MR. WILTON’S BIBLE CLASS.

The book of Nature is my Bible. I agree with old Cicero: I count Nature the best guide, and follow her as if she were a god, and wish for no other.”

These were the words of Mr. Hume, an infidel, spoken in the village store. It was Monday evening. By some strange freak, or led by a divine impulse, he had determined, the previous Sunday afternoon, to go to church and hear what the minister had to say. So the Christian people were all surprised to see Mr. Hume walk into their assembly—a thing which had not been seen before in a twelvemonth. Mr. Hume did not shun the church from a dislike of the minister. He believed Mr. Wilton to be a good man, and he knew him to be kind and earnest, well instructed in every kind of knowledge and mighty in the Scriptures. He kept aloof because he hated the Bible. He had been instructed in the Scriptures when a boy, and many Bible truths still clung to his memory which he would have been glad to banish. He could not forget those stirring words which have come down to us from the Lord Jesus, and from prophets and apostles, and they sorely troubled his conscience. He counted the Bible an enemy, and determined that he would not believe it.

At that time there was an increasing religious interest in the church. Mr. Wilton had seen many an eye grow tearful as he unfolded the love of Christ and urged upon his hearers the claims of the exalted Redeemer. He found an increasing readiness to listen when he talked with the young people of his congregation. The prayer-meetings were filling up, and becoming more interesting and solemn. The impenitent dropped in to these meetings more frequently than was their wont. Mr. Wilton himself felt the power of Christ coming upon him and girding him as if for some great spiritual conflict. His heart was filled with an unspeakable yearning to see sinners converted and Christ glorified. He seemed to himself to work without fatigue. His sermons came to him as if by inspiration of the Holy Spirit. He felt a new sense of his call from God to preach the gospel to men, and spoke as an ambassador of Christ, praying men tenderly, persuadingly, to be reconciled to God, yet as one that has a right to speak, and the authority to announce to man the conditions of salvation.

A few of the spiritual-minded saw this little cloud rising, but the people in general knew nothing of it. Least of all did Mr. Hume suspect such an undercurrent of religious interest; yet for some reason, he hardly knew what, he felt inclined to go to church.

That afternoon the preacher spoke as if his soul were awed, yet lifted to heavenly heights, by the presence of God and Christ. Reading as his text the words, “Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself” (Ps. l. 21), he showed, first, the false notions which men form of God, and then unfolded, with great power and pungency, the Scripture revelation of the one infinite, personal, living, holy, just, and gracious Jehovah. This was the very theme which Mr. Hume wished most of all not to hear. That very name, Jehovah, of all the names applied to God, was most disagreeable; it suggested the idea of the living God who manifested himself in olden time and wrought wonders before the eyes of men. But the infidel, with his active mind, could not help listening, nor could he loosen his conscience from the grasp of the truth. Yet he could fight against it, and this he did, determined that he would not believe in such a God—a God who held him accountable, and would bring him into judgment in the last great day. In this state of mind he dropped into Deacon Gregory’s store.

Deacon Gregory was accustomed to obey Paul’s injunction to Timothy: “Be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long suffering and doctrine.” Having taken Mr. Hume’s orders for groceries, he said, “I was glad to see you at church yesterday, Mr. Hume. How were you interested in the sermon?”

“I like Mr. Wilton,” answered Mr. Hume; “I think him a very earnest and good man.”

“But were you not interested and pleased with the discourse? It seems to me that I shall never lose the impression of God’s existence and character which that discourse made upon me. I almost felt that Mr. Wilton spoke from inspiration.”

“I suppose he was inspired just as much as the writers of that book which men call ‘the Bible.’”

“But can you wholly get rid of the conviction that the Bible is the word of God, written by holy men inspired by the Holy Spirit?”

“You know, Deacon Gregory, that I do not believe what you profess to believe. The book of Nature is my Bible. I agree with old Cicero: I count Nature the best guide, and follow her as if she were a god, and wish no other.”

Deacon Gregory had never read Cicero, and of course did not attempt to show, as he might otherwise have done, that Cicero did not mean to deny the existence of a living, personal God, who governs the world.

“But,” said he, “does not the book of Nature—your Bible, as you call it—have something to say of God? Does it not speak of an infinitely wise and good Creator and Governor? Do not the works of Nature tell of the same God whose being and character were preached to us yesterday from the Holy Scriptures?”“Nature has never spoken to me of any God except herself. What need is there of a creator? Who can prove that the universe did not exist from eternity? Nature has her laws of development, and under those laws all the operations of nature go on. You had better read Darwin. If one must find the character of God in nature, he may as well picture an evil creator and governor as one that is good and righteous. Does Nature punish those whom you call the wicked? Does Nature reward the righteous? Do not the laws of Nature bring suffering to the good and the bad alike, and happiness also to all classes of men? Would you, if you had power, create a world like this—a world in which danger, pain, and death, in every shape, lie in ambush against its inhabitants every hour of their poor existence? But I must go.” Pausing a moment, however, as if reluctant to go, with a voice sad and almost tremulous, which revealed a great deal more of his heart than he designed to express, he added: “God knows, deacon, if there be a God, how I wish I knew the truth about these matters. The world and myself are to me great and dreadful mysteries.”

“‘He that will do his will shall know of the doctrine,’” answered Deacon Gregory; and inviting him to come to church again, they separated.

This conversation with the pious deacon, though he had himself done most of the talking and had his say almost unopposed, did not tend at all to bring rest to Mr. Hume’s conscience. He saw that the deacon’s faith in God did for him more than belief in Nature and worship at the altar of Science could do for unbelievers. He felt also that he had spoken a little too freely, especially in revealing, at the last, his unrest of spirit from the want of fixed convictions in regard to religious truth. Deacon Gregory, by the sincerity and manliness of his address, was accustomed to draw out the hearts of men so that they expressed them more freely than they designed.

Upon a bench in a shaded corner of the store sat a lad of sixteen or seventeen years, unnoticed for the time being by either Mr. Hume or Deacon Gregory. His name was Ansel, and he was the son of the senior deacon of the church. He was in the village academy, and had there been nearly fitted for college. He stood at the head of his class, and, with his sharp intelligence, his impetuous energy, and high ambition, every one was predicting for him a distinguished life. He had grown up thus far in the bosom of a family where piety was no pretence. Earnest prayer had gone up for him by day and by night. He had been well trained in the Sunday-school, and for a year had been a member of the small class of young men taught by Mr. Wilton. He had always shown a ready interest in all Bible studies and a quick understanding of Scripture doctrine, so that some thought him not far from the kingdom of God. But Deacon Arnold little thought what was in the heart of his son. He might have known, for to read his son’s heart he had only to recall his own early manhood. For years he had hung trembling upon the brink of ruin, swept, at times, by his self-will and turbulent youthful passions, to the very verge of the precipice, and had been preserved only by singular grace from falling over. Now Ansel was following in his father’s early footsteps—self-willed, and stubborn against the Spirit of God, and, at times, almost persuaded to cast off all religious restraint, that he might carve out his worldly fortunes untrammeled by religious or conscientious scruples. He had rarely heard infidel sentiments expressed, but the little that he had heard had attracted him, and had encouraged him to give loose reins to his own unbelieving disposition. It had not escaped his notice that the two or three men whom he had heard spoken of as infidels were among the most respectable and shrewdest business-men in the village. The idea, moreover, of rejecting all authoritative doctrine, and believing whatever should please him, carried with it so free and independent an air, and harmonized so well with his natural disposition, that he easily drifted in the direction of unbelief.

Sitting this evening unobserved, he drank in every word which Mr. Hume uttered. Some of the notions thrown out were quite new to him. “The book of Nature my Bible”—“Nature reveals no God but her own laws”—“No proof that the matter of the universe has not existed from eternity uncreated”—“Nature has her laws of development”—“No need of a God to govern the world,”—these were seed-thoughts in Ansel’s mind. He had before thought of the only alternative to be set over against belief in the sacred Scriptures as simply unbelief—bare, blank denial of their truth. He had not dreamed of building up a set of proud, rationalistic notions, and denying the truths of religion in the character of a young philosopher. He kept his thoughts to himself, and turned them over and over in his mind during the week, and when again he met his pastor in the Bible class his head was full of his new notions. The lesson went on, however, and closed as usual. It so happened that this was the last in a series of lessons upon the Gospel of John. It was necessary, therefore, that another course of lessons should be decided upon.

Mr. Wilton proposed the question to the class: “What shall be our next course of lessons? Would you like to study one of the Epistles—the Epistle to the Romans or that to the Hebrews?” And he briefly stated the subject discussed in these Epistles of Paul. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you would prefer to study one of the historic books of the Old Testament?” The class had no opinion. They wavered between an Epistle and a historic book and topical lessons which should confine them to no one book of the Bible. Then Ansel spoke up:

“Mr. Wilton, why can we not study something which we know to be true?”

Ansel meant to be very cautious as well as very respectful, and did not design to commit himself by suggesting his own thoughts. He was respectful, but in the confusion of the moment he had brought out the very thoughts which he meant to conceal.

Mr. Wilton was startled, though he did not fully understand the drift of Ansel’s question.

“What do you mean, Ansel?” he asked; “do you think Genesis less trustworthy than the Epistle of Paul?”

Ansel saw that he had committed himself and must now make the best of his situation. He therefore answered cautiously:

“Some persons, I have heard said, do not believe the Bible to be inspired, and they say that we have no evidence that it is true.”

“What have you been reading, Ansel, that has put such thoughts into your mind?”

“I have never read a book that said anything against the Bible.”

“But what did you mean? Do you wish to study the evidences of the truth and inspiration of the Holy Scriptures?”

“I should indeed like a course of lessons upon that subject, but that was not quite what I was thinking of.”“What book can you find which is true if the Bible is not true?”

“I do not know, sir, but I heard Mr. Hume say that the book of Nature is his Bible, and that we do not need any other, and that, whether the Bible be true or not, we know that the teachings of Nature must be true.”

“But we should find,” said Mr. Wilton, “that the teachings of Nature and the Bible would perfectly agree. Did Mr. Hume say that what he calls ‘The book of Nature’ contradicts the sacred Scriptures?”

Now that Ansel could give the thoughts which filled his mind, not as his own, but as Mr. Hume’s, he showed no farther hesitation in speaking.

“Yes, sir,” he answered; “he said that Nature teaches us that there is no God, because there is no need of any. He said that we cannot prove that God created the universe, but that matter has existed from eternity uncreated, and that all the changes in nature go on by certain laws of development, and that a certain Mr. Darwin had written a book and proved this.”

The reader will notice that in the report of Mr. Hume’s language the scholar went somewhat farther than his master had done. Mr. Wilton was well acquainted with the present shape of scientific infidelity, and saw that Ansel’s statements were somewhat exaggerated, but he understood in a moment the drift of Ansel’s thoughts, though he could not tell as yet how deep and fixed an impression had been made upon his mind. But he did not care to probe Ansel’s conscience just then and there, in order to learn the exact state of the case.

“If I understand you, then,” he said, “you would like a course of lessons in the teachings of Nature?”

“Of course, I did not suppose that you would allow us to have a course of lessons in the works of Nature instead of the Bible.”

“But if I were willing to give you a course of lessons showing the footprints of the Creator, so to speak, in the physical world, how would it please you?”

“I should like it very much.”

“How would such a plan please the other members of the class?”

The idea was entirely new; no one of them had ever dreamed of studying in a Bible class anything except the Bible; but young people are not averse to novelties, and they readily gave their assent. Yet I should do the class injustice by leaving the impression that they were influenced simply by the love of something new. They were of just that age when one hardly knows whether to call them lads or young men; they had been well instructed, and were just beginning to think independently. They were rapidly becoming conscious of their own mental power, and were eager to try their strength upon every line of thought. Their own weakness they had hardly begun to learn. Perhaps they were all the more ready to undertake such a course of study because they knew nothing of the difficulties attending it.

The tinkling of the superintendent’s bell warned them to close their conversation.

“We have not time to-day,” said Mr. Wilton, “to fix on the particular line of study which we shall follow. Of course we cannot examine all the works of Nature, and study every science, and trace the footprints of the Creator in every place where he has walked; we must fix on some small part of the works of God, and direct our attention closely to that. We shall find this course more profitable than roaming carelessly over a much larger space. Our next lesson will have to be a general one—a kind of preface to what shall come after. In the mean while, you can be collecting your thoughts upon the subject, and calling to mind anything that you have read bearing upon the handiwork of God manifest in Nature.”

The school closed, and as the scholars pass out let me introduce to you the members of the pastor’s class. This class was small for several reasons. The church to which Mr. Wilton preached was not the popular church. The fashionable people and all who loved popularity and drifted with the tide went to another church. Careless, thoughtless young people naturally went with the crowd, and of those who attended his church some did not care to join his class. He was too much in earnest to please them. He made religion a reality, and his instruction compelled them to think, and of course those who did not like to think were not well pleased with him. But there were a few of the young men who were greatly interested in his instructions. They were earnest readers of instructive books; they liked conversation which called out thought; they were most of all pleased with questions and themes which gave them new ideas. Indeed, in the community, there were two classes of persons who held Mr. Wilton in the highest esteem and regard: one of these was composed of men and women of earnest, intelligent piety, experienced Christians; the other, of those who were not Christians, but who respected sincerity and disinterested godliness, and liked sermons filled with meat and marrow.

Thus, at the present time, we find his class composed of but three young men. With Ansel you are already acquainted. The second is Peter Thornton, the son of a master-carpenter. He was frank, outspoken, quick in the acquisition of almost every kind of knowledge, but very little given to silent reflection. He listened to his pastor’s instruction as he would go to a well-filled library, to draw out its stores of information. Morals and moralizing he did not like. He was not pious, and gave no indication of serious impressions. The third was Samuel Ledyard, the son of a poor widow. By painful industry and economy his pious mother was giving him the best advantages for education which the village afforded, praying the Lord to give him a part in the blessed work of preaching the gospel and winning sinners to Christ and salvation. When but twelve years of age he gave himself to Christ, and had been trying faithfully to follow his Lord. The long winter evenings were spent in reading books of history and science—books fitted to furnish and strengthen his mind—and long ere the light dimmed the morning star he was poring over his Bible, alternately reading the word and praying that his mind might be opened to understand the truth in its beauty and greatness, and that the truth might be wrought in him by vital experiences.

With such habits it was no wonder that he grew in grace—it was no wonder that he grew in all manly qualities. He was silent, meditative, and retiring, as gentle in his ways as a quiet girl, yet all who knew him recognized in him a singular weight and worth of character. Those to whom the Lord revealed his secrets began to say that Samuel was appointed of God to preach the gospel, and his mother felt the assurance growing strong in her heart that her prayer was granted, and that the Lord was preparing her only son and only child for a place in the gospel ministry. If only she might train up a son to such a work, and when she should go to her rest leave in her place a man working for Christ in his harvest-field, gathering sheaves unto everlasting life, she felt that her cup would be full. She was ready to say with Simeon: “Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.” How unlike she was to those mothers who lay all hindrances in the way of their sons entering the work of the Christian ministry, willing that they should do anything but this! and how different from those who declare that their daughters shall never wed ministers of the gospel, teaching them to despise the service of a pastor’s wife! How often God gives over such sons and daughters—children consecrated from their birth to worldliness—to be entangled and lost in worldly snares! As such mothers sow, thus also do they reap.

These were the three lads, just growing into young manhood, at this time under the instruction of Mr. Wilton. He was not ashamed of his class, though it was small. As he saw them expanding in thought and taking shape under his hand, he felt that in them he was perpetuating his influence in coming generations. He believed that in one or more of them he should preach the gospel after his body was sleeping in the earth awaiting the resurrection.

I trust the kind reader will be interested in following the course of study through which their pastor shall lead them.