My DEAR — I don’t think I ever told you and dear—what God has done for my soul.
You remember me very well, I dare say, as to what I was twelve years ago—a lover of gaiety; fond, to excess, of hunting and shooting; addicted to almost everything that young men of the present day delight in. Until I came to Ireland I was, in my religious views, rather High Church, and used to like the beautiful chanting of the Temple Church and St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge; and though I did not fast on a Friday, like some of my Family, I had a certain respect for those who did, and felt sure that on account of it they would have a better chance of heaven than I would. I used to say a short prayer morning and evening, go to church generally twice of a Sunday and almost always on saints’ days, and occasionally taught in the local Sunday School.
Once I had a very severe illness, and was almost at the point of death, but I felt calm and happy, and almost sorry when they told me I was sure to get well. This, I must own, sobered me a good deal; and for a long time after this I tried to be good, read a portion of my Bible every day, and added a long prayer out of a book to my usual short one. I bad, too, dreamy, romantic thoughts about God, and used to indulge in pleasant reveries concerning heaven.
But, alas as I got stronger the old tastes came back. A nice clever hunt was too good an opportunity to be missed. The tailor took my measure for a new scarlet coat; the gun was looked over and got into order; and the old saying was true of me, “The Devil was sick,” &c. And thus time wore on.
As you know, I married; and then a neat phaeton, and comfortable house and garden, with choice standard roses, &c., had to be attended to, and, I am afraid, like many others, I was decently religious on the Sundays, but careless all the week. However, I had family prayers every morning, with the help of a book, and sang at the harmonium in church, and indeed took some pains to improve the singing.
All this time God was watching me, and, I believe, had marked me out for His own. At length I heard of a gentleman in the county Kerry―whom I had known well as a most clever and agreeable, but apparently a godless man―addressing meetings on religious subjects, and more than this, that a cousin of my own had become by this means impressed, and was addressing meetings of a similar nature. All this sounded very strange, for both of them, when I had lived amongst them, had been men completely of the world, and we had passed our time together in riding, boating, and the like pursuits.
A vague curiosity, therefore, came over me to know what all this was about, and a strange, unaccountable feeling, half of interest, half of dread lest I too, should become in time in like manner influenced. I was most comfortable and happy as I was, and did not like to be disturbed, for I felt that that kind of thing must cut at the root of all my then joys and interests. And yet I felt, too, that they had got something that I had not, and I’d like to know something more about it.
I was not to be long doomed to disappointment.
My cousin wrote, proposing a visit. I met him at the crossroads in my dogcart, and as we drove along I could not help thinking to myself, Why does not he, who is so religious, speak on religious subjects, and not on ordinary topics as of old? and so uncomfortable I became on this core that at last I said, “Why don’t you tell me something about the Revival?” “Ah” he drawing a long breath, “have you got everlasting life?” “No,” I said; “no, I wish I had, and then I’d have no more of this routine of prayers that so wearies me.” For a moment he paused, and then said quite solemnly, “Prayer is a joy to me now, and not a routine, for I am saved.” “Oh,” I said, “surely that’s presumption to say you are saved now; perhaps you may be when you die, but surely you are wrong to say you are saved now.” “No,” he said; “God says, He that believeth on the Son, hath everlasting life.’ I do believe on the Son, and therefore believe what God says, that I have everlasting life, and thus I know that I am saved.” Well, by this time we had reached the house, and between preparations for dinner, &c., much of our conversation passed off my mind but I know my impression was, that in saying he was saved he was thinking a, great deal too much of himself.
After dinner, he asked whether I would have any objection to get a few people together in the carpenter’s shop (a large suitable room), for he would like to give them an address. “Oh,” I said, “by all means, if you think it would do them any good.” The appointed evening came, and as we drove in, he kept telling me, “There’ll be great blessing tonight.” “Well,” I said, “we’ll see.” Many came together, and he sang a hymn, and then prayed extempore, and afterward spoke, giving, as far as I remember, a slight sketch of Bible history, and then impressed upon us his favorite text, “He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.” The meeting ended, and I asked “Where was the blessing?” “Wait till tomorrow night” was the reply. Tomorrow came. In the morning we had rashly put a pair of half-trained horses into the carriage, and they ran away for more than a mile with fearful rapidity with us, and when they stopped from sheer exhaustion, I know the impression on my mind was that God had sent me this to stop me on my headlong course to hell; for I then began to feel I was unsaved.
The evening came. A young man spoke first, who had had deep religious convictions for some time before, and he said one word that went to my very heart: “Many of you, I doubt not, are religious―respectable―moral, but perhaps, as I was once, you are not ready to meet your God.”
“Oh,” I said to myself, “that’s just my case,” and I thought, surely those words must have reached every soul in the room as they did mine.
That night I asked no more “Where was the blessing?” I felt it had come, and come to me.
For some days I was restless and uneasy. I could not go to a flower-show that I had intended to, for I felt the solemn question of my soul’s salvation was unsettled. I tried to read my Bible, but could not understand it. I tried to pray, but utterly broke down. I had no rest, for I did not know God’s Christ. My convictions of the necessity of knowing one was saved deepened, and one night I resolved to pray till my mind was at ease; and I prayed a long time, and again and again―aye, and with tears, too. I went to bed exhausted, and in the morning woke at ease and happy, I knew not well why. And yet I thought there must be a reason, and then I remembered the oft-repeated text, “He that, believeth on the Son hath everlasting life” (John 3:3636He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him. (John 3:36)). I believe on the Son, and, therefore, I have everlasting life, for God had said so.
Oh! the joy of that happy, happy day. I knew God had had mercy on me, a poor, vile sinner. Was there ever any one so bad as I?
I knew He loved me. I knew that Jesus loved me, that He died for me, and that His blood cleanseth from all sin. Oh! I was so thankful; but then next day I was unhappy again, and the next, and the next, for I didn’t feel I was saved.
And then, at last, there came a dear kind letter by the post, to say, “If you look for feelings, you are like the Jew that looked for a sign and never got one. Surely the simple evidence of the written word is enough for you: ‘He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.’”
And now, once more I was at rest. “Oh!” I said, “he that believeth hath; I believe, and I have eternal life.” How can I doubt now? God has said―that blessed God that sent His Son to die for me. Why should I doubt His word? I do believe it; I rejoice in the fact that everlasting life is mine.
Ten years have rolled away since then, and I have never ceased to know, and through His changeless mercy never will, that Christ has saved my foul from hell, and given me an inalienable title to pass eternity with Him in glory.
Dear —, can you say the same? May the Lord bless this simple story to you!
Ever yours affectionately, D. T. G.