- Reprinted from the Gospel Standard with the permission of Mr. J. K. Popham, Editor.
“The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death.”—PROV. xiv. 32.
THE following circumstance occurred during the month of October, 1858, and is, to the best of the writer’s memory, faithfully related. It appears to him a true, yet solemn illustration of the scripture quoted above.
Speaking of the experience under Ps. cxvi. 3: “The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell gat hold upon me: I found trouble and sorrow,” I named the power with which Satan is permitted at times to impose on the senses. One individual present spoke to me after, saying he knew by painful experience the truth of the remarks on this matter. He took occasion to inform me of a woman, the wife of a publican living near his house, who was considered by her family, the doctor, and parish clergyman, to be quite out of her mind—“perfectly insane”—and past knowing any one or anything. From things connected with her, which he named, he judged her case to be simply that of sound conviction of sin, and the guilt of it charged upon the conscience. These, in connection with the fearful power of Satan to induce despair, were the real occasion of her dreadful position. His relation begat in my mind a strong desire to see this poor creature; and I purposed, if Providence favoured me, to attempt to do so.
Three weeks after this, 17th October, the same person spoke to me again of the poor woman, which increased my desire to visit her; and going that evening to preach within two miles of her residence, the strength of my desires increased. Many difficulties presented themselves to my mind. However, I believed God could remove them all, if it was His will I should see her. This will I wished to know as I rode along. At length I determined in myself, if the next morning was fine (for it was then wet, and had been for some time), and my mind still led that way, I would go. The morning was fine, and the desire of my mind in no measure diminished. I went, and tying the horse to a gate, entered a friend’s house, and told him the object of my coming. He said, “I think it will be of no use; for she is quite out of her mind, and has taken notice of no one these four weeks. Besides, I do not believe they will let you see her.” To which I answered, “I shall try, at all events.”
Accordingly I went into the public-house, and seeing the husband of the sick woman in the bar, I told him why I came in, viz., from a desire to see his wife. He said, “It is of no use; she is quite deranged, and has noticed no one for this last month.” I answered, “I understand such is considered to be her state, but have an impression it is not so, but that it is soul trouble; and therefore I should like to see her;” adding, “Of course, it is for you to say yes, or no.” His niece coming in at this juncture, he asked her what she thought of my seeing her aunt. She agreed with him, adding, “It would only harrow up her feelings, and the clergyman decidedly pronounced her to be perfectly insane.” I replied as before, “I should like to see her.” “Well,” the niece said, “I will call the nurse to you.” The nurse came, who fully agreed with the husband and niece, adding, “Had you come a month ago it would have been of use, but now she is too far gone.” To her I said, “I should like to see her, but cannot force myself” (feeling confident that if it was God’s will I should see her, He could and would make a way). She then said, “Her own sister is with her, and she ought to decide if you see her or not. I will go and speak to her.” The nurse then left the room, and soon returned with the sister. All concluded it would be of no use for me to see the invalid. I said, “Of course, you must say yes, or no. I cannot force myself; but I should like to see her.” The sister replied, “We will go upstairs, and see.” The nurse, who had left the room with her, soon returned, and told me I was to see her, and as we ascended the stairs, said, “You may expect to be ordered out of the room as soon as you show yourself.” I replied, “I am prepared for all that.”
The sister met me at the door of the sick chamber, and introduced me to the invalid by saying, “Here is a gentleman kindly come to speak to you, sister.” The invalid looked, and beckoned me out of the room with her hand, saying, “Go away! go out of the room!” I kept walking towards her bedside, while she with increasing vehemence kept ordering me out. Finding I did not go, she closed her eyes and was silent. I then addressed her: “You are in a low place, ma’am.” “GO AWAY! I can bear nothing,” again closing her eyes. After a pause I again spoke, “Your soul is lost, is it not?” With an eager and anxious expression, she said, “Yes, it is.” I asked, “Are you sure of that?” “Yes, quite sure! I am lost! I am gone!” “How long have you felt this to be your case?” “Oh, for the last month. I have had nothing but death, and destruction, and the place (meaning hell) before me. I can smell it, I can smell it,” accompanied with an expression I shall not soon forget. I said, “I am not so sure you are going there; for I read in my Bible that Jesus Christ came into the world to seek and to save that which was lost.” “Not me,” she replied, “not me! I am lost! I am gone! I haven’t a minute to live!” I replied, “Thousands live and die without ever feeling their lost estate as you do, and drop into hell: but all who win heaven feel more or less they are lost, as you do.” “Ah, not me! not me!” I added, “God says, ‘I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy,’ and if He will have mercy on you He will. My opinion is that Jesus has to do with you.” “No,” she replied, “the Lord Jesus will have nothing to do with me. I am sure I am lost, I am gone! and I haven’t a minute to live,” laying, as she generally did, great emphasis on the last sentence. I said, “O, as for that, God can make short work of it with you, as He did with the thief, who did not feel his lost estate until death had begun its work on his body; and he cried, and got the blessing in his last moments. Nor did he obtain it for his good works either; for it is very evident he got his living by thieving, and was hung for his misdeeds at last.” “Ah!” she replied, “that is what I have been at all my days. He will have nothing to do with me, I am sure. I have committed the unpardonable sin!” (giving a scrutinising glance, as much as to say, “What will you say to that?”). I replied, “If you have committed that sin, it is all over with you; for there is no forgiveness for that in this world, nor in the world to come.” “OH! I AM LOST! I AM GONE! I HAVEN’T A MINUTE TO LIVE!” she agonisingly replied.
I asked, “What did you do when you committed that sin?” She was evidently surprised at the question, and after a pause said, “I do not know.” “No,” I replied, “I do not think you do.” “But,” she quickly rejoined, “I have done it! I have done it! and I am gone!” “Well, if you have sinned that sin,” I proceeded, “I can tell you what is with you. You have nothing in your heart but wrath, malice, and hatred against God, Christ, the Bible, and His people.” With a look and manner most steadfast and firm, she replied, “All that is with me!” “And more than that,” I continued, “if you have indeed committed that sin, and Jesus Christ were to come to you with a full and free pardon for all your sins, and present it to you—if you have indeed committed that sin, you would reject it with all the malice and rage imaginable.” Her manner and reply, I think, will not easily be forgotten by me. Lifting up her poor hands, and striking them down upon the bed-clothes, she answered with intense feeling, “Oh, would I though? Wouldn’t I be glad to get it! wouldn’t I be glad to have it!” “Ah!” I replied, “I thought such was the state of things. There is hope in Israel concerning you, though you cannot entertain a hope for yourself.” “No, not me, not me!” reiterating her oft-repeated tale, “I am lost, I am gone, and haven’t a minute to live!”
I asked, “Do you ever feel inclined to pray, and to cry to God for mercy?” “No,” she replied, “I do not pray! I cannot pray!” I said, “I think you do.” “Oh, no, not me!” was her answer. “To my mind your speech betrays you,” I replied, “for you just now said, ‘Would not I be glad of a pardon?’ and if you can welcome a free pardon you must feel your need of it; and if so, you must desire it; and that desire is the very substance of prayer; although by reason of your sins, guilt, darkness, and Satan’s temptations, you cannot perceive it.” “Oh, no, it is not me!” she again cried, “I am gone, I am lost, I never pray!”
The sister and nurse told me after that for months her cries for mercy were almost constant, and her distress great. I may add here that this conversation was often interrupted by the sister and nurse (both of whom were present), in giving frequent expression to their great astonishment at her rationality, and as repeatedly affirming she had not spoken so to anyone for a month.
I then said, “Shall we try and pray?” “Yes,” she quickly rejoined, “do.” I bowed my knees by her bedside with the others also; and feeling in the exercise to plead and argue the case before the Lord, was led out to rather a lengthened prayer. When I ceased, and almost erewhile the sound of the last word died away, she looked up, saying, “I did not hear you.” I replied, “I think you did.” “No, I did not. I was asleep; wasn’t I asleep? Did not you see me asleep?”* “No, I did not,” I replied. “You must pray again,” she eagerly added, when her sister interrupted by checking her. While her sister was talking, I cast my eyes on a Bible, which I had looked for in vain before. Reaching it, and turning to the 38th Psalm, I said, “I have here a Psalm of David, the man after God’s own heart, in which he beseeches God to have compassion on his pitiful case, which was very much like yours; as perhaps you will see if I read it.” She instantly replied, “No, not me, not me!” I began to read, and was struck at the similarity of some of her expressions to those of the Psalm, and could not forbear remarking from time to time, “David and you talk very much alike, at any rate.” “No, not me, not me!” was her constant reply, still putting everything away from her.
I then read steadily through the Psalm; and while doing so she suddenly roused up, calling to her sister and the nurse to raise her up in bed. We raised her. She closed her eyes, evidently spent by the exertion. At length, looking up and raising her hands, she said, “Now I begin to see.” I said, “What do you see?” “I see,” she replied, “that David was as bad as I.” “Yes,” I said, “quite as bad, and perhaps a little worse (though your case is very bad); for in another Psalm he cries out, ‘O Lord, let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.’ And Jonah cried, ‘out of the belly of hell.'” Jeremiah’s, Hezekiah’s, and others’ cases also I named to her, and that God delivered each. “Oh,” she said, “you must pray again; and you must not leave me. I haven’t a minute to live, and I cannot let you go.” She pleaded so eloquently and powerfully that I felt myself in a fix. At length I said, “If I could do you any good by staying with you, I would do so; but I cannot, nor all the good men in the world and angels together. None but God can do for you what you want done, and I am of opinion He will.” She began to urge me again, saying, “I cannot let you go;” to which I said, “I am expected at Brighton to-night, and therefore must go; but I shall be this way on Friday or Saturday next, when (D.V.) I will see you again.” “Will you?” she eagerly replied, “will you come and see me again?” “Yes, certainly,” I replied, “if spared.” “But there,” she said again, “I haven’t a minute to live. Do you think I have a minute to live?” “Yes,” I answered, “I see no signs of death about you, to indicate you will not live till then.” “You must pray again before you go,” she said. As I fell on my knees again she clasped her hands, and when I ceased she added a hearty “Amen.” She repeatedly reminded me of my promise to see her again, only interrupted by such expressions of gratitude as I never remember to have heard.
So I left her, and on going downstairs the nurse told me that the clergyman who for some time visited her gave up going, saying that the last time he saw her “she was perfectly insane, and knew no one, nor understood anything that was read or said to her.”
I returned to the friend’s house where I left the horse, and related to him and his wife the substance of the above. While doing so, the tears rolled down the face of the latter, and she exclaimed, “I was sure no one had seen her that understood her case, and I had earnestly desired the Lord to send some one to see her who did.” Thus her desire was granted, as was the friend’s who first named the case to me. His sister also told me they had both been led to entreat the Lord to incline me to go and see the poor woman, though neither expressed a wish even that I would go. I am now glad they did not, the hand of God appearing thereby the more conspicuous.
I returned home, and the poor woman with me: she lay heavy on my mind, and close too. On my way home I turned into a house of prayer, where a few friends met that evening (Pavilion Chapel, Brighton). Mr. S. Sears officiated. I was called upon to speak in prayer; and finding the poor, dear woman pressing on my mind, I spread her case before the Lord and the people thus: “Lord, be pleased to appear for the poor woman I saw to-day, who is near her end, and is feeling in the gulf of despair.” Mr. Sears commented on the 23rd Psalm, and concluded with prayer, when he took up her case in a remarkable manner. To me he appeared to have his mouth so filled with arguments on her behalf I could only drop my head and weep before the Lord. This circumstance of Mr. Sears’ prayer was noticed by several persons present that evening.
During the interval until Friday I was at times fain to follow Jehoshaphat’s example, and set the musicians and singers before to praise the Lord; and anon hope and confidence were nearly gone. I enquired of the friend who came with his cart on Friday evening to meet me, whether the poor woman was alive. He told me the last he had heard was she was just alive at two o’clock, and that was all. We reached the house a little after ten. When I entered the door, the sister asked me to go upstairs, adding that her sister was much altered, past speaking, and knew no one. I enquired if she thought her sister would last till the morning. She said, “No, we think not.” When I entered the room where the poor woman lay, her eyes met mine; she fixed them on mine as I walked to the bedside. I took her hand, saying, “Is Christ precious to you? Has He appeared for your relief?” She gazed steadfastly upon me for a while as I waited for her reply. Then, casting her eyes round the ceiling, fixed them again on me for a time, then closed them, saying nothing. Her sister spoke, “She does not know you, sir, nor what you say.” The dying woman looked at her sister, and then at me, beckoning me towards her with her finger. I again took her hand, asking the same questions; and, if she could, urged her to tell me if she was unhappy. She then appeared to put forth all her remaining strength to speak, but only uttered an indistinct moan, and closing her eyes, did not look up again. I judged her to have been conscious.
The next morning I was favoured with sweet and solemn moments in prayer to God. This was near the time of her departure. She died about seven o’clock on Saturday morning, 23rd October, 1859. I called at the house in the course of the morning to enquire more particularly respecting the deceased. Finding her husband and sister in the parlour when I entered, I said to him, “So your poor wife is gone.” “Yes, sir,” he replied. “Gone home,” I added, “to a happy home, I trust.” He immediately burst into tears, covering his head with his handkerchief. I then addressed the sister, saying, “I am come to enquire if you saw any change in your sister after my visit?” “Yes,” she replied, “there was a change; she was not so distressed after. She would sometimes lie and sing, and always had something pleasant to say when she woke out of sleep.” I sat silent. She at length continued, “When I have been sitting by her she would break out, while both her hands and eyes were uplifted, and say to herself, ‘Peace! peace! comfort! comfort!‘ a very different state from asking, as she often had done before, ‘Do you not smell the brimstone, sister?’ On another occasion,” continued the sister, “awaking from a doze, looking upward, she said, ‘O sister, do you see? do you see?’ I said ‘What, sister?’ She replied, ‘Up there, up there! Oh beautiful! oh beautiful!’ And when unable to speak, she roused from sleep with a very sweet smile and happy countenance, looked eagerly round the room, and seeing her husband, who was present, beckoned him to her. He went to the side of her bed and asked what she wanted. She put up her face, smacking her lips, pointing at the same time upwards with her hand. He understood she wished to kiss him previous to her departure to the other world. He kissed her, and she him. She then beckoned to me, making the same signs, and I did as her husband had done. She again looked round the room, and seeing no one else there, closed her eyes.”
While this relation was being given I felt sure, and (if I may use the expression) more than sure, of her safety, and could not help saying to her husband, “I have no doubt, sir, but your dear wife, whose mortal remains lie above us, is now in eternal glory, singing the song of the redeemed.” As these words fell from my lips, terrors seemed to fall or seize upon him. He knew not, apparently, what to do. He covered his face for a moment, then hastily snatching a tumbler nearly full of liquor, seemed at one swallow to empty it, and immediately covered his face again. I sat looking on. The sister, addressing me, said, “I could never account for my poor sister’s great distress, for she was always a good liver. I thought she must have done some one a serious injury, and asked her if she had done so; but she replied, ‘No, not that I know of,’ so I could not account for it.” I replied, “I am not surprised at what you say; but if ever God is pleased in His tender mercy to show you what He showed your now happy sister—the evil of sin, you will cease to wonder at her distress; and you will then see there has been sin enough in one hour of your life, and that the best spent one you can select, to damn you for ever, unless sovereign grace saves you. And,” I further added, “if you never know this, or,” addressing the husband, “if you never know what the evil of sin is, you will never feel your need of a Saviour, thus never seek one; and dying so, must be lost for ever, and where your sister and your wife is you will never go.” This speech added evidently to the man’s distress, and I went away.
The next Monday, Oct. 25th, I called on the friend at whose gate I tied my horse. On seeing me he said, “You have heard, I suppose, that the man is dead?” “No,” I replied. “He died yesterday at 12 o’clock.” I then went again to the house of death, and saw the sister, saying to her, “You have been visited again by death, I hear.” “Yes,” she replied, “poor S— is dead.” I said, “I saw no appearance of death about him; what was the cause of his death?” She answered, “He never rallied from the blow. He felt a load at the pit of his stomach which he could not remove. We had no apprehension of his death till about half an hour before he died. The last words he said were, seeing us concerned, ‘I shall be all right presently.’ Then he fell back and died.” I have since learned he flew to drink, and was not sober from the Saturday afternoon until he died the next day at noon. They were taken in one hearse, and buried in one grave in Lamberhurst churchyard, Kent.
Thus I have written, to the best of my memory, the principal circumstances and conversation which took place, and leave the reader to form his judgment if the scripture quoted at the head of this relation be verified or not in this solemn visitation. “The wicked is driven away in his wickedness; but the righteous hath hope in his death.” In life united, and not far divided in the time of death, but oh, what an infinite separation after!
They kept the Hoad’s Corner public-house in the parish of Dallington, Sussex. The following particulars were collected afterwards. The man had once been a flaming professor of religion, could profanely boast of his seven years’ profession, and afford to ridicule everything sacred. He used his wife cruelly. She had more than once or twice kept out of the way for a week and fortnight together, lest he should do her some bodily harm. So she had anything but a happy home here. The woman used when well to tell the nurse, who attended my ministry at times, that if she went to hear that man (meaning myself), his doctrines would drive her distracted. If this was so, it is rather more than singular that the God of that truth he through grace preaches should have sent it into her heart, and have brought her into that very state she predicted, and then send the very man she so despised and cautioned the nurse against, to bear the water of salvation to her parched and afflicted soul. May we not truly say with the poet:
“God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
“Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.”