No. 803.

NARRATIVE SERIES.

“My name is Stanley, my ancestors were once respectable, my great-grandfather was a principal officer in the army of the commonwealth; but the family falling to decay, my father took up with the wandering life of the gipsies; among them I was born, and have continued to the present time.  I am now in my eightieth year, and have led a long and wicked life; but there is one thing that troubles me above all the rest.  About forty years ago, in the course of conversation with a brother of mine, I cursed the Almighty to his face!  From that time, sir, I have been a stranger to peace; the recollection of my blasphemy has followed me ever since; I cannot forget it; it haunts me from place to place; alone or in company, it is the same.  I get no rest; my wickedness fills me with horror; I am indeed a monster; often have I tried to remove the impression, but it is impossible.  O, sir, my sin it too heavy for me to bear!  Such has been its influence upon my spirits, that the bare mention of God’s name would bring a trembling upon me, and fill my mind with anguish.  As long as I could, I concealed the cause of my uneasiness, till it became too painful to bear, and I was at length induced, about two years ago, to reveal it to my family; from that time I have earnestly sought for God’s forgiveness, but I still feel his hand heavy.  O might I but be pardoned! I could then die in peace; but, sir, with this burden upon my soul, death will indeed be dreadful.”

Having heard his affecting relation, my friend immediately spoke of Jesus Christ—of his death on the cross for the salvation of sinners, and exhorted him to believe in the Son of God, who died for the sins of the world; assuring him, that there was mercy with God to pardon him; that the divine compassion was like the boundless sea; that the arms of Christ’s mercy were still extended to embrace and welcome all that come to him, even the vilest; that many great sinners had been pardoned upon repentance and were now shining in glory; that there was room still for more, and that if he repented and believed in Christ as the only Saviour, salvation was as free for him as for others.  At these words his countenance brightened; but as speaking had by this time greatly exhausted him, my friend bade him farewell for the present.

The next evening we visited him together; a small tent pitched upon the ground, enclosing room just sufficient for a bed, contained the sufferer.  As we drew near, a young woman of about twenty, in features, dress, and manners every way the gipsy, came forward, and (as is frequently the case with unenlightened relatives) wished us not to introduce the subject of eternity any more.  She said he had felt much more composed in consequence of my friend’s preceding visit, but still she feared if we mentioned the subject then, it would again disturb him; besides he was already much fatigued.  However, on our replying that the tidings we brought were calculated to soothe, instead of disturb, a person in his circumstances, she drew the curtain from the front of the tent, and the object of our attention lay before us, gasping for breath.

I confess I was much struck with the affectionate attention the family appeared to pay to their aged father; however careless of their own persons, they did not neglect him—there was every thing that could be expected under such circumstances—a feather bed, bolster, and pillows, supported the limbs of the dying man—the sheets and pillow-cases were white and clean, and a patchwork counterpane, equally clean, covered him outside.

He immediately noticed us, and though nearly breathless made an effort to speak; he replied to some of my friend’s questions concerning the subjects they had discoursed upon; said that his mind was easier than it had ever been before—that he felt as if a great weight had been lifted off from him.  We asked, “What has been the practice of your past life?”  He replied, “Nothing but sin.”—“What do you deserve at the hands of God?”  “Eternal punishment.”—“Would God be just, if he were to refuse you mercy?”  “O yes!”—“If you should be spared and recover, would you live as you have done?”  “O no! not for the world.”—“What do you now desire? what do you most need?”  “Mercy! mercy!”—“What, if you might be pardoned?”  “O I would give the world to obtain it!”—“Are you then really desirous of pardon, that you may join the redeemed in glory?”  To this he signified his full assent, not indeed in so many words, they were too feeble to convey his meaning; but with eyes and hands uplifted, and a countenance remarkably animated, he seemed at once to collect all the remaining energies of body and spirit to say, “O yes! indeed I am!”  This assent was accompanied with a force of expression, which I apprehend none but a dying man could give to it.

I again stated to him the plan of salvation, through the redemption of Jesus Christ; the necessity of a change of heart to render us meet for heaven; to all which he replied as intelligibly as we could expect from his weak state and previous ignorance, for he could not read a letter.  I then stated to him some of the invitations of divine mercy, as, Isaiah lv. 7, “Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.”  And, Isaiah i. 18, “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as while as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”  John vi. 37, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.”  Matt. vii. 7, 8, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: for every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”  Rev. xxii. 17, “And the Spirit and the bride say, Come.  And let him that heareth say, Come.  And let him that is athirst, come.  And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”  I asked him if they were not sweetly suited to the case of a penitent?  He replied, “O yes!”—“Do they suit your case?”  “O very well!”  By this time he was so much spent, that speaking appeared almost impossible; I therefore kneeled down by him, and endeavoured in a short prayer to plead the promises which are yea and amen in Christ Jesus, on which we are encouraged to hope.  We then left him, and he expressed the sincerest gratitude for our attentions, as did his family also.

As we turned away, my mind was deeply affected with the scene which surrounded us; it was a fine evening in May, the landscape was extensive, and richly diversified with sections of arable and pasture land—the wide common on which we stood was skirted on one side by a continuous range of hills, whose sloping sides exhibited the various shades and hues peculiar to the season, as seen in the fallow ground, the deep foliage of the copse, the corn, the turnip, and the varying grass; while here and there, a lengthened bank of chalk was seen beneath the frowning precipice—in the distance, the parish church raised its neat white spire above the trees—behind these, another range of hills, though more irregular, stretched their encircling arms so as completely to bound the prospect—the sky, with the exception of a few light clouds, was clear and serene, and the whole beautifully tinged with the rays of the selling sun.

Such was the face of nature, which seemed suited in its stillness to the solemn scene we had quitted.  But with man it was far otherwise—a sad contrast now presented itself.  In a retired part of the common, beneath the shade of a few trees, we had just seen a poor fellow-sinner (and we hope a penitent) preparing to enter the presence of his Maker—the soul on wing for flight, trembling, and anxious for the future—here we had trodden the confines of eternity, and seemed to have been breathing the air of death, and holding converse with the spirits of another world; but at no great distance on the same common, hundreds, who had assembled to celebrate the Whitsun holidays, were wasting in giddy sinful mirth that precious time, which the poor man we had just visited would have given the world to recall.  How sad a perversion of the sacred festival appointed for the purpose of commemorating the descent of the Holy Ghost!—that sacred Spirit, against whom this thoughtless rabble were constantly striving, by stifling his voice, and quenching his influence within them!  Thus, thought I, men sin; and thus, as in the agonies of that dying man, they often suffer for it!  But this is not all; he will, we hope, find mercy, many of them perhaps will not—we trust he is a penitent, he has rejoiced to hear of the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world; but who can say that one fourth of that thoughtless crowd will ever repent?  And if not, these visionary joys must be succeeded by real and everlasting misery.  The thought affected me, and I felt thankful for the grace, which I hoped had made me to differ.

The next day our penitent (for so we considered him) was again visited by some of our friends, but was nearly speechless.  He lingered for a few days longer, and then died, we trust in peace, through the infinite mercy of Christ.  We learnt, that for the last twelve years of his life he had been a very altered man; and his family declared that since he had unbosomed his sin and grief, they had often seen him under the hedges in secret, as they thought, praying fervently for mercy.

Reader, we see in the case of this poor man,

First, The force of conscience.

Let it be remembered that this sin was committed in private—his family knew nothing of it—his brother probably did not notice it at the time—there was no man of God at his elbow, to reprove him—no Bible at hand to condemn him—and yet he was never happy afterwards.  What was it, then, which made him thus miserable, and always thus brought his sin to remembrance, but that same conscience, which so many deny, and always affect to despise?  Though there was no recorder upon earth, there was one in heaven: God heard and marked his sin: he it was that roused conscience to its duty, and bid it wring the sinner’s heart; it did so, and the unhappy blasphemer could never afterwards forget the impious expression; it was ever present to his recollection, it followed him like a frightful spectre wherever he went, and peace was a stranger to his bosom.

This it was that clothed death with so much terror: he could not die as his fellows are used to die, in brutal ignorance and stupidity; he was alive to his situation, he saw his danger; he knew that punishment was deserved; conscience, ever pointing to the bar of God, told him to prepare for judgment—and though he knew but little of God’s word and his threatenings against sinners, he could not but fear the worst: it was this that shook his strong nerves, and bowed down his spirits for forty years.  Oh! who can resist an enraged conscience?  “A wounded spirit who can bear?”

Reader, pause for a moment.  You possess a conscience, though perhaps it sleeps, but be assured it will not sleep for ever; it is immortal as the soul, it will surely awake, and that soon, either in time or eternity: convinced of sin you must be, either by the mercy of God in this world, to bring you to repentance; or by his vengeance in the next, “where their worm dieth not, and their fire is not quenched!”  O whenever it speaks, listen to it, it is a friendly voice: do not stifle it, for in stilling conscience we quench the last glimmerings of hope; we commit the last act of violence upon the soul, short of self-murder; and do, as it were, leap down upon the very shelvings of the pit, that mercy’s hand may never reach us.

Secondly.  See here the bitterness of unpardoned sin.

God hath thus spoken by his prophet, (Jer. ii. 19.) “Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backslidings shall reprove thee: know therefore and see that it is an evil thing and bitter, that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of hosts.”  This language was fearfully made out in the case before us: for forty years this man had no rest in his mind; he had committed many sins before, which, like to many lying spirits, had deceived him; but this sin as soon as committed, he felt to lie upon his conscience unforgiven; and from that time forward all his sins, which he once turned as sweet morsels under his tongue, he found to be bitter as gall.  His sufferings for so many years together, may be better conceived than described; wherever he went, whatever he did, he seemed to see the eye of God continually fixed and frowning on him.  Oh! if the pressure of one unpardoned sin upon the conscience, be sufficient to fill the soul with anguish, and render a man wretched through life; what must be his sufferings in the world to come, where all his sins will be brought to remembrance, and made to prey upon his peace for ever!

Reader!  You must sooner or later taste the bitterness of sin.  O that it may be in time to bring you to repentance and salvation!  But know, that if you die unpardoned, you must dwell with devouring flame, and lie down in everlasting burnings.

Thirdly.  Notice signs of penitence.

His views of Christianity were indistinct and confused: this, however, was to be expected from his habits of life.  Up to his eightieth year he had been a fugitive and wanderer upon earth, without the means of grace; and there is reason to think, without ever hearing a sermon in his life.  And had he possessed a Bible, he could not have read it: nothing therefore but profound ignorance could be expected, but then, he exhibited signs of the deepest penitence, and we know who has said, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” (Pa. li. 17.)  Nor was this contrition the mere effect of his dying circumstances; for some years previous he had been an altered man, and had frequently been seen by his family, engaged in prayer by himself under the hedges, and in other retired places.  I have certainly no warrant for positively declaring that he is now happy; nor dare I say he is not; “to his own Master he standeth or falleth”—but when I heard of his death, I could not help, in the judgment of charity tracing he departed spirit to the throne of God.

Reader are you thus penitent?  Have you felt and confessed your sins?  Have you earnestly implored mercy through the atonement of Christ?  Have you forsaken sin?  For remember, he declared as a dying man, that he would not repeat his former practices, nor live as he had done for the universe.  If indeed you have forsaken your unrighteous thoughts and ways, and turned to the Lord through faith in Jesus Christ, he will assuredly receive you, and abundantly pardon.  But know, that if you still allow yourself to sin, and still find sin pleasant, your state is truly awful, you are as sure to die as he was, but not so likely to obtain mercy, for he was penitent but you are not, and “except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.” Luke xiii. 5.

Fourthly.  We are herein reminded of the blessedness and value of the Bible, which reveals a Saviour and the hope of pardon.

It was not any thing of our own, but the truths of the Bible which interested and cheered this dying man.  With eagerness he listened to the doctrines of redemption and mercy through the blood of Christ, and found them exactly suited to his case.

O then how diligently ought we to study the Bible!  Read it, and pray over it; it will conduct thee to the fountain of life and mercy.  Remember, there is no salvation, no pardon, but through that Saviour of whom it speaks, for “there is no other name given under heaven among men, whereby we must be saved.” (Acts iv. 12.)  Mere sorrow for past, sin, prompted by present pain, and dread of the future, forcing a cry for mercy, cannot save us, nor must we trust to it: this man wept and groaned for years but it brought him no relief—nothing effected this but the hope of mercy through the Redeemer.

Sinner, go to Him; and may the divine Spirit seal these truths upon thy heart, through Jesus Christ.  Amen.

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