THE DISASTER
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Interested in the highest degree, with this awakened concern in the youth, my friend had forgotten the situation of one of the horses in the stall near him, and was unconscious of any danger until he felt its effect. By a violent kick which he received in his side, just beneath the ribs, he was thrown on the pavement in the stable, and remained in a state of insensibility for a considerable time, after we had brought him into the house, and placed him on a bed. The alarm given on the first rumour of this disaster, soon reached my ears, and it was some consolation to me in the very afflicting circumstance, that I was present to see him taken up, and very gently carried to his chamber.
As soon as he had recovered from his fainting, I ventured to approach his bedside, and taking him by the hand expressed my great concern for what had happened. "How unfortunate (I exclaimed) is it, that you should have gone to the stable! How sad a thing that you should have stood so near this horse; if one could but have foreseen." "Be patient, my kind friend, I beg of you," he interrupted me, with saying, "and in your affection for me, do not forget the first principles of your holy faith. You are looking wholly to second causes, to the mere instrument, and totally shutting out our gracious God from the government of his own world, and all his tender concern and gracious watching over the persons, and interests of his people! Alas, my dear brother," he continued, "by this method you increase every trouble, and rob yourself of a thousand comforts.
Would you have me to be angry with myself for going into the stable, or displeased with a senseless horse, for acting according to his nature as a horse? As well might we take offence at the winter's cold or summer's heat. Mere instruments are nothing—but as they are acted upon; and what folly it would be to ascribe to them a power with which they have no connection! No, no, my good friend," he continued, "never lose sight of that gracious and Almighty Being, who 'orders all things according to the counsel of his own will,' and then you will discover wisdom, and faithfulness, and love in every providence.
It is not enough," said he, "in my apprehension, merely to acquiesce in the divine will—every true believer in Jesus ought to do more; he should approve of it. It is one thing to say 'The Lord's will be done;' and another to say 'Good is the will of the Lord concerning me;' and this is no more, after all, than what is frequently observed in the common circumstances of the world. If, for example, I see an artist of esteemed excellence in his profession, constructing his machine upon various principles of a complicated nature, though the whole appears to my view intricate and confused, yet I take it for granted that he knows how the several parts will harmonize together, and I yield an implicit obedience to his superior judgment. And shall we so readily ascribe such sagacity to men, and yet venture to question wisdom in the arrangements of God?
"Do my brother," he replied, "do settle this in your mind as an everlasting maxim—Our God, our gracious, covenanted God in Christ, is unremittingly pursuing, in every minute event of his government over his church and people, their real welfare, whether it be through the path of pain or pleasure. If they are exercised with suffering, or even deeply drenched in affliction, it is because there is a needs-before it. Not a single pain or trouble could be dispensed with. It is not sufficient barely to say that the affliction will ultimately do them no harm—this is but a negative kind of approbation. We must say more—It will do them, sooner or later, much good; and so infinitely interesting is the most minute circumstance in their life, that to prevent (were it possible) one trouble, or to add one prosperous event, would derange the whole plan of God's government. Oh, depend upon it, we are under a wise as well as a gracious superintendence! A synod of angels could not add or diminish, without manifest injury.
"With respect to the present providence," he added, "I know not what is the will of my God concerning me—but one thing I know, that 'all the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies,' (Psalm 25:10.) and lifting up his eyes he cried out, "It is my mercy, O dearest Lord, that my times are in your hands! I have long been enabled, by your blessed Spirit's grace, to commit my soul into your keeping. Well may I then leave this body of sin and death to your care!"
My companion had quite exhausted the little strength left him, when he finished these words. I requested him to spare himself. He moved his head as if consenting, and turned his face upon the pillow.
To everyone present, besides my friend, it appeared to be a matter of great uncertainty, for many days together, whether the injury he had sustained would terminate fatally. The surgeon whom I had desired to be called in on the occasion, did not (for indeed he could not) speedily decide upon the question. The contusion was very great from the violence of the blow; and the injury extended far around the regions of the loins; but the surgeon only ventured to speak of it in a general way, as a case which must necessarily be attended with great danger; but however others thought, the patient himself had already formed his opinion; and the event proved that that opinion was justly founded. The period was arrived for his "going down to the house appointed for all living."
For my part, my concern was so great, that I seldom, unless from necessity, left his chamber. He had been a father to me; and I felt all that tender affection for him which a kind father might be supposed to excite in the mind of his son; and indeed independent of all personal attachment, my small services, during his confinement, were abundantly recompensed by the spiritual good that I had gathered from the many precious observations which dropped from his lips—and although I had so highly profited from the great lessons on piety which he had endeavoured to teach me while living—yet in his dying hours he favoured me with the sweetest instructions I had ever received. He had been a kind of candle, burning with much brightness, to enlighten me in the path of grace but, like a candle, the most vivid rays were those which were emitted while expiring in the socket.
The reader will forgive me once more if I pause to remark how exceedingly mistaken, in their calculation of the means of happiness, are the children of the world—who seek it in the various haunts of what is called Pleasure, notwithstanding the constant and uniform experience of thousands, in every age, has determined that it is not there to be found. If my reader will give me credit for the assertion (and I do most solemnly assure him of the fact) never, until the hour of my friend's confinement, when living in his chamber, did I know what that pleasure of the heart is, which arises from all those solemn but infinitely interesting reflections which engage the mind under sorrowful dispensations; such, I mean, as considerations of the solemn government of God—the rich discoveries of the importance of salvation—the littleness of the earthly pursuits—the sweetness of the sympathetic feelings; and, in short, all that train of thought, connected with those ideas which a sick-chamber is so admirably calculated to induce. Circumstances of this kind, no doubt, are solemn; but if solemn, they are only the more congenial to the soul's purest enjoyments. The "countenance may be saddened—but the heart is made better." (Eccles. 7:3.)
But to return. The stable boy before mentioned, in whose spiritual interests my friend was so warmly engaged at the time when this providence visited him, soon manifested the concern in which this affliction had involved him. It would indeed exceed all description to say what were his feelings. Every little portion of time which he could spare from the demands of the stable was employed in running up to the chamber door to enquire after my friend. One trait in his character of this kind was peculiarly affectionate. He was always found, with the first dawn of the morning, watching at the door of the room, in order to gather the earliest information from the people who should first come out, how my friend had passed the night.
Neither had the good man, amid all his pains, forgotten him. He mentioned to me several times, with much pleasure, the hopes which he had conceived of serious impressions forming on the youth's mind, from the conversation which he had with him; and upon being told of the lad's frequent and earnest enquiries after him, it served to confirm him in this opinion the more, and he very much wished to see him. The poor boy was soon introduced; and the interview was truly affecting. After frequent visits, the youth acquired some little confidence; and my friend found many opportunities of instructing him in that wisdom which, under God the Holy Spirit, makes "wise unto salvation."
It was seemingly a long season of uncertainty for the exercise of my mind, in waiting the Lord's will respecting the final outcome of my friend's state. Sometimes my hopes were high, and at others low, according as the symptoms appeared to vary—but having acquired a little portion of that precious lesson in the school of grace, that the Lord's mercies are nearest unfolding, when our expectations of them are nearest closing, I felt, I thought, much sweetness in that scripture, "It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord."
It was in the midst of these exercises the surgeon informed me, that his apprehensions were, that a deadly injury had set in. He had, as usual, in his morning visit, examined my friend's bruised body; and then, for the first time, it was that he discovered the advancing gangrene. Our hopes now were all over. Whether my poor suffering friend, from our looks, or from the whispering of the surgeon, was led to suspect the cause, I know not; but so it was that he anticipated the question, by saying, "I believe, Sir, that you find a mortal injury has taken place—I have been free from pain in the part injured for several hours." The surgeon expressed his hopes that it might not be so; but my friend, with a look of complacency which I shall never forget, replied, "Why would you wish so? It is not the smallest reproach, surely, to men of skill and ability, when the ordination of the Lord baffles all the efforts of medicine; and with respect to my feelings, allow me to assure you, Sir, that it is an event more to be desired, than dreaded. I have long been looking forward to this period as to the happiest moment on earth. Although I have the least cause of all men to be dissatisfied with the pilgrimage of this world (few travellers through it having been more highly favoured) yet I long to be at home in my Father's house, and cannot but rejoice in the pleasing prospect; knowing that when I am 'absent from the body, I shall be present with the Lord.'"
The surgeon expressed much satisfaction in seeing his patient so composed and tranquil, and soon after withdrew. When he was gone, I sat down by his bedside. Taking me by the hand with the warmth of affection which distinguished his character, he thus spoke—"My kind friend and companion, I am going to leave you; but I will say to you as Joseph did to his brethren, 'God will surely visit you.' I have nothing to bestow upon you but my prayers. Had I indeed the wealth of the whole earth, it would not be worth your consideration. The most invaluable legacy I pray the Lord to give you, is what the apostle coveted above all things for himself—"To know Jesus, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings." If the Lord gives you this, possessing it, you possess all things; and 'the God of all grace, who has called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that you have suffered a while, will make you perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle you.'
"With respect to myself," he continued, "and my views concerning the solemn state about to open before me, blessed be God, from the security I possess in him 'who is the resurrection and the life,' I have no fears. I have been enabled again and again, during my confinement on this bed of sickness, to take the most deliberate reviews of the faithfulness of a covenant-God in Christ; and the result of the whole enables me to rejoice in the finished salvation of my God. It is indeed a solemn idea that, in a few hours, I am to appear before 'God, the Judge of all.' But it is my mercy that I am come also to 'Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant.' While therefore I look at him, who is "fellow to the Lord Almighty," I find holy confidence; for I discover in him and his redemption, a full, complete, and all-sufficient righteousness, adequate to every need, and answerable to every demand, to satisfy the law of God.
"Under the influence of this well-grounded persuasion which God the Eternal Spirit (I trust) has graciously wrought in my soul, I have more than once since this illness, been refreshed by the same comfortable promise with which the Lord favoured the Patriarch of old, to encourage him in his journey—'Fear not to go down into Egypt; I will go down with you.' So, methinks, the Lord encourages me; and I know indeed, that Jesus will go down with me to the chambers of the grave. 'He has the keys of hell and the grave—he opens, and no man shuts, he shuts, and no man opens.' Oh, it is a rapturous consideration to my soul, that in all places, and in all states, my Redeemer is with me.
The covenant holds as firm as ever in the grave; and death, which dissolves all other bonds, frees not the bonds of the everlasting covenant. Our union, my brother," he proceeded, "with our great mystical Head, is as perfect when in the dust of the grave as when that dust is animated in the body. When Jesus from the bush proclaimed himself the 'God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob,' this blessed distinction of character was carefully marked and preserved—'God is not the God of the dead—but of the living; for all live unto him.'
"Those patriarchs, though mouldered at that time for many years into dust, were still as much living to God, in all the purposes of covenant connections, in their dust, as when in an animated body; and hence the apostle observes, 'Whether we live, we live to the Lord; or whether we die, we die to the Lord—whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's.'"
My friend paused a moment to recover strength, and then proceeded—"This body of mine, my dear brother, will very shortly be fit only for worms and corruption; and when in this state the tenderest hearted friend, the fondest lover, would say of such a carcass, however engaging before it might have been, as Abraham did of Sarah, 'Bury my dead out of my sight.' But as these sensations are not his with whom we have to do; as Jesus never set his affection at first upon his people for the loveliness of their persons; so neither does that affection lessen when their loveliness is turned into corruption. Neither is their union with his person, even for a moment only, interrupted by death; for as the divine and human nature of the Lord Jesus received not the smallest separation when he died upon the cross, so of that union between Jesus and the members of his mystical body, there is no dissolution when their bodies are gathered unto their fathers, and they see corruption; for their souls are received into his bosom; and with respect to their bodies also, they still live to him. 'Because I live,' says Jesus, 'you live also.' Every particle of their dust, is the same to their great spiritual head, when dust, as before that change; for as the union in Jesus with their whole persons, that is, their bodies as well as their souls, is indissoluble, it is evident that the same must continue with the dust of their bodies.
And hence when Jesus says, 'Fear not to go down into the grave, I will go with you," it explains in what a tender and consoling sense we are to understand this; and indeed, as in death so in the resurrection, the certainty of this glorious event arises from the same consideration; 'for if,' says the Apostle, 'the Spirit of him who raised up Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwells in you.' (Rom. 8:11.) And thus the resurrection of the just is certified to them, not simply by the power of God—but from the indwelling residence of the same Spirit of God, by which they are first awakened in grace to a new and spiritual life, and then finally quickened to eternal glory, by virtue of their union to the person of Jesus, from the operations of the Holy Spirit."
My friend would have proceeded—but his strength did not admit of it. He took occasion, however, at every interval possible, to say something suited to the circumstances of a dying saint. The poor stable-boy was indulged by his master to spend much of his time in the sick chamber; and the many precious sayings, which fell from my friend by way of caution, encouragement, advice, and entreaty, became truly edifying and refreshing both to him and to every attendant around.
It would swell the history of my pilgrimage to a large volume indeed, were the whole of the circumstances which attended my friend's departure to be written down in it. The reader will excuse the omission I hope, and rest satisfied without any further enumeration of particulars, than just to observe, that he continued to the last moment in the perfect enjoyment of his senses and the divine consolation. He sunk gradually; and as he fell lower and lower, the words which he uttered evidently proved that his views of the glory about to open upon him were fuller and brighter. I sat by him with his hand clasped in mine when he died. The last words on his trembling lips were, "Dear Lord!"
I buried him without pomp, and without any mourners but the poor stable-boy and myself, in a vacant corner of the parochial graveyard.
The youth returned with me to the inn, where we took an affectionate leave of each other. I could only say, "May he who has, I trust, begun a good work in you, perform it until the day of Jesus Christ!"
On the morrow, having paid all expenses incurred at the inn, I left it without regret. The time was now arrived when a reverse of situation was to take place in the circumstances of my pilgrimage. Hitherto I had met with little else but "joy and peace in believing." Some few natural fears and apprehensions, arising from the remains of unbelief, had now and then it is true arisen in my mind but the Lord had so graciously over-ruled them, that they generally ended in my stronger assurance.
I have been often led since to reflect, with peculiar pleasure, on the wisdom, as well as the mercy, of that process of grace through which the Lord is leading his people. Like Israel of old, in their emancipation from Egypt, of whom it is said that "God led them not through the land of the Philistines, although that was near, lest when they should see war, their minds should be tempted to return; but God led the people about through the way of the wilderness." (Exodus 13:17.)
Similar to this now is the first opening of the spiritual path; the difficulties and discouragements are by no means like those which believers meet in the after-stages of their pilgrimage. Thousands there are who, like Israel, have sung the song of triumph, as they did at the Red Sea, when a forty years travelling through a dreary wilderness lay still between them and Canaan; and many, no doubt, like Israel too, afterwards, in the midst of some heavy unlooked-for trial, have been prompted to exclaim in the bitterness of their soul, "Is the Lord among us or not?"
The reader will indulge me again to pause over this remark, and ask him if his experience has nothing of a correspondence with it? I am persuaded the case is very general. The gracious leader of his little flock, who feeds them, as it is said, like a shepherd, "gathers the lambs with his arms, and carries them in his bosom; and gently leads those that are with young." He always suits the strength to the day—he proportions the burden to the back. Hence the earliest manifestations of divine love are generally the most pleasing, and, according to our conception of things, in that period the most powerful. It is in grace as it is in nature, first impressions are most affecting.
When the eye of the body, suddenly emerges from darkness into light, the transition is most strongly felt; and in like manner, when the eye of the soul is first opened to see the wondrous things of God's law, the effect is proportion ably greater than when accustomed to their view. I could wish the reader of long experience would consider this more than I am persuaded is generally done, and mark it down in the diary of his pilgrimage. These things formed many hard problems in David's life, until frequent experiments, aided by frequent visits to the sanctuary, explained them. It was not in the first trials that he adopted that sentiment, "I know that you in faithfulness have afflicted me." (Psalm 119:75.) It becomes a very blessed proof of advances in grace, when the tried soul can use such language.
But to return.—The season was come when my trials were to be given me; and for the better opportunity of trial, all human aid was to be first withdrawn, that, like the pelican in the wilderness, being solitary, Jesus might be my sole resource. My faithful friend and companion, the Lord had removed out of my sight. He had sent the worm to destroy this highly prized gourd; and now the storm began.
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