowly
watched. I found these words very sweet this morning; they entered my heart and
manifested great condescension and kindness in the Lord to me—"He showed
His word to Jacob; His statutes and His judgments to Israel. He hath not dealt
so with any nation and as for His judgments, they have not known them. Praise ye the Lord". This came with a sweet discriminating
power to me, and I felt able to praise the Lord, for I am sure He is with me
here, though I move in a continual fear. I have found these words to enter and
compose my spirit—"There I will meet with thee, and I will commune with
thee from above the mercy seat". The "There" I found to be
Christ, the living Ark. In Him only can we make our approaches to the Father. The Spirit testified this sweetly upon my heart and
I was delighted with the revelation of this mercy to me.
'O what sweet confidence this gives
in Him! What repose I find here! It was here that the soul of our poor dying
young friend Henry Hagell gave a hearty welcome to
death last week. It was here that Stephen said, in the midst of the shower of
stones, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit". Here we must all commend our
spirits into His hands sooner or later; and I am sure a more blessed place will
never be found on this side eternity.'
A little later he says, 'My
difficulties in this place appear to be many, but the Lord is my stay. I only
desire so to walk as to keep Him in my company. I have been much pleased with
my Sabbath at Sukey's. The Lord was with us; a sweet
sense of His approbation comforted my heart; and many home truths were spoken
through His grace. Though something of an unruly spirit was at first manifested
by some who had not been accustomed to the discipline of the word, yet was the
power of the Lord present to heal, and to give efficacy and divine authority to
the Gospel of the Kingdom which He had sent to a poor and afflicted people'.
One of these 'undisciplined' ones
was Maria Carswell, a miner's wife. 'She used to be a
neighbour of Sukey Harley when both lived in Coal-pit Lane, but though Sukey
talked with her, and she heard Sukey reading her Bible out loud, she had no
love for Sukey then, though presently unhappiness drove her to read her Bible
herself. She lost a child in early life by a sudden stroke. The child had taken
his father's dinner to the pit and fell down the shaft. Sorrow swept over her and
she gave way to unbelief for a time, but later she felt much submission to the
will of God and also a very sweet hope that the Lord took the child to Himself.
Again she went through a dark time, fearing she would be lost while she slept;
neighbours told her she was going out of her mind, and she felt she was
herself.
'One Saturday night,' she said,
'about eleven o'clock I went down on my knees in the garden and begged the Lord
to let me know there was mercy for me. The next day I again begged for mercy,
and these words came, "This day is salvation come to this house". It
brought hope and an eager looking for salvation. I wondered if it might be at
the chapel I had often attended at a neighbouring village, so being Sunday
morning I went, full of hope and expectation. I listened eagerly, but no,
nothing came to me there. But as I was walking home, just crossing a field,
these words were clearly spoken upon my heart, "For yet a little while and
He that shall come will come and will not tarry". This was precious to me.
My burden dropped off and I rejoiced exceedingly. My joy was as great as my
sorrow had been. I thought all the trees and shrubs rejoiced with me. Oh how
precious was the Lord Jesus to my soul. I hastened home to my Bible. I thought
I should always live in the same enjoyment, and so I did for about three weeks,
then it began to pass away and I got very low. I now loved Sukey, and got much
instruction from her. I was truly sorry when she went away to live at Brom Hill.
'Maria could find no life in the
chapel she attended, and finally gave up and spent her Sundays at home. When
Mr. Bourne came into the neighbourhood, she had long settled down in a cold
profession, but going to hear him, her spirit was stirred exceedingly. She was
unable to bear the reproofs of life without feeling anger rise against him He
visited her at Longden Common, but she could not take
pleasure in his visit. But as he went away the Lord graciously met her with the
words, "If thou hast done foolishly in lifting up thyself, or if thou hast
thought evil, lay thine hand upon thy mouth".
She was filled with love and repentance, so that she left her cottage to look
after Mr. Bourne if she might catch sight of him before he was quite gone away.
This was a touch of true humility, and bound her soul fast to him from that
time onward.' [Indeed, love to him led her long afterwards to walk many miles
to Sutton Coldfield to see him on his deathbed.]
Maria had 'much natural force of character, was remarkable for her disinterested kindness,
especially shown to those in poverty in times of sickness and sorrow. And
whenever spiritual counsel or reproof was called for she would faithfully give
it, and in so ready and courteous a manner as always to avoid offence'.
In reading Huntington's Bank of Faith
she could chime in with one or two remarkable experiences of her own.
'Once,' she said, 'my husband and
all our pitmen were down in Staffordshire. I had nothing one Sunday in the house
for my dinner. I had a little pie given me, and the children had that. I
thought I would go to a poor neighbour and borrow a little oatmeal, but first I
turned to pray. As I stood just under the stairs such a blessed feeling came
into my soul. I felt exactly as if I had had bread and wine and wanted nothing
that day or the next. I felt so to praise the Lord that I had meat to eat the
world knew not of. It was long before my husband could send any money, but in
one way or another food was sent in after that.'
It was not surprising that Sukey
Harley, too, with her 'naturally high, unbending spirit', fell into many
mistakes. 'She had never before attended on a ministry where she felt "her
hidden life and righteousness in Jesus Christ", as she used to express
herself, were understood. Under it she became much more disciplined in mind and
meekened in spirit'. Jane adds, 'None can know till
experimentally taught, either the faintings and
scatterings of Christ's true Church while they are as sheep not having a
shepherd, or the resistance and perverseness of that flesh in them which lusteth against the Spirit, when subjected to spiritual
discipline. On one occasion Mr. Bourne preached from the words, "Thou
shall hide them in the secret of Thy presence from the pride of man: Thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of
tongues". Sukey felt the discourse was levelled against the pride of her
heart; but the immediate effect of this was the stirring up of the evil
principle within her more and more, so that her spirit (as she afterwards
expressed it) "became all in an uproar". While in this condition she
went to her friends at the Rectory and bitterly complained that Mr. Bourne had
preached the sermon against her and it made her feel very angry. They read to
her some remarks which Mr. Bourne had on a former occasion made on Micah 7. 19,
"He will subdue our iniquities". "The Lord does this by other
means than we expect. He sets our iniquities before our eyes and makes us feel
the tumultuous effects of them upon our spirits. Then we cry to Him for mercy
under fear and terror, by which means He shows us the value of the Saviour's
blood. When His arm is revealed, where is pride and enmity then? Where is
strife and contention? Where is every evil thing? These evil beasts are all
gone: they creep into their dens when this Sun arises. They cannot show
themselves. Thus are we hidden in God's pavilion from our own iniquity and kept
safe in His presence from our own pride and the strife of our own tongues".
'When Sukey heard this paper read,
she said, "Now that I feel every word. I know it is all true, for my
experience goes along with it". But she was much surprised when told that
the sermon to which she objected had expressed the very same experience.
"Well!" she added, "what a foolish ignorant woman I am. I know
nothing at all!" On her return home she found Mr. Bourne himself at her
cottage; and having during her walk reflected much on what had passed she was
full of repentance.'
Mr. Bourne mentioned this incident
in a letter to a friend. 'Sukey on seeing me said, "Oh how I have sinned!
How full of confusion has my mind been! I tried to persuade myself all was
right, but could not; all was turmoil. And while I kept saying my blessed Jesus
taught me and not man, I never felt more miserable, though I tried hard to
persuade myself I was happy and that my God was with me. I could not pray; I
felt nothing but anger. At last the ladies read me an old sermon of yours and I
came away with a little help—my proud heart began to humble. As I walked on and
considered what they had read, I saw the pride of my heart had caused me to be
angry, and I began to pray to the Lord Jesus to have mercy upon me. Somehow I
prayed for you, as a blessed man, and thanked the Lord He had sent you, for I
would have it before that He had not sent you. And my heart went out in love
and gratitude to Him for sending a faithful friend to instruct us. Then my
bondage began to give way, and at last my blessed Jesus showed His face and
brought me clean and clear out; so that now I am not able to say how happy I
am, and how sure the Lord has sent you to us. Oh what need I have of being
taught! Oh my proud heart, how soon I am gone out of the way, but what a mercy
that the Lord brings me back!".
'Thus you see what a conflict Sukey
had. Her natural high spirit is and always has been a great trial to her but I
think I never felt or saw in anyone a greater sense of humiliation or more
clear marks of the true grace of God and its efficacy on the heart of a poor
proud sinner. How she abased herself and exalted her blessed Redeemer—and
showed love and gratitude to me as His instrument. I was greatly encouraged by
this myself, and my soul partook in a measure of her joy.'
Mr. Bourne's visit lasted two
months. Towards the end he wrote: 'O what a day this has been! First, fears and
dismay; then, some distant intimation of God's sweet favour in conversation
with some of the people here; then some attacks from another quarter, and a
letter bringing iniquity to light, and many causes why the Lord should send the
rod; and withal much mourning and fearing lest there should be no token of a
spiritual Sabbath tomorrow. But while thus bemoaning myself the Lord slept in,
and broke my heart with the sight of His beauty and goodness, so that now I can
with a holy confidence, declare to my poor friends here how dear a Saviour I
have found and how near he is, if haply we "feel after Him". (Sunday). I have had a very encouraging morning reading from
the words, "How great is His goodness!". If
the Lord permit I hope in the evening to speak from
the following words, "How great is His beauty" (Zech. 9. 17). While
speaking in the evening I came to these words—"When Thou didst march
through the wilderness, the earth shook, the heavens also dropped, at the
presence of God". I remembered how terrible a thing I had felt it for the
Lord to march up and down in my wilderness heart, and how, when one thing and
another which had been carefully covered was by this marching brought forward
against me, I did indeed tremble and shake. I also well remember it was then
the Lord in infinite mercy, fulfilled to me these words—"Thou, O God,
didst send a plentiful rain, whereby Thou didst confirm Thine
inheritance when it was weary". Thus did He prepare of His goodness for
the poor, or I should have sunk into despair. I look back at those times with
astonishment, and bless His holy Name who has not left me to perish, but has
led me to set forth the wonders of His grace to a few poor desponding souls
here and there, who tell me it encourages them to press on and never rest until
they obtain the same deliverance.'
Finally Mr. Bourne was able to say,
The Lord has been with me through a host of difficulties. I dared not leave my
little set of people sooner; I have been divinely supported and comforted in
taking leave of them'.
He had had at least two interviews
with the Rector, and says, 'The Lord armed me with sobriety and composure and
gave me such gentleness to utter the weightiest truths that they could but be received
with kindness if a profession of religion is held at all. I believe the Lord
gave me some favour in his eyes and I think he was for a time convinced of that
unruly spirit by which he has lately been awfully actuated. I told him the
wisdom that is from above is pure, peaceable, gentle, etc. I still fear every
day. At another interview the Lord so armed me with His fear that I meekly told
him more of his condition as he stands in the sight of God than he ever knew
before and plainly set before him the impossibility of such a spirit being in
the fear of God and that these his cruel invectives will prove his ruin if not
repented of. I have told him he is surrounded with many flattering hypocrites
that never speak the truth. They pity him and set him against his family. I
hope that his children will gain courage and learn that God must be obeyed. He
said, "My poor pious children are all such bigots: we were of one mind
once but those happy days are passed, and now my parricide children forsake me
in my old age". "Now sir," replied I, "you believe all your
children are pious?" "O yes," he said, "beyond a
doubt." I then replied, "What little knowledge you can have of the
plan of salvation to call your children pious murderers! What will you next do?". He said many things that he would do but I replied,
"You have left this out—// God permit" and then we parted. He is much
under the influence of his curate, a subtil
mischief-maker to the grief of the ladies, but the Lord makes no mistakes; He
has some humbling work to do, and many in the parish look on with serious
pondering.' [This curate was not the one who was with the family at the time of
Elizabeth's accident.]
'Sukey tells me,' adds Mr. Bourne,
'that the people here that are false professors will be very silent while I am
here but they will set up their backs as soon as I am gone. I never witnessed
the extent of malice and bitterness that all ranks manifest to this family for
the truth's sake, and what the Lord will do for them does not yet appear. I
think your sisters are much enlightened to discover what they knew not before.
As it respects myself nobody will have anything to say
to me that has any secret suspicion that I am a friend to your sisters. I am
packed off with scorn, but I trust the Lord has made it manifest that some have
profited spiritually here with me, and if only one soul has gained the
knowledge of salvation by such weak means this is of more importance than all
the temporal prosperity that we can have.'
A short visit to Hertford followed on,
and though these experiences were the beginning of a ministry, no one could
call it a triumphal journey, when we find Mr. Bourne writing, 'I droop in
spirit more than I can express, and would often run away from God, from myself,
and from the eyes of all living; but the Lord will not have it so. I must stand
the brunt and face it out, to make manifest the power and efficacy of God's
regenerating grace'. He mentions Henrietta. 'Her tender fears are evidence that
spiritual life is abundantly in her. It would do you good to hear her account
from herself, and see her spirit. Another friend also has had a sweet
refreshing from the presence of the Lord, and I think some others are looking
out of obscurity.'
But the visit to Hertford was cut
short by news from home of the serious illness of his 'afflicted' daughter,
Helen, and he had to hurry back to London. The poor girl was too ill to know
him, and he describes the depths he went into over her case. He felt as if God
meant to 'crush him and his family', for he 'could get no sensible help nor
find his prayers were heard'. 'My daughter's affliction often appeared too
desperate for carnal reason or the most sanguine fleshly hope to think it could
end in anything but death. We twice sat up to see her end; yet the Lord not
only overruled it, but comforted her at times with the sweetest consolation. To
add to my sorrow, however, I was often found fault with because of my absenting
myself from company; but none knew how I was daily tried with the feeling of
shame, sorrow, and confusion of face. The reproach we fell into, though I can
scarcely tell wherefore (except as the Lord suffers it to fall upon us all)
added much to my sorrow. Once, being in a large company I was accused of
improper bearing in my affliction. I shall never forget how I was secretly
warned not to contend, but from first to last it kept sounding in my ears,
"Wait on the Lord, and He shall strengthen thine
heart". This was a great support and a means of composing my spirit. Still
I perceived the faces of many were not towards me as they had been, which was a perpetual cause of grief to me. All friends stood
aloof; and I believe it was that none should ward off the blow which the Lord
was determined to lay upon us for our humbling, and
that in love. I cannot but acknowledge with thankfulness the good effect this
affliction, from the first to the present time, has had on my family.'
Mr. Bourne had married in middle
life, and his family of seven would be in ages about twenty-seven to seventeen
at this time. He once wrote, 'O how I feel, as a father, the dreadful
consequences of parents bringing up their children to Moloch.
What excuses and reasonings we have about the
needfulness of sending them into the world for their well-doing and well-being, and how strongly I have been accused for putting
a check upon visiting where there is no fear of God!' In a letter to Mrs.
Oakley earlier in that year he mentions, 'I have a family of seven children
constantly at home, and neither wisdom nor prudence (naturally) to manage them,
but I perceive the Lord is all-sufficient, and often clears my way in answer to
prayer. I fear what God says about the families that call not upon Him, and
therefore seek to warn and caution my family in all directions. I have often
many fears and much anxiety respecting them, but hitherto the Lord has dealt
very kindly with me; and I am sure if you are in the habit of watching, you
will be surprised at the various turns which take place in your favour, even
when you have feared beyond measure'.
This
was now one of these 'turns' in which Mr. Bourne had to prove again, at anguish
point, the faithfulness of his God
IN the midst of all this,' continues
Mr. Bourne's Account, 'a young gentleman, an officer of the Bengal Army, who
was then residing with his friends in London, called upon me to declare his
attachment to one of my daughters. At first I felt obliged to refuse my consent
for many reasons; but as I was walking across Hyde Park it was plainly given me
to understand by the Lord that I must not put my hand upon this. I was much
surprised, but felt sure it was the word of the Lord, and was led to watch the
event. Heavily laden with these two burdens I was led to cry very earnestly to
the Lord, and one day as I was going through Dorset Square on business these
words were spoken most sweetly and powerfully upon my heart—"Comfort on
every side". [From Ps. 71. 21]. Without
considering any point particularly I was led to rejoice, and immediately
settled in my mind a temporal fulfilment of the words—namely, the happy event
of my daughter's marriage and the restoration of my sick daughter to health and
spiritual enjoyment. For a little while things seemed to turn into this (as I
then thought) happy channel. But God's thoughts are not as our thoughts, nor
His ways our ways.'
This young Bengal officer was
Lieut. Francis Jeffreys, youngest child of the Rev.
B. Jeffreys, and closest in age to Henrietta. He was
born in India, but on the death of his mother, the whole family came back to
England. At seventeen, while his clever brother Charles was still at Cambridge,
Francis went out to India as a Cadet. Francis is described as 'an amiable and
lively' boy. Some years after entering the Army in India, there appeared a
great change in his outward conduct. He linked up with some brother-officers
who professed a value for evangelical truths; feeling they were on the best
ground, he tried to follow their example but could not attain satisfaction
himself. His 'frailties' proved more than a match for him,
and after showing great zeal for several months he became disconsolate and went
back into worldly company and amusements. His endeavours to recover himself
brought him into a common but most dangerous snare; for, seeing that his
religion lacked power, he tried to supply it by great vehemency
in notions and words. Both in letters and conversations he would advance strong
but crude statements of the principal doctrines of grace, while he really had
no love for them and no renewed mind. He called this 'the full assurance of
faith'. Several of his letters home illustrated this:
'What an endearing title is My son. Surely we can turn round and say, Yes,
my Father. There is no fear here of unscriptural confidence. If one is chosen
to eternal life and I am saved, God be praised. If I am not safe, may I from
this moment lay hold of, apprehend and appropriate the
free salvation offered me in Christ. Yes, it is mine. Nothing can shake my
confidence!' and so on.
'The error in all these extracts,'
comments his biographer, 'is the same, an inconsistency arising from his entire
ignorance of the application of Christ's salvation to his soul; a want of the
experimental knowledge of this—"A Christian is not the work of Persuasion
but of Majesty".
'Admonitions from some at home
better instructed than himself evidently disturbed him, but no more. Two of his
long confused religious letters were put into the hands of Mr. Bourne, who
faithfully replied, taking up each point in turn and probing it to the full.
But before this letter reached India he had relapsed into despondency and
turned for comfort to the social life of the Regiment. He did, however, thank
Mr. Bourne for his letter, and something made him insert several pages of a
diary. This betrayed more than the letters ever had.
' "I have no heart to do anything. I think I
could have taken pleasure in getting up a school at this station had I not such
hanging down hands and feeble knees.
' "As to religion, though I can't help speaking
and professing it yet I have done more harm than good by my gloominess, which
arises not from my religion but from the scantiness of it.
' "During the week I am so occupied by business
that I can just manage to get on. But were every day a Sunday I know not what I
could do, prayer and reflection are such seasons of misery to me, not from
coldness of desire but from utter despair of being able to attain my wishes.
Want of faith—that is my disease."
'Once writing to a friend, he says
"You are treading in my former steps. I have often been in a state of too
vehement rejoicing, and sometimes after I had been pouring out my soul in
prayer and thought 'I shall surely be heard now!' I have risen from my knees to
spend a watchful and weary night".
'He came home from India in 1836,
and such of his friends as understood real religion received him with much
interest. But for two years after this he continued in a dark and uncertain
state of mind. He found a few persons (Mr. Bourne being one) able to enter
fully into his case, and whose words appealed to his heart. He acknowledged
that he felt this, but finding some members of his family most dear to him were
otherwise minded, he tried to agree with both. Then he found himself left under
the power of many temptations. He was secretly unhappy, even when most lively,
and later confessed that he felt such a prejudice and opposition to Mr. Burrell
that he had gone travelling to all quarters in England rather than hear him!'
This, then, was the Francis who now
asked for the hand of Mr. Bourne's daughter, Fanny, whom he hoped soon to take
back with him to India. Following on the intimation Mr. Bourne had had about
this, consent was given, and the couple became engaged.
'At the time it appeared in every
way suitable,' says one, 'as they might be called on a level as regards
religion.' With what sympathy we can view them: they have had their counterpart
in most generations. Francis was of an argumentative turn, and Mr. Bourne's
daughter was a talented, spirited girl. Both religiously inclined, how they
would compare notes, criticise their elders, and perhaps discuss, in the very
understandable arrogance of youth how they could harmonise the differences that
they could not ignore in the two sections of the Jeffreys
family—Charles's side, stressing the conflict of the inner life, and the
others, with whom Francis was staying, who stood for a smoother religion. Mr.
Bourne's daughters were each, eventually, brought to know the truth, but at that
time the work of God was not discernible in Fanny.
Plans now went along happily, until
very shortly before the marriage Francis was taken suddenly very ill. But life and health having become important to him now he went, as
soon as he was well enough, to 'Clapham in Kent' for rest and change of air.
But in spite of all his care his health declined. He came back to London, and
stayed at his brother Charles's house in Dorset Place,
where he became seriously ill. Bernard (his brother-in-law) was in London just
then, and visited him constantly, sometimes twice a day and found 'both body
and soul in great danger'. Now the Lord laid a heavy hand upon him and he spoke
of despair at the discovery of his heart's corruptions. A few days later he
told Bernard he was very happy: the Lord had pardoned his sins and he had never
seen such beauty and comfort in the Psalms before.
' "I am happy and full of peace," he said.
"I shall no more speak lightly against your religion, your friends and Mr.
Burrell, I think now that those who opposed the teaching I have received here
are wrong." But next day a wavering began, and he could not bear those
dear relations to be wrong. "Both must be right," he said, but this
perplexity lost him his spiritual light, and it was not until later that he
returned to that unity of spirit with those who had been used of the Lord to
instruct him.
Now his desire for life and health
reasserted itself. Finding his illness irksome and his cousins suddenly dull,
he longed for some lively young society, and arranged to go off to Bath, and
later Torquay. The day before going he had a long frank talk with Mr. Burrell,
confessing that he had found no one who so surely understood his case. Mr.
Burrell felt much tenderness for him, and expressed it, and felt great
encouragement to think his case would clear up.
He went for his change of air, but,
poor fellow, the journey to the West Country did him no good, and on his return
he next tried Canterbury, where, however, a doctor told him faithfully that he
could not live many more weeks as an abscess on his lung might suddenly break.
He received the news with composure, and became very earnest in prayer, with
hope. He soon returned to London, this time to his sister's house at North
Bank, Regents Park.
He said to one of his friends, 'The
question about my marriage is set at rest. I do altogether resign my dear fiancee into the hand of God, and pray for her protection
and preservation. I was secretly much in earnest when I heard of the minister
pointing out the unlawfulness of being unequally yoked together with
unbelievers, and how he said the Lord would deal more kindly with His people
than to direct them after their conversion to unite themselves with such as
might prove snares to their souls. [Alas! how had these young people let their
tongues run away with them, that Francis., receiving a little light, should now
view Miss Bourne as an unbeliever!] I was continually praying, and that from
first to last, that if the union were contrary to God's will it might never take
place, but that He would be pleased to prevent it Himself or provide an
alternative. I little expected the answer would be my death! The will of the
Lord be done'.
He was visited one day by his
sister Henrietta, who had long watched for his soul. She read him the 106th
Psalm. He kept inwardly saying, 'O the wretches that they were! And such a
wretch was I'. When the verse was read, 'Nevertheless He regarded their
affliction when He heard their cry', his soul seemed dissolved in gratitude.
Henrietta said, 'Those very words
wrought a happy change in my own heart about a year ago at a moment of great
danger and fear'.
He replied, 'Was it so with you?
That's exactly what I felt at Dorset Place. O, it was wonderful! It came all of
a sudden when I least expected it'. He had told no one any details of that time
when he had been made happy, so Henrietta listened with great interest. He went
on, 'I was one evening in agony of mind and thought I must be lost, my sins
were so dreadful. I called Charles and told him my sins. And he sat, as I
thought, groaning with me. But while he was speaking of Jesus such a strong
feeling that I must cry to Jesus came that I interrupted Charles and said,
"Well, one thing is I know I shall cry to Jesus and look only to Him till
I die, and I shall never give that up, I'm confident". Then this wore away
and I fell asleep. But I awoke and the devil said my religion would prove the
death of me. I'd fallen, he said, into a melancholy snare. So I quite
determined to write at once to a friend to come and take me away while my life
could still be saved. I rose to write, but an awful horror fell on me. I tried
to overcome it by moving about, opening and shutting the door, drinking cold
water, and so on. Then I had to try to pray. "Jesus! Jesus!" I cried,
but it was like being fearfully walled in. I felt not even God could ever save
me. Then the feeling returned which I had when talking with Charles—"But
you know you are to cast yourself on Jesus to your latest breath". I was
calmed, sustained, but much amazed. What! Pray to Him when in despair? So I
said "Jesus, Jesus, Saviour of sinners!".
This supported me greatly for a few minutes; then I went low again. Impossible,
sounded in my ears. I struggled hard, but in vain. I gave up, feeling I was now
without hope. Without hope! At that dreadful moment these words shone in with
wonderful power, "Against hope, believe in hope". Then I shouted—oh!
I shouted. It woke up the servants, and they woke up the rest but who would not
shout? It was enough to make anyone shout. I truly thought I was going to hell,
but at that moment I saw that Jesus would take me to Heaven just because He
pleased] When all was quiet in the room again I looked for my sins but they
were all gone. Like Bunyan's pilgrim my burden had
rolled off my back into Christ's sepulchre. I've never felt the weight of them
again.'
His friends were glad to hear this
account given clearly at last. Charles remembered how when the servants called
him up that night he'd found Francis sitting up in bed, lost to all outward
things, saying. 'How very dreadful is the power of the enemy,
but the power of God is greater! The instructions I have received here
from this ministry are indeed the truth'. He never distinctly alluded to this
again, but from that day forward he felt it was told him his part was to listen
and learn, and this became very marked, for he used to start objections at
every turn. But after this he constantly checked himself very seriously,
saying, I am forgetting myself; I must listen and learn'.
Mr. Bourne wrote to him and visited
him daily, and had some sweet conversations. One day he said, 'Yes, I am happy
indeed. I have been shouting again. Did you hear me shout? I had been praying
very earnestly that the Lord would search me, and the Lord Jesus answered,
"Did I not tell thee before that I had given thee eternal life?" and
He revived afresh that moment in Dorset Place when my burden fell off'.
Mr. Burrell said, 'Surely the
experience of God's love causes him to shout. I can truly say that I shout with
him! It will be our mercy to watch this example of the grace of God to the
end'.
The day before his death he looked
at Bernard standing at the foot of the bed and said, 'Oh Jesus! Jesus! Whatever
darkens round you, look to Jesus! Yes, whatever darkens,
darkens and thickens, the thicker it all gets, look to Jesus! Pray to be
enabled to look to Him, the Saviour of sinners. If you cannot
see Him watch and look and follow hard after Him. If you see but a
little glimmering, if you can but, as it were, get one hand in, press in there.
That's the way'.
Mr. Bourne said on the morning he
died, 'I remember your long religious letters from India, how you used to go
round about religion and about it, but never seemed to enter into it'.
'It was so with me,' he answered,
'but the Lord has brought me into it now, and I enjoy the substance of the
truth.'
He asked to be moved. 'But first
let's have some reading.' They read a hymn of Joseph Hart's, Come, ye sinners.
He was quiet, meditating on the line, On the bloody
tree behold Him! and then said, with tears streaming
'We must hide ourselves in the dust and say, His atoning blood be upon us for
ever!'.
Later on he looked so happy his
sister said, "You remind me of the pilgrims in the Second Part of Pilgrims
Progress, following each other over the river: one of them stood still and sang
a hymn in the middle of it, and so could you if strong enough'. 'Yes, I could,' he said.
She added, 'He that has brought you
down dry-shod into Jordan will lead you safely up the bank on the other side'.
He smiled and said, 'O yes, He
will!'. Being moved, his lungs were disturbed. He said
faintly, 'This is death!' and was gone. April 16th, 1839, in
his thirtieth year.
He was buried in the cemetery of
St. John's Wood Chapel. On the tomb those words were put, 'Who against hope
believed in hope'.
THE summer following all these
troubles, 1839, Mr. Bourne was again invited to Pulverbach. This time he
brought three of his daughters and stayed with Mrs. Oakley at Moat Farm,
Stapleton. Mrs. Oakley, into whose troubles Mr. Bourne had entered most
sympathetically by letter and conversation, had had a very heavy burden to bear
most of her married life. Mr. Oakley, a farmer, had been under some serious
religious impressions in his young manhood while attached to Stapleton Church
(where there is a plaque to his father). But after this he had been for a time
'entangled in the pollutions of the world; and while going on in that course
was seized with dreadful despair, in which he continued for twenty-four years,
with only short intervals of relief. He would cry out in an agony that he was
going to hell—others might have hope, but there was none for him. Yet he did
not altogether give up crying for mercy, and would sometimes say, "O Lord,
I would give thousands and thousands of pounds to know Thee! Hast Thou not all
power both in heaven and in earth? Be pleased to have mercy on my poor
benighted soul." When he recovered a little in mind he used to be led away
by worldly and lightminded companions, who
endeavoured to divert him from these gloomy subjects; but they never could
succeed long'.
During many of these years Mrs.
Oakley had had to manage the farm as he was quite unable to render any
assistance. Looking at the picture of this charming old Shropshire house one
might let the imagination play upon scenes of tranquil pastoral life in a kind
of Arcadia, but it was by no means all so picturesque. It had only been in the
winter of 1830 that bands of starving farm-labourers roaming the countryside
had terrified English farmers by smashing threshing machines and burning hay-ricks. In the spring of 1831 more riots broke out,
particularly in the Midlands, owing to the rejection of the Reform Bill. The Oakleys, comparatively near the the
Severn Vale and the busy town of Shrewsbury, must have trembled at much of this
news, even if it did not actually touch them (which we do not know). There was
much unemployment and poverty.
Mr. Bourne wrote once to Mrs.
Oakley, 'Search daily for this Friend (Christ Jesus), as you would for hid treasures, and you will surely find Him from time to time.
His presence will compensate for all your bodily pain, family troubles and
worldly anxieties; and while it lasts you will be able to see all things in
their right aspect, and that He can do you no wrong. It has pleased God to put
a worm to every gourd that you have planted, so that all things in this life
wither, and it is a mercy to you that they afford no shade nor repose for your
flesh'.
Mr. Bourne wrote to his
fellow-deacon, Mr. Nunn, about the Oakleys: 'We had,
by the blessing of God, a favourable journey. [It would be two days by coach.]
Our friends were ready to receive us, and glad of our arrival. Poor Mr. Oakley
(in whose house we
lodge) is in a most distressing state; his
faculties are very weak, but not so bad as I expected. He tells me he has been
almost in despair for nearly two years together. "O, Sir, I am the vilest
sinner that ever was on the earth; there can be no hope for such a
sinner". I asked, "Do you pray for mercy?" "Yes, Sir, but I
am too great a sinner to hope; there is none like me." I said, "The
Lord came to save sinners not the righteous; it was only to the lost sheep of
the house of Israel He was sent". He seemed to pause, and I asked him if
he ever had hope? He replied, "Now and then a little transient hope";
and then burst out crying, "O that I could but be saved! There is nothing
I want but mercy".
'He is a farmer, seventy-three
years of age. In conversation with his wife he said, "I do think I believe
that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that He is the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world". She said, "Can
you pray?". He then prayed, "O Lord, show me
the light of Thy countenance and Thy salvation". After this there seemed a
gleam of light upon his soul, and for a little while he saw the way, and Christ
the living head directing him.
I never spent such a sixteen months
as the last have been; the first six or seven in sweet assurances of the Lord's
presence and help; the winter in one continued scene of changes, in the deepest
despondency and fear, and now and then very comforting promises of help; many
terrible fears respecting my coming here, but some of the kindest assurances of
the Lord's approbation and presence. He gives me sweet liberty in His word in
the family worship, so that I am satisfied the Lord is my Guardian and
Counsellor, and I hope my visit here may not be in vain to the people I
converse with. Mrs. Oakley has just been telling me how profitable she has
found our morning readings, and how she feels that it is the Lord who is
instructing her by His servant. Her sons will not attend.'
Then again, 'I cannot help
beginning at once with a visit I had from Mrs. Oakley. She had been upstairs to
see Mr. Oakley, and found him in a very meek and peaceful spirit. He said,
"Where is it in the Testament about the crumbs that fall from the Master's
table which Mr. Bourne spoke of to me?" She read it to him and he then
said, "I have such a hope that I shall have some of these crumbs; I have
been pondering this ever since I heard it, and am much encouraged. I have been
reading the Psalms, and Psalm 116 has been very sweet to me, and has made me so
comfortable that I want you to stop and let us talk these things over. I am a
great sinner, and have been a devil to you, but these crumbs have made me very
peaceful".
Mr. Bourne then goes on. There is a
great opposition to the truth in this place, but the Lord has said,
"Hitherto shalt thou go and no further, and here
shall thy proud waves be stayed". Plans of all sorts have been laid to
frustrate our proceedings, but as yet they have not been suffered to do so. I
hear the Rector was kind when he first heard of our arrival but expressed
gladness we were so far off.' Moat Farm being a couple of miles or so out of
the village, Mr. Bourne's morning readings were probably not attended by the
Miss Gilpins or Sukey. Mrs. Oakley was often unwell so the arrangement was that
Mr. Bourne and his daughters walked over to Sukey's
and spent the whole of Sunday there. Several of his godly letters are dated
from the cottage. Notwithstanding all the attacks of the curate, 'and the poor
man does not know how to show his hatred to us all enough', the ladies went
twice each Sunday to the service at Sukey's. 'They
are very kind,' says Mr. Bourne, 'but seldom say anything about themselves.
Miss Jane has not spoken to me since I came: she is depressed, and I grieve
that they do not find that union which I think is necessary for their mutual
benefit and welfare.'
The weather that summer was very
wet. We get phrases like: 'Last night through the excessive rains the floods
have done great damage to the farm . . .! I arrived at Sukey's
very weary, worn out and hopeless, not knowing whether the Lord had really
brought me here, and having lost my way I thought I was a strange fool for
proceeding in what I knew nothing about. I begged to go upstairs while the poor
people waited and there I sought the Lord in much confusion and sorrow. I began
in private to read the chapter I was to speak from and when I came to the
words, "My son" I shall never forget the endearing sound of them. My
heart was then prepared of the Lord and I had much light on my subject and was
able to open it up to the people ... I can write no more, I am so fatigued'. Another Sunday when they were at Sukey's
'the heavy rains came on and I did not know how my daughters and I would walk
the four long miles home. The brook at the bottom of Sukey's
garden was flooded but with help and contrivance we got over. The flood had
crossed the road in many places and at last was so deep that we had to leave
the road and go round by a farmhouse. They let us pass kindly and we got safe
home as wet about the legs as we could be, but not in the least fatigued, never
so little so, and none of us caught cold'.
Money was very short. Mr. Bourne
gave a few drawing lessons and sold some of his pictures [in Shrewsbury?] and
paid Mrs. Oakley for her rooms. He saw a fine pig in the yard and bought it and
took her the sovereign her son had asked. She then revealed to him that she had
been praying for two pounds that her sons needed to go to market with. She had
sent to collect a debt for £18 but had not got a penny of it and knew not what
to do. Mr. Bourne had been give a little money from Bernard and one or two
London friends for the poor of Pulverbach, and records the pleasure
half-a-crown here and there gave. 'Betty Mathews said she only had twopence in the house. This old woman is eighty-three, and
feared through the effects of the weather she would not be able to come, but
this morning she found herself strong enough to attempt it. The comfort in her
mind helped her and though with fatigue she arrived and was glad indeed, once
more to hear the word. She has the true fear of God and loves instruction. Last
Sunday she was forced to wade ankle-deep to get home, a mile away, but she
caught no cold and is here again. I had eighteen to hear me to-day, and I feel
deeply the importance of what is laid upon me to teach them. They tell me many
things. Mrs. Morris is continually under a threat of dismissal from her school
but is coming out clearly on the Lord's side.
'Sukey speaks all her mind without
any reserve; hence comes all her misery, but she quickly returns in the
clearest and cleanest manner I ever saw. She has not had the privilege of the
word or I daresay she would have been taught what an evil and bitter thing it
is so to sin against God. She has no refinement to hide by civility what others
can, and therefore she commits herself and becomes a prey through her tongue to
the craft of the devil, who is always watching our weak side. But you will see by my accounts of these people that I cannot mould
all to my pattern, nor can I frame a pattern by the Word of God that shall suit
the precise case of every one. I am led to be very tender and serious that I
may not judge according to outward appearances.'
Another conversation Mr. Bourne had
with Sukey is recorded thus: 'Sukey said the Lord had told her of her lacking
heart, and that cut her clean across, for, she said, the blessed Redeemer had
fed her forty years in the wilderness world, and you told me this present
affliction was to humble me and prove me that He might know what was in my
heart. Ah! how this got my proud backsliding heart
down—how I had turned from Him. Oh, how I felt myself like the forsaken woman
you spoke of on Sunday morning. I am grieved in spirit when I read about the
Lord's love to us, a peculiar people, to think I should be so slothful. I have
been mourning because of my sins, but the Lord came and swept my fears and
sorrows away. (She clasped her hands.) I want to tell you all about it. It was
joy unspeakable. When you pointed with your finger and said how the people used
to point at you and say, "There goes the apostate!" I knew what that
meant. I have had all manner of things spoken of me, and how it made me to
rejoice to think I had found somebody that had been in the same path of tribulation.
While I was praying for you I had such an heavenly
feeling of the Lord's presence and it seemed to say, "This is my faithful
minister that speaks the same things you read in the Bible". Oh how
precious to hear it and how thankful am I for such visitations.
'Oh how I did pity my poor
neighbours who want to live without such a friend as I have found in the Lord
Jesus. I pity those lasses with their pretended soul trouble marrying anybody
[alluding to a marriage of this sort that had taken place a few days before]
whether they fear God or not. I was in ignorance when I married, but after I
knew the Lord nobody knows the sorrow I had to live with one that understood
nothing about it, and there was always disunion till it pleased God to bring
him down and discover to him his dangerous state about two years ago. Now
nobody knows what a help we are to each other! He knows now what it meant by my
sorrows and he can also enter into my joys, for since the Lord has taken cause
for him we can talk over both our trials and comforts and often speak of the
things we hear preached. What one forgets the other remembers and we are often
comforted with that unity of spirit which before we knew nothing of. If the
people could but lay to heart the dreadful plague of a dead weight perpetually
bound to them they would be more serious and cautious how they were entangled
in marriage.
'O what I see in my present
afflictions! It shows me I am indeed sowing in much weakness and dishonour, but
there's a feeling I have sometimes of the Lord changing the scene and raising
my poor body up in honour and divine power to be eternally with the Lord. It
breaks my heart to see my precious Redeemer dishonoured in this village. Ah! how sad will be the day of reckoning which they never think
of, but which will surely come.'
'The poor people here,' writes Mr.
Bourne in another place, 'find I am not come to trifle, but that both they and
myself are accountable for both hearing and speaking; and our consciences I trust
are kept alive by the Lord's making us susceptible of the importance of the
word spoken. Mr. Oakley is at times all but in despair, and now and then he
seems to catch at something to hope upon. He still remembers "the crumbs
that fall from the Master's table" and hopes to get some; but last night
and early this morning he seemed past all hope, till at last he said, "I
see the Saviour on the cross shedding His blood for me; I see the blood spilt
for me; I have hope. I was in hell last night, but the Saviour tells me that
His blood is sufficient for all my sins". Mrs. Oakley says that he never
had such distinct hope, nor ever such deep despair,
before I spoke to him, and that he has never since been so dreadfully
outrageous; but his spirit is calm and there seems a great change. He told me
he had a soul to save, and then added, "for ever and ever and ever. O Sir,
to go to hell is very terrible!". I have been
able to persuade him to attend our family reading these last two days. What all
this means the Lord will show us in due time.' (Mrs. Oakley wrote later that
Mr. Bourne's ministry was the means of conveying a spiritual blessing to her
husband's soul. The truths he heard seemed to take a deep hold, and he often
referred to them afterwards.)
'At this period,' he writes in his
Memoir, 'I also had a burden concerning my youngest son. He had often grieved
me by his light spirit, which I was not able to control; nevertheless I was
continually watching over him, and found many very peculiar marks of tenderness
in the midst of all his levity which led me to many prayers. He was now ill,
and we began to despair of his recovery. I was much engaged in seeking the Lord
for him. As I was walking in a lane at Stapleton in Shropshire to my great
surprise, for the first time in my life the Lord drew near respecting him, and
gave me many sweet encouragements to hope that He would protect him. A few
nights after this, in the dead of night, I was praying for him, and the Lord
heard me, and told me, "Like as a father pitieth
his children so the Lord pitieth them that fear
Him". I could sincerely appeal to the Lord that I truly feared Him, and
the pity expressed in the above Scripture set forth to me that the Lord would
protect my son according to my prayer. I did not come to him because my son was
better than others, but because he was my son, and I looked to the Lord both
for mercy and a blessing.' [This boy recovered from his illness. About the age
of twenty-one he left home for New York, and afterwards went to China. Mr. Bourne
said he often found his heart comforted in seeking a blessing for him, and felt
a complete assurance of the Lord's watchful eye and tender care, whether he
himself were to see him ever again or not.]
'My subject to-day,' he writes
towards the end of this visit, 'was Heb. 12. I. I found my heart deeply
affected with it, and told the people there was no setting aside dead weights
and besetting sins, and no running our race with patience, but by looking unto
Jesus; and that nothing else would strengthen the hands that hang down or make
the knees to bow before God. Many professions (of religion) are entered into,
but in the end prove unsound; for those who hold them look to themselves and
not to Jesus, and therefore their faith Christ will not own, being neither the
author of it nor the finisher. Look diligently to this, for it is not he that thinketh he standeth that shall
prevail; but as Hart says, A wounded soul, and not a
whole, Becomes a true believer.
'Sukey Harley said she found the
word searched her beyond expression. "I know," she said, "that
the Lord is with you, for I wanted to put away many things, but my Redeemer
would not let me; and at last He gave me power to fall, and there I find my
comfort. But O Sir, what shall I do when you are gone? I shall feel my need
more than ever. O how I pray for you, and that the
Lord would bless you at home!" '
So the visit drew to an end—in
October—and Mr. Bourne and his daughters returned to London. Soon his pen was
busy again, and an affectionate letter went north to Mrs. Oakley:
'I was much comforted to see how
teachable your spirit was, and how you were enabled to pass over the weakness
of the instrument and to pay great reverence to the word of the Lord. The Lord
has given me many advantages by an enlightened and faithful ministry [Mr.
Burrell's], and this it has pleased God in a measure to deprive you of. Perhaps
on this account I was enabled to discover many things in which you were
hoodwinked and wherein you lived very short of your privileges. I had many fears
while I was at your house. At one time when I seemed ready to give all up,
fearing I was not right to speak as I did to the poor people of Pulverbach,
these words came with great sweetness and power, "My son, despise not the
chastening of the Lord, neither be weary of His correction. For whom the Lord loveth He correcteth, even as a
father the son in whom he delighteth". In the
strength of this I found great liberty to speak, and
it assured me that the Lord had directed my way, and that it should not be in
vain. Besides I often found the sweet and comforting presence of God when I was
with my family in your little room. I was quite sure that the Lord was with us,
for I perceived that He opened your eyes upon many things that you had not laid
to heart before, some of which had brought you into great bondage.
'I hope Mr. Oakley has not
forgotten to ask for the crumbs that fall from the Master's table; tell him
despair is the worst of sins, and that the Lord delights in all that hope in
His mercy. How I grieved that the enemy should so overpower him as to prevent
his joining us in family worship. He ought to know that all sorts of sinners
and sins are pardonable; "all manner of sin and blasphemy shall be
forgiven unto men". Why will he lie in his bed in direct opposition to
God? It is most fearful. There can be no good come of direct disobedience to
God. May the Lord help him from henceforth to call upon His name; and may God
bless you with a daily increase of godly fear.'
Perhaps we can best close this
chapter with an account of the death of Mr. Oakley, which occurred about five
months later. Mrs. Oakley wrote a little about it as follows:
'His case for several months
appeared as desperate as ever, until a month before his death, when a change
took place. His mind was restored; he became calm, resigned and cheerful,
though serious and thoughtful, and bore with patience every acute pain. He
seemed constantly engaged in prayer, and would frequently say earnestly,
"I know I shall never recover from this illness, but now I believe the
Holy Jesus will save even me". Once he said, "I always believed He
was able—none could believe that more firmly than I did—but now I believe He is
willing. I shall join you in kneeling before the throne of God to praise Him
for ever and ever".
'The last day of his life he
said, "Shut the door while I endeavour to pray, if the Lord will teach
me". After praying for a blessing on us all, he cried, "Holy, holy,
holy is the Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come", and
then in an ecstasy sang, "Holy, Holy, Holy!" till his daughter said,
"Hush, father, they'll all hear you", to which he replied, "O, I
shall have cause to shout in heaven, if I am in the lowest place there!".
I never expected,' adds Mrs.
Oakley, 'to witness on earth such a scene as when the poor dying man, in the
most serious manner joined with holy rapture, uttered that sacred song. All
through the night he continued praying and praising God, and then became
unconscious and expired.'
Mr. Bourne's letter to the widow is
not in his collection, but there is one to the daughter. 'What to say in
sympathy I hardly know, because the very long and fearful trial that you have
witnessed in your father has terminated so exceedingly sweetly as much rather
to create thankfulness than the sorrow of this world. The whole of the
circumstances had in them the deep and unfathomable judgments of God, so as to
make us all tremble. As the Lord declares in Psalm 99.
8, so we perceive He really acts, namely, though He forgives the sin of His
people, yet He takes vengeance of their inventions, that
all men may see and hear, and fear and depart from evil. This case seems set
before your family especially to encourage them to hope, if any of them are led
to lay it to heart. See and call to mind what the power and efficacy of God's
grace has effected in your dear mother—how she has been carried through all her
troubles for full four and twenty years, and though often cast down and
hopeless as to the issue, yet how sweetly it has appeared that the everlasting
arms of the Lord, though underneath and often out of sight, were nevertheless
round her to sustain her. 'Who would have thought that all that long and
tedious affliction of Mr. Oakley's was the right and only way the Lord chose to
take to bring him finally to his spiritual senses and give him such a beautiful
entrance into the heavenly Kingdom? Let our troubles be what they may, it shall
not prove vain to bring them simply to the Lord. I have often found when all my
own hope and strength and every refuge was gone, then the Lord appeared. This
is not a fable, but a reality that comforts the soul in all its tribulations,
and will be found to be strong as death. So Mr. Oakley found it, and so may you
and I.
O SIR, what shall I do when you are
gone?' Sukey Harley had said, and without doubt that was the feeling among the
little congregation at Pulver-bach when the faithful
'prophet in Israel' had left them again. Although they persevered in meeting
together on Sundays in one house or another, they still appeared to have no
leader, and the exposure to contempt, week after week, continued to be a most
keen trial to the two Rectory ladies (and Catharine when she was there; but she
was often with Matilda in London).
Only two months or so after his
return to London Mr. Bourne is again writing to them in the same strain: —
'Your present affliction has
entered deeply into my mind, and I can truly feel for you, and find much
encouragement in my prayers in your behalf. The intercession of Christ is never
more needed, nor given, than when we are surrounded with perplexities. Where
would be the glory of God's grace, if we were always in very easy places and
very slight difficulties? May the Lord continue to give you that prudence,
discretion, and silence, with which he has hitherto armed you, and you will
find your safety in turning this battle "to the gate" for it thus
becomes not yours but the Lord's . . . Tell your sister (Jane) not to be
disheartened if she fears she has scarcely bodily strength or spirits to go
through these dark valleys; tell her, if she seeks the Lord and watches the
effects of her petitions she will soon perceive that the Lord has not said in
vain "As thy days so shall thy strength be". You are soon cast down
because you too often look at the danger, and not at the strength that is in
Christ Jesus. Everything seems to make against you. Read very diligently Deut.
4. "Ye that did cleave to the Lord your God are alive every one of you
this day." In that chapter is set before us the great necessity of
spiritual attention and diligence; and it shows us we cannot have a better
token of God's favour than a secret watchfulness of the Lord's movements within
and without, attended with prayer.'
Early in 1841 the London
congregation had to mourn the death of Mr. James Abbott. He had often visited
the Gilpins at Hertford and in a letter he wrote to Mrs. Gilpin the week before
his death he concludes thus, 'My kind and grateful respects to Mr. Gilpin. May
the Lord bless him with the best of blessings; may he see the Lord's hand with
him in the work of the ministry, and may the few among whom he labours make it
manifest that he does not labour in vain: and may they be of one heart and of
one mind, united together in the bond of perfectness,
walking together in the fear of the Lord. My sincere thanks
to those who have shown such kindness to me, and finally my love to all the
little flock'.
Four days before his death Matilda
called on him, and to her he said—'I was writing out that letter for Mrs.
Gilpin last Thursday, and sat so close at it that I quite fatigued myself; but
my heart was so warmed with the love of God to her soul that I could not leave
off. But afterwards about five o'clock I was very ill; I think I never felt so
ill in all my life; my head became so confused with the pain I had in it that I
really thought I should lose my senses. After some hours I felt a little better
and went to bed much as usual. But in a few hours a state of spiritual darkness
came over me such as I cannot describe. The pain in my chest came on violently
and I thought I could not live till the morning. I never remember being in such
terror of mind, darkness and confusion as I was that night, I could lay hold of
no evidence of my salvation; all was gone from me, and something said
"There now, you have been all your lifetime speaking or writing to others
about the things of God and now you see you are nothing but a hypocrite; and
all day yesterday you were writing that letter and now you can't send it".
And I thought, No indeed, I can't. For I really did believe
myself a hypocrite altogether. I think I never was reduced so low in all
my life.
'I continued so for several hours;
but towards the morning had some little power given me to question the truth of
all this, and said, "Lord, is this true? Am I only a hypocrite and have I
never known Thee?". In a moment my captivity was
turned, and the Lord gave me a sweet and powerful testimony from Himself of the
truth of His work upon my heart from the beginning of my profession to the end
of it, even to that very hour. All my evidences from first to last shone
brighter and brighter; indeed I never saw them so bright in all my life, for
the Lord shone upon them with double lustre and brightness and many were
brought to my remembrance which I had never recollected before, and I had such
a time of communion with the Lord as I can't describe—the Father, the Son and
the Holy Ghost, just as Mr. Burrell described himself to have had the other
Sunday, when he said he had addressed the three Persons in the Trinity
distinctly and got such a sweet deliverance and a glimpse (as he said) of the
glory of heaven. O that sentence in Mr. Burrell's sermon! It did me good, indeed it did, to hear him say that. And what I
experienced the other day showed it more clearly to me than ever I had seen it
before. For the Lord was with me to show me everything, and I thought I could
send my letter then, only I wished I had not finished it for I would give an
account of this sweet manifestation while it was fresh upon my heart. And so I
think I will as soon as I receive her answer, for the glow of it has not left
me, and it makes my heart to go out in love to the Lord and to His people
wherever they are. Remember me to all of them, here or at Pulverbach or at
Hertford, and tell them I can wish them no greater happiness than I felt that
morning, and which still warms my heart and gives me a sweet sense of His
mercy. Several times he repeated whilst she was with him. 'No. I never had such
a bright manifestation of the love of God as I had that morning, and I never
saw my evidences so bright—no, never. There was a lustre in them I never saw
before'.
His death took place rather suddenly,
no doubt from the chest-pain he was subject to, early on Saturday morning,
February 6th, 1841, while he was alone in his solitary lodging at 16 High
Street, Hoxton Old Town. He was in the seventy-third
year of his age.
The Hertford friends must have
grieved for the loss of godly Mr. Abbott, though they would rejoice to hear the
account of his last days. Bernard was by now well settled in his ministry. The
opposition, 'and it had been very stormy', had died down, and he was accepted
in the town with an ever-increasing esteem. 'Absence from home for several days
together for the first time for more than four years,' he writes, 'led me to
reflect upon all that had passed during that period. I know not when I have
felt more happy in the sure belief of God's guidance,
and that what has passed has been His doing. He has overthrown and established
also, and has broken a thousand snares in pieces before me, and at times
secretly guided me though I knew not His intention. I thought of the very kind
but really ensnaring offers made me by some of my friends, and yet I had
escaped them. My heart was filled with the spirit of praise and I was
encouraged to commit my way afresh to the Lord. My little flock seems bowed as
one man to seek the Lord. I cannot set down all the things which have surprised
me among them.'
He did, however, set down many
things in his diary which make most interesting reading. One of the remarkable
features of his ministry, says one, was 'the power granted him of discerning
spiritual life from its earliest manifestations in the soul, drawing out the
expression of that life with tenderness and discretion, and nourishing it by
the word of God and prayer. In this way he became a true shepherd to watch over
and feed Christ's lambs and sheep in his private as well as his public
ministrations'. These notes, as years went on, he drew together in narrative
form (for instance the two cases quoted in Chapter IV), and found a value in
reading them to one and another. A conspicuous case was that of Joseph Boulter, a young man, who, throwing up a superficial
religion, had taken a beer-house, but, becoming ill reluctantly allowed Bernard
to visit him, and presently was deeply impressed with the diary-notes about a
one-time companion, Samuel Dack, who waded through
spiritual deeps before making a good end.
There was, too, Isaac Clark, a
youth who wished to pray and was astonished when Bernard suggested he pray
there, where he was, sitting ill before the fire at mid-day. Isaac's history,
true faith in its simplicity, was blessed to poor Alice Shettlewood,
a vagrant who had been running away from God for years. She and her husband had
come at length to Hertford and she heard Bernard read this artless account at a
cottage meeting. The revelation of Christ's work in the souls of their very
neighbours stamped a reality on Bernard's teaching, and was used of God to seal
it.
Bernard was tireless in visiting
wherever he was asked- every day if necessary, and he was able to record some
striking proofs of the Lord's work of conversion and mercy. It was always his
custom when Mr. Abbott, Mr. Bourne, or Mr. Burrell (who came once) visited him
to take them to see such of his flock as were needing
special attention at the time. He published some of these narratives in pamphlet
form and others appear in detail in his Memorials. Perhaps it was his influence
that suggested to Jane to get Sukey Harley's story from her in her own words.
That, too, was published, the profits being surreptitiously made over to Sukey.
(After Sukey's death Jane enlarged the account and
included some of Sukey's conversations. This booklet
eventually sold two or three thousand copies.)
About his friend Mr. Maydwell Bernard says, 'As my ministry began to unfold and
the members increased in number (though they never increased largely), Mr. Maydwell found much delight in becoming intimate with many
of them. His spirit was tender and loving, and nothing more effectually soothed
his own sorrows than communion with such as could enter into his feelings. He
particularly sought out and cleaved to the tempted and afflicted: he loved to
cherish the "little ones". Those who know how assiduously the great
enemy of souls "sows discord amongst brethren" and in every little
community of believers as surely as in the Corinthian Church of old foments
"debates, envyings, wrath, strifes,
backbitings, whisperings, swellings, tumults",
will appreciate the cause I have for thankfulness that Mr. Maydwell
continued as a healer of all such things and, as one well expressed it, proved
"a centre of unity to the whole Church".
'Early in our friendship he was
asked to exercise the talent God had given him in exposition and prayer. This
he was at first very unwilling to do; but later he compared himself to the son
who said to his father when told to work in the vineyard, "I will not: but
afterward he repented and went". He would often say, "I was that
son". After this he found much encouragement in undertaking this service,
from the words "Feed my lambs; feed my sheep". His bodily infirmities,
and most of all, the natural weakness of his voice, hindered this in a manner;
but through all these disadvantages, his ministrations were greatly valued, not
only in Hertford, but (later) at Pulverbach and a few other places.'
Bernard found it remarkable that
his friend's spirituality did not prevent him from taking a keen interest in
his legal profession. 'One might have supposed that a man subject to such deep
spiritual exercises could not have endured such intricate and often perplexing
labour. He pursued it with much mental vigour, and has often told me that the
subject was scarcely ever in his thoughts except during the hours of business.
On a Saturday evening he has often closed his books in the middle of perplexing
calculations and never been troubled with a thought respecting them till seated
at his desk on Monday morning. "I am able," he said,
"to go on with a better employment much of the time I am engaged in this
secular work. It does not keep me from secret prayer and communion. Whenever I
find an intricacy I say, 'Lord help me in this also' and I find He hears and
answers. Nevertheless I long for the day when by His kind permission all
worldly things shall come to an end." '
Bernard's family was very fond of
Mr. Maydwell. Annette called one of her sons after
him, using the whole of his name.
Throughout the summer of 1841
Henrietta's health was very precarious as she awaited the birth of her last
child. During the last six years she had gone through the anguish of having
several still-born children and suffering herself almost at death's door. This,
she now wrote, was 'in the strictest sense the answer to my own petitions this
way. In the year 1833 I was under a peculiar influence in prayer for some
months. I was groping in darkness and anxiety to find religion in the power of
it, and I was made to cry to the Lord to use whatever means He saw necessary to
overcome the carnality and self-righteousness I was made so sorely conscious
of. I used to pray, All the means in the universe are at Thy command: choose
out any, ever so severe, but bring me to the knowledge of Thee. Lord, I know I
shall kick hard against Thee in this, I shall rebel and complain and yet pray
to Thee to hold Thy hand, but, Lord, do not leave off till Thou bring forth
judgment unto victory. I did not plan this prayer nor intend to keep using it,
but I could pray nothing else for months together. Oh, as I walked up and down
the room with my eldest boy in my arms I would look at his face with dread as
to what the issue of that prayer would be, for I doted on him, but I could do
nothing but begin it again. Soon afterwards I laid that boy in the grave. The
next year his fine healthy little brother followed him, and since then I have
sent child after child to the grave. Oh, I did not like to harbour the thought
of my having prayed all my darling children into the grave. I used to work up
great rebellion sometimes, as if the Lord had made me the destroyer of my own
happiness, and it put a most keen edge on my sufferings. But now my heart sings
for joy and my trials are quite disarmed of their stings, as I am given the
power to number them among the sensible answers to prayer I have received, and
it seems as if the Lord wonderfully condescended to obtain my consent
beforehand. O what a sweet view I have had of all the way He has led me, of my
own exceeding baseness, and His unwearied patience and love towards me'.
'But in September she complained of
much spiritual darkness which increased till the night of the 27th when she
quoted, "Hath God forgotten to be gracious? Hath He in anger shut up His
tender mercies? Doth His promise fail for evermore?".
I felt encouraged to say, "You are near His deliverance". At this she
paused, and the thought passed through her, Perhaps I am. And so it proved; for
a very earnest spirit of prayer was poured out upon both of us, and the Lord
revealed His lovingkindness with great power to her
heart, and showed her the tender regard He had over all the circumstances of
her case, and made her in the full confidence of faith surrender all, both for
time and eternity, to His safe keeping. She said, "The light has broken
in! It is like the morning light to me! My hope has laid hold on all things
that the Lord has wrought in my soul from the beginning, and it points forward
to heaven itself".'
On October 5th they were alarmed by
symptoms of inflammation of the brain, and she could neither speak nor be
spoken to, but on the 8th and 9th her conversation was full of power. On the
9th the dear Matilda journeyed from London to see her. 'She said "How kind
of you to come to see me! but you are come to see me
do the hardest thing—you are come to see me die. I have waded through many deep
waters, but now I have a hope, a good hope, a living hope which the Lord has
given me, and I can put my trust in Him". Another time she said,
"Where is that passage, 'Praise waiteth for
thee, O God, in Zion?' Read it, for that is what I feel just now—praise waiteth in my heart. I cannot express how I feel that the
praise in my heart is stretching forth its neck; yes, it is ready to burst
forth because of the Lord's mercy to me, a sinner". I said, "Do you
know that is just what the apostle Paul says of the new creature in Romans 8?
The earnest expectation of the creature waiteth Cor the manifestation of the sons of God.' That word
'earnest expectation' describes in the original the stretching forth of the
neck". "Now does it?" she said, "how
very sweet that is!"
'Many times she spoke of her
approaching death, and once said, "The Lord has dried up Jordan to the
bottom before he has required me to set one foot in it". Another time she
said, "Oh, what hatred the Lord has given me to Satan, for he keeps
hurling in a host of fiery darts to tempt me to think hardly of the Lord's
dealings with me, but the Lord is my stay". Again, being fluttered and in
pain, when she became calm again she said, "Speak one word to me about
Jesus". Her sister quoted the words, "Look unto me and be ye saved,
all the ends of the earth: for I am God and there is none else". Shortly
afterwards she said, "The Lord sees the heart. He knows that I cry to him
without ceasing". Then turning to a friend she said "Now tell my
sister that the Lord Jesus Ms-looked upon me, and smiled sweetly".
'She asked for the words to be
repeated, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep; for thou, Lord,
only makest me to dwell in safety". "The
Lord," she said, "has often put me to sleep with those words; perhaps
He will again." Her brother Julius having arrived, she awoke from sleep
and recognised him, and said tenderly, "My tabernacle is being taken down,
but I hope it will please the Lord to take it down gently". Her brother
having left, she sank into a profound sleep, which increased till we all became
aware that she would wake no more in this world.' She was thirty-four.
Bernard wrote this account of the
death of his wife at the close of her own Account quoted formerly, and later on
it was handed round to the friends to read. In his private diary he records a
few of his own thoughts: The Lord has clearly shown that He loved her with an
everlasting love; and I said, "Lord, thou art the husband of her spirit;
let me not contend if it please Thee to take her to
Thyself". Moreover, he gave us both to feel that He loved the child, and
she had said, "Let my little son sleep with me, for I believe he will wake
with me"; and so they sleep together. I have a hope also that the promise
the Lord remarkably sealed upon her heart one month ago, "Seek ye first
the kingdom of God and his righteousness and all these things shall be added
unto you", He will be pleased to confirm to me: she even thought at the
time it was so intended.
'I was much supported on the day of
the funeral. My brother-in-law, Charles Jeffreys, was
a comfort to me. I have, moreover, had some encouragement amongst my people. It
came sweetly to me very soon after my trouble, "Now we live, if ye stand
fast in the Lord" (I Thess. 3). There are living
ones amongst them; and surely the good Shepherd will not forsake me, for He has
commanded me to feed them. Lord, I cannot keep myself, do Thou keep me. My
casting down has been on the whole greatest on account of my two little
daughters. [With the loss of this last baby, poor Bernard had lost all his
sons. Elizabeth, his elder daughter, was now about eleven years old and
Annette, the younger, nine.] Lord, give me a spiritual father's heart, and the
blessing Thou didst promise me. I have some help in wrestling prayer. Lord, as
I said to Thee when my trouble was beginning (on September 29th) there is such
a perception of life that I cannot believe it is for death, neither in me, nor
in my wife, nor in my child. Lord, thou hast indeed Thy way in the whirlwind
and in the storm but I hope Thou has confirmed and wilt confirm this.'
Mr. Bourne wrote: 'My dear Friend,
How shall I lament the death of one who has been so sweetly put to sleep in
Jesus? Tis true you will find a heavy loss;
nevertheless on a due consideration of the sorrows and vanities of this life,
which continually cast down the child of God, so sweet a relief must be
admitted as desirable. Poor H. (his eldest daughter, another Henrietta), said
when she read the Account, "I am sorry it is not I". What a true
Friend the Lord always proves in the hours of extremity, and no doubt He will
be so to you who are left behind, if you dare to make free, and try Him to the
utmost of His word. The Lord has not taken you by surprise in this heavy
dispensation, but has kindly led you both on most gently to expect the event,
and has softened the whole of it with His sweet presence and favour, so that
there was no trace of a desire left in the heart of our departed friend to
continue here. She felt it was far better to depart and be for ever with the
Lord. Your part is otherwise, and a new line of things will open to you
altogether, new troubles, new difficulties, and new crosses; but God is
all-sufficient, and will show to His people that He is a very present help; and
I truly hope you will go to Him for that help in all your various difficulties.
I have had ten thousand fears, but, blessed be His holy Name for ever and ever,
He has been a faithful, near and dear Friend to me.'
The Bourne family helped Bernard in
a practical way by taking the two little girls into their London home to be
educated by Mr. Bourne's daughters until old enough to return and keep house
for their father. Bernard's diary often reflects his loneliness, though he used
to spend weeks sometimes at Mr. Maydwell's home.
Henrietta's gravestone is still to be seen (1961) near the path on the south
side of St. Andrew's Church. The church Bernard preached in was burnt down, and
perhaps was slightly nearer to the road; otherwise one wonders that Henrietta's
stone was not destroyed as it is close to a buttress.
PART III - THE UNITY OF THE SPIRIT
SAMUEL HUGHES A SHROPSHIRE MINER
THE view to the west of the
Longmynd is dominated by the jagged ridge of the Stiperstones
with its harsh quartzite masses and scattered rocks. In the nineteenth century
its western slopes were stabbed with pit shafts and a chain of mines flourished
there, getting lead and barytes from Snailbeach and Pennerley, galena
from Shelve, Callow Hill and Bog. Plans of the Snailbeach
mine are in existence from 1790, but the people used to say 'the old men'
worked it in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Mining ore was not an easy
matter. The miners 'followed the lode', in this case
finding lead in hard slates, which passing into the harder grits of Longmyndian became poor in lead and rich in copper. They
followed it downwards from the surface, using ladders as the trench deepened.
At a certain depth this gave place to shafts and tunnels. Before the days of
cages and winding gear the ore was brought up in baskets. When the contour of
the ground allowed it, 'day tunnels' or adits were
driven in from the side of the hill at a low angle; this was also good for
drainage purposes. The lode material was picked over (the great whitish refuse
heaps still dot that landscape); the ore was broken and washed, roasted in a
furnace and raked. The sulphur and arsenic fumes were thus got rid of. Then the
heat was increased, and the mass of ore brought into fusion. The molten lead
was then run into moulds, which solidified into 'pigs' and was ready for
trading. In 1851 about 500 miners were engaged at Snailbeach
besides those washing and smelting ore.
The miners lived in hamlets tucked
into the side or up some crannies of the Stiperstones,
and strings of laden donkeys wound along the hairpin bends of the road,
precipitous in places. The scene must have had a wild beauty. There was not the
flat dreariness and dirt of the coal-mining districts. Magnificent woods swept
the whole length of the Hope Valley below (these were all slaughtered in the
First World War), and the countryside lay open and varied to the sight. Over to
the south-west the slow Onny gleamed, taking the drainings from the mines. Nowadays all this seems a lost
country, the Onny's streams one vast gentle bog, the
old shafts rising ghost-like into an indefinite blur of background.
But at the period of which we are
writing, the barytes mines were thriving. Cornishmen
and miners from Montgomery had come up and settled among the Shropshire men.
Stripped to the waist in summer-time, hooded with coarse sacking in winter when
outside with bleak winds whistling round them, they worked amidst many a
hazard, and found their pleasures in drink and cock-fighting, the wake, the
fair, and the races. The women had a pinching time when money went in wild
living, and many of the children had to go into the mines to work where
'morals, actions and language were obscene and filthy'.
But there were some among even
these rough creatures that sought the things of salvation. The Cornishmen had
brought Methodism with them, and in the early eighteen hundreds Shrews-bury
Baptist Church sent out a preacher to take services in several villages,
including Snailbeach. A spiritual harvest resulted,
and on Communion Sunday in Shrewsbury there was usually a contingent of sober
miners and their families. But these monthly journeys were tedious espscially in winter, and a request was made that a
separate Church should be formed. This was granted, and a blacksmith's shop at
the mine became a regular meeting place for fifteen years, receiving the
monthly oversight of a minister. This little Church 'had many tokens of divine
favour, and many were added to the Church'. In 1825 a Mr. Lakeline,
of Pontesbury, undertook the pastorate. We read of
him that 'it was his custom to stay up till midnight on Saturday to feed his
horse, and then it would fast till midnight on Sunday. He rode to take three
services each Sunday—at Minsterley, Wrentnall and Snailbeach'.
By 1830 the Church was so
flourishing that a proper building was indicated. A young minister, Edward
Evans, travelled up and down the country to collect funds for a church. At once
there was difficulty in getting ground at Snailbeach
to build upon. The Marquis of Bath owned all the land that would have been most
convenient, and he refused to have a Free Church on his estate. A stiff climb
up the hillside brings one to a small stream—the boundary between the Marquis
of Bath's estate and that of the Earl of Tankerville.
The Church applied to the Earl, who readily granted them permission to build
and also gave a large site as a burial ground. So, away up the northern end of
the Stiperstones, in a sheltered coign,
stands—to this day—Lord's Hill Chapel. This place was being built in 1833 when
Samuel Hughes was a young man. He saw the young minister gathering stones and
was astonished, thinking There certainly must be something more in religion
that I have ever been aware of.
Samuel was a native of Habberley, a village 'over the hill', and although he was a
miner—and had been since the age of twelve— living the hard reckless life described
before, with many 'hairbreadth escapes' to relate, he had not been brought up
in the uncouth way of most of them. In a Memoir of him we learn that 'he was
tenderly brought up by his parents, and was taught by his mother to repeat the
Lord's Prayer every night, and some verses of one of Dr. Watts's
hymns beginning,
Almighty God, Thy piercing eye
Strikes through the shades of night
And our most secret actions
He Quite
open to Thy sight.
Naturally of a tender disposition, he
feared to do anything wrong, but especially at times when the feeling came over
him that the unseen God would bring every secret thing into judgment'.
His father had held an appointment
in the Militia, then on discharge worked as a day labourer until he moved to Habberley and got work at Snailbeach
mines. He had an elder sister Martha, and the two of them went to school and
learnt the 'rudiments of reading, writing and arithmetic'. They went regularly
to Church, and Samuel sang in the choir. Martha, at nine, asked her mother how
a man could make her a child of God at baptism; her father cut her short,
saying 'she was going to teach the parsons, was she?'.
The same verse that they all learnt to say at night frightened Martha, and she used to wonder how she could stand before
God.
When Samuel was eighteen his father
died, and his mother, who had been stricken with paralysis for some years,
could only sit childish and helpless in the corner. Freed thus from the
restraint of his parents, Samuel gave loose, he says, 'to the reins of folly
and wickedness, thinking there was time enough to think about religion'. Martha
married, at twenty-eight, a bootmaker, Thomas Burgwin, an industrious young man, and it seemed a
comfortable opening in life. He and his parents were staunch Church people, and
Martha went with them. For a year they were comfortable, when a painful
position developed through jealousy on his part. This was quite unfounded but
for many years, Martha says 'our happiness was quite marred and he took to drinking
and abused me fearfully.'
Samuel, meanwhile, married at the
age of twenty-two, and was enjoying his life, though not without some terrible
stings of conscience, from time to time resolving to become religious,
especially after hearing some arousing sermon. He went to hear the first sermon
in the new Chapel at Lord's Hill, and feeling his prejudice against them as
Dissenters removed he became a regular hearer. But, he said, 'the ministry said
many things I could not comprehend, so, beginning in my own strength and
freewill notions, I determined to search for myself. He began to read the first
eight chapters of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, but felt it 'seemed to make
right against me and when I came to the verses in Chapter 9, "I will have mercy;
on whom I will have mercy, and will have compassion on whom I will have
compassion", here the blow was struck, and I fell under it, so that to
tell my feelings I am unable. [ thought this was not
fair. I said to my wife, "It's no use my trying". I seemed to writhe
under it, and when I glanced at my book again and caught the words, "Nay,
but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God?
Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it. Why
hast thou made me thus?" this probed the wound already made. Here I was, a
helpless, lost, ruined sinner, seeing that unless the Lord had mercy on me I
must certainly be lost.
'I found my troubles did not end
here. They affected my health. I was reduced almost to a skeleton, and some
said I was going out of my mind. But bless God! I was just coming into it! The
trees and fields did not seem to wear the same aspect as usual, and
particularly the clouds: these seemed to frown and look gloomy, and I was
afraid sometimes to look up. [How this reminds us of Sukey!] I would be ready
to burst out crying many a time as I walked up and down the Coppice [going to
work and returning home]. Some of the members of the Chapel being aware of my
trouble tried to comfort me. Sometimes the prayers and preaching would seem the
very thing I wanted; but all went off, till one evening I got my Bible again
and began to read the 10th chapter of Romans. The first verse seemed very
pleasant and rivetted my attention, especially the
word saved. I read on to the 6th verse, and O how it
seemed to speak to me. "The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth and in
thy heart; that if thou shalt confess with thy mouth
the Lord Jesus Christ, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved." Here I am lost for words to describe
the richness, sweetness and comfort that entered my poor soul. The burden was
taken off my mind, and I was like a man loosed out of prison into liberty!'
After this he became a member of
Lord's Hill Chapel and found true fellowship with some of the congregation. He
began to teach in the Sunday School and to speak at
the prayer-meetings. At the suggestion of a good old man who worked with him in
the mines and who had continued all through to be much attached to him, the
Church requested him to go out to preach at certain stations in the
neighbourhood. This he was made willing to do from the encouragement he felt
from Hart's hymn beginning, Gird thy loins up,
Christian soldier! 'Every word of that hymn,' he said, 'seemed to speak to me,
particularly the two lines, Lo! thy Captain calls thee
out, and Though to speak thou art not able. I would say, "No, Lord, I am
not able", and weep. Then it would come again,
Gird thy loins up, Christian soldier. So between hope and fear I came to the
conclusion I would try, and said, "Lord, Thou hast the lip and the heart,
and when Thou didst see fit Thou didst open the mouth of the dumb ass to speak
Thy word".
'His old friend heard him preach
once or twice and encouraged him to go on, but shortly
afterwards died rather suddenly, and Samuel felt what it was to lose a friend
and brother.'
Strange to say, it was the same
doctrine (election) that was used by the Holy Spirit to awaken Martha Burgwin, but quite independently of her brother. She
relates how (in about 1839) the vicar of Habberley
Church in the course of his sermon said these words, 'Except ye be written in the Lamb's book of life before the foundation
of the world, ye are none of His'. 'This came like a dagger to me', she says.
'I went home wringing my hands almost in despair, thinking, "If that's
true, I am lost", and a great trembling came over me. I asked my brother
Samuel if it was true what I had heard, and he said, "It is so", and
he showed me a verse in the Bible, Rev. 21, v. 27. I said, "Then there's
no hope for me" He said, "Why? that does not
prove you are lost. We are none of us saved for our righteousness".
'I wrung my hands for distress, and
he said, "It is not God's fault, and it is not Jesus Christ's fault",
and I said (oh, the rebellion of my heart!) "It is not my fault."
With this my brother left me suddenly, and I returned
from the garden where we were standing into my house, with such awful thoughts
of God, that He should have put salvation out of the power of man. So I
thought; and I got deeper and deeper into distress for nearly two years. I had
no friend I could speak to, and so I kept it all to myself. I had a little
school with which I supported myself, and some days I hardly knew what I was
doing.'
Again strange to say, the same word
that had condemned Samuel, 'Nay, but, O man, who art thou that replies! against God? Shall the thing formed say to Him that formed
it, Why hast Thou made me thus?' was used to Martha,
in seeming to settle it in her mind that there was nothing but destruction
before her, so that she used to cry from self-pity. 'But at the end of two
years I was standing in the middle of my kitchen,' she says, 'when these words
came, "I will have a desire to the work of Mine hands." They awakened
in me such an attention to what the Lord would say that I went upstairs and
fell upon my knees for the first time for two years, and I poured out my soul
before the Lord in prayer—'O Lord, if thou wilt have a desire unto the work of
Thy hands, / am the work of Thy hands!' and immediately it was spoken to me,
"I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance". The
hope that now entered my heart I had never known before. Though I did not
experience great joy, I had no trouble left.
'After this I wished to go to
Lord's Hill Chapel, where my brother Samuel attended. I had to steal off to
conceal it from my husband, and once being delayed in returning he was watching
for me in great displeasure, and the next Sunday locked me in the house till I
should promise to go to Church. This excited my anger, but I yielded to his
wish, and then seemed in a stupor, fearing I had angered the Lord by yielding
to man. I broke my trouble to my brother, who urged my attendance at the
Chapel, but my husband made this at that time impossible for me. I cried sorrowfully
to the Lord for two or three years. My earnest desire was to know where the
Lord's people were, and to be permitted to join with them in worship.'
Samuel said of the ministry at
Lord's Hill, 'It was a sound doctrinal ministry, truth in the letter, which has
been a comfort to me many times down to this present day, and has been of great
use to me when I have been searching the Word of God. But there was something
going on in my poor soul that the minister scarcely ever spoke about: a base
string in the harp which he could not, or did not sound. Then I would think I
must be wrong, since many seemed to enjoy the word. These things drove me to
weep and cry mightily to the Lord for help, for I would sometimes question all
my religion and think it was all gone. ... I began to be a speckled bird among
them. I could not hear to any profit, so I went here and there in search of an
experimental preacher. Sometimes I would go to Shrewsbury, a twenty-four mile
walk, sometimes to Broseley a deal further. Once I
heard of a faithful minister at Little London near Wolverhampton, but how was I
to hear him? It was about forty-six miles distant from my home, and I was very
poor. But neither poverty nor the journey could stop me. I scraped together a
bit of money and off I went, walking to Shrewsbury, taking the train to
Wolverhampton, and walking to Little London. O what a
knitting was between me and the minister when he engaged in prayer! His
text was, "Gad, a troop shall overcome him; but he shall overcome at the
last". O how he traced the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the joys and
sorrows that were going on in my troubled mind! I thought, This
is of the Lord, for no one knows me here. After the service a venerable old
gentleman came to me and asked me to go and dine with him! After dinner we went
to the prayer meeting and I was asked to join in. I gave out the 84th Psalm
(Watts), My soul, how lovely is the place. Surely it
was a lovely place to me! The dear Lord filled my mouth with arguments, and
there was another Bochim to my poor thirsty soul. The
kind gentleman took me with him to tea, then we went
to the evening service. The text was, "Thou hast given me the heritage of
those that fear Thy name". This confirmed what I had heard in the morning.
'Then I thought I would go back to
Wolverhampton, and prepare for the early train on Monday morning, but such was
the joy, comfort and consolation that flowed through my soul that I was almost
bewildered. I didn't know which way to go! So I asked a young man the way to Wolverhampton.
He showed me the way, but I soon lost it again! He and two more, it seems, were
watching me, so then they walked with me a good way and put me on the turnpike
road. We had some pleasant conversation about the sermon, and when we parted,
they shook hands with me and one of them left half-a-crown in my hand, which
paid for my train back to Shrewsbury! Thus I could go in those days ninety-two
miles to hear a Gospel sermon! O how that very journey and the things connected
with it established me in my former views of Christ and of His Gospel!'
In January of 1843 Samuel heard
that a minister was preaching the Gospel at Wrentnall,
Pulverbach. This was Mr. Bourne, on his third visit to Pulverbach. He had
arrived in December with his daughter Philippa, and
was staying with Mrs. Gittings at The Grove. Here his
morning readings were well attended, the three Miss Gilpins (for Catharine was
there this time) and often three of their servants coming regularly. Sukey went
every day and tried to lose nothing. She said that 'she and Charles and her
stout grand-daughter when they all work together hard can earn a shilling per
day by picking up stones in the farmers' fields, and therefore as the weather
is so beautiful they have done well this winter to what they often do. The
mighty opposition is chiefly amongst the farmers who all combine against my
meetings, not in any incivility to me, but in preventing their wives and
grown-up children from attending. Mrs. Rawson, the
butcher's wife, is as much hindered as her husband can accomplish but is
determined to hear. She lost the opportunity when I was here before, she said,
but now, when she goes for orders or takes meat she always contrives to be at
my house when the reading takes place. She told me today she never understood
anything till she heard me, but now she understands the conflicts of hope and
fear, and yesterday, she added, I was made like Zaccheus
to come down, and though I used to think these places the saddest and lowest I
could be in I now find them the best, and had a good day in hearing'.
'The day after New Year's day was the day appointed for the Rector's agent to collect
the tithes, and a dinner is always provided for the farmers at the
public-house. Philip Morris, a farmer on the bank above Sukey's
house, is considered a great scholar and once thought he knew all that needed
to be known. He came to hear me last Sunday from these words, "Whereby
shall I know that / shall inherit it?". Here all
his religion fell away and he felt he must have a better religion or perish.
This man was obliged to appear at the dinner to pay his tithes, and after
dinner the men all set upon him to know what it was he heard at the preaching.
So he told them in great simplicity exactly what he felt, upon which they all
began to abuse him, and put the poker into the fire to push him with it
red-hot, but he made his escape.
'For the convenience of the people
the Sunday and Wednesday services are now held at William Morris's house near
the Black Lion at Wrentnall (no relation to Philip
Morris.) A much larger number now attend. The men and myself
are in the porch, and the parlour, kitchen and brewhouse
are crowded, also some stand outside and say they can hear. Many of these are
colliers, who listen with great seriousness. I am astonished to find all six of
the Rectory servants come, except the little boy who is set to watch in case he
should want anything. Mrs. Morris is most generous, and nothing is a trouble to
her, although in all weathers the people tread her house and leave her much
work to clean after them. Young Mr. Freme is their
landlord, and seeing so many come out of the house said I'll soon put a stop to
all this. This greatly aroused their fears and they were sure he would give
them warning on my account. But Mrs. Morris said, "Now's the time for
prayer. Mr. Freme is but a man, and it would be worse
to offend God". Later on the young gentleman said "what is it the
person preaches?" So they told him simply the doctrines and the manner of
our meetings and he finished up in a calmer tone, "Well, well, he has a
right to preach where he likes, and as much right as anybody", and went
off. This family, the squires of the place, had had Thomas Overton into the
parlour and questioned the poor frightened man, but, from being greatly against
us during my earlier visits, they are altogether calmer. The old gentleman
stopped Sukey and said, "Don't I owe you a little money, Sukey? Come to
the house to-morrow at half past nine". "I cannot, Sir, I must go to
Mr. Bourne's at the Grove." "Cannot you put that off?" "No,
Sir, the Lord directs me to go for my soul's profit, Sir." "Then come
to me afterwards as you return home."
'Last week five miners from the Snailbeach lead-mines came to hear me. There was so little
time between the finish of their day's labour and the beginning of my meeting
and the distance several miles that the men said they were obliged to run most
of the way, and when it was over they would have to return in the same manner
because of the night work at the mines. I was told they were in such a state of
perspiration that they had scarcely any dry clothes upon them. They went home
much pleased, it seems, and have sent a very kind message asking that ten of
them may speak to me after the next meeting. They accompanied me on my mile and
a half walk and one, John Philpot, told me that though their preacher could get
at the Gospel doctrines out of books yet he never spoke of a secret spiritual
work, and because they asked about it he publicly warned them they should be
excluded, and soon dismissed them without allowing them to make a defence
before the congregation. They now have a little cottage to meet in, but are
greatly despised. They said they hoped to come and hear me regularly before I
leave, but now there has been a very heavy fall of snow and in their hill
country they are cut off.'
When they came again Samuel Hughes
was among them. It is interesting that the only objective description of Mr.
Bourne's preaching comes in the modest Memoir of this miner. Samuel says, 'He
opened up the great truths of the Gospel in a plain simple style so that a babe
in grace might have understood him. I went again and again, and this led to an
interview, which I shall never forget. His deep searching questions! He has
puzzled and perplexed me sometimes till I knew not what to answer him till I
was on the road home. Then it would often come, and I could have answered him
then, but it was too late! This caused a few letters to pass between us'.
Mr. Bourne in another letter says,
'When I arrived at the room and saw the people collecting, my heart sank, and
it made me in earnest with the Lord, and he heard my cry, and my subject
unfolded from these words, "Through Him we both have access by one Spirit
unto the Father". The Lord was very near to me, and helped me to speak
upon that precious doctrine of the Trinity. I believe that many were enabled to
receive the Word, and though I also set forth, by the help of God, his eternal
purpose in Christ Jesus in saving some, and not all, yet they seemed patiently
to endure it. I spoke also of that foolish supposition which some advance that
if they are elected they may live as they like; though the Apostle says
"we are created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before
ordained that we should walk in them", namely, godly fear, repentance unto
life and self-abhorrence.
This subject was so sweet and so
extensive that I was obliged to continue it in the evening, when there were
present more than I had ever seen before'. A week later he writes, 'I think the
people increase every time. Mrs. Morris thinks there were more than a hundred.
Poor Winny said to Sukey Harley, "These are
things we never heard before; no minister ever spoke a word to us upon this
subject. I feel it is the true way, and what a mercy to have such
instruction". William Morris seemed much cheered'.
In one sermon Mr. Bourne says, 'I
had occasion to speak to-day upon these words—"When the sun went down and
it was dark, behold a smoking furnace and a burning lamp". I could not
help calling to mind the terrible afflictions the Lord had brought me safely
through, in consequence of which the lamp of my profession had many bright
shining evidences of the mercy of the Lord Jesus Christ. These are the things
which make the lamp to burn bright. I was led to show that the smoking furnace
denotes the various and heavy troubles that the people of God are called to
endure, and the darkness and confusion that often attends the entrance into
them. I told the people they all knew in their country what a literal furnace
meant, for they could see for miles on a dark night the fire and smoke that
issued from them; and that I had known many such spiritual furnaces and had
feared they would never end, and I never find any way of escape. I have said
with Asaph, "How long, Lord? Wilt Thou be angry
for ever? Shall Thy jealousy burn like fire?".
But there has always been some relief when it came to this, for then the Lord
has come with some encouragement and I have been enabled to acknowledge my need
of these afflictions; both to bring down my proud heart, and to make fresh and
further discoveries of His everlasting love and mercy to me. Sukey was greatly
comforted with what I said on this subject; she said her heart was quite full'.
This visit of Mr. Bourne's was a
blessing not only to Samuel Hughes and Sukey Harley, but to Miss Jane Gilpin,
who records it as follows:
'When I heard of Mr. Bourne's
arrival at The Grove I was much bowed down because I thought he would find out
I was a hypocrite. These last five months I have felt as if I had lost all—all
the good things I had received at the hand of God. If I were
but one with them in heart and soul as I once was, I should not care for all
the other troubles. But now a single straw will throw me down; I cannot stand
my ground against one trial. Nevertheless on my way I thought, Well, I shall be
glad to see him again too. But when I arrived I thought he looked very black at
me, though I had no reason to think so at all, for he was very kind. I felt
just like an alien amongst them.
'Next morning I suffered my sisters
to go to The Grove without me, and then I was vexed with myself. I thought, O
Lord, to what a pass my sin has brought me! Where will it carry me? So I set
off by myself, and found Mr. Bourne had begun his reading. When it was over I
felt exactly as I had done before, an alien among them all. When my sisters
left Mr. Bourne sat down by me and told me how my letter had comforted him. Did
it? thought I. Why I thought I had been entirely
discovered by it that I was a hypocrite. I cannot tell how it was, but somehow
while we were thus conversing I began to feel in one moment such a blessed
union of heart with him as I never expected to feel as long as I lived. I felt
a giving way of those strong chains that had bound my soul so long. My mind
began to expand, and I felt the power of returning spiritual life to my
drooping soul, which had so long languished for want of it.
'We walked a little way together.
He said, "Miss Jane, you want encouragement; I wish I could give it you".
I replied, "No, Sir, you don't know what a bad place I have been in, in
giving way to sin". Then he said, "Well, but there is a
confession". I thought Yes, but that I could not
find; that is what I have wanted all along. I cannot tell how it was, but just
at this point I felt the sweetest returning power of the presence of the Lord
that I almost ever felt. My chains fell off and my burden was gone; my tongue
was ready to sing out the praises of God my Saviour. He made "the lame man
to leap as an hart" that moment, and the tongue
of the stammerer was ready to speak plainly. And when
we parted I went on my joyful way. I said in my heart, O Lord, whence is this?
This is something very wonderful, what does it mean? And immediately that verse
fell upon me, "We have this treasure in an earthen vessel that the excellency of the power may be of God and not of us". I
said, Yes, it is of God, it is indeed of God! I did
give glory to His Name on that very spot of ground on which I stood.
'I could not sleep all night for
wondering at God's condescension and goodness. It was about the middle of the
night when these words were spoken upon my heart, "This house, which ye
say shall be desolate etc. . . again there shall be
heard . . . the voice of joy, etc". I knew the voice when the words came,
and I replied, lifting up my head from my pillow, O Lord, I do believe with all
my heart!
'How joyfully I arose in the
morning (December 18th, 1842), with the expectation of hearing the word
preached. It was now no forced duty. I now found His service perfect freedom.
While I was busying myself about the house concerns before I went, these words
entered my heart—"Though faint, yet pursuing". I cannot express the
tenderness with which this was spoken, nor the sweet
encouragement it conveyed to my heart. I said, Have I
been pursuing, Lord? Why I thought I had given it up long ago. I thought to
myself if Mr. Bourne had said these words to me, I should have replied in my
heart, No, I am not pursuing; I have given it up long long
ago. But when I knew the voice that spoke to me, that He would not lie, I could not deny His word, and I replied, Have I been
pursuing, Lord? I am sure I did not know it; I thought far otherwise.
'While I was on my way to The Grove
this song was put into my heart, and I could not help singing it all day long—
Jesus, my Lord! I know His name;
His name be
all my trust. Nor will He put my soul to shame,
Nor let my hope be lost.
It was a substantial hope which
nothing could remove. It was the first time I had ever felt that holy boldness
to cry, "I know His name". This boldness is attended with such
humility that none can understand it but such as the Lord reveals it to by His
Spirit. It is a mystery. O the change between the last Sabbath and this! I
could not help saying, O Lord, how is this? I do bear Thy name. I am Thy
adopted child. Why should I be like an alien?
'In the evening the Lord brought to
my recollection in the sweetest manner what I had found eight years ago,
namely, "A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow . . . but (these were
the words that comforted me) I will see you again, and your heart shall
rejoice; and your joy no man taketh from you".
But this did not give me the rest I wanted, but something whispered in my heart
as though the Lord Jesus Christ called it to my remembrance, and said, Did I
not say unto thee I will see thee again, and that thine
heart should rejoice, and that thy joy no man should take away? O how my heart
leaped within me, and I replied instantly, O yes, yes! Thou didst say these
words to me in that hour of deep distress. [See Chapter X.]
And my soul magnified the Lord.
The next day, Monday, these things
continued, and none can tell the joy I felt as I went to The Grove. On this day
I had a sweet sight of that low place where Jesus talks with His disciples. I
loved to find it again. "Lift up your heads, for your redemption draweth nigh." These last words brought great fear
into my heart lest the devil should come in and place lofty imaginations and
vain and rapturous speculations before my eyes, and cause me to lose that real
spiritual and divine substance which the Lord had put into my heart. I
earnestly entreated the Lord that He would not suffer me to go after idle
dreams.
'At the Wednesday evening meeting
one remark fell with great awe upon my spirit. Mr. Bourne was speaking of the
necessity of tenderly regarding and cherishing those secret whisperings of the
Spirit, and he said, "O be very cautious here how you suffer a trifling
mind to rob you of your true peace!".
'It pleased the Lord to continue
this gracious favour towards me for many days, so that I can but declare,
"O taste and see that the Lord is good; and blessed is the man that trusteth in Him".'
At the end of his visit Mr. Bourne
wrote to Matilda, 'I cannot tell you of the uproar my speaking has made in this
place—how severely bitter the farmers show themselves, how silently provoked
the curate who preaches against me, without names. Your father has been very
kind. He found my daughter in the carriage with Miss Catharine going to
Shrewsbury and was exceedingly kind and hoped if they found the cold
inconvenient they would keep the carriage all night and make themselves
comfortable. He said moreover that he liked his family to be friendly with me
and wished his daughters to visit me'. But Mr. Bourne had no more personal
interviews with him.
WHEN Mr. Bourne got back to London
he wrote several letters. To Bernard Gilpin and Mr. Maydwell
in Hertford he wrote that 'during my stay in Shropshire I was at times greatly
encouraged and comforted in my heart with the divine power of the Word. For the
most part I was made to feel the word first spoken to myself, and then sounded
out to such among the people as had an appetite for it. Since I came home I
have had some sweet tokens of the approbation of God, but have also been ready
to give up my hope because of the unwelcomeness of a
faithful report. The enemy tells me I shall not have one friend left and my
heart fears the same; I am allowed to encourage, as it is called, but beyond
this I am not wanted; I ought first to judge myself and if I will presume to
instruct I ought to be better equipped; and I believe this to be true. O how I
feel I must judge myself very narrowly, and take heed I say nothing but what
the Lord enables me to put in practice! How often did I watch this point in
Shropshire, and how anxious I was to proceed as the Spirit of God had led me in
my own experience. And one especial thing I was made
deeply to feel, namely, my great ignorance in all things, and particularly in
the spiritual state of others. On Sunday morning I was much in earnest in
prayer and very anxious to find the Lord in hearing the Word, and the Lord came
with sweet power into my heart while Mr. Burrell was commenting on Matt. 17:
but in the evening at the sacrament, while he handed me the cup I felt the
marvellous dying love of the Saviour to me. In this I found that sweet liberty
which we have in Christ Jesus, and all my bonds were broken and the Lord drew
very near. It was to my soul a full proof of the Lord's approbation on my
proceedings at Pulverbach, and gave me power to leave all my fears and
misgivings in His hands'.
There are several letters to some
of the miners of Snailbeach, whom Mr. Bourne
addresses with the faithfulness and affection of a spiritual father.
'To I. O. and his wife: My dear
friends,—I was sincerely glad to see you so constant in hearing me, but you
ought to be aware that something more than hearing will be necessary for your
salvation. I am told you have got some right notions in your head, but your
feet go another way; that is, you do not live consistently with that profession
of religion you make. There is nothing more dangerous to the soul than this,
because it is an utter abhorrence in the sight of God, and He often cuts down
such in the open face of all men, as an example for others to fear and depart
from evil. I hope you will be able to lay this to heart and not seek in any way
to deny it, but confess this truth in secret before God, and entreat Him to
have mercy upon your soul for the sake of His dear Son, Jesus Christ. If you
perceive the least fear of God to spring up in your heart, instruct your
children in the same; and be sure to manifest that fear of God by meeting your
family in some way to read a portion of God's Word and to pray:, and make no
excuse for your ignorance. Children begin at a very early age to watch their
parents, and have often a clear discernment of the spirit in which they walk;
they can soon discern sincerity or the want of it in their parents; therefore
needs a spiritual discretion to be given us, how to walk before such as God has
committed to our charge.
'It is no small thing to become a
converted sinner. There will be found in such ten thousand changes and fears,
which the Spirit sanctifies to instruct them unceasingly to pray to the Lord
Jesus Christ for fresh, clearer, and brighter tokens of His mercy to them. If
we only learn to talk about these things we shall find ourselves sorely at a
loss when sickness and death come, and our hopes are built upon a sandy
foundation. Take heed, my friends. It is not everybody that possesses the
religion you see in Sukey Harley. Vital godliness is a rare thing; anything in
the shape of it, not being the real thing, will not stand the fiery trial which
is to come upon all men; and woe be to such as come to that and have not the
blessed Saviour for a friend.'
And to a collier's wife, he writes,
'I am truly glad to hear of your welfare, and that you
still hunger after the bread of life; for the Saviour says that such shall be
filled. I fear that the dangerous places your husband is exposed to will try
his profession to the quick. Often so long from home, and no
word of exhortation, and the world at all times before him, and a bad example.
I am greatly afraid these things will be too strong for him, if he make not God his refuge by constant prayer. I fear that
prayer may be forgotten and left off in his pots of beer; and that though not a
drunkard he may be betrayed into excess, and be made to know that God will not
be mocked. It therefore becomes him to stand in awe of God while his spirit is
in some measure softened by the Word, that his secret
fears may prove the working of the Spirit to teach him to cry for mercy to the
Lord Jesus Christ. I believe that you have tasted of relief from the Saviour in
some of your troubles, as well as in the dreadful fear that came upon you after
you uttered those angry words to Sukey Harley. It is by such convictions we are
cured of all self-righteousness and are made as lost sinners, to come to Him
alone for help; and we become the more astonished that the Saviour will look on
such abject sinners and pardon us, or even give us the least hope that we shall
not finally perish'.
To Samuel Hughes at Snailbeach he wrote: I was truly glad to see your letter
and was much comforted and encouraged by it. I perceive my friend knows the
path of tribulation as well as I do, and I am made to acknowledge at times with
all my heart the absolute necessity of it. Without this sharp work we have a
heart to believe any lie, hear any false doctrine, and give the right hand of
fellowship to all sorts. I would advise you to take heed both how you hear and
what you hear. There is much danger in being misled. Nevertheless, in reading
the Word of God and in prayer and watching thereunto, you will find that the
Lord will direct you safely, and preserve you from the fatal errors that are
round about you. My heart is very much impressed with the cases of you all, and
though I am old, yet I feel a great and anxious desire to see you all again,
and set forth the riches of the Saviour's grace to you. If you were not
troubled on every side you would never find any suitableness in the Saviour. It
is to the troubled soul He gives rest. Men may talk like fools and tell us it
is our duty to believe; but when the Spirit convinces us of our unbelief, then
we perceive this unbelief is like gates of brass and bars of iron, and none can
remove it but He who convinces us of it. And I am sure it is not in my power to
repent though I would give ten thousand worlds to do so. I am taught that it is
the gift of God in Jesus Christ. "Him hath God
exalted with His right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give
repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins". If you and I are cast down
(let the cause be what it may) we know we must come in confession and prayer to
the fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, and never rest till Jesus Christ
comes by the Spirit, and applies those healing streams with divine power to our
wounded consciences. I truly hope I shall yet see that the Lord manifests His
love and mercy to you so that it may be known and read of all men, and that
your spirit may be preserved from the universal error of the day. Remember me
kindly to your fellow miners, J. P. and R. O., and let them read this letter'.
In that age of class distinction
how beautiful it is to see the bond of spiritual friendship between the artist
and these rough miners, so that we can visualise them wiping their stained
hands to unfold this letter, sharing it, and others, lovingly, and prizing them
much.
It was about this time that the
Pulverbach congregation found a permanent place for their meetings together.
This was Churton Cottage, a double-fronted house
close under the 'ha-ha' wall surrounding the churchyard. Mercy says, 'It
happened that I had been anxiously looking to the Lord for direction whether to
mention to Mr. Bourne about a certain house likely to be vacant in the village,
and that verse kindled in my heart and shone with a sense of His favour,
"The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show
Himself strong on behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards Him". I
read the rest of the chapter (Job 37) which opened more and more to me and was
very encouraging in respect to the dispensation we were under, that it would
end in mercy. And the Lord's mercy did seem to flow in more and more, even to
the circumstance of the occupying of that very house for the purpose about
which the Lord had led me to seek His face, and to put my trust under the
shadow of His wings. [The cottage was taken by a brother of Mr. Maydwell, of Hertford, who, with his family, lived there
for fourteen years, and later allowed one of the parlours to be used for the
meetings, to everybody's contentment.]
Things were easier now for the
Gilpin sisters in their own home. Mercy goes on: 'Another most sweet token from
the Lord was His mercy made known to several of our servants. How exceedingly I
felt this, with wonder and praise! And the Saviour was pleased to reveal
Himself to my own soul about it. It was such a peculiar feeling of His presence
amongst us from the application of that passage in John 21. "After these
things Jesus showed Himself again to His disciples at the Sea of Tiberias. There were together . . ." I cannot describe
the sweet feeling that accompanied these verses to my heart, such a bond of
union with our little company'.
One of these servants was Mary
Lloyd, about whom we read the following:
'While still
young Mary was desirous of finding the right way. Some thoughts of the importance of her
steps being ordered exercised her mind. Before she left home for service the
prayer was put into her heart in the midst of felt ignorance that the Lord
would bring her into "a living family where His truth was known". She
was hired to go with a family to India, but something happened and her services
were not required. When afterwards she presented herself for engagement at the
Rectory at Pulverbach a remarkable coincidence led her at once to hope that she
had been directed to the right place and she awaited the result of her
application with keen interest. It was in the winter of 1841 that she was first
engaged.
'As time progressed Mary, being
very tender in spirit and ever watchful, exceedingly noticed her early guidance
because it became clear to her that the Lord had led her, according to her
prayer, where His truth was known, that she might herself be brought to the
knowledge of it. She soon found that she was in the midst of much outward
conflict upon the subject of religion, and could not understand the difference
which she perceived those around her felt between one religion and another. She
became restless in spirit to know what these things meant, and sometimes
vexation and enmity would arise because those who seemed to understand and
spoke one to another did not speak to her and tell her "their secret"
as she thought it.
'One day she saw from the window
her fellow servants going to the meeting at Wrentnall,
and in a moment it came to her to go to the Lord for instruction. She shut
herself in her room and prayed, "O Lord, wilt Thou teach me, and bring me
to know these things". The desire of her soul from this time found
expression in such words as these—"O that I knew where I might find
Him". The first time she attended the meeting (where on that day Bernard
was to preach) the lines of the hymn which was being sung met her in a very
particular way—
Whatever loss you bear beside O
never give up this.
She said, "How I longed to
know what that precious thing was, which some knew and could never give up. For
I felt I had not got it. And I entreated the Lord to make it known to me, and
show me that true and living way. Sometimes a little hope would come to me.
Once these words helped me, I will fetch my knowledge from afar'. And another
time these, 'The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him and He will show
them His covenant'. I seemed to see with a glance how it was no one could teach
me concerning these things, for surely none could understand the secret of the
Lord but those to whom he revealed it. I used to like to speak with Sukey
Harley, for I thought she had something from the Lord that I myself longed for.
Indeed I felt a very sweet love and clinging to the people of God. I remember
how these words struck my mind—'Whither thou goest I
will go; where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people
shall be my people and thy God my God'. And hope would come into my heart that
I should be joined with them. Yet I had many fears lest I should fail of this
and not come into the saving knowledge".' But Mary did, and for the rest
of her life, at first with the Misses Gilpin and later with her husband Thomas
Lloyd, enjoyed real unity of spirit with this little company.
There are no details about the
other servants, but in Mr. Bourne's book of Letters are to be found one to M.
D. (Margaret Davies) and one to B. B. (Betty or Bessie Brown) dated from London
after this third visit to Pulverbach. To the one he wrote:
'It gives me sincere pleasure to
see you so desirous of instruction. Your fellow-servant can tell you of a
thousand snares that will be laid for your feet, to keep you from coming to
Christ for mercy; and the enemy will subtly whisper in your ears that you have
only to go to worship, for there is nothing more to be known. This will be done
to make you contented without a sense of Christ's pardoning love; and if he can
persuade you to this point. your profession will soon
wither and you become a fruitless branch. I hope that all you in the same house
will make it manifest that you walk in the same spirit. If, through a
backsliding heart you withdraw, there will be ground to suspect your profession
is not sincere. I believe you will have your religion sharply tried, even so
that all about you shall see whether the Lord stands by you or not. I do not
write this to dishearten you, but to forewarn you, that
you may lay up many petitions to the Lord against that day. Be tender of God's
honour and true and honest to your convictions. If you argue or reason with the
devil, he being a special pleader will soon put you out of countenance, and
make you firmly believe you will be ruined for ever if you walk so contrary to
your interests; all will forsake you and you will come to want. This is the
language I am accustomed to, and have often been made to fear the worst, but
being through mercy secretly supported by the power of God, I have stood my
ground, and found all threatenings come to nothing,
my conscience comforted, and God honoured.'
And part of a letter to the other
reads: 'What you write is true. Where Christ is found, there is the cross.
Spiritual life maintained in the soul is so discordant to the religion of the
day that we must be hated and scorned by all sorts who have not the Spirit of
God in them. What is very mysterious to the wisdom of the flesh is that no
spiritual life can be found in us but in the conflict against all the natural
craving and desires of the flesh. This daily dying to all that we naturally
desire is no small cross; nevertheless the Apostle calls it "our light
affliction which is but for a moment" and says that it "worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory; while we look not at the things which are seen (including all the things
which we think desirable for the flesh) but at the things which are not
seen" that is, the invincible power of God which makes all things work
together for our good. And if we are enabled to look at this, our daily dying
by crucifixion will be one of the blessings discovered to us for our safety and
well-being.
'And now, my friend, when the Lord
thus gives us these sweet things he then usually puts us into the furnace to
show us how they will constantly stand the fire. I have been so foolish at
times as to say to myself, Surely this will be the last trial: surely now I may
escape; and after this sweetness and power of the Saviour's love and tender
care I shall not so readily lose sight of that gracious drawing of the Spirit
which has won my best affections. Then perhaps I open my Bible and read,
"I am the true Vine and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in Me that beareth not fruit He taketh away; and every branch that beareth
fruit, He purgeth it, that it may bring forth more
fruit". The Lord brings us low purposely to deal with us not as servants
but as friends. "Henceforth I call you not servants, for the servant knoweth not what his Lord doeth;
but I call you friends, for all things that I have heard of my Father I have
made known unto you." And what things does He hear from the Father? He
hears Him say, and in the furnace often repeatedly tells us, that if we were of
the world we should be without the cross, but because He has chosen us out of
the world therefore the world hates us. When the Comforter comes he clears all
these matters, and testifies to our consciences that this death and tribulation
is the straightforward road to eternal life.'
And to Mercy several letters were
sent about this time: she seemed to be the gentle organiser of the little
congregation.
'I often wonder,' writes Mr.
Bourne, 'whether any of those who were strangers to me received the word
preached as the Word of God, and by the power of it have been brought to seek
the Lord more earnestly now I am gone, so as to show it was indeed the Word of
God and not merely what they heard from me. For where the Word of God makes but
a slight impression (as in the parable of the seed that sprang up quickly) it
is soon wiped away by a slight temptation.'
Here we may insert some more
extracts about Sukey Harley, who, Jane Gilpin says, 'was set, in the midst of
His people as a witness and example not only of the freeness of His grace, but
also of the spiritual power of that religion of which He is both the Author and
the Finisher. Through all her bluntness she lacked not that essential grace of
the Spirit, Christian love, producing in her heart true fellowship with all the
Israel of God. To those persons who lived in no profession of religion, and yet
through all her rebuffs maintained a kind of friendship for her she showed much
tenderness; not knowing (as she said) how the Lord might be working in their
hearts. Also any among her own community who might through the power of
temptation have turned aside out of the path, and were out of favour both in
the Church and with themselves, these she would watch
over with the utmost tenderness and solicitude, continually bearing them on her
heart in secret prayer before the Lord.
' "Ah, who knows," she would say,
"but they may be found among the true sheep at last? What could have
become of me, if in all my wanderings Jesus Christ had not searched me out and
set me right again? He knows all His children—I know
but very few -but blessed be His Name He teaches me to cry day and night for
them all—-multitudes, multitudes out of all nations! My blessed Redeemer, bring
them all to know Thy precious Name and to\Thy heavenly kingdom!
"A common pitfall Sukey used
to fall into was this: if she was insulted or ill-used on account of her
religion, she considered it right, by way of testifying to her attachment to
the cause of God to retaliate warmly. She called this "fighting for her
religion", and during the course of twenty years many had been such
battles the village had seen. But she was to be brought out of this behaviour.
About the end of 1839 she was one day met in the lane by a dissolute and
profane young fellow of the village. He instantly set upon her and began to
ridicule her religion. In her zeal she defended it with great warmth and
roundly scolded him for his wicked words. Soon there was a collection of
lookers-on, evidently enjoying the scene and storing up the argument. Alas, the
more Sukey tried to fight for her religion, the worse things got till they were
at a really fiery pitch. The scoffer, now seeing he had scored in rousing her
anger, declared her a hypocrite, and God's truth a lie, and went off laughing
as though in triumph.'
The tale came to the ears of the
Rectory ladies, who were very troubled about it, and when Sukey appeared there
some days later, they could not agree with her that she must 'brave folks out,
gentle or simple, if they mocked God's truth', and tried to explain to her that
such fighting was against God and not for Him. She could not understand this,
and went away to pray about it. A few days afterwards Jane called at her
cottage, and without commenting on the incident she took the Bible and read 2
Samuel, 16. 5-12, about Shimei cursing
David, and Psalm 17. 13 and 14, 'Deliver my soul from the wicked which
is Thy sword; from men which are Thy hand, O Lord, from men of the world'.
While Jane read these passages, Sukey felt their application. 'Ah, my dear
lady,' she said, 'that is God's Word to my heart! Why, how ignorant I am. I
never knew till this moment that the wicked are God's sword \ Ah! poor man, he knew not that though he is the devil's servant
yet he is only a sword in God's hand. Well, I feel sorry for him in my heart, I
do. Ah! "Let him curse, let him curse, because the Lord hath bidden
him." But in one moment my God could turn his heart, and instead of
cursing there would be blessing'.
'Sukey never forgot the instruction
from this incident and many could bear witness', says Jane, 'that from that
time a remarkable change was observed in her conduct under any such
circumstances.
How she did blame her own former
ignorance. "Isn't it a wonder the Lord bears with me, such an ignorant
fool as I am?"
Another conversation Jane jotted down
from her lips was about the Ranters telling her that
the Christian does not commit sin. 'O this discourse, it is dreadful to my
ears,' she said. 'But when I tell them about the faith which the Lord has given
me, that it must be all His work from the beginning to the end, and that man
has no power, being clean dead in trespasses and sins, they say, "Your
faith ben'na like ours!" But what a fire it has
kindled up all round about, telling our faith, has it not? I was thinking, Now suppose we should be brought before kings and rulers to
answer for the truth, how would it be? O my God, Thou knowest!
Suppose I was to deny Him? Ah, I should if He were to leave me—I should be like
Peter. Oh, what I feel when I think of Peter denying his Lord. Oh, how my soul
trembles for those poor souls who have not got this true faith sent down from
heaven into their hearts. They ask me sometimes what my religion is. Oh, my
religion! If you look for it in me, I have none. But I will tell you where it
is—it is in my Jesus. He has got it all, and I have it in Him. I am ignorant
and know nothing. I go to the blessed Jesus to be taught everything—yes,
everything. Suppose now we had got into the right road to heaven—suppose He had
set us there. Well, could we go on of ourselves? I say No, we cannot take one
step without Him. This is how I find it. If I take one step alone I fall. Oh,
how fearful I am of going alone. I am clean out of the road in one minute
There are but few that know our
God. But my Saviour's blood can save to the uttermost, and He tells me I am to
go and tell my faith to these poor souls round here, whether they will hear or
whether they will not. The Lord gives me great tenderness of spirit towards
those who do not know my heavy temptations. He directs me what to say and where
to go. This is what I was thinking. They have the Word, and they have the
Gospel, and they see the creation and the beautiful works of God yet they know
not my God; if He has not given them His Spirit they cannot know Him. We tell
them what a dear precious Saviour He is, but we can do no more. There are but
few, one here and one there.
'Some say they can live without
sin; and when I mourn over my wicked heart, they do not know what I mean. They
say, "Why, Sukey Harley has a changed heart, yet how she talks!". They do not know it is my Saviour's blood sprinkled
on my heart that makes me mourn. Oh, how I abhor my wicked abominable heart my
greatest enemy!
I saw M. J. yesterday; I thought I
would go and see how she was going on. She told me it was something I had said
which made her begin to think of her soul first. Oh, what I feel when they say
I have said anything! My sinful, unhallowed lips, what can they say? She talked
to me about the Ranters, and said that, time back,
when she went to hear them, and saw them lifted up in their joyful ways and
speak of their faith and soft hearts and power of prayer, she used to think
what blessed experience these people have. "I wish I could believe like
them, and feel my heart soft." I said, "But you cannot, can
you"? "No," she said, "I cannot; I used to be quite cast
down after leaving them, for I thought they had all they said." I told her
what I have thought of these people ever since they came; that perhaps our God
permits them to come among us for some purpose we do not know; and when my dear
Redeemer begins to work in any of them, He will bring them out of that society.
I told her she had better not attend them; that was
all I could do. I could not forbid her; my God must do that. They think I am
their enemy, but I am not. Oh, if the Lord were to bring them they would see I
am not. No, I have told them the truth. But oh! I feel as if they were suffered
to be deluded and believe a lie; but the Lord will not suffer His own people to
be deceived long. He will bring them out from among them. They can have no
happiness; all real joy and happiness comes from God. They may, to be sure, be
lifted up with joy and gladness in themselves; yes, they live always, but I die
daily, every moment of my life I am dying. Yes, they can pray always, but oh! when I bend my sinful vile body before a holy God I feel so
unworthy I cannot dare to look up. If we go in any other way than through my
blessed dear Redeemer, how dreadful! how dreadful!'
Sukey once fell into grievous
temptation, which she related as follows: 'Charles and I had been getting some
coal at the pits, and had paid for it, as we all of us thought. But the men
searched every place, and could not find the sovereign. I begged them to search
me, but they refused, saying they were sure I had not got it. I searched myself
over and over, but to no purpose. But when I got home, I found it tied up in a
corner of my handkerchief. From that moment my temptations began; for Satan
would have me keep it, telling me I should be quite clear at the pits for no
one would suspect me. I cannot make you understand but very little about it. I
really thought Satan would get the victory over me. I groaned and sighed, but I
could not pray. And so it was from six in the evening till eight the next
morning. Charles saw how bad I was, but I could not tell him my dreadful
suffering. When I went to bed it was still the same; I would doze asleep for a
few moments and then awake, and Satan was yet on at me to keep this sovereign.
I got up very early and lighted my fire, but it was not till eight o'clock that
my God came; and then He came indeed and drove Satan clean off. And then I
could not take the sovereign up to the pits quick enough. What has the Lord
shown me from this? I must be clean done with boasting now, I am sure. Who kept
me from keeping the sovereign? Not myself, it's plain.
Oh, how this has made me think of those poor sinners who are in the hands of
Satan; they cannot overcome him, but go from sin to sin. But my dear Father
will not leave His own children in the power of Satan for long. I am sure this
about the sovereign was to happen to me that He might teach me from it what I
am without Him and that I might understand more about the deceitful wiles of
Satan'.
Sukey was not a strong woman, and
of course was poor, her husband being but a field labourer, but for three years
she had the burden of a poor blind woman, a pauper on the parish with whom she
had no connection, who planted herself on her. She had often mentioned wishing
to live with Sukey, and one morning came with all her goods in a waggon and announced she must live there, having nowhere
else to go, as the parish barely allowed her a maintenance.
It appeared that Sukey felt that in the fear of God she could not refuse the
woman a part in her cottage, and for three years (till the woman's death) Sukey
bore the burden and trouble of washing and doing all for her, to the entire
satisfaction of the poor woman, who repeatedly said she had never been better
taken care of. But Sukey's account of it reveals how
it drove her continually to the Lord! 'Oh, I feel in a dreadful state
sometimes,' she said, 'such anger and hatred, and murders too. I cannot express
my black devilish heart and no tongue can tell my dreadful sufferings. I am
compelled in my trouble to seek after God, and these words of Mr. Burrell suit
me—that he has found the Lord's help and deliverance, a thousand times twice
told. Oh, when my God appears for me, it is past my telling of; then love and
joy and peace enter my soul, and sin and sorrow and misery are all gone. He
brings all with Him. I cannot do enough for the poor blind woman when His love
is in my heart. He made me put double sugar in her tea the other day. But when
He is gone, nothing is too bad for my devilish heart to wish against her. I
dare not mention my temptations, but my dear Redeemer knows all, and He sent
this trial upon me and I am waiting to see His hand concerning it; when He
pleases He will take it off me, and I dare not stir one step to rid myself of it.
Oh, my blessed Jesus, give me patience!'
Mr. Burrell's book—doubtless the
one from which quotations ( have been taken in Chapter
VI- -was sent to Sukey from London. We might think it would be difficult for
such an uneducated worman, to read it until we see Sukey's method. 'I can truly say the Lord blest me in that
book. When I came to a hard word, I looked up to Him to teach me about it, and
it was wonderful how He did teach me that way, for I cannot even read the words
when He is not with me.'
Another booklet that came Sukey's way was Luther's Exposition of The Lord's Prayer.
Mr. Nunn, 'having found it so many times so profitable to himself had it
translated and printed 'for the benefit of the poor'. Sukey says, 'I was
reading in Luther on the Lord's Prayer; it says, "We are taught to say Our
Father because we should feel unity of heart with all the
Lord's people". When I read this I said, Yes, my dear Father, I will say
Our Father, for my heart is knit to thy dear children, but I must call Thee my
Father too, for I know Thou art my dear and heavenly blessed Father, and hast
brought me into the true light of knowledge of thy dear Son. Yes, before He
called me I kept praying for a good while that He would teach me another prayer
besides the one my mother taught me (that was the Lord's Prayer), and He put
those words into my heart, "Oh Lord, bring me into the true knowledge of
Thy dear Son", and He did so'.
Of course her Bible was Sukey's mainspring. Almost every word was underlined, and
one verse, with a pin stuck into it, was blessed especially to her daughter,
Mary Overton, thirty years later. The verse was, 'Thou shall weep no more. He
will be very gracious unto thee at the voice of thy cry; when He shall hear it,
He will answer thee'. Mary left this tribute. I used to feel that my mother had
the true religion. I often watched her going to some quiet place to pray. She
was the same in private and before everybody.'
AN entry from Bernard's diary around
this time might interest readers as showing the unity that really manifested
itself between these godly men.
'Being in London I called on Mr.
Burrell. On my entering I said, "I hope I shall not disturb you". He
replied, "No, I hope not", and immediately entered with the greatest
simplicity and power on spiritual subjects. I was quite astonished at the
compass of his words, and very thankful I had been there. Thankful also for the
expression of unity with me, and can truly say I felt abased before the
goodness of the Lord. After I had been in the City I went to Mr. Nunn's and sat
with him till chapel time. He gave me a long and very edifying account of R.'s case. But when I said his sister's want of unity with
R. was perhaps more justified than it had been judged to be, I was quite struck
by the simple candour with which Mr. Nunn replied.
' "Just
so, Mr. Gilpin, he used to say he could not find unity with his sister. Her
spirit seemed so contrary to his that he could not have family prayers while
she stayed with him. But if our religion is not able to pray down all these
obstacles to family worship, what is it worth? For myself I must tell you what,
if you have seen some of my letters to Mr. Bourne, is no secret to you, that I
have been a little—and indeed more than a little—out with him! Now if I give
way to this sad prejudice instead of stopping both my ears and praying for Mr.
Bourne night and day, that the Lord may bless him and those with whom he is
(and he was at Pulverbach just then) oh, Mr. Gilpin, where should I be in a
very little while?"
'My heart united exceedingly with
Mr. Nunn while he thus spoke. I never had a clearer example before me of the
meaning of this—"It is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me", and I did not wonder, that
notwithstanding these temptations, the Lord blessed him so that his soul was as
a watered garden.'
We now come to Mr. Bourne's fourth
visit to Pulverbach. He arrived at The Grove in April, 1844, on his
seventy-first birthday. In his diary he notes, 'In God's all-wise providence He
brought me here six years ago, and I believe He gave me both grace and
utterance to set forth before this people the path of tribulation. I have had
many blessings pronounced upon me by those who heard me, and who have since manifested
the true fear of God'. And in his first letter back to London (it is to Mr.
Nunn) he says, 'I find the people most sincerely glad to see me, and am much
surprised at the effect the word has had upon them since I first came among
them. The very sharp exercises I am generally under seem given me for my
subjects to set before them; and the manner in which the Lord comforts me under
them gives the people encouragement.
'It is a source of humbling to me
to see the place [the Morris's] so crowded, even by strangers that none of us
know! And the extreme stillness is wonderful. My heart both trembles and
rejoices. And sometimes I scarcely know how to proceed from the sweet sense of
the Lord's presence, and the great fear I feel lest I should grieve the most
Holy Spirit of God, so that my soul should be covered with a cloud and lose the
perception of His presence amongst us.'
To Mr. Thaine
(another deacon at Titchfield Street) he says, 'How
glad I should be to see you here and take you round to some of the poor people
and show you our order on the Sundays. The Lord is certainly with us'.
To another friend he sketches out
the sermon he preached from 'For this shall every one
that is godly pray unto Thee in a time when Thou mayest
be found; surely in the floods of great waters they shall not come nigh unto
him'. 'I do not know,' he says 'when I have found such a sweet power upon my
own heart while speaking. I was exceedingly comforted, and felt surely all this
cannot be for nothing, and the few I overtook on the road going home seemed to
have received it with much awe and godly fear. I perceive that the people grow
much more serious, and cannot make light of the Word. Those who come to judge
find that it comes so close upon them that they cannot face it; and those who
seemed to halt between two opinions begin to acknowledge there is a something
which the general professors know nothing about. A few, by the mercy of God,
fall under the word and are encouraged to hope, while others are much comforted
and instructed.'
I must now tell you that it is the
custom of all the poor of this parish, old and young, to go a-gleaning.
Everything is given up for about five weeks for this purpose, as it is supposed
that a mother with a few small children can earn by it three or four shillings
a day. But this work becomes a terrible means of evil communication, and I hear
there is no end of low talk in their various meetings in the field, also that
some of our people have been found amongst the vain talkers. This led me to
speak in the course of my discourse of the necessity of a spiritual and'godly fear. One of my hearers said later,
'Sir, I am thinking of those
gleaners that love their company in the field better than our preaching. On
Wednesday last I had been very comfortable in the morning but the word withered
and withered till it was all gone. My body was sick and weakly and my soul
worse. I feared I should not be able to hear the preaching. I prayed and cried
and the Lord gave strength, and though very ill I got safely there. In the
first hymn I found a word that met my desolate condition, and in your prayer I
found more, and my heart was enlarged, but when you gave out your text, 'Grieve
not the Holy Spirit of God', then the Lord came altogether into my heart, and
every word seemed spoken by the Lord Jesus Christ upon my heart so that I went
home rejoicing and better in body too. Now what should I have
lost if I had gone to glean instead of hearing? How can I express the
loss? Can any temporal advantage be equal to what I had found? What might the
gleaners have found if they had come? If I had gathered fourteen handfuls of
corn it would have yielded me, Sir, one peck of flour. But what is this to what
I gained by hearing? Blessed be the Lord for ever that I should ever lay this to
heart! O what should I have lost if I had gone to gain the peck of flour? I
cannot tell you the joy that I found."'
'There were some that went to the
fields and at the time of our meeting threw their bundles down at the door and
attended. I was much encouraged by this. I was also told that our people were
marked and mocked at, but in general they gleaned aloof from the crowd and went
by themselves and so escaped the tumult.
'I called on Sukey one day. She
said, "I sat knitting at my door on Friday evening and was very earnest in
prayer for you, Sir, and thought of when you spoke on that verse, They are
children that will not lie, so He was their Saviour'. I was once a big liar,
but now one lie is as big as my house—ah! bigger—as
big as a mountain and brings me down in much sorrow. How often have I said He
would never come again, when He had promised never to leave me nor forsake me. What a dishonouring lie! Charles said he was so filled
with the love of God during your sermon as not to be able to speak".
'Oh how I see the Lord blesses
these very poor and outwardly destitute ones with a double portion of His
Spirit. Their outward comforts are very small. Charles often
out of work. He is over seventy and is now obliged to go nearly four
miles for his day's work, and then four miles home. Sukey says he is so
fatigued he sometimes lies down and never stirs till he rises for work again.'
Mr. Bourne's discriminating sermons
were not received well by everyone who heard them. In October of that
seven-month visit he had to face a difficult situation, and records it in a
letter to a London friend. 'The Lord has been lately much amongst the flock,
instructing and comforting many of them, but our crafty adversary has stirred
up some others to hear "another gospel", and their cry is, It is all
the same; we are all one! Thus grievous wolves are suffered to enter and seek
to join with us, but not in heart; for they are desperately offended and will
hear no reproof. These things have led me to much prayer and much thoughtfulness,
and while alone yesterday morning, being Wednesday, the Lord drew nigh, and
gave me softness of spirit and great calmness, and impressed my mind with awe
and a sweet sense of His supporting power, and that He would give me wisdom and
words to meet the people in the evening, for I had many things to enter into.
'My first prayer was for the Lord's
especial help that He would plead our cause, that He would go forth as a mighty
man against them that persecute us, that they might be ashamed and turned back
that desire our hurt, and that the false witnesses that rise up may not be able
to prove that it is all the same. O Lord, the sons of Eliab
declare that we take too much upon ourselves, for, say they, we are as holy as
you and as fit to teach; and when they are called to order they rebel at
reproof and are quite sure their way is right. Do Thou be pleased to show who
is on Thy side, and whom Thou choosest and causest to approach unto Thee. O Lord, they complain that
we have brought them from the land that floweth with
milk and honey, and have left them in the wilderness. Thou knowest
what has been set before them, the utter impossibility of attaining to or
maintaining the life of Christ in the soul without the daily cross and
self-denial. O Lord, protect Thy tender ones that are full of fears and cleave
close to Thee, that they may be preserved in the day of battle.
'I then began my discourse from
Rev. 22, beginning at the 10th verse "Seal not the sayings of the prophecy
of this book"; the tidings are terrible; if the Lord be on our side we
shall know it by our spiritual obedience to His Word. The Spirit is set forth
as a reprover; and if we find grace to fall under the
word we are told that the way of life is in it; but if we think we know better,
and seek to establish ourselves in anything contrary to the unity of the Church
of God, this sentence will reach us, "He that is unjust, let him be unjust
still; and he that is filthy, let him be filthy still"; and how will such
an one meet the Saviour in the day of judgment? The evil begins with conceit
and pride of heart, saying, We know as well as you;
then they are offended and increase their offence by going about to spread the
venom; then they quickly separate. Thus the sifting time comes on before you
are aware, and you strong ones make it manifest you are nothing but chaff. All
this comes of not bearing to be taught. But others can tell of the great
comfort they find in hearing these truths, the Spirit being a constant reprover and at the same time leading them to the fountain
opened. Thus they see their danger, and by the mercy of the Lord Jesus are
healed.
' "Blessed are they that do His
commandments;" but how few render this spiritual obedience! Many say, but
few do. I have known some who have been immersed in some family troubles for
seven years, and are yet entangled in them, without the least increase of
spiritual understanding or any sweet token of their profiting by them, and all
for want of spiritual obedience to God's Word. A will of their own and a way of
their own completely binds them, and separates them from showing forth or
bringing into the Church of God the glory and honour of the Lord's grace for
the edification of His people; therefore they remain this day as they were
seven years back, still in the furnace and still under the dominion of self.'
It is possible that in this
description Mr. Bourne has his own wife in view, for the editor of his Letters
tells us in a preface that though a godly person, 'experiencing gracious reliefs from time to time, she walked much in darkness
through besetting cares and a want of submission to the hand of God crossing
her natural will'. Mr. Bourne several times refers to his 'afflicted' daughter
being 'a maul upon our pride' as her mental illness broke out from time to
time, and possibly it was this that Mrs. Bourne felt was hard to face. The
editor describes her path as 'widely differing from that of her much blest
partner in life, her natural disposition also strongly contrasting with his'.
But, he adds, 'she was another example of God's effectual call, not, as in his
case, openly declared to the comfort and edification of many, but still
discerned and acknowledged by such as had more intimate converse with her'.
How clearly this shows that grace
is neither a reflection nor an infection from another, but is worked out
individually according to the character given by God to each of His people. For
we may be sure Mr. Bourne would have been much in prayer for his wife's
attitude to trouble, yet he could not give her the comfort he himself got from
it.
To continue with the sermon: 'Blessed are they that obey the word; they only "have
right to the tree of life and may enter in through the gates into the
city". But how, many seem to come very near this gate, and we receive them
in love because we see them so near, but alas! they
start aside at this very point. And I fear some of you, my hearers, have become
teachers, though you never knew anything about going through this gate, which
is Christ Jesus; stopping short of those evidences that accompany salvation,
you imagine you have wisdom enough not only to find another way as good, but
also to show your neighbours the same. What sort of a religion is that which
leads you in your trouble to go to an arm of flesh for help? It is a fearful
thing to have no better hope or help than we can get from a fellow-mortal. Some
of you have tongues long enough for teachers, but they only betray your
ignorance, and give no account of the reason of the hope that is in you, either
in meekness or in fear. If you are enabled to make the Lord your refuge, you
will find him "a friend that sticketh closer
than a brother". Take heed. "Lord Jesus," send the Spirit of God
in a faithful ministry. None else can get at the secret. The secret of the Lord
is with them that fear him; and they won't say that Shibboleth and Sibbo-leth are the same. If the Lord Jesus send us, He will
make us testify of many things not pleasant to the flesh, for which we must
bear the cross and be hated of all men. Christ here calls Himself "the
bright and morning star". He that walks with Christ walks in the light,
and will neither stumble nor cause others to stumble.
' "He that hath an ear, let him hear," and
join with all the Church of God in inviting poor sinners to Jesus Christ. Many
among you know the sound of the Gospel, but with a false zeal mix many errors
with it, and go about to sow them; but he that is truly athirst will come with
godly simplicity and show his sorrows and fears by the disquietude of his mind
and the distress he finds in whatever company he goes into. He can find no rest
for his soul till he tastes of this water of life. These are they who are made
willing in the day of God's power.
'When I was a youth I hated religion
and often resolved never to enter any place of worship, and I used to run out
of the house when family prayer was likely to begin, but the day of God's power
was felt by me in many ways. Sickness, disappointments, and vexations of all
sorts made me stoop, and though like a bullock unaccustomed to the yoke the
Lord never left me till He broke the neck of my rebellion; and the first taste
of this water of life made me very willing to be found in God's way.
'I then referred to the preceding
chapter, where the Lord says, "Behold, I will make all things new".
What are the old things? Self-will and many such things.
The new are humility and spiritual obedience, which will lead us to have our
testimony from God and not from one another. I know some who have sadly
mistaken this point, and in natural affection have given a brilliant testimony
that has come to nothing at all. God's testimony will teach us not to be all
leaders, but in all humility to seek to be instructed and watch the hand of
God. Do not profess to know how to walk without knowing something of the Lord
Jesus Christ. He alone will be a sure guide. If you get a taste of this
"water of life" you will have the eyes of your understanding
enlightened; if not (pretend as you please to teach) you will only be like the
wooden guide-post at the corner of this garden and point out the way without
going one step in it. "He that overcometh shall
inherit all things." It is a terrible overcoming. Think for a moment of
your pressing at the strait gate without the Lord for your refuge? What
signifies your profession of religion if your sentence comes not forth from the
Lord Jesus Christ? You know not the snares that are about you. The books you
distribute are not of God, nor are they the same that we preach. The art of the
enemy is to mix some truth with many errors, and especially to work a false
spirit, and thus, if possible, to draw aside the simple. May the Lord give you
grace to take the warning. O how my heart goes up in prayer that you may not be
devoured by wolves!_ Take heed lest the light that is in you be like that of
the foolish virgins who had no oil in their lamps,which
went out when most needed.'
Mr Bourne told them a little of his
visits to a young miner in the village, Maurice Perkins. The Perkins, a
Pulverbach family, had moved to Llanidloes in Wales
when the mines failed a while, and Maurice had been born there in 1817. They
returned to Pulverbach later, and had all attended Mr. Bourne's preaching in
the different cottages. The parents found it a blessing to their souls, but to
Maurice, a lively, carefree lad, it had had no effect except a few twinges to
his conscience until he fell ill in 1843. He said, 'At that time I became very
unhappy, for I knew I was not fit for heaven and I feared hell. When Mr. Bourne
first visited me I was in a desperate dark dead state. I could not understand
anything, yet when he talked I longed to get at the things he spoke of. I felt
to love Mr. Bourne, but he puzzled me sometimes, and seemed to press hard on
me'. Mr. Bourne said, on his side, 'When first taken ill our young friend
Maurice thought he knew everything, and told me that he had answers to prayer
as well as I; but it pleased God to show him the condition in which he stood in
God's sight which was very different from his own judgment of his state. Here
he fell and could get no answer till at last he cried out, "I am utterly
lost". My visits now became acceptable to him, and he began to enquire if
there might be any hope for him now, his sins were so great and so many; and it
pleased God in great mercy to reveal Himself to his soul in many ways, first
with encouragement, and then with a brighter hope. Finding an earnest spirit of
prayer for him, I returned again and again'.
Maurice continues, 'I never could
speak freely to Mr. Bourne till I had him all alone one morning before I was
up. I was able to open up all my heart to him, and he did speak mighty sweet to
me then. Oh, how I did love his visits then and his letters to me now'. Maurice
presently spoke of the difference he felt in the religion of his neighbours in
general and that which he saw he must now possess. He had many changes but very
seldom was without hope.
Friends who visited him (Sukey
Harley was one and the Gilpin
ladies others) found his conversation so sweet
that they left saying,
'Happy Maurice!'
'You read me about Stephen looking
up steadfastly,' he said to
Mr. Bourne. 'That's the look I have
always found brought me in
something! When I can look that way to Christ I find
it not in vain, but looking to ourselves brings darkness and trouble.' He was
also able to say, 'I have no desire to return to the world;
I have no appetite for it. I don't
know how I could return to it,
for everything is contrary to what I now want'.
'What do you now want, Maurice?'
asked Mr. Bourne. 'Nothing but Christ; and He is not
to be found in the world.
When he is absent, I have no
comfort. When He comes I have no
want, either for body or for soul.'
'Surely,' comments Mr. Bourne,
'there is a reality in this! This
is a teachable spirit that causes none to
stumble.'
In November, 1844, Mr. Bourne left
Pulverbach again. He says,
'The Lord has been with me there in
a peculiar manner; He has been a very present help in many sore conflicts and
has blessed the word to many souls'. And to Mr. Maydwell
he writes, 'I am happy to say that I leave the people in unity. I have
faithfully set before them, to the utmost of my power, the danger of stopping
short; or if they appear to know anything aright, that their lives may not be
vain and light; for I am forced to tell them that the enemy is continually
going about to trip up the heels of such and make them rue their folly many
days. It is not said in vain to young and old, "Be sober, be
vigilant"; for where you least suspect, there you are soonest betrayed'.
After Pulverbach, Mr. Bourne spent
a few weeks at Hertford, preaching for Bernard, while he went North to his old home, and preached at Wrentnall.
These two visits—Mr. Bourne's seven-month one and Bernard's three weeks—were
like a feast to the little congregation. Samuel Hughes says of this time, 'Mr.
Bourne and also Mr. Bernard Gilpin were instruments in the hand of God in
confirming and establishing me in the truth of the Gospel, and particularly the
work of the Holy Spirit in the heart of God's living family. While they have
been describing this I have often spelt out my own, and gone home rejoicing in
the God of my salvation. About this time I purchased Hart's Hymns, which were a
great help to me. I carried them in my pocket till I wore the book out; I have
found them a rare pocket companion ever since I had them'. How sweet to Mr.
Bourne must Samuel's 'profiting' have appeared, when he could write: 'Surely I
have found it a warfare.
I fain would have lived as holy as
God is holy if I could; but I could no more do it than I could make a world. If
I did not sin outwardly my thoughts wandered like the fool's eyes to the ends
of the earth. This led me to look entirely from self—holy self, good self,
righteous self, sinful self, wretched self, wicked self to the finished work of
Christ, whose precious blood sealed and ratified the everlasting covenant of
grace, ordered in all things and sure. Here I am enabled to look and trust,
from self and out of self. But you know there are passing clouds between the
sun and us naturally, and when they are past we see the sun again. This is just
as it is with me. Sometimes the cloud passes; then it is easy work to read and
pray and look through the telescope of faith to the fields of promise, the
provisions of grace, the heavenly Canaan, the place where Jesus is, where
angels dwell, and the eternal home of the Christian. O happy thought, our Jesus
is the light of that place! This promise was once laid upon my heart, "The
Lord shall be thy everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be
ended".'
And in the strength of that meat
Samuel toiled on at the barytes mines and talked to
his fellow-miners and shared with the godly among them his correspondence with
Mr. Bourne.
Maurice Perkins lingered on into
the spring of the next year. In great weakness and distress one time he was
strengthened, he said, 'by a lovely "Fear not, I have called thee by thy
name". The Lord gave it me, and I cannot express the love He puts into my
heart. Tell Mr. Bourne this; I know he will be glad to hear it'.
Mr. Bourne was glad, and wrote to
him as follows: 'What an inexpressible mercy that the Lord should condescend to
visit you under your present weakness! How many there are who are sick as you
are, and yet know nothing but sorrow and despair! How remarkably the Lord has
appeared to the relief and comfort of both body and soul, telling you that He
is gently taking you to Himself, where there will be no more pain or sickness.
I have no doubt you have some sorrowful hours, but something whispers,
Cheer up,
ye travelling souls, On Jesus aid rely,
and then (as you say) when you have
prayed a little, He comes into your heart and you hardly know how, but it gives
such a turn to your thoughts that instead of poring over your troubles, you are
drawn out in meditation on the love of Christ to you, and this makes you to
forget your poverty and remember your misery no more (Prov.
31, 6. 7). I believe it has pleased God to spare your life and to keep you so
long in the furnace of affliction for the good of others, that your friends and
neighbours may see the power His grace; how He can and does keep the soul alive
in the midst death. Tell your dear brother and his wife I sincerely hope that
the eyes of their understanding may be opened to discern what is truth, and
that they may see the power of it in you—how it has raised you from death and
ignorance to newness of life, and often brings in a sweet assurance of eternal
life through Jesus Christ our Lord. The Lord bless you and take you by the hand
as you enter this river Jordan, and you will then find that there will be no
sinking with Him for your prop 'who holds the world and all things up'.
'During the last week of his life
Maurice got his brother to read as much as possible, for his soul so longed to
be fed with the Word of God. His mother said she often saw him praying; once
when she heard him say, "Oh Lord, do come to me again! I can't live
without Thee now", she crept into the next room and before she could
return he was blessing the Lord that his prayer seemed answered at once\ On the morning of his death Sukey Harley called on him. He
said "I am very bad now. I can't pray nor look up". She said,
"The Lord knows what you can do now when heart and flesh fail, but your
life is hid with Christ in God. It is nothing now but Thy blood, O Jesus!"
'He answered, "I cannot praise
Him now, but I shall praise Him afterwards".
'His brother said, "Do you
feel happy?". He whispered, "I know He loves me!".
His last words were "Glory! Glory!" and he was gone. He was
twenty-eight years old.
HAM HILL in Somerset rises like a
little range beyond Norton village, and up there the golden Ham stone was
quarried from Roman times and has been used on most of the villages and churches
in this part of Somerset. Workmen emerging from the quarries and children
playing up there saw great stretches of Somerset lying below them. The stone
was not grudged in church-building, and Norton Church, like others round about,
has a magnificent tower and spacious nave—out of proportion, we might think, to
its modest village of farmers and quarrymen.
To this pretty place the Rev.
William Gilpin had brought his family, you will remember, when he first gave up
the Cheam School headship. The London patrons of this
living (a Mr. William Locke, of Norbury Park, being
one) must have been friends of the Farishes and
Gilpins, for a William Farish had had it earlier, and
again for eighteen years after Mr. Gilpin went to Pulverbach. When it fell
vacant in 1824, the next incumbent was Rev. John Benson, Mr. Gilpin's son-in-law, and thus Frances came again, as a
rector's wife, to the house she had first seen when a girl of twelve. The large
rambling rectory was a happy home for their family of seven sons and a
daughter. One and another of her sisters from the North used to pay her long
visits. Frances was a conscientious rector's wife, 'very attentive to the wants
of her husband and children, and very careful to act consistently with her
profession of Christianity according to the light she had'.
In the year 1832 she had a sudden
illness from which she was not expected to recover. She received very gentle
but clear teaching in that illness which enabled her to feel (not lightly) that
she could willingly part with her dear husband and her children. She says, I
thought if I did but know that all my children would be His, that I might at
the last meet them all, yes, all made clean and white in the blood of the Lamb,
then I thought I could indeed leave them without a sorrow. Again however, and
again I was much exercised about them and my dear husband, if I should be taken
from them—sinful creature that I was! As often as the harassing thought crossed
my mind He seemed to say to me, If there is one desire
left of remaining on earth you cannot be happy to follow Me. At length after
many struggles of this kind He brought my heart so far to trust in Him that for
one moment I smiled at the prospect before me. It was, as it were, but a
glance, and it was gone. I remember it, and can never forget it. It left a
savour of peace upon my mind'.
She recovered from this illness and
some months later her youngest son James was born. The following year Matilda
came to stay with her. That year—1833—was the vital year in the life of their
young brother Bernard, and there in Somersetshire did
these two sisters receive and pore over his letters, until, as we have seen,
Matilda felt she must get to London herself and meet these godly men—Mr.
Burrell, Mr. Nunn, Mr. Abbott, and Mr. Bourne.
She was free to go and did so.
Frances could not. A very different path was planned for her. Her wish was that
she and her husband might be led the same way as Bernard and Henrietta, but it
was not to be. For ten years 'the Word of God inwardly calling and working in
her, she increasingly felt that if she would indeed follow Christ she must
separate herself from a profession in which, as the light shone more clearly in
her heart, she perceived she had been entangled. She felt, however, that she
needed strength and wisdom from above in all this, that she might not
needlessly wound one (her husband) she most tenderly loved, and who had always
shown the greatest kindness and affection towards her. For many years she
waited and watched in hope that it would please God to grant that together they
might see light in His light'.
The report of Jane's illness in
1835 'was made very profitable to Frances, the Spirit of God opening her
understanding and increasing in her His holy fear. At the same time, and
subsequently, the clear and faithful testimony given by Mr. Bourne and other
godly friends who were associated with Mr. Burrell, according to which they
walked in the fear of God, was made a blessing to her'.
In November, 1835, she received the
following letter from Mr. Bourne, who knew of her case from her sister, who was
now attending his morning readings: 'How universal is the profession of
religion, and how general and frivolous is that universal profession! It
appears chiefly to consist of—"I think so and so", "My
sentiments are these and I don't agree in this or that", without the least
regard to such words as those of Psalm 66, "How terrible art Thou in Thy
works (Thy work of conversion is one); through the greatness of Thy power shall
Thine enemies submit themselves unto Thee".
'The Lord's eyes behold the general
hypocrisy that rules in men's hearts. Though we make many enquiries after
religion yet when the only true and right way is set before_us,
it is often manifest that in 'our pride and rebellion
we exalt ourselves against it. But if spiritual life is in us, our feet are not
removed by the discipline He brings us into, with which He proves and tries us,
as silver is tried. And then we do not cry out, "I believe the Methodists
are right—the Baptists are right, or the Evangelical clergy are right",
but we stand deeply convicted that we are wrong, and here we cry, "God be
merciful to me a sinner!". The Lord brings us into the Gospel net, and
lays "affliction upon our loins". This is passing (in some measure)
through the fire of God's law and through the waters of affliction, and in the
end the soul is humbled to come in God's way of saving sinners, and eventually
we are made acquainted with the "wealthy place" and open our mouths
to sing the high praises of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost . . . This truth has
power, efficacy and light in it, by which we shall see our way, and make it
manifest that we are His sheep by turning from all false ways and hearing His
voice and following it'.
It does not look as though Mr. Bourne
ever met Frances, but he took a true interest in her case, and especially in
the spiritual welfare of her sons, as they one by one arrived in London for
different trainings. As early as Mr. Bourne's first visit to Pulver-bach in 1838 the elder two became known to him.
William seems to have actually been in the village, when he would be staying at
his grandfather Gilpin's house during vacation from
St. John's College, Cambridge, where he began a theological training (which he
later gave up). William, then twenty-one, a very impressionable age, must have
pondered deeply over the strange spectacle of two of his aunts leaving the
rectory and going to a small cottage to hear a gentleman from London preach, a
gentleman who was not, apparently, received in the house. Mr. Bourne alludes to
this time a year or two later, when he says 'I cannot forget you and the way in
which we first became acquainted at Pulverbach'. It makes us wonder if they met
accidentally in a lane, and the startled boy found Mr. Bourne was very
different from what he perhaps imagined.
During that same visit Mr. Bourne
was actually penning a letter as he sat in Mrs. Morris's or Sukey's
house, to the second boy, Joseph, telling him that the secret
of the Lord is with them that fear Him. 'Such as possess this fear,' he
wrote, 'have always (more or less) some knowledge of what truth is, and where
it is, and are not unceasingly talking about its being here and there and
everywhere. You have many subtle enemies within that will argue and reason very
wisely; and if your present religion be only in the flesh it will not be long
before it comes to an end, and only because of the want of the fear of the
Lord. You will find it an easy matter to be persuaded to go in a beaten path,
which many have made smooth and even; it seems to be freer from crosses and
difficulties, and is not stigmatized with bigotry and
dogmatism, nor is it called narrow and limited. This is true, but the fear of
the Lord will tremble at that beaten path, and call to mind what God says,
"We must through much tribulation enter the kingdom".'
Joseph valued this letter and sent
it to his uncle Bernard, who in returning it says, 'I can give you no advice
more pointed and suitable than Mr. Bourne. This fear of the Lord, if it be put
into us will abide and carry us through all difficulties. It is His own gift in
the Covenant—"I will put My fear in their
hearts". It is encouraging to be made to desire it, for it will come if it
be enquired for: as I remember Mr. Nunn says, "One thing I have observed—
whatever we cultivate, grows". I beseech you do not think of waiting till
you know Christ clearly before you begin to make use of Him. This is, I
believe, the principal snare in which the enemy keeps you. Cherish that tender
hope that Christ had a favour towards you. You never can take too much
encouragement from such a hope, provided it tends to make you more earnest in
seeking instead of being satisfied without going further'.
Throughout the 1840's (which,
incidentally were years of extensive railway construction all over England)
Matilda had the pleasure of caring for Frances's sons in her house in Charles
Street as they took their training—architecture and medicine in several cases.
The boys went to Mr. Burrell's chapel, to Mr. Bourne's meetings when they had
time, and met Mr. Nunn, Mr. Abbott and the rest. One of them leaves this loving
tribute to his Aunt Matilda. 'None who knew her could doubt the treasure she
had in the living fear of God. It was made a blessing to others, especially so
in the kind providence of God to several of her nephews from Norton-sub-Hamdon who, in coming up to London, lived with her.'
Mr. Bourne's fatherly letters are
collected from one and another. 'God only knows,' he writes, 'why you are
continually, with some others, on my mind and in my prayers.' And another time,
'I have been, and still am, so interested on your behalf that I would gladly
have you comforted and instructed in such things as accompany salvation. I
believe those secret cogitations and fears which you find, lead you to cast a
wishful eye to the Lord, with some such words as these, "O that I knew
where I might find Him! How shall I stand death and judgment without Him?". These are the trembling thoughts I had when I first
began to think about religion; they were amongst the first breathings of the
Spirit that led me to cry mightily to Jesus Christ.'
The young men, William, Joseph,
Samuel, Charles went through some deep waters. William
suffered for eighteen months with a disease of the knee, which ended in
amputation. Charles was so ill that his life was at one time despaired of, and
one of the others came into a similar position. I have been much struck,'
writes Mr. Bourne to Joseph, 'by the manner in which the Lord has come amongst
your family, first by threatening the life of Charles and then prolonging it,
and giving him some clear evidences of His love to him in Christ Jesus, and now
placing another brother in such a situation as apparently to leave no hope of
recovery. Your family has been peculiarly favoured with most gracious means,
and with those outward necessary things which have enabled you to continue
amongst the people of God. What have you all rendered to the Lord for such
benefits?' (Then he reproves them like a faithful schoolmaster.) 'Where has
been the cause of the first declension from that which each of you has at one
time or other attained to? What unspeakable means have been put into your hands
for your spiritual profiting, and yet how evident the decay! I can call to mind
a certain brokenness of heart and spiritual tenderness in all your inquiries
after truth; but this simplicity which appeared so genuine is lost in a serious
silence, which many take for genuine truth, but which I know to be nothing but
spiritual decay, through the deceitfulness of sin.'
And again he writes, 'I can truly
say I have long most earnestly desired the welfare of yourself and your
brothers, but have often sorely grieved to see such a withdrawing from that
cordial intercourse that ought to have subsisted. Some to whom you seem
attached I do not think profitable to any of you; they might flatter, but not
instruct. And I have sometimes pondered how your profession flourished under so
many different means. You may over-manure ground so that it will bring forth nothing
but weeds. So I have perceived you have not gained an hundred, nor sixty nor perhaps even thirty-fold by the seed that has
been sown. The Lord has abundantly shown you in the case of Charles what godly
simplicity means, and that going about to hear is not a real participation'.
The boys' enquiring minds apparently led them to go and hear different eminent
preachers of the day.
'I would counsel you not to be
disheartened though your prayers seem to you nothing but lip-service. Keep at
it. and you will certainly find it is not lip-service
but the struggling of the new man to regain the government which once it
appeared to have. I also advise all my young friends, when in darkness, not to
reason too much upon what is natural and what may prove spiritual. The Lord
will bring that to light as the work proceeds. The devil will dispute you out
of the sweetest visitations and say they are only natural; but do you rather
watch the fruits. If they are attended with godly fear and humility you may be
sure from whence they come'. And he finishes in love—'Can you believe me a
faithful friend? If you can, do not walk with me as if you have never seen me
before. I have had much anxiety for you all; I have felt the weight and
importance of my morning's charge at home, but you have seldom encouraged me by
any communication.'
Mr. Bourne was no stern mentor whom
the younger generation around him had perforce meekly to echo. It is touching
to meet again the pleading of the elder toward the younger in a loving letter
to one of his daughters. I have often wondered when, like a tender and
affectionate father I have endeavoured to speak upon what concerns your
everlasting state that you have stopped me with a dead silence, which has
always barred out all communication upon the subject. I labour in spirit and
with many prayers night and day seeking for the welfare of you all separately
and together. It is often a grief that I see so little fruit of so faithful a
ministry as Mr. Burrell's both in public and in private, but God is a sovereign.
When we are all separated by outward providence then we shall all show more
fully the choice we make and bring into action the things in which we have been
instructed'.
Writing to Bernard about the Benson
boys, Mr. Bourne says 'It has pleased God to appoint each of us a lot peculiar
to ourselves, and by it in His infinite wisdom to
bring about purposes that have been perfectly hidden from us. By what slow
degrees were your nephews brought to Town, and from what various outward
causes, which have been unfolding to the present time: all tending to the
humbling of the proud heart of the sinner. And when a measure of this has been
effected, what openings and unfoldings of great
mercies, both temporally and spiritually! If you have noticed, our dear friend
William went through a host of afflictions and yet the profiting did not appear
so clear as in the case of Charles. So the Lord looked
on and waited for a fair opportunity to show him that further than he had
hitherto gone he must go. These are great things to witness and are never
intended merely for the individuals themselves, but also for all that see
them.'
When he did get an account of the
Lord's loving-kindness none could be more generous in their rejoicing than Mr.
Bourne. 'I read your letter with many tears of thankfulness,' he writes. ' "O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and
knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments
and His ways past finding out!". Where we have
thought He was the furthest from us, while we were deploring our wretchedness
and fearing a total separation from Him He has then showed Himself most near,
and given us to understand it was Himself discovering to us our inconceivable
sinfulness that we might learn the more to prize His mercy, as we read of one
that loved much because much was forgiven.
'I would have you cherish most
tenderly every love-token the Lord repeats, and make the most of these visits
by sitting at His feet and hearkening to His voice, and begging grace to walk
according to it. I would gently remind you that all God's children are called
soldiers, and we are to learn to endure hardness. This is not said for nothing;
for there is yet the world, the flesh and the devil to fight against as long as
we live. No doubt you will often feel yourself sorely put to it to stand your
ground, but while you look by faith at the invisible power of God you will
abide and be fruitful. Beg for, and cherish a tender conscience, for on this
there will be a fair impression of God's Word. You are now in the "banqueting
house" but must not forget the banner is over you, which signifies that
war is declared. I know of nothing so hard to believe as that there can be any
love in this banner displayed. I have always feared that the war was to prove
me to be nothing and that I should one day perish; but I have proved a thousand
times twice told that nothing has been in life so
fruitful and profitable as these humbling wars. In them have I found my own
strength is perfect weakness, but the sufficiency that is in Jesus Christ has
always in the end proved the means of a further display of His rich mercy. Peace has been restored, and all alienation and
distance and shyness between the Lord and my soul removed; and you know
"in His presence is fulness of joy" and all
the rest is darkness.'
Back at Norton, occupied with her
younger children, Richard, James and the only daughter, youngest of all,
Charlotte, Mrs. Benson was facing the great trial she was called on to endure
for fourteen years— which was 'refusing in meekness and godly fear to join in a
worship which she was convinced was only an outward form, and which had become
like "the worship of a strange god" to her. She had diligently sought
for and endeavoured to lay hold upon any word or communication from the Lord by
which to obtain help to show her husband that she could not conscientiously
avoid a course painful both to him and herself. She found, however, no way of
escape, and was at length enabled by the constraining grace and help of the
Holy Spirit to take up this cross'.
Different again
from the cases of Bernard and the Pulverbach sisters, yet similar. Another village scandal begins when the
rector's wife withdraws from her husband's ministry.
She herself put it thus: 'I believe
the Lord has for the last twelve years (from 1834 to 1846) been drawing me and
teaching me more and more out of His law. He has given me many checks of
conscience that our religion was not what it ought to be, for it did not bring
into our souls from time to time any rich visits from the Lord Jesus Christ
such as I do believe He remembers and visits His people with. Thanks be to His
holy Name, He saw the piteous condition I was in (in a religion that was
without trouble and with-
out food to my soul), and how I was held in
bondage which I had no power to break unless His mighty hand brought me out. I
am sure I cannot sufficiently praise Him that He has interfered in my behalf,
and by His strong prevailing fear has thus far carried me through a path which
I never could have believed it possible for me to have ventured upon: but it
has been a way of great trouble to flesh and blood. After a few months [of
absenting herself from Church on Sundays] I was again entangled, yet finally
the Lord brought me out and with a strong hand instructed me that I could hold
no confederacy. My deep and constant cry was, "O Lord, put Thy fear into
my heart, Thy holy fear!".
'Trouble has come upon me in
consequence, and much pain and grief to my dearest and most loving of earthly
friends, and I am sure I could not persist against all his entreaties and
wishes if a more powerful though secret Voice did not from time to time
convince my conscience that "the fear of man bringeth
a snare" and "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom".
Thus I have been spiritually led to entreat the Lord with many cries and tears
that He will in mercy look down upon me and make me more afraid of offending
Him than of losing the approbation of all the world. I
find the secret reading of God's Word very precious to me, and many parts come
home to my heart to enlighten and strengthen, and there does not now seem, as
formerly, a something which came to obstruct God's direct communication to my
soul, but I find a power of access to God in prayer'.
She keenly felt a dread of the Sabbath
days bringing her no good. I trembled,' she writes, 'to think about my absence
from public worship, if the Lord's presence was not with me in private. These
thoughts I found profitable, for the Lord in mercy put a very earnest cry into
my heart that He would not leave me to spend a Sabbath in spiritual death and
darkness.' This resulted in her being able to write, 'In the morning, when I
felt some opposition because of the trouble I am in, the words "Hearken
diligently unto Me", were whispered with a voice
that could not be mistaken. The Lord has made my rough places
smoother than I could expect and granted nourishment from His Word to my soul'.
On her going back to the former
course for a little while, she writes six months later, 'I look back and remember
the Lord's dealings with me and I am made to bring to trial the way in which I
was helped out, and to see whether it was the Lord's doing or not —to gratify
my own ease and comfort and that of my dear husband. I hoped to find the Lord's
blessing in our own smooth way of going on: I earnestly prayed that it might be
so, and the Lord might in judgment have suffered me to sleep on in this way,
while so held in the snare that I could not see where I was, had He not in
great mercy opened my eyes to see the false help which allured me from the
narrow way. May the Lord forgive me! I am amazed at the difference of that
secret teaching of the Holy Spirit when He applies the word to my heart. And
now how shall I express what I felt when I saw my defenceless state and the
great danger and perplexity of the way before me? I was, as it were, stunned,
and I bitterly felt the enmity of my heart against the ways of God; and this
only increased my trouble, for I ought to be exceedingly humbled. I felt
compelled to absent myself again from the Church, for though my dear husband
shows no opposition or enmity I feel in much awe about his public ministry. It
is, however, a very tender and bitter trial to us both, and when we dwell upon
it sorrow overwhelms us. But the power I have felt to cast this burden on the
Lord and the drawing of my heart to seek Him with increasing earnestness is the
only hope and encouragement I have that He is leading me "in the way of
righteousness, in the midst of the paths of judgment". He does also
sweetly unfold His Word to me in secret, and makes it very precious and
nourishing'.
The gentle Frances was thus led on
a most thorny path, and her diary—only a jotting every four or five
months—almost always contains some such note as, 'In the afternoon I was
overwhelmed with the trouble my conduct occasions to my husband'.
Mr. Bourne in great delicacy
forbore to enter into this controversy between husband and wife, but he had
written a long letter to Mrs. Benson about a year before she withdrew from the
Church, from which we can take a few extracts:
'I have seen your letter to your
sister Matilda, and have found it very comforting and encouraging. I know of
none in a more difficult situation than yourself,
having to maintain that spiritual circumspection which is spoken of in
Scripture, and which is so needful for us all, because it is said the days are
evil. It appears that the Lord has been long training you, and that you have
not been altogether suffered to turn a deaf ear. Nothing shows the work to be
real more than the very difficult places in which it pleases God oftentimes to
put His people. How often have I felt from the bottom of my heart a clear
perception that God will not be mocked. The sight of
this has been much deeper than I can express. I have seen many suffer much
inconvenience from their profession of religion who yet never had their hearts
changed, and whose conversation was disgraceful. I have lived to see such make
an awful end, and therefore tremble at the discoveries which are made within,
and am forced to have recourse to the many visits I have had from the Lord in
the past and to labour in spirit that if possible these visits may be
continually repeated.
'I therefore liked your calling to
mind the various seasons wherein the Lord has appeared for you. Can these
things go for nothing? Surely they must have been the work of God, and I have
found in the end that the Lord has owned His own work and has said, "Let
no man take thy crown".'
To Bernard about this time Mr.
Bourne wrote: 'I wish I was capable of helping the parent of our dear young
friends. The strong hand of the Lord is upon them all and there is one hard
point to compass, and that is our old friend being counselled by his sons that
fear God. If he makes demands contrary to the true teaching of God he may
defend his own cause but he himself will in the end lament such a step with a
sore lamentation. Oh may God in infinite mercy soften his heart to receive the
truth and that the eyes of his understanding may be enlightened to know the
hope of his calling. There is in all this work that is now going on amongst
them such an evident interference of the Lord, and in some points matters
arising contrary to nature, that if he cannot stoop I fear he will bring his
grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
I have often pitied those for whom
I have had great natural affection because I could not with all my attempts
show to their understanding what the light of life is. God has been pleased to
call it a mystery and a secret hidden from all but those to whom He is pleased
to reveal it. The natural man cannot discern the things of the spirit. If a man
truly taught of God is firm to his point he will find the close argument will
rouse the secret enmity of any religious person who thinks he is right. The
mere professor does, I believe, think he possesses all essential points and
that the difference is a mere quibble. Nor can he understand that what a real
godly man knows is not from what he is determined to know. The natural man
thinks he will agree with everything that is spoken truly, but it is the Spirit
which is of God that makes us to know these divine things are really given us
of God. The natural man (the Apostle insists upon it) receiveth
not this truth. He cannot understand how it is and puts it down as a mere
nothing but seeking to be contentious.'
IN the winter of 1844 died Mr.
Thomas Nunn. 'A fortnight before his death he had the heaviest conflict he ever
had in his life; but as his end approached he was so comforted he said he had
never expected that the Lord would deal so gently with him. "Is this
death?" he asked; "How peaceful and quiet! How happy! Let me lean my
head on your shoulder; the Lord reward you all for your troubles"; and he
breathed his last in his chair; none perceiving when.'
The last record of those meetings
held at Mr. Nunn's house is in a letter from Matilda to her nephew Joseph
Benson, in October 1842. She says, There was a large
meeting at Mr. Nunn's last Thursday evening. The conversation was very
instructive, particularly what was said on the subject of abiding in Christ,
which Mr. Burrell began with, and Mr. Nunn for a time carried on, and Mr.
Bourne when it was dropped caught up again, and which then ran through the
whole meeting. Many things were said concerning it:— What it is to abide in
Christ; the effect it produces in our hearts— hatred to and departure from sin;
the love of God and the nearness of access to Him which it brings us; the curse
that remains upon all who are not in Christ; the impossibility of any being
united to Him who were not given Him by the Father before the foundation of the
world; then the secret workings in the mind of all such as are His; their
frequent fears, especially lest they should not be among that blessed number;
their restless anxiety to find a sure testimony from the Lord that they may
know their names are written in heaven; and if they get that testimony how they
rejoice in it, and if they lose it how they mourn in secret before God, and cry
till He again hears them and shows them His salvation'.
These things had become very real
to Matilda. A few weeks later, writing to Mr. Bourne's eldest daughter she
said, 'Oh what extreme darkness all those passages of Scripture which speak of
God's light shining into the soul were to me, before I had any experience of
what that light of life could mean! But when the Lord was pleased to fulfil
them in me, and make Himself known to me as my Saviour
and my Redeemer, then I knew that no words could be too strong, or even strong
enough, to express the great reality of what I felt. . . . Give my most
affectionate remembrances to your father: my heart is with him in what he is
doing at Pulverbach'.
Catharine, too, looking back when
these meetings had come to an end writes, 'I have often compared the
instructions we received to those which the pilgrims received at the House
Beautiful, and have felt it might be said that we were shown Moses' rod, the
sling and stone with which David slew Goliath, the hammer and nail with which Jael slew Sisera, Jacob's ladder,
the golden anchor, and the pitchers, trumpets, and lamps with which Gideon put
to flight the armies of Midian. These things and many
more, set forth the spiritual instruments by which the servants of the Lord
have done so many mighty works, even "wrought righteousness, obtained
promises, stopped the mouths of lions, out of weakness were made strong, waxed
valiant in fight", and so on'.
Catharine's life now took an unexpected
turn. She was 'for the first time in her life attacked by a serious illness'.
It was a gradual paralysis which affected her whole system. [Would we call it
polio nowadays?]. She appears to have been able to get about but the most
grievous aspect of it to her was deafness, which slowly increased upon her.
'This affliction cutting her off, as it did, from the outward hearing of the
Word, and the conversation she so much valued and really delighted in (for she
would enter into the subject of religion always with the deepest interest), was
for many years through temptation, a galling trial to her, rendering her path
peculiarly lonesome'. She still moved about from London to Hertford or to
Pulverbach, but experienced much heaviness of heart. She says, 'I felt I must
search the Scriptures night and day if I might find hope in the mercy of God;
and this I often found in such words as these—"Who knoweth
if He will return and repent and leave a blessing behind Him?", feeling as
if God repented of the evil He had thought to bring upon me. And once about
this time a letter from Mr. Bourne reminding me of Stephen's steadfast looking
up into heaven and seeing the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand
of God, reached my heart and brought me composure and peace.'
It was given to Catharine, however,
to be a messenger of peace to poor Martha Burgwin at Habberly down the valley. Martha says, 'Miss C. Gilpin
called upon me, and some things she said kindled in my heart, and what she left
me to read [Would it be some of Mr. Bourne's letters?] was blessed to me. She
invited me to come to her house. This, after a few months, I did. I had to go
secretly on account of my husband, he was so prejudiced. I was knit to the
Misses Gilpin after their conversation to me: and whenever I could get over to
Pulverbach it was refreshing; but I was so tried I hardly knew what to do, and
often had to retire to my bedroom alone. Once my husband provoked me so
bitterly that I said within myself, "The more I pray the worse it
is". Then this word came, "Will ye also go away?" and I said,
"No, Lord, wilt Thou hold me?". I was so
ashamed of myself, for the Lord's mercy was sweet to me. When I first came to
hear the preaching at Churton I came by stealth. The
Lord did not seem to bless that journey. I thought I had come in a wrong
spirit, and the enemy tormented me about it. I have felt these words at
different times respecting my lone path, "What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shall know hereafter", and
these. "Be still and know that I am God.'
A change was pending now in the
life of Mr. Bourne. On his return from Pulverbach and Hertford in 1844 a
feeling came over him that he was now set aside as a useless and fruitless
branch. Two years before he had said in a letter to Mr. Burrell, The poor
people of Shropshire seem very ardently to desire my company amongst them once
more. My prayer is "If Thy presence go not with me carry us not up
hence". The fear of refusing to give my labour where the Lord calls for
it, and the fear of going without the approbation of the Lord, bear very heavy
upon me at times; and I am sure I have need of your prayers and the prayers of
the rest of the friends that I may never be like the disobedient prophet, but
may walk very tenderly before the Lord'.
Now, he wrote in his diary, 'I told
the Lord of my great love to the people at Pulverbach and Hertford, and said,
"Lord, Thou hast made me faithful, and I have still a longing desire to
tell Thy people of Thy faithfulness and truth, but I feel now shut out from all
hope of ever being profitable to any." While I was thus mourning, it was
kindly whispered in my heart, "Have patience and you will see an opening
by and by".' One or two things seemed to half open towards him and then
closed. 'I heard,' he says, 'of some of the colliers at Pulverbach about to
leave that place for want of work, and to go to the neighbourhood of Abergavenny. Finding that there were amongst them some of
the families whom I loved in the Lord, I began to feel my heart drawn out to go
and see them; but I presently found that this also was not the way appointed of
the Lord, but I must wait and watch further.'
Not many days after this Mr. Bourne
heard of the sudden illness and presently the death at thirty-five, of Mr. E.
C. Willoughby, of Sutton Coldfield, in Warwickshire,
and how at his end he had most earnestly warned his relatives of the dangers of
a false profession of religion. The friend who told him pressed him to go and
set before them the truth as the Lord should enable him. Mr. Bourne had been
thinking much of Samuel being sent to anoint one of Jesse's sons to be king,
and how one after another was presented, looked the likely one, and was
rejected. And now he felt it powerfully, "Arise, for this is he".
Much conflict followed as to how he could step in there. Mr. Burrell said to
him, with great tenderness and affection, 'Be sure you have clear work in this
affair'. After much prayer he went, held one or two meetings, first in an upper
room, and presently in the large hall of Mrs. Willoughby's charming house. (She
had been a Jeffreys before her marriage.)
This continued from May to October,
when Mrs. Willoughby gave up her home, and Mr. Bourne returned to London. But
such had been the stir that he was soon invited again, a large upper room found
for him, and in a very little while a chapel was built at Maney,
a village close to Sutton Coldfield. The anxiety
expressed by Mr. Willoughby on his death-bed that the truth should be preached
in his town induced one of his relations to offer £200 towards building the
chapel, and 'it pleased God', writes Mr. Bourne, 'to move our kind friend Mr. Maddy [who had lived with the Bourne family, you will
remember, as a tutor for years] to buy the ground adjoining the chapel and
build a cottage for our accommodation'.
Mr. Bourne then left London and
lived as Pastor of Maney Chapel until his death eight
years later.
And now a little
about Mr. Willoughby.
Born in 1810, of an aristocratic family, he 'was debarred from inheriting his
old family estates by a singular concurrence of "accidents", so at
fifteen he entered the Law. He was very delicate, having asthma, and of
exceptionally tender conscience. Once, instead of doing some office work on
Sunday, as apparently his master expected of him, he sat up most of Saturday
night and rose early on Monday morning to finish it, yet was so reserved and
timid that he could not bear his action to be commented upon. In 1839, when he
was twenty-nine, he married into the Jeffreys family,
and came into contact with one or two—Charles and Henrietta among them—who were
partakers of the power of the truth. Soon after his marriage he began family
prayer, and was very earnest in spirit. In about 1842, he visited his uncle,
Charles Jeffreys, at the house in Dorset Place,
London, where the young Bengal officer, Francis, had died. While there he saw
the little account that had been written about this. He opened the booklet at
night, and read it all through with most serious attention. He found fervent
prayer awakened in his heart that he might be a partaker also. He never forgot
that time, but referred to it on his death-bed as a period when he found real
access to God. The next morning he had a long talk with Charles, telling him
all the difficulties of his life and earnestly asking his prayers.
'This special awakening was by no
means followed up as it should have been,' (it is Bernard writing). 'About this
time the world began to enchant him, and he was beguiled to seek rest where he
could not find it. Finding an accession to his means, he bought a very pleasant
house and grounds, which, with domestic comforts and the society of many
friends to whom his house was open, became his idols. He was aware that these
things, especially worldly society, brought deadness into his heart, and he would
often say he ought to break it off, for among many bad consequences it made him
powerless in family prayer—indeed ashamed of it. He presently gave up extempore
prayer, and only used written forms for a time. He became increasingly afraid
of conversing on religion, and such as tried to reason him out of his
convictions of ignorance and lack of real feeling by strings of texts became
acutely painful to him. His bondage increased as outward things flourished, and
he would often say, 'Every outward prospect is fair about me, but emptiness and
vanity are still written upon all'.
'After about two
years he got a gradual rise to hope in his spirit, and again occasionally was
able to pray in his family.
Encouraging portions of Scripture seemed to really fasten on him; one such
being, "They shall never perish, neither shall anyone pluck them out of My hand". A friend called that day, to whom he spoke earnestly on those words, clenching his hand
with deep feeling, and enlarging on the strength of the expression. Still he
never felt satisfied. Though he often now rejoiced, it was with fear. He clung
to hope. He used to say, "Surely, surely, those promises are for those who
need them, for instance, such as I am. They are not there to deceive us".
Tn 1844 his asthma got worse and his
professional business proved too trying for him. Some months later when a
consultation of physicians took place, his case was declared hopeless. He
considered the decisiveness of this opinion as a peculiar blessing from God to
awaken him to spiritual diligence. A friend [perhaps Mr. Bourne?] who had
written seriously to him now had a reply in which he said, "Your letter
has made a sad hole in my comfort which only God can heal. Surely I am in some
degree the smoking flax".
'Then Charles Jeffreys
was asked to come and talk with him. Charles was reserved at first, but soon
found out the earnestness and simplicity of his nephew's spirit, and exhorted
him to take hold of that hope and press on. Later he felt he had no discovery
of the forgiveness of his sins nor could understand how it could be made clear.
But he sought for it and felt its necessity. One day, after being very quiet he
broke out, "I cannot see my sins now! I have not been able to see them all
day! They are gone—all pardoned !". For a long
time before this he had complained of great distraction in prayer, and complete
deadness 'in it, but now life, love, and spiritual liberty operated freely and
he continually said, "May I be kept close, close to Christ".
'Once he said, "What floods of
tears should be shed in these last times by us who are universally made to
believe that the devils are as it were dead or asleep, whereas they are ruling
with most horrible tyranny, taking the name of Christ and his saints to
establish their own ends. This is done to deceive the weak". He would
continually caution his wife to endeavour, if possible, that the people of the
town should have someone to declare faithfully the truth, and on no worldly
account whatever was she to be content herself without a faithful ministry
either there at Sutton Coldfield or elsewhere. He
declared that all had been mercy throughout (though he had suffered much pain).
But towards the end he had another sharp conflict (after saying the Lord had
healed that "sad hole in his comfort"), and great awe filled his
spirit as he prayed, "Oh, I am in the dark. I cannot see how it will be.
Pray hard! Pray vehemently. Pray that I may keep close to Him". His
changes were rapid and repeated, and at the end he said, "The Lord has
drawn me through the strait gate!". He grew
weaker and passed away April 6th, 1845, aged thirty-five.
'On his tomb at Sutton Coldfield is engraved a verse of Cowper's
substituting the word Christ for God. He repeated this verse with unforgettable
power a few days before his death—
Christ shall rise and shining o'er
you Change to day the gloom of night. Christ the Lord shall he your glory,
Christ your everlasting light.'
It might interest some readers for
mention to be made here of a visit Mr. Bourne paid within these years to
Birkenhead. Many years earlier his cousin, Mr. Timothy Bourne, had been a
member of Mr. Burrell's congregation, but had since moved North.
He was a merchant of Liverpool who lived in Birkenhead, and he invited Mr.
Bourne there, and hired a room for a meeting. This was in Hamilton Street, off
Hamilton Square, the Town Hall square of Birkenhead in
whose fine houses many Liverpool merchants lived, walking down to the ferry to
cross the Mersey to their offices. Mr. Timothy zealously published his cousin's
coming and asked many to come and hear. Mr. Bourne felt many tokens of the
Lord's merciful favour in taking him there, but found that very few attended,
and presently he writes, 'I may yet hope that there will be found some even of
the respectable merchants that have heard me here that will prove to be His
people. But these rich ones speak and walk too freely, and therefore I fear
that they will in the end profit very little. I perceive that rich people will
show themselves independent both of God and man; they suppose they have full
liberty to hear when and where they like and to think for themselves.
"Money is a defence". These things try me, yet the Lord often gives
me patience, and makes me very watchful that life may be kept up in my own
soul'.
Mr. Bourne was there six weeks.
Later in the same year Charles Jeffreys left London
and removed to Birkenhead. He preached in that same room for four years with
much spiritual unction and power but very little (apparent) success. In 1851 he
emigrated with his family to New Zealand.
January, 1848, was a sad month up
in Shropshire. Samuel Hughes lost two little girls by death on the same day,
and in his little book of hymns and spiritual songs he has written a very
touching poem about the event.
At the Rectory, old Mr. Gilpin
died, aged ninety years and ten months, and very soon the house had, of course,
to be vacated. (A descendant of Rebecca Hughes can still show the Rector's desk
lamp that was given as a memento to Rebecca, and sundry samplers that were the
relics of those earlier days.) The poet brother Charles left the district,
Mercy and Jane took a house in the village, and Margaret travelled down to
Norton and lived with Frances.
It seems possible that this
arrangement, instead of being a comfort was an added trial to Frances. As has
been noticed, the name of Margaret never figured alongside Mercy and Jane, and
although she travelled North to her relations at Scaleby,
notably after the shock of Elizabeth's accident, we read nowhere of her going
south to Matilda or Bernard. Had she been in heartfelt sympathy, even if unable
to enter into the controversy, we should surely have found an indication
somewhere of this. But there is none, and we are left to wonder if her silent
orthodoxy and possible shrinking from them helped to weight down the burden of
those days. If so, it would not be the first time that silence and disapproving
looks, quite apart from argument, have been used by the Lord for the discipline
of His children, though He may bring both sides out of it all triumphantly, as
He did in this case eventually. For Margaret emerged in her old age with a
precious testimony of being one of His family, and is
included in the Six Sisters of the Memoirs.
But to return to
1848. It looks as if on
the death of her father she preferred to live with her clergyman brother-in-law
rather than with her unorthodox sisters. The reason one wonders if this was an
added trial to Frances is because there seems no alleviation whatever to her
great burden. Later that year the diary reads, 'Seldom have I felt more
oppressively burdened than on this day, myself so weak and helpless to meet the
painful difficulty and opposition in my way. I had to fall before the Lord with
the cry of the children of Israel, "O Lord, I am not able to come before
this great multitude". I was given a firmness which seemed like a strength
beyond my own, and a cleaving to the truth which had caused the division so
heart-rending'.
Now comes a little comfort. As the
Lord brought Mr. May-dwell to be a support to Bernard in his distresses, so He
granted Frances the sweetness of having her son Charles home from London. He
now began his practice as an architect at Yeovil, which was not far distant,
and he and his mother were 'closely united in spirit'. Over the years Frances
had, in her quiet way, made some real friends to whom she could talk, and
presently we read, 'For some months past I have been particularly impressed to
entreat the Lord to make manifest His true people in this place and effectually
to call them out of darkness into His marvellous light'.
She now made visiting a matter of
much prayer, and one of her sons leaves the tribute that 'she was herself made
a great blessing to many, especially to the poor of Christ's sheep in the
neighbourhood in which she resided'. It was not easy to her. She says 'I cannot
describe the ignorance I feel on these occasions as to knowing the right thing
to say, and the fear lest I should speak without the Lord's help and direction
and blessing; and yet with this feeling of self-inability and ignorance I am
pressed to go, and encouraged to seek His help; and though with no clear and
powerful persuasion that He does hear and answer my request, yet I cannot deny
a secret whisper to my heart, which gives me just sufficient help and none to
spare for the thing before me. I have felt a great awe upon my spirit of the
majesty of the Lord, as if He were near and at work in the hearts of some of
our people'.
That there was such a cluster of those
who truly loved the things of God becomes clear in looking at Mr. Bourne's
Letters. In one to a friend he says, I have some correspondents in Somersetshire who greatly disheartened me by their goodness
and darkness; but the Lord gave them an obedient teachable spirit, and they are
become great comforts to me, and have attained to some very precious tokens of
the Lord's favour'. And in the summer of that year, 1848, he wrote, as he first
did to Pulverbach, quite a pastoral letter addressed to 'My
dear friends, Mrs. Benson, Charles Benson, M. M. [a lady who presently opened
her house for regular meetings], and the rest of the little flock at
Norton-sub-Hamdon'. He writes of 'the redemption
which is in Christ Jesus for the remission of sins', and says, 'Unless we
attain to some understanding in this, we cannot find communion or fellowship
with the Lord; and however beautiful the Church prayers may be, they cannot
reach our case unless Christ, the Resurrection and the Life, has raised us to a
newness of life of which the world knows nothing'.
But Frances's diary for June 1850
reads, 'My trouble seemed to rend and tear me exceedingly. I wanted a more
pleasant path. The next day I was relieved by a verse in Acts 27: "Falling
into a place where two seas met, they ran the ship aground; and the forepart
stuck fast and remained unmoveable, but the hinder part was broken by the
violence of the waves". I felt no hope that what the Lord had wrought in
my heart should remain unmoveable, but everything else should be broken. I
thought for a moment I was willing to let everything that was dear and pleasant
be broken so I might by the Lord's mercy escape at last safe to land; but this
is soon covered when the storm arises'.
Another entry reads, 'I feel there
is no refuge for me but to pour out my overwhelming trouble to the Lord, and
somehow He does at times revive me with a hope that He will not leave me'.
In September, 1851, she writes, 'I
have for these few days found in my heart an earnest desire that those who fear
God amongst us should be gathered together on the Sabbath. I could not feel
satisfied in my solitude. I feared I was becoming too much at ease under the
desolate scattered condition we are in, when the Lord has appointed an
ordinance that we should assemble together'. A week or two later the thing was
accomplished, and she writes, 'I feel as if the Lord's
hand has led me this past week to make arrangements for our assembling
together, though so few in number. The case of Mrs. F. being so wonderfully
delivered out of trouble has seemed to give me courage to pass through what
additional trouble we may be called upon to suffer by this step. The Lord's
truth is confirmed, and my heart has never before felt such earnestness for the
prosperity of each member amongst us as I have felt this week, and especially
for dear Charles, that the Lord would give him courage and power to utter the
mercies of God to him. Oh how I have always shrunk from interfering in this
step, and yet how have I been made this week to have a hand in it!'
And when this first meeting, led by
Charles, was over she says, 'The Lord has been better to us than our fears, and
has been present to help our infirmities on this day, to meet together at the
Rectory house for our Sunday afternoons for the first time!'.
This arrangement, which must have
caused a lot of talk in the village and neighbourhood, much sympathy for the
Rector and much indignation at his wife, was altered after four months, and
occasioned the following letter from Mr. Bourne, to 'M. M.' 'My dear friend—I
am sincerely glad that the Lord has opened your heart to open your house to His
afflicted family, that they may hear the word of life. No doubt difficulties
will arise; and taking up crosses requires stooping, which is always painful work.
Nevertheless the Lord's presence counteracts all; and you cannot help calling
to mind the innumerable mercies He has shown you and the small returns He asks
at your hands. If there is any likelihood of spiritual profit Satan will with all his might oppose. You have been called with
the rest to stand against the tide of errors. The Lord has shown you much mercy
and has taught you to value it; you will therefore feel anxious that your
neighbours may share with you in this great salvation. You are called to bear
witness to that truth which the Lord has so often revealed to you. I hope and
trust you will be a faithful servant, and a soldier that will learn to endure
hardness and not turn back in the day of battle'.
Frances hoped 'the Lord would
gather others to us', and says, 'It seems wonderful how matters are arranged
for us, and especially that Charles is so defended from rebuke and harm'. And
later she says, 'I want it made clear to me that the Lord has appointed him to
feed a few sheep in the wilderness, for truly I do fear being scattered again
and left as a reproach. Lord, increase our love one to another; strengthen our
weakness, especially mine—the weakest of all, and yet I fear I am looked up to.
Oh, I sink at the thought, and then for a moment a little hope revives in me
that we shall find good for all this. I was thankful in my heart that my way
had been cleared to come out from those things which once appeared impossible
to leave'.
The Lord did bless this little
Church, and Charles ministered very acceptably to a growing congregation. His
work led him to live, presently, at Sherborne,
fourteen miles away, but although this seemed an insuperable problem to his
mother, Charles did not fail them. Whether he walked the distance, rode on
horseback, or used a mailcoach passing through on
Saturday and returning on Monday morning we are not told, but Frances had to
say, I am astonished that his way is opened for us every week'.
BY 1850 the three Miss Gilpins, Mercy,
Jane and Catharine, were settled in their final home, a house on high ground
about three-quarters of a mile away from their old home, the Rectory.
Pulverbach is divided into two parts, Churton which
is grouped round the church and Castle Pulverbach which lies close to the high
earth works which are all that mark an ancient castle site -a lovely breezy
spot with views of near and far hills. Beyond the inn the road plunges down on
the start of its winding course to Bishops Castle. Down this lane lived Rebecca
Hughes and Margaret Roberts, whose husband was a journeyman blacksmith and who
kept a grocer's shop. Margaret was a very kind godly neighbour to Rebecca, who,
on her death-bed said to her, 'I have watched you for years; no one can tell
how I have watched you. I felt so sure that you had got something
real—something that would do to die by. Oh, I know religion is a very deep
work; it must be the work of God and not the work of man. What can I do now
upon my death-bed? Nothing. Nothing'.
Rebecca also said, 'Don't you remember Mr. Bourne once
said to me, Come in, Rebecca! and those three words
encouraged me not to cut myself off. I have never forgotten it.' She had called
at the house where Mr. Bourne was staying on some errand, and finding that two
or three people had gone upon invitation to the family prayers she had tried to
slip away. Rebecca said all she wanted was to find the mercy of the Lord Jesus
Christ, and she did most sweetly find it, and testified to her daughter that
she had seen her Saviour twice in one morning and wanted nothing more but 'for
Him to put His arms round me and say This day shall thou be with Me in
paradise', which was granted to her. And thus Rebecca's sampler was finished.
(See Chap. 3).
The Miss Gilpins' home was a tall
yellow-brick double-fronted annexe to an ancient farmhouse, Castle Farm. Their
lawn sloped downhill to a carriage drive curving round to a stable, and a high
wall shut off the farm but the cobbled yard behind was the old farm entrance
with its milking sheds, pump and dairy. To this home it now became a great
pleasure for the ladies to invite those whom they esteemed for the Gospel's
sake.
For the first few years of Mr. Maydwell's tenancy the public meetings were still held at Wrentnall, where occasionally a letter from Mr. Bourne
addressed to 'The little company meeting at Mrs. Morris's' was read aloud. Mr. Maydwell, though a very delicate man, was enabled to hold
the congregation together in Mr. Bourne's line of teaching, and presently we
find all the meetings were held at Churton Cottage.
It is possible this arrangement began during some indisposition that prevented
his walking down to Wrentnall. Here came to preach
his brother William from Hertford, Mr. Frederick Tryon,
Bernard, of course, and Mr. Yeomans, of Leicester.
Mr. Yeomans had been a member of Mr. Hunting-ton's
Chapel in London until the death of that good man, when he went to Birmingham
and began business as a 'currier' in the leather trade. In 1838 he had removed
to Leicester and eventually became a deacon under Mr. Chamberlain. He was a
great friend of Mr. Thomas Nunn, whose Letters he
published about this time.
'He occasionally visited his
friends at Pulverbach,' writes his biographer, 'where he made the acquaintance
of Sukey Harley, with whom he felt sweet unity of spirit. He was much pleased
with her conversation and she showed real union of spirit to him. While there
he conducted the services at Churton Cottage, and
received great kindness from friends there, especially the Misses Gilpin who
entertained him. They were anxious for him to settle as pastor in their midst
that they might have the benefit of his ministrations, but he felt compelled to
decline. He was seventy years old, and though he mourned over the high-minded
state of some of the congregation at Leicester who after Mr. Chamberlain's
death seemed carried away by the flourishing discourses of invited ministers,
and indeed felt compelled to resign his office of deacon, yet he dared not
leave the place the Lord had put him in. For several years he conducted a
weekly prayer meeting in his own house and expounded the Scriptures to those
who clave to him. He was made useful in visiting the sick and said he felt
comfort and profit in it'.
This was his letter to the
Pulverbach congregation in September, 1850.
'Through the mercy and providence
of the Lord I arrived safe at home. The moment I entered the railway carriage
(at Shrewsbury) my spirit was broken, first by considering the kind friends I
had left and the sweet unity I had enjoyed while in fellowship with you and all
the friends. The Lord was with me in my out-goings and in my in-comings. At
Pulverbach no bitter reflections were caused by vain company or vain
conversation: but otherwise, a sweet remembrance of Christian friends and their
holy conversation and the fellowship of the Spirit that is among them. This is
what John Bunyan calls 'the glory of the world'. In
His temple everyone speaks of His glory—the glory of God in the face of the
Lord Jesus Christ so far as the Spirit gives experience and utterance. He gives
grace in measure—there are little children, young men, and fathers. All His
teaching is to profit with-all, but all, if duly attended to, leads to
humiliation'.
Mr. Bourne was not now free to
spend long visits away from his pastorate at Sutton Coldfield,
but he was prevailed upon to make a very short visit in 1851. 'The people there
expressed such a desire to see me once more,' he says, 'that
I could not resist. [Mr. Bourne could now use the new trains that linked
Birmingham with all the surrounding places]. Committing my way to the Lord, He
was pleased to give me His approbation and care; and while alone in the waiting
room at Shrewsbury station He meekened my spirit, and
made me feel how good and how great a thing it is to have the blessing of such
a Friend in our going out and coming in. Although I was there but four days,
yet I preached twice, and my morning readings were attended the same as the
preaching, so that in the week I preached eight times and travelled 120 miles; but
by the mercy of God I am returned without the least fatigue, and found the
people here as glad to see me safe back again.'
To Mercy (his hostess this time),
he wrote, 'I have a great love for the people of Pulverbach, and wonder to see
the reality of that divine power which has reached the hearts of so many there.
I would add this to them all—"As ye have received Christ Jesus the Lord,
so walk ye in Him". If His visits become less frequent, search diligently
with prayer into the cause, and give Him no rest till He appear again. The
miners in your neighbourhood are obliged to dig deep before they find the ore,
and then there is a deal of sifting and washing before it is profitable; so
will you all find it in your spiritual warfare. Be very attentive to the still
small voice within. God will always have a witness in man's conscience, and
spiritual death is sure to follow the least inattention to it. Much comfort and
light are lost by slighting the secret admonitions which the Lord all the day
long is giving to His people. "The soul of the diligent shall be made
fat."
The secret cross is often the
heaviest and no relief can be had from man. God alone can make that straight
which our sin without doubt makes crooked. Therefore the Apostle says, "Be
sober, be vigilant", for our adversary the devil is continually going
about, seeking whom God will allow him to devour; and none are in greater
danger than those who live in an unfruitful profession of religion. Those who
have felt the sweet power of coming to Christ, Who redeemed their life from
destruction, will watch the coming and going of the Lord and will be diligent
in the use of God's appointed means, and be fruitful in every good word and
work. Therefore, my friends, dear to me in the Lord, let me entreat you to
cleave close to the Lord, for He is a Friend that sticketh
closer than a brother, Not a moment intermitting
His compassion
and His care and so you will find Him when you come to finish your course.' That same year Bernard was up at
Pulverbach. The only clue we get of this visit comes in a short memoir of John Carswell, a miner, slightly related to Maria. 'He had in
youth been a drinking dissolute character. When quite a boy
he once heard these words from a wayside preacher, "Whom He did foreknow
He also did predestinate to be conformed to the image
of His Son". These words were in a manner fixed in his mind, but it
was not until many years afterwards when he was seized with the smallpox that
the Lord put His hand effectually on him to recover him from a life of sin.
When he got up again he began to read the Bible. As he was reading the tenth of
John he felt the verse, "My sheep hear My voice
and I know them and they follow Me". He wondered, and said to his mother,
"How is that?" She said they preached and believed that at
Pulverbach. He longed to go as soon as he was well enough, but he was afraid
and ashamed, till some said Mr. Gilpin was going to preach, and because many
were going who did not always go, he went with them. "As I walked
along," he said, "I felt the words I had heard years ago—'Whom He did
foreknow .. .' and there was brought into my heart
such a love to the sheep of Christ that I felt I was not worthy to be among
them. Mr. Gilpin took his text from the same chapter, "We are saved by
hope; but hope that is seen is not hope . . ." and he read on till he came
to the words I had felt and then they entered into my heart again. After
service some complained that they did not like what they had heard, but I said,
"I love it and will go again".
'The remembrance of his former life
humbled John exceedingly, and when in subsequent years he saw in his own family
the repetition of his ungodly life, he was made to hide his face in shame, and
say, "What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed?".
And since the Lord recovered him from the prevailing sin of drunkenness he has
many a time run past the doors of a public-house lest he should be retaken in
that soul destroying temptation. When ill-health prevented his working in the
mines he maintained himself and his family with the help of a donkey and cart.
His love to the people of God became a remarkable feature in him. He was one of
the family and loved them all. He was nearly always
first in the meeting room that he might see them come in, and often said how he
felt love to one and another. A few years before his death he dreamt he was
passing through a cornfield that had been partly reaped, but in one corner
stood a cluster of ears. "Such beautiful wheat," he thought, "Why
don't they reap it?" This dream was repeated three times, and on awaking
it was impressed upon his heart that it was the Lord's remnant in this place,
and it appeared beautiful in his eyes.'
The biographer (Dr. Richard Benson)
adds, 'He was an "ear" himself. And when I reflect upon the harvest
that has since been gathered into the same garner, the many to whom it was
given to leave a sure testimony that they were saved by grace, the dream has
appeared so remarkably fulfilled that I cannot refrain from mentioning it, and
expressing a debt of thankfulness we owe to Him who lived and died and rose
again for such mercy and love towards us'.
This is running on ahead: we will
go back and see how Sukey Harley was getting on.
Few can have had their religion so closely
woven into the very fabric of their daily life as Sukey. 'I had been baking,'
she says one time, 'and had just put my bread into the oven when it came
powerfully on me, "I must find my dear Lord again". I left alone
cleaning my house awhile, and took my precious Book and sat down with that
diligent seeking Him in my heart, and it was not long
before He came and we had such sweet communion. He was with me and I with Him. It is the life of my soul to have my blessed
Saviour with me for a bit in the day.' And another time, 'As soon as I open my
eyes in a morning, the fight begins, and I keep on at it all the day. I got up
very early in the morning, long before it was light, and fell on my knees,
feeling my undone condition; then I got up, but my God did not come yet. I fell
down again and sought Him, but still I found Him not. I rose again from my
knees, but I could not rest here. (She never could rest, she never knew what to
do, she says many a time, when her "dear
Redeemer" left her.) Down I went again, and then it was my blessed Saviour
came, and He poured in all His mercies into my soul in a wonderful manner. I
then opened my blessed Bible, but not without begging of Him to let me open
upon that place where He would bless my soul; and He did. It was on these
words," I love the Lord because He hath heard my prayer" Psalm 116.
And what a Psalm it was to me that morning, and I could say with David, "I
love the Lord". I did love my dear Lord, and I was lost in wonder at all
He showed me. And I read in my blessed Book till near two o'clock and my
Saviour was with me all that time.'
She describes her close pursuit of
the things of the Spirit. 'This is what I do. I fall down before my God and
wait, and never give up till He tells me what to say. I cannot speak till He
comes. If He does not answer me directly, then I hang upon Him, I cry unto Him,
I wait for Him, and when He sees fit He makes me feel His answer. I am just
like a little child striving and striving to get something that is out of
reach. Often when I have been unable to eat the natural food for my body I have
sat down and said, Now, my dear Father, feed me with
the bread of heaven! That is in His blessed Book. And He has come and given me
a rich feast, and so filled me with His mercies that I have wanted no food for
my body, I have been so strengthened and refreshed.
'But I want to tell you about the
fresh manna. We must find it every day. The old manna we had yesterday will not
do for us the next day. O, how I feel this, if we live on past experiences our
religion will have no savour. I know many are quite content with what they
found years ago at their conversion. But indeed I am quite frightened at this,
for except my dear Redeemer feeds me with daily bread I should soon perish for
want. I hope all the dear children of God will be taught this, and not imagine
their conversion is sufficient to feed on till the day of their death. They
will be in a sad place then, if their souls are not undeceived before that
time.'
In the summer of 1850 her husband Charles
was taken ill, and eventually was taken to an asylum which Sukey was able to
visit once in five weeks, the journey doubtless being a great effort to her.
She says about this, 'Oh, what I feel when I think of the tender mercies and
compassion of my dear Father up in heaven, how He has provided for Charles. I
cannot express my feelings about this, and yet how I resisted at first his
being taken away from me; but my Saviour doeth all things well. And how He has strengthened me in my journeys to and fro to see him
about once every five weeks. I can truly say I have never gone without
seeking first my dear heavenly Father to show me whether I was to go or not,
and then begging Him to be pleased to order all about my journey, and that His
presence might be with me. And He has been with me, taken me there and brought
me back every time; and when I have seen my poor man in the asylum, so clean,
so comfortable, so peaceful, and every one kind to him and all besides, as I
have seen in that place, well, I have praised and blessed my God in heaven who
has provided such a place for those poor suffering people in their deep and
heavy affliction. I am lost in wonder and admiration when I see the tender
compassion and love of my Father in heaven'.
That winter Sukey was moved from
her cottage 'under Brom Hill' which had been very
convenient for the meetings when they were first held at Wrentnall,
and went to live in Black Lion Lane, which was much nearer to Churton Cottage meeting room. She says, 'I can trust to the
Lord more than ever now: He it is that has done this for me. He knew my grief
and deep sorrow of heart since Charles left me, and my
fears at night. Many a time I have got up and walked about my
house, being afraid to lie in bed. I was not afraid when my Saviour was
with me; then I felt quite safe. I never thought this house was to be mine, but
the Lord has provided it for me. It just came into my mind this way, one
morning as I awoke, "There's a house for you". I thought, was it the Lord who said so? And I felt He gave me leave
to come up and speak to you about it. (It is Jane Gilpin that writes this.) And
then He brought to my mind about my standing on the causeway when my house was
on fire twenty-four years back; the dreadful fears that I felt lest I was a child
of the devil, and not of God and how my blessed Saviour helped me then, and
made me clearly feel that I belonged to Him. Well now, it is not the house that
makes me glad, but it is His work in it that fills me with praise. If He had
put me in a dungeon or a pigstye I could have praised
Him if He had shown me His hand and work in it'.
Sukey only lived two and a half
years in that cottage. On the last Christmas Day of her life, 1852, she spoke,
as she always did, especially at that season, of being most earnest in prayer
for a week before, that the Lord would visit her soul upon that day. He came in
that verse of Hart's Christmas hymn,
Go and find the royal Stranger, By these signs: a Babe you'll see,
Weak and lying in
a manger. Wrapt and
swaddled—that is He.
'The last words broke my heart—that
is He, and afterwards He directed me to read the tenth chapter of Hebrews, and
I was able to draw near again, and found redemption, full, perfect, and
complete in that verse "This Man after He had offered one sacrifice for
sin for ever, sat down on the right hand of God". I got faith and thought,
what good would this be to me if I had not faith? But I was enabled to
"see the Son and believe on Him to everlasting life". I don't know
what a contented state is without Christ, for ever since He called me at the
first I have been uncontented without Him.
'I am always looking for my death.
I know neither the day nor the hour, but it will not come on a sudden to me,
come when it will. He was first with me in that word, "Behold I stand at
the door and knock", and so it will be at the last. And what a thing it
will be when He cometh and knocketh (for me at my
death) to be ready to open to Him immediately. My soul often longs to be gone.
I often say, "How long, dear Lord, how long?" and sometimes I think
it will not be much longer. Oh how bright and glorious those words are:
"And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon
to shine in it; for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light
thereof". Oh, that burial sermon—"We shall not all sleep, but we
shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last
trump. For this corruptible must put on incorruption
and this mortal must put on immortality". I am clean lost when I think of
these things.'
It was in August, 1853, that Sukey
was seized with a paralytic stroke. She had seen several of her friends on this
day, being about as usual, and only on the evening of the previous day had had
a beautiful conversation with one of them, in which she said, 'I know that my
Redeemer Christ Jesus liveth and reigneth
in me, and at the last He will appear, and make clear and bright His own
blessed work of grace, mercy and truth in my heart. For He will keep that which
I have committed to Him to the last day, and will support and comfort me at the
last, whether I am able to speak of it or no, for He has said, "I will
perfect that which concerneth thee", which is
His own blessed work of grace in a wretched vile sinner's heart. What a mercy
to be assured we are included in "the bundle of life", true
everlasting life, when the time comes for us to have done with all below. How
blessed to feel we are safe in Christ, whether we live or die! My prayer often
is, "Lord, when Thou seest fit to remove me, or
any of Thy children, from this life, be pleased to raise
up more and more from every generation who shall be after Thy calling and
purpose. Thy blessed word says, The Lord added to the Church daily such as
should be saved'. And since Thou hast been pleased to bring so unworthy a
creature as I to a saving knowledge of Thee, my blessed Father and God in
Christ Jesus, my heart's desire is to hear of many more brought and saved by Thine almighty power through Thy dear Son and Thy Holy
Spirit. This I ask of Thee, my blessed Father in heaven, for Jesus Christ's
sake".
On the evening of that day her
daughter noticed her sitting for several hours outside the door of her house,
with her Book before her, with which she appeared deeply occupied; her
spectacles were found in the last chapter of St. Mark's Gospel.
Mercy, writing to a friend, says,
Thirty-seven years has she gone in and out amongst us in this place, and our
hearts have been knit together. Jane and I watched over her dying bed, and sat
beside her for some hours, day by day, from the Tuesday to the Saturday
evening, when we took our farewell view of her in this world. And although
there was neither voice nor language in all these days, and her eyes were
closed, yet we felt as if surely the Lord was in that place and that it was
holy ground. It was a desire she sometimes expressed that she might leave this
world on a Sabbath day to enjoy a heavenly and eternal one; and this was
granted her, as the sun just began to dawn on the last Lord's Day'.
Sukey said once, 'Now I often think
about my death. The folks will be gathered together to see old Sukey Harley
die; and they'll think to hear glorious words from my mouth. But they will hear
nothing. No, I sha'nna have a word to say when I am
dying. I have this feeling, that my mouth will be stopped then; there will be
nothing left for me to say. The folks will see my lump of flesh, but will not,
cannot see my life. My life is not here, it is hid with Christ in God! I have
asked Him, my blessed Saviour, to make me give my dying testimony while I am
alive, walking up and down in this world. And He has put His words in my mouth
to speak as He bids me. I cannot speak thus to such as won't understand me;
they would take my words wrong and call me a strange woman. Let them talk so,
but I have got a Saviour! Yes, and I know Him and He knows me'.
Sukey was buried in Pulverbach
Churchyard, close against the Gilpin graves. It is a flat stone, but still
(1960) the name can be faintly read upon it.
Mr. Bourne wrote to his friends at
Pulverbach a little later and said, 'Last year at this time dear Sukey was
amongst you, but now she has no more to do with earthly things; yet we may say
she still has a voice, and that voice shows us the prosperity there is to be
found in following the Lord Jesus Christ by the Spirit. No other following will
do. The day is coming which will show who goes through the gate and who stops
short. Many gather wild gourds which bring nothing but death in the pot. Let me
tell such to be cautious, for perhaps they will not find the prophet near at
hand to heal them (2 Kings 4. 38-41)'.
MR. BOURNE said in his letter to
Pulverbach, The season (autumn) reminds me of my approaching end, especially when
I consider the Lord is continually looking round to see what corn is fully
ripe'. The very month (October, 1853), in which he was writing saw the death of
his beloved pastor in London, Mr. Burrell. As he was informed of the approach
of this death Mr. Bourne wrote very seriously to some of the younger generation
at the Chapel. This will be a trial to you and many more. May the Lord make you
firm to hold fast the truth! I fear some among you may look more for talent
than the hidden power. Be earnest in prayer and do not make light of the
change.' Again he said, 'It is a grief to hear that there is division in his
congregation. There seems a universal and singular division at this time
wherever we hear of the death of a faithful minister; and, I fear, not a
sufficient value for the Word where it is faithfully preached. Th'e light of life seems greatly withdrawing from this
nation and woe unto us when that is withdrawn! I hope all you that are young
will not get into a backsliding state. It will be sad work for you in a dying
hour.'
Mr. Burrell had lived to a good old
age (eighty-three), notwithstanding the weakness of his condition and the
frequent sickness to which he was subject. He retained his faculties almost
unimpaired to the end. In his old age, having lost his wife Naomi, he married a
godly widow that belonged to his Church.
An account of his last days is as
follows:
'For a long time before his death
Mr. Burrell had expressed more and more a deadness to the things of the world;
and on the Monday evenings, when many friends used to assemble at his house, he
would stop any unprofitable conversation on the news of the day by saying,
"What is that to thee? Follow thou Me". In
the pulpit he often expressed his desire not to live longer than he could be
useful in that place. A few weeks earlier, after speaking of a fear that he
should die suddenly, and expressing a joyful anticipation of being with the
Lord Jesus, he said, "I bless God I have not been suffered to leave my
testimony till a dying hour. I have done that sufficiently in my writings. I
have been reading them lately, and I have the witness of God's Spirit that I
have written the truth!".
'He preached his last sermon on
October 5th (he died on the 20th), but was already in a high fever, which so
altered his voice and manner that his medical attendant, who was present, said,
"I am afraid Mr. Burrell has got that which he will never get over".
While he lay on his sick bed, even when most under the influence of fever, his
words showed how his mind had been occupied in life, for he seemed even then to
himself expatiating with delight on the Word of God, and occupied in the charge
to which he had been called, uttering many prayers and exhortations, as if
addressing a people who feared God, while his looks reflected much internal
happiness. One who attended him on Sunday, the 9th, during the time of evening
service, relates that she [Was it Miss Matilda Gilpin? Quite likely, for she
loved to visit the Lord's servants, and often made notes of their conversations]
found him engaged in prayer, as if in the chapel. He went through the service
of administering the sacrament, seeming to remember it was the proper day, and
saying, "And now, Lord administer these sacred elements to all those who
have Thy true grace in their hearts"; and speaking upon the 10th of John,
in which he seemed overwhelmed with love to the Lord Jesus for His tender care
and love towards His sheep. Another time, a week later, he asked for a Bible.
"But you cannot see to read," said his attendant. He immediately
said, "Then we must try to do without. I will take the first chapter of
John; 'In the beginning was the word'." He continued speaking for a
quarter of an hour in a very instructive manner, and was evidently much
comforted by the important truths he uttered.
'One of those who watched with him
on the last Friday night said, "He very often bewailed the confusion of
his brain, and entreated the Lord would remove it, often putting his hand to
his head in much distress. When he had peace he enjoyed it sweetly, and at
other times seemed quite lost in trouble. Many times when he thought he had
spoken wrong he recalled it, saying we must have patience. But he never made a
mistake in spiritual things in his confusion. His heart seemed really going out
in prayer, often speaking of the body of sin and death and the great power of
Satan. I cannot express by any words with what divine power his words entered
my heart. I would not have been without that night for all
the world."
'At about half past ten on Thursday
morning, October 20th, he evidently changed for death. It was the most gentle
ebbing away of life, until about twelve noon when he breathed his soul into the
hands of his Lord and Saviour, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, about the
sixtieth of his spiritual life and the forty-first of his ministry.'
He was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and his dear friend Bernard Gilpin
came up from Hertford to conduct the funeral. On his tombstone his work is
summed up thus:
'In an age of erroneous and empty
profession he preached the Word of God, its power and fulfilment, earnestly
contending for the true faith of the ever-blessed Trinity and the Person of
Christ: the fall of man, the redemption of the elect, their new birth,
continual conflict and certain salvation; and enforcing the fruits, inseparable
from living faith—the fear and love of God. His ministry may be summed up in
the Apostle's words, "But ye beloved, building up yourselves in your most
holy faith, praying in the Holy Ghost, keep yourselves in the love of God,
looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ unto eternal life".
As 'Mr. Bourne had feared there was
a division after Mr. Burrell's death. 'At a Church Meeting in May the next year
(1854), the congregation divided. Part settled under Mr. Thaine,
one of Mr. Burrell's deacons, and remained at No. 9 Great Tichfield
Street for fifteen years until the death of Mr. Thaine,
when the connection came to an end. Mrs. Burrell died the same year and
probably the house had to be sold. So, says the biographer, the place where Mr.
Burrell had so long borne such a faithful testimony to the power of godliness
knew him no more. In different places, however, there were Churches served by
ministers who had been members of Mr. Burrell's Church and congregation, and
several of such remembered with gratitude the blessing they received through
his ministry.
The smaller part that withdrew from
Mr. Thaine's ministry united under that of Mr.
William Benson. A Chapel was procured for him in Edwarde's
Place, near Langham Place.'
Mr. Bourne had heard in the
December previous that William had spoken to the deacons about feeling a call
to the ministry and wrote to him, 'I was quite overcome with the intelligence
of your letter, after a sweet account from Mr. Gilpin of his leadings in the
present state of Titchfield Street. I have no doubt
that all you have felt of the Lord's goodness and mercy, first to yourself, and
then in making you His servant and a servant of His people for His sake will be
disputed many times before you appear in public; and for this purpose, that you
may have further and clearer testimonies of its truth. A post that is to be
firm must be well rammed down. I found it so; but every new confirmation was
stronger than the old. Consider my text for London next week (2 Tim. 3. 14) and
especially attend to the pronoun, "But continue thou in the things which
thou hast learned, and hast been assured of ", and keep calling to mind of
Whom thou hast received and learned that heavenly
liberty. The Lord be with you'.
William Benson had married Mr.
Bourne's daughter Edmunda, and his brother Samuel
another daughter, Philippa, so that a close natural
affection as well as spiritual love linked them together. Another love affair
Mr. Bourne was happy to witness was the engagement of Charles Benson, of
Norton, with Bernard Gilpin's younger daughter,
Annette, who had, you will remember, been educated under his roof. And a fourth
link was made when Richard Benson, now emerging as a brilliant young doctor in
Harley Street, married Bernard's elder daughter.
But this is anticipating by a year.
Mr. Bourne did not live to see the last two marriages. In the spring of 1854 he
had a severe attack of jaundice which greatly reduced his strength. He wrote
his last letters to Pulverbach that spring, telling them, 'Only mind, my dear
friends, that the unity of the Spirit and the bond of peace be closely attended
to; and look well to your way, for we have perceived many who appeared to be everthing that could be wished for in the estimation of
man, but when the King has come in to see the guests He has said, "How enterest thou in hither, not having a wedding
garment?". 'Nothing but the fiery trial will bring this point to light,'
and again (his last letter), 'Now my desire and prayer is that none of you may
stop short, and that Satan may not beguile you into this dangerous place; and
remember, if the Lord has made you honest, that you pay due attention to His
word, "He that hath an ear let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the Churches: To him that overcometh
will I give to eat of the hidden manna and will give him a white stone, and in
the stone a new name written which no man knoweth
saving he that receiveth it". This is "the
secret of the Lord", which none know but they who fear the Lord. This is
Christ, the true bread; and there is no eternal life without Him. "He that
eateth this Bread shall never die." "O
taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man that trusteth in Him!"
'David found many that said,
"Who will show us any good?" but he replies with what I recommend to
you all, "Lord, lift Thou up the light of Thy countenance upon us";
for it is this which puts gladness in our hearts, more than all the outward
prosperity of the world; and with this we can lie down and sleep in peace (Ps.
4. 6-8).
'Yours in the
Lord with great love, J. B.'
Mr. Bourne preached his last sermon
on May 14th, for about twenty minutes, upon the words, "Have mercy upon
me, O God, according to Thy lovingkindness", and
described six sorts of mercy which had followed him all his days—preventing
mercy, protecting mercy, redeeming mercy, pardoning mercy, renewing mercy, and
crowning tender mercy.
'On May 17th he wrote his last
letter (to his son Alfred), and said, "I seem now fast declining, and am
much exercised in seeking for the Lord to be with me in this valley of the
shadow of death. Nothing can remove the fears but the blessed Presence that is
strong as death. Oh how sweet it is to hear this sentence—'Because thou hast
made the Most High, which is my refuge, thy habitation, no evil shall befall
thee. I am this morning no better, but sweetly sustained with a humble hope:
the Lord is my stay".'
Different members of his
congregation visited him day by day and took notes of the gracious things he
said. 'His heart seemed to overflow with the love of God, without a cloud: the
power and unction with which he spoke and the heavenly joy which was evident to
those who saw him cannot be expressed.' Two friends came over from Pulverbach
to see him and wrote a little account of the visit, and this was the time when
Maria Carswell, the miner's wife, made the journey
too, walking a good part of the way! Bernard Gilpin with his sister Matilda
also came from London, and in his diary Bernard writes:
'We left London at 6.15 a.m. and
reached Sutton Coldfield to a late breakfast. We were
very soon introduced to our dear dying friend Mr. Bourne. Oh, what a heavenly
sight! Was ever a deathbed more glorious! He knew not how to express his feelings of unutterable love and glory nor his deep
self-abasing sense of Christ's divine redemption! He sent for us continually
through the day and spoke for a minute or two. His mind retains all its natural
firmness, and even its elastic play. Yet the holiness of his joy is very
conspicuous. I saw he was lifted on eagle's wings above all troubles; even the
troubles of God's Zion are by Christ Himself taken from his shoulder and taken
upon Himself. Therefore I dared not ask his advice how we must manage at Sutton
without him. I said only, "The government shall be upon Christ's
shoulder". He said, "So it is! So I have found. I have nothing to say
to them but that I love them all, and that the truths I have preached to them
will do to live by, aye, and to die by too! That they will!".
Mr. Bourne died on the evening of
Sunday, June 11th, 1854, when his nurse, who, with his eldest daughter was
sitting by him, suddenly exclaimed, 'Look how he smiles!' and while they both
looked, being much struck with the peculiar expression of welcome in his
countenance, he ceased to breathe, gently expiring without any struggle, in the
eighty-second year of his age.
The day before he took to his bed,
he directed the following words, from Joshua 21. 35, to be inscribed on his
grave, marking them in his Bible—"There failed not aught of any good thing
which the Lord had spoken: all came to pass".
Mr. Bourne's gravestone, a flat
one, is one of the few still preserved in its original position in the
churchyard of Sutton Coldfield Parish Church: close
beside it is that of Mr. Watkin Maddy.
Bernard wrote in his diary: 'I
cannot refrain from testifying what I believe, that he has proved a special
instrument of God to me. Surely the Lord opened my eyes to see the truth and my
heart to love it, through Mr. Bourne's instructions—in letters, conversation
and preaching. It is about twenty years since I first became acquainted with
him; and my feelings have never varied, nor my firm persuasion that I have seen
in him (a sinner of like passions with me) the image of Christ upon earth: the
new man, created in Christ, living by the power of God'.
Jane Gilpin wrote (many years
later), about Mr. Bourne's visits to Pulverbach, 'So it was that the word fell
as a dew from the Lord upon the hearts of many, and took such a powerful hold
upon them that some, who are still living, date their first awakening from that
time; while many who now sleep in the dust of death have borne testimony to the
last of their gratitude to God for having called them under that ministry'.
WITH the deaths of these three
outstanding Christians, Sukey Harley, Mr. Burrell and Mr. Bourne, the Churches
of God at Pulverbach, Sutton and London felt very bereft. Mercy Gilpin wrote (a
little later) 'These words were given me—"There shall not be dew nor rain
these years but according to My word", and they seemed to say that we
should remain long in a desolate condition, nevertheless that we should be fed;
that the crumbs of the bread of life would be sufficient to sustain us till He
should be pleased to send us a further supply, according to His word—"The
barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail until the
day that the Lord sendeth rain upon the earth".
I believe there were many among us watching and waiting concerning this thing.'
And Jane wrote, There
certainly has been something very remarkable in many events which have taken
place amongst us, ever since the Lord first put His hand to the work which
prospered marvellously under Mr. Bourne. Since then how many things have been
dashed down, how much rubbish has been cast up, and to what a low place are we
now brought! Yet I do believe the Lord has His eye upon us still. It is
remarkable how the few are kept together, though indeed sometimes our empty
benches speak our poverty'.
Samuel Hughes had left the district
now. 'When health and strength began to fail he removed to the mining district
near St. Asaph in North Wales, where the prospect of
lighter and more profitable employment was held out to him; and afterwards he
went to the coal district near Mold'. Poor Samuel
said later that those years were 'a journey into Egypt' and he suffered from
poverty and could not have what was necessary for him 'in the state he was in'.
(Perhaps he had the beginnings of silicosis, which was the common disease with barytes miners.)
'During the summer of 1858 the
tenancy of the cottage where our services have so long been held', writes
Mercy, 'was given up by our friends the R. Maydwells,
who were now leaving the neighbourhood. Difficulties and fears arose before us,
nevertheless something yet whispered, Go forward. And I remember one night
particularly how this word struck with especial force into my mind— Walk
"by faith and not by sight". It seemed to say this matter about the
cottage must be an act of faith, not of sight. So the next day I felt that
nothing stood in the way of writing to the landlord and making ourselves
responsible for it. As I folded up and sealed the letter this word dropped into
my heart—"Ask ye of the Lord rain in the time of the latter rain".
This very sweetly surprised me, for it seemed to join
the dispensation we were now under with the one we were under when Mr. Bourne
was coming amongst us. I was reminded now how I had felt those very words so
many years ago and of the light that shone on them in a very beautiful way—
that it was a promise for future days—this time of the latter rain in
distinction from the former rain which I felt was so blessedly showered on us
when Mr. Bourne was here. Of late years we have had no ministry of the Word,
only a gathering together to read and pray'.
Jane had written, 'Even now His eye
may be upon one of His own choice, His hand may be moulding even now a vessel
fit for His own purpose, as a shepherd to His few (and they are at present a
very few) scattered sheep at Pulverbach'.
This was exactly what the Lord was
doing, but in a way quite unlocked for. Their nephew, Richard Benson, after
only two years in Harley Street, was 'cut down with a spinal complaint' and had
to give up his promising career at the age of twenty-seven. 'The difficulties
and perplexities that surround you must weigh your spirits to the ground',
wrote their Aunt Jane to them, 'unless the Lord permit you to view His hand in
your behalf. Meanwhile, here was an empty house near loving relations. Taking
it 'at least for a time' Richard arrived with his wife and two little boys, the
elder only two years old.
Mr. Bourne had once written to him,
'There are three things that are uppermost in my mind (in thinking of you)—the
important period of life you are now entering [that was in 1852], the frail
body which the Lord has been pleased to suffer you to carry about, and the
incorruptible seed which He has sown in your heart. My mind and my anxiety is to know how these three agree to live together. I am
persuaded that since the Lord has Himself in His infinite wisdom brought them together, He has a secret way of making a friendly joint. Do
you ask how to get at this secret? He Himself tells you, "The secret of
the Lord is with them that fear Him". He has put you in a slippery place.
Be cautious of a backsliding heart. You never fared better than when the Lord
was near and dear to you; and you never can get higher in life by any means so
well as by the power of God and the wisdom of God. In all
your progress let these be foremost, and you will then retain His
blessing and He will guide you step by step and keep your feet from sliding'.
On hearing of Richard's successes Mr. Bourne had written, 'I am sincerely glad
to hear of your success, but am still more anxious that you should, in the
midst of these changes, retain the power of drawing nigh unto God. Consider and
call to mind the sweet peace you once found, and you will acknowledge no
prosperity can equal that of divine and spiritual life. The Lord bless you, and
go with you, and be your guide'.
Who would have dreamed the Lord
would have guided him away from Harley Street and up to remote Pulverbach so
early in his life? But so it was, and Churton Cottage
now being tenanted by friends, one of its parlours again became available for
the meetings. How the sympathy and prayers of the little congregation would be
stirred for the stricken young man. Indeed, for some months there was no
lifting the cloud of depression and pathos that hung over them all. Then, we
read, kind Maria Carswell 'found a most earnest cry
put into her heart for the Lord's people in the neighbourhood'. It had its
answer in February, 1859, when Richard 'attempted in weakness to lead the
worship, and preached to them from the verse, "Why do we sit still?
Assemble yourselves and let us enter into the defenced cities, and let us be silent there, for the Lord
our God hath put us to silence". Maria, being present,
"the whole entered her heart and she found it a word of life".'
Thus began a ministry blessed by
the Lord to the reviving of the Church at Pulverbach. Mercy writes, 'Do we not
feel that the very same work of the Lord, begun to be manifest in those former
years, He is still carrying on amongst us now—that seed of the Word sown in the
heart springing up more and more, that heavenly dew, that secret hidden work of
God which His eye seeth?'.
Six weeks later Jane wrote to
Matilda, 'It is so exceedingly beautiful—is that real work of God upon the
heart of one who is brought really down to the dust, into the "valley of Achor", and there sees that this is the very place
where the "door of hope" is opened. I think Richard is exactly in
this place, as his sermons and letters set forth, and yet he can hardly believe
it for himself. But though his faith may seem to himself and perhaps to others
to be so exceedingly small and trembling, I do certainly believe it is the
faith that can remove mountains, and that it will stand sure and endure through
all the winds that can blow against it. There are several amongst us who seem
to enter really into this preaching, and there may be many more, but we don't
exactly know yet'.
His uncle Bernard wrote to him,
some time later, I do not wonder at the clouds, darkness and tempest which you
feel on every side; nor at your adopting the words of David and of One greater
than David, "I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come
into deep waters, where the floods overflow me". The truth is, as you
know, that you must be saved by Christ's having
explored those depths on your behalf. I hope in this extremity He will
strengthen your faith to lay hold more firmly upon the good words He has
already spoken to you from behind the cloud, "Underneath are the
everlasting arms". Also that you may perceive mercy
mingling with the judgment. It appears in these singular words, so I
will here quote them, "The flax and the barley were smitten . . .but the wheat and the rye were not smitten: for they were
not grown up" (Ex. 9. 31, 32). This backwardness was their preservation.
May the Lord bring you to say, No, let me rather freely yield What most I prize to Thee and again "If the Lord has
set you to work, is not your ministry the most important circumstance of your
life? Your affliction, though to our reason an
obstruction, yet I doubt not is a furtherance to your usefulness".'
Matilda travelled North that summer for a visit to her sisters. 'It seemed
wonderful to me' she wrote, 'that He had brought me to this place which was
once my home, but which for five and twenty years has not been so. For from the
time I first heard Mr. Burrell and Mr. Bourne in London I felt an irresistible
power holding me there. And when they were dead, and I had no power to look to
the Lord for His mercy to appear again in the same way, yet He did appear
again, as you know, and raised up one whose ministry I was in like manner made
to prize, and do prize it. [She referred to her nephew William.] And now also
you know all that has occurred in this place during these last months, and I
feel my heart drawn to the little gathering here. I can but leave all in the
hand of the Lord, and trust He will not suffer me to guide myself in any way'.
Matilda returned to London, but only for two years. In the year 1861, in
consequence of declining health she gave up her London house and returned to
Pulverbach for the rest of her days. Of her it is said, 'Extracts from her
writings show something of her manner of life among the churches in London, and
at Hertford and Pulverbach, with which she was connected, and it only seems
needful to add that she was held in the utmost esteem and love with them all,
and was most especially useful among the poor and afflicted members for the
love and spiritual profit they derived from her conversation'. How glad Mr.
Bourne would have been that, to use one of his phrases, 'her profiting
appeared', for once or twice he upbraided her in his gentle fashion, for her
silence, and once particularly that upbraiding was blest to her.
Down in Somerset, Richard's mother
must have followed his affairs with much prayer. About a year before his
breakdown she had lost her youngest son, James, also a doctor. He had trained
in London, and come under the influence of Mr. Burrell and Mr. Bourne, so that,
although 'he endeared himself by his obliging disposition and his attention and
kindness to the poor when he held the appointment of Resident Surgeon to the
County Dispensary at Norwich, yet he could not persuade himself that all was
right. He was not suffered to sleep the sleep of death and so could not rest
without the divine testimony that he had the witness in himself. This he sought
for, prayed for, and waited for'. When only twenty-four, he was seized with
scarlet fever contracted when visiting his poor patients; this was followed by
pleurisy and he became dangerously ill. His mother was sent for, and she took
the journey with her eldest son William.
'William read and prayed with him.
He told his mother he did long to have the way made clear, so later William
spoke to him on Jesus, the Way, the Truth and the Life. He felt very dark, and
could not get near enough. But when his mother was alone with him he suddenly
began to pray in a loud voice, stretching out his arms and looking up. So slow
and distinct were the words that his mother, deeply impressed, wrote them down.
"Lord, have mercy. Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me NOW. Now or never! Look
down upon me NOW. Break the cloud! Break it! What a wretched careless sinner I
have been! Have pity, Lord! I have had, sometimes, hopes before my illness. Do
hear my prayer, Lord! I don't mean a little hope is nothing, but the enemy is
so deceitful in making people believe that taking the sacrament and reading the
Bible is enough. Let all the world know—Yes. LET ALL
THE WORLD KNOW that this will not save them. Lord, this is the first day of my
religion almost. I feel a very small hope and think I shall have it at last. I
want nothing but Thy mercy!". Here his loud voice
ceased but he appeared to continue praying silently, his arms still extended.
Then the doctor came in; after he had gone he said gently to his mother,
"How very gradually that light has come! Two very small hopes, yet I am
not satisfied. Press through! Press through! It is marvellous how that small
light has brought such new desires. Praise the Lord! I am as happy as I can be.
I am ashamed of doubting. What a difference this makes in bearing trouble!". Saying he feared losing the light, he was reminded
that if it was from the Lord it would return again. He immediately replied,
"It was from the Lord".'
A little after this he beckoned to
his mother to bend over him, being too exhausted to speak, and whispered, 'I
have got my answer!' and the next morning he died.
As she went her sad way home,
perhaps Frances remembered part of a letter Mr. Bourne wrote her seven years
earlier, 'It is a wonderful display of God's mercy to see so many of your
children made acquainted with the value of the Pearl of great price. The
kingdom to which they are made heirs lies through much tribulation. As a parent
I feel this. However much hope may fail my cry to the Lord never does, and
therefore I find in the end a secret power upholding me and carrying me through
all my troubles. In the word of God there is no such thing as a set-fast place
for His children'.
She says herself, that as she went
to Norwich she felt 'most truly blind and ignorant, weak and helpless', but she
was 'carried through the painful trial with tender pity', and felt the Lord had
'softened the (other) bitter trial by making manifest His abounding mercy to
James, so that I feel constrained to thank the Lord for the affliction which at
first seemed to overwhelm'. She enjoyed meditation, on the return journey, on
these words, "Whoso is wise and will observe these things, even they shall
understand the loving kindness of the Lord".
Frances's own position continued
the same, every Sabbath Day bringing its anguish as her husband (and, perhaps,
as we wondered, her sister Margaret) went in one direction to Church to
worship, while she went in another direction to the meeting conducted by
Charles. Things were no easier. At the end of 1859 she says, 'I feel bitterly
tried about the continued illness of my dear husband; our division is so keen
and painful to us both. How earnestly do I desire to find the will of God and
to act in His fear, but I cannot find that it is thus with me; yet access I do
find to spread my sorrows before Him and entreat his direction and mercy'. She
also notes down one or two very sweet 'feeding times upon God's word' during
Charles's meetings.
The next summer her husband was ill
again, and, they feared, fatally so. 'Oh,' she writes, 'what would I give at
this time for a union of spiritual feeling between us!
But the cloud is very dark at present. Oh that I could feel an encouraging
hope, and a power given me of earnest wrestling prayer! The want of this
greatly discourages me and I seem shut out and cannot prevail'.
But oh! how
blessed it is to record that she did prevail. Yes, the years of this timid
creature's wrestling for the manifestation of God's love to her dear husband
were crowned in the last two days of his life.
She writes,
I had greatly feared, though not without a hope it would be otherwise, that the
end would be bitter, so that I have dreaded to look forward to it. But it has
been most graciously overruled and softened beyond all my expectations, and
though it was not until two days before the end that I could feel a removal of
the bar. yet it has made my heart melt in gratitude
and wonder at the Almighty power and loving kindness of the Lord, that He
should so look down and notice the desire of my heart. The closing scene has
been compassed about with mercy and favour. There was a constraining power
given me to read the following hymn to him, and I feel more and more as if the
Lord heard and answered us—
O Lord, turn not Thy face from us
Who lie in woeful state, Lamenting
all our sinful life
Before Thy mercy gate—
A gate that opens wide to those
That do lament their sin. Open that gate, O
gracious Lord,
That we may enter in.
Mercy, good Lord, mercy we ask.
This is the total sum. For mercy,
Lord, is all our suit,
O let Thy mercy come!
It seemed to me that at this time
the bar between us gave way, and the change melted my heart to look back upon
the mercy and compassion of the Lord, who has brought me through so many deep
places—and now through this last great trial, the thought of which has often
pressed me down with much fear'.
Mr. Benson's grave is just outside
the south door of Norton Church, and that last verse, Mercy, good Lord, mercy
we ask, is inscribed on it. Frances's son Samuel is the one who writes her
Memoir, and he says, 'For fourteen years she had watched and longed for some
token of spiritual life to encourage her on behalf of him whom she so tenderly
loved, and at last this had been granted, and she felt a living hope in the
mercy of God to him. And through the mercy of God she was comforted with the
persuasion that her children [who had seen all this conflict] were made
partakers of His grace. She continued to the end of her life to set before them
an example of the fear of God and earnestly to seek His blessing upon them'.
After the death of her husband, she
had, of course, to leave the rectory at Norton. Her sister Margaret returned to
Pulverbach where she was given a loving home by Richard and his wife at Churton Cottage. Frances went to live with Charles and
Annette, who, after a difficult time for a few years at Sherborne,
now lived at Yeovil. 'I can truly thank the Lord,' writes Frances, 'for
bringing me to live with those who fear His name, and make Him their refuge in
the day of trouble. I do from my heart thank Him that He has especially made me
to value the hearing of His word in the daily readings at family prayer. It has
often been to me as food to nourish my soul.' From Yeovil the family was able
to travel to Norton each Sunday, and it was shortly after Frances settled there
that 'after many disappointments and much delay our place of meeting, a little
chapel, is completed'. [This stone building, now a garage, still stands; it is
near Norton post office.] As years went on many attended, and Charles's
ministry was made a blessing there.
In the year 1863 Frances journeyed
up to Pulverbach for a visit. This must have been a very sweet reunion to the
six sisters after so many years apart. And one sunny day a photographer came. A
chair and table were set against the wall of Castle Farmhouse, and each lady
sat there in turn to be 'taken'. The new art thus gives us a glimpse of them. A
set of oval portraits adorns the front of the Memoir of Six Sisters, but as
they were all ageing then and look very old ladies with caps and ringlets and
sunken cheeks and shawls, it is not reproduced here. The same may be said of
their brother Bernard, who only appears photographed when in the calm backwater
of life. Had Mr. Bourne sketched them in their earlier days how interesting it
might have been!
By this time the reproach they had
lived under had completely gone. They were not only greatly respected in the
village, but really loved, and even in 1960 villagers have repeated their
parents' affectionate memories of them and their numerous kindnesses.
Frances was the first of the
sisters to die. Back in Somerset in Charles's house she was taken with acute
bronchitis in January, 1865. But the day of death did not approach her as 'a
thief. The last day she was downstairs she had written a short note, found
after her death. 'Being poorly, it comes much to my mind that I know not when
the time is. I had serious thoughts last night. My prayer was O Lord turn not
Thy face away. I had nothing to plead but His mercy, and I wanted the clear
shining of it in my heart. The history of Joseph which has been the subject of
the morning readings lately, has opened beautifully in
a spiritual sense. O to have so sure a testimony sealed on my heart—I am Jesus,
your brother, whom ye sold, but God did send me to save your soul and feed you
with the Bread of Life!'.
Her sons came down from London to
see her. Her illness lasted ten days, with much suffering but much blessed
comfort and final peace. She said once, 'Give my love to them at Norton. The
word I have heard preached is truth'. She is buried in Yeovil Cemetery and the
large flat tombstone at the edge of the right-hand pathway has a long and
beautiful inscription on it.
Two years later Matilda passed
away. 'Her deep and purifying trials,' writes Bernard, 'seemed to me to have
been brought to a full end as she spoke the following words in holy awe and
confidence, "Glory, glory, glory to Father, Son and Spirit. I have heard
of Thee by the hearing of the ear but now mine eye seeth
Thee; wherefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes—in dust and
ashes". She then called for a Testament, and touched the words,
"Come, Lord Jesus", saying, "Come, Come", and at last,
"Praise Him! Heaven!" and so died. Bernard went north for the
funeral. "It was snowing all day," he says, "but I was mostly
alone and enjoyed the retreat. The passage from Shrewsbury was rendered
difficult by the deep snow drifts (March 18th, 1867). Two other members of the
little community died in peace during my visit."'
Again two years, and Mercy is
drawing to her end. Bernard travelled up once more, two months before the end,
so much did they wish to see each other. He says, 'I went to Castle Pulverbach
[he stayed at Churton Cottage] to see my sister Mercy
who was rejoiced to see me. We had a quiet interview. I found her in a hoping,
waiting state, and very firm. How tranquil and abiding on the Rock her spirit
is!' She died just after Christmas, her last words being, 'Bring my soul out of
prison; blessed Jesus, bring my soul out of prison!'.
Bernard himself was far from well,
with an 'affection of the throat'. As it transpired he never left Pulverbach.
His visit had to be prolonged through weakness and his wife (he had married
again about twelve years after Henrietta's death) came up to be with him.
Richard took down notes of his meditations and blessings, his dejections and reliefs, and constantly sent them, with personal messages,
when possible, to the congregation at Hertford. For more than a year he
lingered, often seemingly at death's very door. It sometimes seemed a great
grief to him to be parted from his congregation, and again he was able to leave
it to the Lord. He was only sixty-seven when he died. His last words were, 'My
soul doth magnify the Lord'.
A few months later Catherine, too,
finished her course. In one of her last letters she said, I have felt as to all
my life in this world, I may say, completely overthrown; but not so as regards
our far better life. I have a quiet and peaceful hope that is kept for me and
preserved in Christ Jesus. I am not exactly ill, but brought to such
helplessness that it is appalling to feel', and in another, 'I felt yesterday
the wonderful mercy that it is for me that I am not left to be "like the
deaf adder that stoppeth her ear". I felt I had
been made to hear the voice of the true charmer, even the Lord Jesus, to see
His beauty and to hear the charms of His grace, and I could rejoice in Him and
praise His name, as I hope to do evermore throughout eternity. I cannot tell
you how beautiful the weather has been (November). I can just get out for a
short time and enjoy it much; but all outward things are passing away with me'.
She lingered on until May of 187I, and passed away aged sixty-five.
This left Jane alone. Her niece
Charlotte, Frances's youngest child and only girl,
came and lived with her. The bereavements she had suffered 'sanctified', says
her biographer 'with the blessings that accompanied them, left her more free
and communicative in spirit, more soft, more loving
than before. Experiences long past were evidently revived in her memory with
sweetness. Whenever a renewed sense of the presence of the Spirit and of
communion with Christ was granted her, Jane always appeared to be brought back
to a sight of the sufferings of Him who had been revealed to her as a
"Brother born for adversity". To the end of her long life she seldom
if ever partook of the memorials of His death without emotion, as the silent
tear bore witness. During her latter years she had many sweet seasons of
communion but kept no record of them. It was not always easy to draw her into
spiritual conversation. The well was deep yet a remark from one of a kindred
spirit seldom failed to bring a few words that clearly evidenced the water of
life was there'.
She lived to be eighty-five years
old, and an old resident in Pulverbach remembers seeing, when a child, the old
lady with her white curls sitting at an upstairs window facing south. 'For the
several months preceding her death her state of mind may be described as one of
earnest longing, while her prayerful interest in the friends around her was unabated.
She knew she had a good hope, and it seemed remarkable how the beginning and
the end seemed brought together in her experience'.
Like the Gilpins, Samuel Hughes
came back to the district to die. Through the kindness of some of his friends
he was enabled to return to the little cottage he had built for himself years
before in Crows Nest Dingle [tucked under the brows of the Stiperstones].
His sister, Martha Burgwin, after the death of her
husband, had been persuaded to come to Pulverbach, and lived in a little
thatched cottage [long gone] near the pond, 'Top o' the Town' at Churton. She was friendly with Maria Carswell,
and they loved to talk together on divine things. Her brother came to visit her
and was taken so ill that all thought he would die there. Dr. Richard records
some sweet conversations with him. Samuel recovered sufficiently to return to
his own home. He much enjoyed writing to William Benson, who was by then pastor
of Bernard's Chapel at Hertford, and several of these letters have been preserved.
William had now published The Life and Letters of James Bourne, and Richard
followed with Memorials of the Life and Ministry of Bernard Gilpin, and Samuel
had great encouragement, he says, in reading these. Richard went over the
valley and up the hillside to see him in his last illness. He found him 'able
to converse a good deal; his soul filled with the contemplation of his
approaching end, and truly divinely supported. He loved to look across out of
the window at the sunrise, and once said, "These are some of the beauties
of God in creation, and just then this precious promise spoke to me, "Unto
you that fear My name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in His
wings". "Unto you that fear My name," that is the great point. There is no evidence
of a work of grace in the heart without the holy fear of God. I was a long time
spelling out these things—many years. I knew there was something more in
religion than I had ever found'. But now Samuel had found that something. 'O
for one gale from the everlasting hills!' he said towards the end, and it
seemed as if he truly felt it when he quoted the words, "My flesh and my
heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion for ever". He was sixty-eight years old.
Richard Benson was a true pastor to
his little Church. Frail as he was he visited his congregation, and also held
meetings for conversation, doubtless remembering the savour of the meetings at
Mr. Burrell’s and Mr. Nunn's. Martha Burgwin was the
next member he lost. 'Never till towards the end', he writes, 'did she find the
full manifestation of Christ's salvation that her soul desired. But in January
the year after her brother's death she had a most soul-satisfying assurance of
God's eternal favour to her in Christ and from then to the end of her life she
enjoyed the aboundings of hope with little
intermission. Day after day she would say, "Peace, perfect peace. No
rebuke, no fear. He gently leads me on. If you say anything about me when I am
gone say I am nothing but a poor sinner. The Lord has done all the work. I have
sweet communion with Him, and soon it will never cease".'
Maria Carswell
had lost her husband and son within a few months of each other: she used to say
her husband's blessing, when it came, seemed more to her than all she had
received. She had fifteen years of widowhood in which to experience the Lord's
delivering hand, and greatly esteemed a pension from a Christian society, the
Aged Pilgrims' Friend Society, which saved her from want. Visits to her, said Richard,
were often very refreshing. 'She would affectionately enquire after friends,
and always asked where the subjects for the preaching had been taken from,
wishing to have them read to her. It not unfrequently happened that she had been meditating on the
same or similar subjects, and thus a spring was afforded for conversation. She
would "eat the old store and bring forth the old because of the new".
Her mind was strong and clear to the last, life, love and power being more or
less always manifest in her. She died in December, 1882. "Was she happy?". "Aye!" she replied.'
The meetings at Churton
Cottage grew so much larger that Richard built a small chapel on to the north
side of the house. He also held a Sunday School in the
loft above the stable, and an evening adult school where the parents of some
living now in the village (1961) received all the education they ever had. He
was much beloved. Appreciating his uncle Bernard's
gift for noting down the spiritual confidences of some of his hearers, he, too,
left several such sketches on record. To him we owe the details about Maria Carswell, her husband Edward, Martha Burgwin,
William and Harriet Sankey, of Ponsort
Hill (William was a miner at Snail-beach), Mrs. Adlington,
a game-keeper's wife, who was at first afraid of the 'high doctrines' as she
called them which were preached at Pulverbach but soon became a devoted hearer:
her grief was acute when her family had to move to Shrewsbury through her
husband losing his situation after an accident with a gun blinded one eye. At
that very time the Lord brought George Drayton, a young preacher, out of the
fogs of Methodism and gave him a clearer message than the Methodists wanted,
but one that suited Mrs. Adlington and a few
like-minded folk, so that they gladly attended the tiny room in Shrewsbury that
was all their means could furnish them with. George walked over to Pulverbach
to see Richard, and a bond sprang up between them which only terminated in
George's untimely death by drowning as he crossed the Severn in a rowing-boat.
"These all died in
faith." But the scope of this book cannot take more. The Gilpin family are
all gone, and we are back at the beginning, looking at the family tombstone.
Thinking upon the long conflict in the things of God most of them had and how
each held the beginning of their confidence 'steadfast unto the end', we cannot
do better than close with a quotation from Bernard himself:
'It is only the old battle which we
shall find still to be renewed again and again in different ways and quarters
as long as the Church is militant. It has shown me that it is not a mere
alteration of views, a holding in theory one set of doctrines instead of
another, that is disputed, but that whenever the real truth of grace enters the
heart the enemy, if permitted, will roar again, and fill both hearts and houses
with his havoc.
'Here I have been brought to some
understanding of what Luther vigorously expresses in the following words, taken
out of his Commentary on Genesis: "This Faith is a living and powerful
thing. It is not an idle cogitation floating on the heart like a goose on the
water, but as water, heated by the fire, is no longer cold but hot, and wholly
different from before, so Faith, the work of the Holy Spirit, forms another
mind and other senses, and makes a totally new man. Faith is therefore a
laborious, difficult and powerful thing. And if we would rightly judge of it,
we are more acted upon by it, than act it, because it changes the mind and
senses, and embraces things that are absent, yes, contrary to our reason, and
judges them to be present."