AT the request of friends, I give a few recollections of my late husband, Mr. Jonathan Anderson, who died at Kilmacolm on 20th December last—chiefly from the standpoint of his religious experiences. I know he would have been most averse to anything like parade or boasting of these, but I give them to be perhaps a help and encouragement to others. I used to hear him say that, after his father’s death (Rev. J. R. Anderson) and the atmosphere of piety in which he had been brought up, he was led away by worldly company, not, I think, very far, but, evidently, to judge from his after-feelings, in a manner to do injury to his conscience and his health. He often afterwards to deplore that, instead of seeking comfort in higher things, he fell away little by little, and then lost hope, and the memory of the way in which he treated these early privileges, for long after, indeed, till his death, seemed to hang often heavily round his neck, and he used to say that there were few that had sinned so much as he had, and had forfeited all right to salvation or redemption. To whatever extent these habits may have grown and affected him morally and spiritually, there is no doubt that, physically, his health began to decline. Indeed, at one time, medical men took a serious view of his condition, and he thought he was going to die. It was about this time, when he must have been about twenty-six years of age, that he dated the period of his conversion. He was often fond of recalling and dwelling with joy on his experiences, especially when, on one occasion, he was staying with a sister at Daldowie, Mount Vernon. He was in a particularly low state of mind and body, and thought that he had sinned away the day of grace, and that nothing remained for him, a wilful sinner, but death and judgment—a state of mind not a little resembling the man in the iron cage in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress.” All at once, when one day walking by the side of the River Clyde, there flashed into his mind those tender and winning words of the Prophet Hosea about backsliding Israel, “Behold I will allure her and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably to her, and she shall sing there (in the valley of Achor) as in the days of her youth,” and immediately the sun broke out spiritually, and the birds of dawning hope awakened and began to sing in his soul. He looked up to heaven, and said, “Lord, if this is for me, I will be content, though I had not more than a crust by a dyke-side.” He then came to see that it was for him; and, though dense clouds often after returned, he never again, all his life, lost the memory of that hour, when he believed that God spoke to his soul, in accents of forgiving love. He recovered his bodily health in great measure, and at once renounced the society of his former companions.
During our married life, there were one or two qualities I might mention, as characteristic of my husband. In spite of all his business with the many corroding cares it brought, he always seemed to look upon that as secondary, and his soul would spring back to things spiritual as to its natural home. Often at intervals in his office work he would be reading the Bible. Indeed there was no interest, after his conversion, which could compete for engrossing absorption with the Word. He read it not only daily but many times every day, returning to it again and again as to a well-spring of living water. Then God’s House, His day, His worship and His people were to him his great delight. During all our married life, I have rarely seen him, up to the time of his last illness, i.e., within two or three years of his death, miss family worship, or attending the services in the Tabernacle twice a day, morning and afternoon. If he were unable for these, I knew that something must be far wrong with him. In the Tabernacle, after his father’s death, the elders and latterly deacons or pious adherents, conducted public worship, and for many years my husband officiated. Simply reading of the Bible, singing of Psalms, prayers, and perhaps for some periods a read sermon, made up the devotions. But about his own part, in these he was always most humble. He desired any others, if faithful, rather than himself to lead, saying that he was not worthy to be even a door-keeper in the House of the Lord. But oh, how he delighted in these exercises, especially, I think, in the singing of the Psalms. On these occasions and in family worship, he joined in the singing of the Psalms with all his voice and heart. His face became lighted up, his body seemed to fade away, and the soul to shine as if transfigured with holy fervour. At odd moments, too, throughout the day, he would embrace the opportunity of bending the knee in prayer. On Sabbaths his care to avoid conversation about secular matters was most noteworthy, and, for the most part, he would not be drawn into ordinary conversation. He had a great love and affection for those who, he thought, shewed signs of true discipleship. Some of the most enjoyable of his moments were, I believe, spent in the company, say, at dinner at home, on New-Year’s days, or at evening prayer meetings in the house, with the godly old people who came to the Tabernacle (now passed to their rest). He used to speak of them to others even long after they had passed away, with almost a hush in his breath, as “princes and princesses,” and quote their sayings with extreme relish. At these meetings, after the usual exercises, some conversation would usually ensue, and not seldom the conversation would turn to their dear and sainted pastor’s experiences, about the revival under him in the Established Church at Kirkfield, about his secession at the Disruption, about his congregation at John Knox’s Free Church, about his inharmonious relations with his elders or many of his fellow ministers and their defections, about his leaving the Free Church, and his care of his congregation, first, in the Railway Hall in Bridge Street, and latterly in the Tabernacle in Margaret Street, about his close fellowship and communion with God, the breath of his life, and all the varied experiences he had as pastor, who longed after the welfare of his flock with Pauline solicitude, or, as a pulpit teacher in a public capacity, with a special message to bring to his generation and a solemn testimony to bear. Into all these matters my husband used to enter as if they were his own, and still pleasanter it is to think of him with these godly women speaking about the love of God in their hearts and the testimony of the Holy Ghost, convincing of sin, of judgment, of righteousness. Many a time I think I see him just before parting, earnestly bending towards them and exchanging their spiritual experiences, and I often hold them in my imagination in a beautiful picture as warm and radiant as that of those godly old women whom John Bunyan saw talking “in the sun” about Christ and His love, in those far-off days in Bedford.
M. A.
We desire to add to the above sketch of Mr. Anderson that, during the last years of his life he attended regularly, so far as his health permitted, at St. Jude’s. We called to see him at Kilmacoim some time before he was taken home, and we were fully convinced that “the root of the matter” was in him. His mind was wholly occupied with the preciousness of Christ and of the Word of God, and he expressed his earnest desire to have again the privilege of attending the public means of grace in God’s house along with us. He was a man of very strong convictions, who had no toleration for such as held lax views of God’s Word, or in any way defiled His sanctuary, but he always held those whom he took to be the Lord’s people in great esteem. Of this we had personally many proofs. We desire to express our sincere sympathy with Mrs. Anderson and his family in their great loss, which was, we are sure, his great gain.
N. C.
I HAVE found many changes here, especially in the night when no eye sees. Then it is the Lord walks up and down in my conscience, and shews me many things that cover my face with shame. O how low and little this makes me, and drives out that wretched legal spirit that would have something to present. So far from patching new upon old, I am forced to hasten my escape from the storm and take a very short cut.—James Bourne.
“THE Lord taketh pleasure in them that fear him, in them that hope in his mercy.” If I fear God, and if my fearing Him is a thing in which He taketh such pleasure, then may I boldly venture to roll myself for eternal life into the bosom of His mercy, which is Christ.—Bunyan.
THIS great mart, the world, is full of distracted men, hurrying from place to place to barter their souls for less—far less—than nothing.—Griffin.