ONE cold snowy night in March, 1867, I was waiting at a little village station in Lincolnshire, for the train to Boston. When it came up I was hurriedly put into the compartment of a second-class carriage, where there was just room for one. As soon as the train started, I observed my companions, and found there were nine of them, all “birds of a feather,” and all had been together at a coursing meeting, which had been held that day a little way down the line. All were of a decided democratic type, some more so than the others. All were quite sober. Some were smoking, and all very full of conversation about the day’s sport.
Immediately opposite to me sat a very old man, dressed in antiquated sporting style, from his hat downwards. His hair was very white, and hung down his shoulders. But what arrested my attention was the wonderful gusto with which this old man was entering into the day’s proceedings; it quite amazed me. I felt God had not put me in that compartment to sit quietly in such company, but how to speak I did not know, till ‘I prayed to the God of heaven,’ and asked Him to tell me what to say, and when to say it, and to help me to say what He had for me to speak. A minute or two elapsed, and then I nudged the man next to me, and in a low voice asked him if the old man opposite to me had been to this coursing meeting. “Oh yes,” was his reply; and supposing I was interested in the aged patriarch, he leaned across my knees, and said to the old man, “Did you come down by train, today, Mr. H—?” “Yes,” he replied, “I rode my old mare on Friday and on Thursday, so I thought I would come by rail today.” This was Monday.
When the man next me had received his answer, I thought my time had come to speak, and in a gentle voice I said to the old man, “How old are you?” He replied, “If I live till next October I shall be 77.” My second question was, “You don’t expect to go to many more coursing meetings, do you?” He jauntily replied to that, “Well, I don’t know; my father lived till he was over 90, but that does not say I shall.” “No,” I added, “it does not.” The third and last question was, “Where are you going to when you die?” The Spirit sent that question straight home. The aged man for a minute or so was staggered at the question, and the silence amongst the other men was quite oppressive. Not a word was spoken. As soon as the old man found his tongue again, he asked me, in a shaky voice, where I was going when I died. I told him that was no answer to my question; but if it were of any satisfaction to him to know where I was going, I was going to heaven. “Are you quite sure?” “Yes,” I replied, “and I am not 77 yet.” Not another word was spoken by any of us, and in a few minutes the train stopped at the Boston platform, and we all got out; but before we separated, I took the old man on one side, and told him I had not asked his age from motives of curiosity, but merely that I might tell him that (old as he was), the same Saviour that had saved me was able to save him, there and then; “would he think of Him?” He said he would. We then shook hands, and parted in the darkness, and I never expected to see him any more on earth.
I was sleeping that night at the house of a Christian family of repute in Boston, and the next day I named the whole circumstance to the head of the house, and through him I learned the old man’s name, address, and character the latter of the worst description. When I returned to London I sent the old man a little book, and a letter accompanying it, with a few remarks on his case; and then I left the matter with God. Several months elapsed, and the affair was almost forgotten, when one morning the post brought me a letter from the lady of the house before alluded to, stating that a change had come over the old man, he had been seen at prayer-meetings, etc. Another month or two rolled on, till last November I received another letter, stating that he had publicly professed his faith in Jesus, had satisfied the minister he was a repentant sinner, and had been received into the church.
Last May, my wife being on a visit at our friends’ house in Boston, I went down, and spent the Sabbath there. At the morning service I sat in the gallery, and my friend pointed out the old man sitting in a pew below, close under the pulpit, a most attentive listener. His long white hair was in much the same fashion as when I had last seen him, but the antiquated drab suit of clothes was exchanged for a suit of black, and the old man looked quite respectable. In the evening I sat in the pew with him. We were quite alone all the service, and at its close I said to him, “Is not your name H—?” He replied, “Yes; but I don’t know you, sir.” I rejoined, “Perhaps not, but I have not forgotten you. The last time I saw you was at T—.” “Do you mean the coursing meeting?” he once more added. “Yes,” I said, “and it was I who spoke to you in the train.” He at once took my hand, and eagerly asked if I WAS the gentleman who had spoken to him that night.
I need not prolong the conversation; suffice it to say, I was filled with wonder at what grace could do. To God be all the praise. I had intended calling upon him before I left Boston, but was unable; and it was only a few weeks ago, in looking over the deaths in a Lincolnshire newspaper, I found my aged friend had passed away, at the age of 79. I was spending a few hours recently in Kent, and there I met with the minister who had visited him in his dying hours, and he told me the old man had died quite happy, resting on the finished work of Jesus.
1870 C. W.