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CHRISTIAN TRACTS.— Wo. 3. 
 
 THE 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 JOTHAM ANDERSON; 
 
 MAY MORNING. 
 
 By The Rev. H. WARE, 
 
 ©^CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY, NEW ENGLAND, 
 
 BELFAST ; 
 
 PRINTED BY FRANCIS D. FINLAY, 
 
 CALENDER-STREET; 
 
 And Sold by S. Archer, 29, Castle-place; Hodgson, 9, High-street; 
 Greer, 31, High-street; and G. Harrison, 51, High-street, 
 
 Price y Sixpence each ; or Sixteen for Six Shillings- 
 
-f 
 
 
RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOTHAM ANDERSON 
 
 " To the law and to the testimony."— Isaiah, viii. 20, 
 " Search the Scriptures."— John, v. 39. 
 
 " Prove all things ; hold fast that which is good."— 1 Thes*v.%\. 
 « Ye should earnestly contend for THE FAITH WHICH WAS ONCE DE- 
 LIVERED to the Saints." — Ju.de, 3. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I have lived long enough in the world to exhaust all its pleasures, 
 and to be more than wearied with its cares. Like other old men, 
 I look back upon a life of mingled joy and sorrow, light and dark- 
 ness, and take an equally melancholy satisfaction in the remem- 
 brance of each. There is one light, as I look back, which I see 
 shining every where ; brighter than the sun of my prosperity, and 
 casting the rainbow of peace on every cloud of my adversity — and 
 that is the light of God's love. I cannot remember the hour when 
 I have seen it hidden. O, that I had always honoured and loved it 
 as became his child ! — And, even now, when the infirmities of age 
 are stealing upon me, and, to the outward eye of man, nothing re- 
 mains for me but toil and sorrow — even now, that love is not with- 
 drawn. It has lighted up, as I may say, a torch of hope, which 
 dissipates all the present clouds of earth, and scatters the thick 
 darkness of the valley of the shadow of death. He who was the 
 guide of my youth, is the strength of my age. He who was my 
 sun at the noon of life, is my shield at its close. Why should I 
 fear for the future, when the past, though checquered with ill, is yet 
 one continued testimony of divine faithfulness. 
 
 Methinks, as I draw near the tomb, I am as much tranquillized 
 and gladdened by my remembrance of the past, as by my hope of 
 the future. And why should I not be ? For my faith in the pro- 
 mises is always the clearer and brighter, when I think of my expe- 
 rience of past faithfulness ; and my hope is never so steadfast, as 
 when it is supported upon the arm of memory. It is when I reflect 
 on the joy and peace of days gone by, that I feel most able to trust 
 those which are coming. It is then, that 
 
 Religion bears my spirits up, 
 And I enjoy a blessed hope. 
 
 I cannot remember the time when I had not a sense of religion, 
 
4 THE KECOLLECTlONS OF 
 
 and a fear of God ; and I have no doubt, that it is owing to my 
 early and habitual impressions, which became interwoven in my 
 soul, as a part of its very fabric, or constitution, that 1 have enjoyed 
 such quietness and steadfastness throughout a long pilgrimage, 
 Little do parents consider, while they are forming their infants' 
 hearts and characters upon other principles, and teaching them to 
 act by other motives, how difficult they render a subjection to re- 
 ligious motives afterward, and how they subtract from the sum of 
 their religious enjoyment ! Were all mothers like mine, how greatly 
 would the obedience of the young Christian's pilgrimage be facili- 
 tated, and its peace ensured ! — I love to dwell on the memory of 
 that honoured woman. My earliest recollection of her is in the act 
 of teaching me to pray,— when she, every evening, took me on 
 her knees, and, clasping my little hands, made me repeat after her 
 my childish petitions. Methinks I still see the beautiful expression 
 of her maternal eye, and feel the kiss, full of affection and piety, 
 with which she closed the service. At such times, she would 
 explain to me the purposes of prayer, and teach me to love the 
 good Being, who gave me father and mother, and made me happy, 
 It was her practice, also, to seize the moments when my young 
 heart was overflowing with cheerfulness and good will, to remind 
 me of the Father above, and direct my gratitude to him; Thus his 
 image became associated in my thoughts, with all that was gladsome 
 and delightful; with every satisfaction, and every enjoyment. It 
 was mingled with all my remembrances of maternal fondness; and 
 the love of God grew upon the same branch with the love of my 
 parents. I sought to please him, I feared to offend him, I loved 
 to speak of him, and to him, in the innocent openness of my young 
 heart, and to regard him, in all respects, as I did my parents. Thus 
 there was nothing of severity, or gloom, or dread, m my early reli- 
 gious feelings. 1 knew nothing of the dislike of religion, which I 
 have seen in many others. The judicious piety of my parents made 
 it a delight to me, and not a burden. I saw it mixing with all 
 their thoughts and pursuits,, most evidently the ingredient of life 
 which did most to make them happy ; never casting a gloom over, 
 them, never arraying them in sternness, nor driving away innocent 
 pleasures; — and thus it found its way to my heart, and (blessed be 
 He who has supported me) it has never left my heart, or ceased to 
 be its joy and peace. I have much inconsistency to be ashamed 
 of, and many sins to lament; but, thanks to my pious parents, and 
 the grace of God, I have never failed to find religion a pleasure, 
 and never withdrawn from my father's God. 
 
 O that parents would but take a hint of wisdom from this, and 
 treat the young immortals committed to them, as if they were indeed 
 immortal ! I have no children. It hath not pleased ray Father 
 that I shall leave my name behind me. I cannot, therefore, repay 
 to my own offspring the debt which I owe to my parents ; I can 
 only intreat others to do it. And I do most earnestly solicit them 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSONS 5 
 
 to drive austerity from their religious teachings, and to make the 
 idea of God not only one of the earliest, but one of the happiest of 
 the infant mind. Let it be presented, not rarely, with ceremony, 
 and on occasions of sadness and alarm — as if a fearful object of 
 dread, which shuns all that is happy; but let it be a familiar 
 thought, beloved, because always connected with happiness, and 
 to be feared only by those who do wrong. 
 
 Thus passed the years of my childhood — happier were never 
 known. I was made early familiar with the history and truths of 
 revealed religion, and taught to act every day from a regard to them 
 before any other motive. My parents were very seldom known to 
 employ other motives, with their children, than those of religion. 
 And the consequence was, I was always made to inquire, Is it 
 right? Will it please Gdd? Would Jesus approve this? Is this 
 doing as I would be done by ? — till such questions formed the stand- 
 ard of my conduct, just as, What will people think? Is this gen- 
 teel ? Is this for mu interest 1 , are the inquiries which decide the 
 men of the world i They referred me, on all occasions, to the life 
 and example of the Saviour, and taught me to contemplate, with 
 admiration and delight, the purity, benevolence, and piety, of that 
 holy pattern. They tried to make it my ambition to imitate him ; 
 and never will I forget, how I was sometimes affected by the ear- 
 nest and feeling manner in which they told me the wonderful story 
 of his love arid sufferings, and urged me to begin young, and follow 
 him. 
 
 Such, in general, was something of the system of parental instruc- 
 tion to which I owed so much ; for it gave me a religious propen- 
 sity, which, in all the after struggles and sins of life, I never lost. — 
 Truly, God's greatest blessings are pious parents. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In the account which I gave, in the former chapter, of my religious 
 education, I rather described the method of my parents, and the 
 design they had in view, than its actual effect on myself; — for I 
 can, by no means, think that I, at any time, became altogether such 
 as they wished to make me. But, assuredly, their labour was not 
 lost; for, the seed which they so faithfully planted, and assiduously 
 cultivated, never has died, however feebly it may have flourished. 
 The trunk has grown old, and begins to decay; it will soon fail ; 
 but, there is hope that it " will sprout again, though the root 
 thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground" 
 — that it will spring up with new vigour and eternal beauty in the 
 garden of God. 
 
 My childhood passed like that of other children who have tender 
 and watchful parents, and has left as tew distinct traces, which are 
 worth recording. The waves of time have flowed over the track 
 which my little boat made, and I can discern its path no longer. 
 
(5 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I was in my fourteenth year when I lost my mother. • This is one of 
 the events which made a lasting impression. She had been, for a long 
 time, gradually wasting away, and I had seen the anxious counte- 
 nance and manner with which my father watched her. But a boy, 
 even of thirteen, is not likely to understand 01 realize such signs, 
 and I remember I had no foreboding of the coming calamity. Buf, 
 at length, I observed an altered tone in the morning and evening 
 prayer of my father, which impressed me. I began to suspect the 
 truth. I observed more narrowly. I discovered that the form was 
 wasted, the cheek had grown pale, the eye had sunk, and disease 
 had made a fearful onset, while my childish eyes had been blinded. 
 —And I do not wonder that they were blinded : for the calm and 
 cheerful manner of my mother was unaltered, and she spoke and 
 smiled as she always had done. But I now saw the truth, and 
 every hour served to make me see it yet more plainly. My solici- 
 tude soon betrayed itself, and then my father summoned resolution 
 to speak upon the subject to his children. The others were younger 
 than myself. They were frolicking in all the unapprehensive light- 
 ness of childhood, when he called us around him. There were 
 four of us. The youngest sprang upon his knee, and playfully put 
 her lips to his mouth; while the rest of us, who perceived the emo- 
 tion upon his face, gazed upon him, and gave him our hands with- 
 out speaking. As soon as he could command himself — " My 
 children/ 7 said he, "God has given you a good mother; but, he is 
 about to take her away from you. You will not see her much 
 longer. She is visited by a disease which is hurrying her to the 
 grave, and we can do nothing but weep, and give her back to God. 
 But we must not weep," said he, bursting into tears, " for she is only 
 going home, going to be happy, which she has not been here. It 
 would be wrong to mourn, for she is only going to sleep a sweet sleep, 
 and we shall all, by and bye, sleep too, and then shall all rise toge- 
 ther, if we have been good." 
 
 Not many days after this, my mother called me to her, as I sat 
 in the chamber, and, kissing my cheek, said : " You are old 
 enough to know what death means, and to learn a lesson from 
 it. I am soon to die. I have known it for a long time, and have 
 perfectly prepared my mind to meet the event. I have no longer 
 reluctance or fear. And now, my dear son, while I speak to you, 
 perhaps for the last time, hear my parting counsel. I have tried to 
 teach you your duty, and to fill your mind with religious principles. 
 Do not swerve from those principles. They are my support now, — 
 they always have been my support. You will need them as much 
 as I do. " And if you would cherish them, and have them strong, 
 I charge you never pass a day without prayer. Promise me this, 
 and I shall feel easy." I kissed her hand, and bowed my head ; 
 for I could not speak. She put her hand beneath her pillow, and 
 taking thence a locket, containing a braid of her own hair,she gave 
 it to me. " I do not know/' said she, " that departed spirits are 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON* / 
 
 acquainted with what happens to the friends they have left on earth ; 
 but, if they are, I shall never cease to watch your life with maternal 
 solicitude. Think of this, whenever your eyes meet this memorial 
 of my love. Reflect lhaf, perhaps, I see yon, and remember the 
 promise you have made me ; or, if not so" — she added, in a voice 
 of inconceivable expressiveness, — " reflect that God sees you, and 
 bears witness whether you keep that promise or not. My dear son, 
 farewell ! a mother's parting blessing is on your head ; and do 
 Thou, O Father, bless him, and make him thine !' ; She kissed me 
 again, and sunk back exhausted. 
 
 It seems as if I still heard her voice, and gazed upon her com- 
 posed, but animated features. And it is one of the joyful anticipa- 
 tions of my approaching removal from earth, that I shall again see 
 that face, and be united to her pure spirit, never to part more. I 
 had no spirit after this, to leave her side, or to engage in any occu- 
 pation. — I was suffered to remain near her; to see the gradual ap- 
 proach of dissolution ; and to witness the tranquillity and cheerful- 
 ness with which Christian faith can await the appalling summons. 
 She was too weak to say much, but sometimes gave a word of en- 
 couragement, admonition, or blessing, to those who were near her; 
 and, after she became unable to speak, she still looked unutterable 
 things, and smiled upon those who did her any little offices of 
 kindness. All was peace within and without; and gently, at last, 
 did she sink asleep in Jesus, without a groan or struggle, and with 
 an expression upon her face, as if she had already caught a glimpse 
 of the glory to come. 
 
 There are some who would keep children from the chamber of 
 death, and remove from their minds, as soon as possible, the im- 
 pressions which sorrow may have made. They little consider the 
 natural buoyance of the mind, and the tendency of all feeling to 
 pass away from a young heart. My father was one of those who 
 think that the solemn impressions of such a season, should be deep- 
 ened, and pains taken to make them lasting. He thought that 
 much might be done, to give right views of the value and purposes 
 of existence, and to get ready that frame of mind, which is best 
 fitted to meet and endure the changes of the world. By his con- 
 versation, therefore, and instruction, for a long period, he kept fresh 
 the feelings to which this sad event had given birth. He did not 
 converse a great deal in the formal way; it was not his habit, and 
 he rather avoided it, from a persuasion that it was not an effectual 
 mode of addressing young persons. I do not, think that he ever 
 made a long harangue to his children, upon any subject. His cus- 
 tom was, to seize moments when their minds were cheerful, and at 
 ease, or when any remarkable event had excited their attention, and, 
 by a few, concise, pointed remarks, sometimes by only one single 
 emphatic expression, convey the important lesson. He would then 
 leave it to work upon their minds. And it would often happen, 
 that the words would sink down into their hearts, and never be for- 
 
8 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 gotten. I can recall many examples of forcible sayings thus utter- 
 ed, which were of great use to me afterwards; but, I am certain, 
 that the same sentiment, diluted into a formal speech, of fifteen or 
 twenty minutes, would have made no impression, and been alto- 
 gether lost. 
 
 Upon the present occasion, he pursued his customary course. 
 He spoke seldom ; and, because seldom, I dwelt the more upon 
 what he did say. I forgot nothing. And, as he directed my read- 
 ing, and the whole, occupation of my time, I was, for a long season, 
 prevented from returning to the sports of my childhood, or regain- 
 ing the frolicksome disposition of boyhood. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The education of his children now became the favourite employ- 
 ment of my father. His parish was in a small and retired village, 
 and his parishioners of that humble class, who require nothing 
 more of their minister, than an affectionate interest in their welfare, 
 and the plainest instructions in the plainest truths. His duties as a 
 minister, therefore, were not burdensome, and afforded him ample 
 time for the superintendence of his children's education. He was 
 a man of excellent understanding, and admirable love of learning ; 
 and well do I remember, how delightful he made those years of in- 
 struction, by orally communicating the various knowledge with 
 which his mind was full. It was the dear wish of his heart, that I 
 should follow him in the ministerial profession ; and, while he 
 strove to give me settled principles of religion, and habitual devo- 
 tion, he strove zealously, also, to store my mind with every variety 
 of knowledge that could adorn and strengthen it. He had a great 
 abhorrence of an ill-educated ministry, and kept me from college 
 till I was eighteen, with the express design of teaching me many 
 things, which, he thought, I could not learn there. But I doubt 
 not, that he was, at the same time, influenced by the wish to gratify 
 himself by so pleasant an occupation of his lonely aud widowed 
 time. 
 
 As the time approached when I was to go to college, it became 
 necessary to provide some additional means for supporting me 
 there. A country minister may manage with his children at home 
 pretty well, for they may aid him on his little farm. But it is not so 
 easy to support them abroad. It was, consequently, necessary that 
 1 should try to earn something for myself. A school was found for 
 me, in a town thirty miles distant, and I left home in November, 
 to spend the winter in this new and anxious employment. My 
 little wardrobe, and a few books, were tied together in a handker- 
 chief, and slung over my shoulder with a stick, and so I trudged 
 along, as many greater men have done. 
 
 This winter was an important one to me, as it left its traces upon 
 my whole afterlife. 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 9 
 
 I was a very bashful young man, wholly unaccustomed to the 
 society of men, and quite ignorant of the world. Great, therefore, 
 were the sufferings 1 endured, both in school and out of school. I 
 was anxious, from principle, to do my duty ; but, from timidity 
 and inexperience, I failed to give perfect satisfaction. My own 
 anxiety exaggerated my deficiency to my own view, and often did I 
 wet my pillow with the tears that were wrung from my oppressed 
 heart. Such trials, however, did me good, as they helped me in 
 learning to face the world, and cast me more exclusively on my 
 religious convictions, for support and happiness. I have always 
 found, that seasons of removal to strange places, and new duties, 
 have been those in which my faith and sense of duty have been 
 most rapidly improved. When all others were strangers around 
 me, I went the more frequently to God, as a father and accustomed 
 friend. 
 
 But what I remember particularly in this season, was the trial I 
 underwent in learning the stress that was laid upon the differences 
 among Christians. My father, as I have said before, lived in a re- 
 tired village, to which the noise of the polemic world did not reach ; 
 and whose inhabitants, happy in the simplicity of good and holy 
 lives, felt no interest in the questions of words, on which the faith 
 and charity of so many are suspended. They read their Bibles, 
 attended public worship, and lived soberly, righteously, and piously 
 in the world. There was nothing among them of the pride either 
 of orthodoxy or heresy. My father held, himself, and was labori- 
 ous to instil into his people, the most enlarged charity toward ail. 
 lie was disgusted at the spirit of narrowness and bigotry, which he 
 had always seen accompanying a vehement zeal for particular forms of 
 faith. He, therefore, rarely alluded, either in preaching or in conver- 
 sation, to the differences among Christians. He seldom even named 
 the names of theological parties. And thus it happened, that, strange 
 as it may seem, I grew up almost ignorant that there were parties- 
 in religion entirely unacquainted with their badges of distinction, 
 and with none of that prejudice for and against names, which is 
 often the earliest lesson in religion. It had not escaped me, in the 
 books which fell in my way, that there had been divisions and 
 strifes in the Church, but I saw and heard nothing of them in the 
 world around me, and I felt as though nothing of them existed. 
 
 On the evening of my arrival at my new quarters, I was greatly 
 struck with the tone and language of my host and hostess, in speak- 
 ing of religion. It was different from any thing I had ever heard 
 before, and it puzzled me. Mrs. Hilson was so frequent in her 
 scriptural allusions, and phrases of piety, as to introduce them 
 sometimes veiy improperly and irreverently; but, in her husband 
 there seemed a constantly half-suppressed sneer, and disposition to 
 throw ridicule on the subject. Both were so different from the se- 
 rious, manly, intelligible, and reverent manner in which I had al- 
 ways seen the subject treated at home,- that I was not a little per- 
 
10 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 plexed to know what to think. One of the School Committee, who 
 was also Deacon of the Church, came in during the evening, to see 
 the new master, and give his instructions. As I was too diffident 
 to talk much, and the Deacon had but little to say on the business 
 of my profession, the conversation took a turn but little different 
 from a catechetical lecture. After many common-place questions, 
 such as an inquisitive stranger naturally puts first, Deacon Lumbard 
 inquired what were the opinions of my father. I felt ashamed not 
 to be able to give a direct answer, and waited for him to put the 
 question in a different shape. " I mean/ 7 said the Deacon, " is he 
 Arminian or Calvinist?" This question was hardly more intelligi- 
 ble to me than the former ; but, thinking it would never do to say 
 I did not understand him, and, feeling tolerably confident that I 
 should speak the truth, I replied, " 1 believe he is an Arminian." 
 The Deacon gave a hem ! of surprise, and walked across the room. 
 Mrs. Ililson dropped her knitting, and fixed upon me a look of 
 sad concern ; and her husband stopped poking the fire, and turned 
 around with a half-merry stare, as if to know whether he had heard 
 aright. I felt my face colour suddenly all over, and I thought I 
 must have made some dreadful blunder. No one spoke for some 
 time. At length, the Deacon said — " An Arminian ! — we don't 
 think much of Arminians here. ,; The tone of his voice went to my 
 heart, and the sound of it rung in my ears for weeks. I never had 
 before witnessed this abhorrence of a name ; and such a crowd of 
 feelings rose within me, that I could do nothing but remain silent 
 and confused. Mr. Hilson relieved me, by saying, " But, Deacon, 
 there may be some good men amongst the Arminians." a That's 
 more than you know, or I either," said the Deacon. u But you 
 think it's possible they may be saved, don't you V rejoined my 
 host. u It is not promised," replied the Deacon; " it is not in the 
 covenant ; and, as they do not hold the true faith, they are certainly 
 in a dangerous way. I should not expect I could be saved myself, 
 if I was one of them." " But all things are possible with God,'' 
 said Mrs Hilson, mildly. " True," said the Deacon ; " and if any 
 of his elect be in this error, he will snatch them from it before they 
 die." 
 
 The course which conversation had thus taken, led to the state- 
 merit of all the tenets of Calvinism, to which I listened with amaze- 
 ment, sometimes mingled with horror ; for many things were so 
 new and strange, so apparently contradictory, so repugnant to my most 
 cherished feelings of religion, that 1 seemed to be in some region 
 of romance, rather than among Christians. Of one thing I felt cer- 
 tain, that, if I had wrongfully called my father an Arminian, at 
 least, he was not a Calvinist. But what is there so much an object 
 of horror in an Arminian? why so difficult for him to be saved % — 
 I was lost in the perplexity of my own thoughts. 
 
 Before the Deacon went, he proposed to join the family in prayer. 
 He first read the eighth chapter of Romans, and then poured out a 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON, 11 
 
 long and earnest prayer, of great vehemence and minuteness, in 
 which I was made an object of special supplication. The loudness 
 and fervour of this act of worship, so different from the calm and 
 subdued tone of my father, thrilled and agitated me with a new 
 feeling ; and when the Deacon, as he went out, put his hand solemn 
 ly on my head, and, with an affectionate emphasis, wished me 
 God's blessing and success in my new office, I was overpowered, 
 and burst into tears, I cannot pretend to explain my feelings. 
 They were a chaos of confusion. — I was young, every thing was 
 novel, my situation was such as to render me uncommonly suscep- 
 tible, and religion was presented to me in a form altogether new, 
 and with something inexplicably solemn in the manner of its pro- 
 fessors. Those who have ever been placed in a situation in any 
 measure similar, will understand something of the feelings which 
 kept me many hours awake that night ; and will easily perceive, 
 that I could come to no conclusion, except that of writing to my 
 father, as soon as possible, to inquire what was an Arminian, and 
 what he himself was. Being quieted by this determination, arid 
 comforted by my prayers, I, at last, fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Under some circumstances, the feelings I have named would soon 
 have passed away, and my mind have returned to its usual state. 
 But my situation was such as to keep me agitated and harassed in 
 spirit for a long season. I, however, always have seen cause to re- 
 joice in that trial of my faith, and to render thanks to my heavenly 
 Father, who thus established, strengthened, and settled me in the 
 true and living way. 
 
 It was expected of the master that he should pray in the school, 
 morning and evening. I knew it to be the custom, and had been 
 greatly disturbed in the anticipation of being called to its perform- 
 ance ; for, as I have said, my natural diffidence was extreme. As 
 the time drew near, the dread of it weighed upon my mind with 
 an oppression which I cannot describe ; and when the moment 
 came, upon the first morning, my resolution failed me, and I com- 
 menced the ordinary business without a prayer. This, however, 
 was no relief, for 1 felt that I had done wrong. My conscience 
 severely reproached me, and, for several days, 1 was made wretch- 
 ed by the struggle to overcome what I thought a sinful timidity and 
 shrinking from religious duty, which could not fail to bring upon 
 me the heavy displeasure of God. At length, my religious sense of 
 duty got the victory, and, on Saturday morning, I, for the first time 
 in my life, addressed my Creator in the presence of fellow-beings. 
 
 I was so engrossed by my own feelit.gs in this affair, that it had 
 not occurred to me, that I might draw upon myself the displeasure 
 of the village. It had not even suggested itself to me, that what was 
 done in school was known abroad. I returned to my lodgings at 
 
12 THE RECOLLECTIO&S OF 
 
 noon, happy in the triumph I had gained over myself. I was hard I y 
 seated, when a gentleman entered, who was introduced to me as 
 Mr. Reynolds,, the minister of the parish. He saluted me coldly, 
 and, after a momentary pause, began the conversation by saying, 
 with some sternness, " Young man, I understand that you do not 
 pray in your school. The duty never was neglected before in this 
 town; and if you are not sensible enough of its importance to at- 
 tend to it, you are unfit for the place. — How can we expect a 
 blessing on our children, if God be not remembered in their instruc- 
 tions; and how can he be fit to teach, who will not seek wisdom 
 from above?" 
 
 This unexpected address confounded me ; and, after all that I had 
 suffered in my mind, was more than I could sustain. I burst into 
 tears, and, as well as I was able, stated the exact truth. IV] r. Rey- 
 nolds was not a man to appreciate the diffidence which had caused 
 my error, and he rebuked me for yielding to it. He expressed his 
 satisfaction, however, that I had conquered it. "I have heard of 
 your father/' said he, " though I do not know him personally. I 
 am not solicitous for the acquaintance of those who are not perfectly 
 sound in their views ; and I am not surprised, that the religious 
 faith in which he has educated you, is too weak to overcome your 
 fear of the world. Nothing but the genuine gospel can subdue that 
 false pride of the natural heart. But I trust you will learn better. 
 God has sent you here at a propitious season, for the interests of 
 your soul, and I do not doubt you will find it blessed to you. 
 There is a powerful work of grace going on amongst us. The 
 Holy Spirit is evidently in the midst, and there is a great rattling 
 among the dry bones. Our meetings are frequent, full, and solemn, 
 You must attend them, of course, as many of you can, and you will 
 see such operations of divine power, as are wonderful to behold." 
 
 Much more, and more earnestly, he talked on this topic, and, at 
 length, pressed me with close and trying questions, respecting my 
 own religious opinions, and experience ; and drew from me a mi- 
 nute account of negligences and failures, which he represented to 
 me as glaring and dangerous defects. My conscience was a tender 
 one, and easily joined in accusations against myself. I had a hor- 
 ror of displaying myself to greater advantage than the truth, which 
 led me to conceal almost every thing in my religious character 
 which he would have approved. I could not bring myself to speak 
 of those private exercises of my spirit, which I accounted sacred to 
 the inspection of Heaven. Mr. Reynolds argued warmly, and 
 warned me earnestly. His tone of expostulation was powerful in 
 itself, as well as new to me. I felt it to my heart's core. My timid 
 spirit shrunk and trembled. He left me in a state of amazement 
 and anxiety, which robbed me of the perfect possession of my fa- 
 culties for the remainder of the day. 
 
 In the afternoon, when, of course, I was unengaged, several 
 friends of my host called in, who were interested in the religious 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON, 1-3. -■ 
 
 state of the village, and made it the subject of their conversation, 
 They talked of the meetings which had been held, of the cases of 
 those who had been affected, and described at length the situation 
 and exercises of some of the converts, A wholly novel scene was 
 thus unveiled to me. Religion and religious feelings were presented 
 in a new light ; and the eagerness with which the matter was dis- 
 cussed, the breathless curiosity and sympathy expressed in the eye, 
 the flushed cheek, and the impatient attitudes of speakers and lis- 
 teners, were calculated to make a deep impression upon a novice 
 like myself. The comparison of this exhibition with what I had 
 always seen, and reverenced, and loved as true religion, perplexed 
 and distressed me. I could gain no peace, after many hours of 
 anxious thinking, but by remembering that longer observation would 
 teach me what was right, and that it was my duty to wait patiently. 
 I gave myself, therefore, to the reading of the Scriptures, and, at 
 length, laid myself down calmly to await the opening of the Sabbath 
 day. 
 
 On this occasion, and on thousands since, I have derived peace 
 from prayer, when every thing else conspired to vex and distress 
 me — a proof, of itself, that devotion of spirit is the essence of true 
 religion; and that he who has this, cannot be lost to God, nor be 
 a stranger to his favour, however he may err in controverted truths. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is impossible for me to follow minutely my recollections of this 
 memorable winter. They would fill a large volume, instead of the 
 few sheets which my trembling hand is able to write. It must suf- 
 fice to say, that the new scenes into which I was thrown, continued 
 to be occasions of severest perplexity and anxiety for many weeks. 
 I had been bred religiously ; I had been scrupulously conscientious. 
 I had thought myself a lover of God and man, and had rejoiced in 
 the hope of heaven. But my religion had been noiseless and secret. 1 
 1 had seldom conversed respecting it, except at particular moments, 
 with my father. I had never been excited by crowds assembled, 
 nor had I ever been conscious of any extraordinary change in my 
 dispositions, or feelings, or life. I had gone on quietly, from child- 
 hood to youth, conscientiously, but calmly, and with no display of 
 zeal. 1 had seen in my father precisely the same operation of reli- 
 gion which I had witnessed in myself, except that it was far more 
 perfect. I had thought this the true Christian character ; and, al- 
 though often I had sighed over my imperfections, yet I never had 
 suspected that I was wrong in principle. 
 
 But if what I now saw and heard were the genuine exhibition of 
 religion, then I had been entirely and wofully deceived. If I must 
 believe what was perpetually urged in my ears, then I was only a 
 hypocrite, without Christ, and without hope. Nothing can exceed 
 the distress with which this thought was attended. Many nights 
 
 B 
 
14 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 did I pass sleepless, and weeping with uncontrollable anguish' of 
 spirit. I became almost unfit for any duty. My thoughts preyed 
 on my health, till my robust body wasted under the torture*of 'the 
 mind, and my cheek was pale and sunken. 
 
 For why, thought I, should 1 not believe all that I see and hear ? 
 I cannot deny the existence of the sincerest, heartiest religion here. 
 Earth cannot contain a purer and meeker spirit than my hostess 
 possesses; and where is there more real and actuating piety than 
 in Deacon Lumbard, though he be a little narrow ? and where a 
 nobler benevolence, and moie solemn concern for Christianity, than 
 in Mr. Reynolds, though he be a little rough ? and then how gene- 
 ral and deep is the religious impression that prevails— how serious, 
 how anxious, how devout is the whole village— how indefatigable 
 in teaching and learning — what a sense of the evil of sin, and dread 
 of the Divine displeasure — and not my own father could discover 
 more anxiety for my good than my friends do here. 
 
 Yet, while I thus looked with reverence upon the zeal and piety 
 I witnessed, 1 could not listen to the representations of gospel doc- 
 trine, which were perpetually made, without a certain horror. This, 
 I was told, was an infallible sign of an unrenewed heart; and this 
 served to aggiavate my distress. 1 never had studied controversy, 
 nor heard it preached ; but my father had always implied some- 
 thing very different from what I now heard, and I could not recon- 
 cile the representations I now met, with the impressions 1 had re- 
 ceived from the Bible. My blood chilled when 1 heard the arbitrary 
 decree of election pronounced, and, connected with it, the joy of 
 the righteous in the sufferings of the wicked. I was most distress- 
 ingly bewildered in the contradictions about depravity and accoun- 
 tability, irresistible grace, involuntary faith, and changes rung, 
 without end, on justification, adoption, sanctification, aid imputa- 
 tion. It was a wilderness to me. I turned on every side, and could 
 find no relief. If 1 had only seen these things in books, I should 
 have passed them by as wild speculations, liut I found them fill- 
 ing the minds and thoughts of men, whose religious zeal was more 
 imposing to my mind than any thing I had ever met with ; men 
 whom 1 honoured and loved, who treated me with assiduous kind- 
 ness, and who assured me, with the earnestness of the most solemn 
 asseveration, that they built all their religion, and all their hope, on 
 these doctrines, and that they could conceive of no salvation on any 
 other ground. Thus beset, what could I do ? Who would wonder 
 if I had yielded ? 
 
 1 at length told those who had interested themselves most warmly 
 in my behalf, that there was but one course for me to take, namely, 
 to examine the Scriptures anew, with fresh care, and abide by the 
 result. To this proposal they warmly assented, not doubting, as 
 they said, that the Holy Ghost would teach me; and they left me, 
 with solemn prayer, to pursue this design. 
 
 1 look back to the execution of this purpose with the highest grati- 
 
JO'THAM ANDERSON. 15 
 
 tilde and satisfaction. Every leisure minute found me at my Bible, 
 and the morning often broke while I was yet studying. Earnest 
 were my prayers for light, and sincere my wish to be instructed ; 
 and He who heareth prayer heard me, enlightened me, and gave me 
 a happy confidence in the result of my labour. My opinions be- 
 came fixed and grounded on the sure testimony of God : and I no 
 longer felt embarrassment at the very opposite representations of 
 gospel truth, which were prevailing around me. They could still 
 sometimes blind my eyes for a moment with the dust of metaphy- 
 sical subtlety ; but the breatn of the divine word soon blew it away, 
 and I saw clearly. 
 
 I now became tranquil and happy. My cheerfulness of spirit 
 returned, and, with it, health. My anxieties ended in a serene and 
 setlled peace, no more to be disturbed by the tumult round about 
 me. I came out of the trial, in every respect, the better for having 
 passed through it. My opinions were more clearly denned, and more 
 solidly grounded. My devout feelings were become deeper, and 
 more ardent. While, at the same time, my intimacy with the sen- 
 timents and characters of those who differed from me, gave me a 
 justerview of them, and a more real regard for them, than under 
 any other circumstances I could have attained. This has been of 
 incalculable benefit to me through life. I have been preserved by 
 it from a great deal of false and censorious judging, and enabled to 
 discriminate between the merits and weakness of my more orthodox 
 brethren, so as to maintain for them a sincere respect and unchang- 
 ing charity. And I have always found that these are least bigoted, 
 who are best acquainted with those whom they oppose. Nothing 
 destroys uncharitableness and censoriousness so certainly, as an in- 
 timacy with the habitual feelings and characters of men of other 
 sects. Bigotry is the offspring of ignorance. 
 
 Such was the end, and such, in a few words, have been the con- 
 sequences of the scenes which I have described, But my trials 
 were not yet over. My own mind was satisfied, but others were 
 dissatisfied ; and I was doomed to endure coldness, reproach, sus- 
 picion, and alienation, from many, who had been forward to instruct 
 me, and who had professed the warmest and most disinterested 
 friendship. I was made the subject of village gossip and scandal; 
 a thousand false and calumnious-reports were spread abroad; and 
 I became little better than a heathen and a publican to the zealots, 
 who, a few weeks before, seemed ready to sacrifice even their lives 
 for me. But of these things I must speak in another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 The trials to which I alluded, in my last chapter, as coming upon 
 me in consequence of my decision in regard to religion, were of 
 several sorts. I can name them but in few words. I had supposed 
 that all who professed a friendship for me, and had so zealously in- 
 
16 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 terested themselves in ray behalf, would rejoice with me in the re- 
 lief of mind I had gained, even though they might have wished thai 
 my conclusion had been nearer to their own. But in this I was 
 disappointed. From the moment it became known in what manner 
 my concern of mind had terminated, and that I was not to be 
 brought out as a convert, after their fashion, there was a manifest 
 change in the manners of many toward me. Instead of cordiality, 
 1 found coldness; instead of a welcome, I met a repulse. And I 
 soon found that all their zeal for my soul's welfare was little more, 
 at bottom, than a desire to have the eclat of the schoolmaster's con- 
 version; that there was a grievous disappointment, not at the dan- 
 ger in which my soul was placed, but in this frustration of a party 
 object. I had too much proof of this, to fear that I charge them 
 wrongfully. 
 
 But this was not the case with all. Some were truly and bene- 
 volently afflicted for my own sake. Amongst these was my excel- 
 lent hostess, Mrs, Hilson. I had all along held the most free com- 
 munication with her; she knew the whole state of my mind, and 
 acted toward me the part of a mother. She was too gentle and meek 
 to be bigoted; but as all her own rich treasures of religious comfort 
 and hope were built on the doctrines she had been taught, and they 
 were dearly associated with every pious and benevolent sentiment 
 of her soul, she very naturally could conceive of no real religious 
 happiness from any different source. When she found that I could 
 not draw from this, she was troubled, for she thought there was none 
 other. She did not question my sincerity, but lamented my blind- 
 ness, in not seizing what, from her own experience, she knew to be 
 the only secret of happiness. Wiser persons than she, have made 
 the same mistake, of trying all others by their own experience; while, 
 in fact, men's experiences differ as much as their faces. 
 
 I shall never forget the kind and tender interest she expressed to- 
 ward me, to the last day of my residence in the village. She was, 
 in all my solicitudes, a faithful friend. To her I could unbosom 
 myself without restraint, and find relief from her sympathy. Our 
 hearts could feel and pray together, however we might vary in our 
 creeds. And, to the last of her life, while her friends and my friends 
 were zealously accusing each other of corrupting the whole gospel, 
 she ceased not to feel, that there might be Christians who were not 
 Calvinists : and I, for her sake, have always been able to see the 
 spirit of the gospel reigning, even among those whose speculations 
 were most hostile to its truths. Indeed, who, that has ever formed 
 an acquaintance beyond the narrow pale of his own sect, does not 
 feel the wicked meanness of that bigotry which confines piety and 
 salvation to those who agree with himself. 
 
 "I still hope," said JVJrs. Hilson, the evening before I returned 
 to my father's house; "I still hope and trust that you will see rea- 
 son to think differently." 
 
 "I pray that I may," said I, "if I am wrong; I have no wish 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON, 1 7 
 
 but to learn and follow the truth ; and I say, sincerely, that I think 
 I could, in a moment, embrace any opinion that could be proved 
 to be of divine authority. You have yourself seen how anxious I 
 have felt, and how diligently I have sought." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," she replied ; " you have done your duty 
 well, and I think God will not leave so sincere a soul in darkness. 
 It is this that makes me sure you will, by and bye, be brought right. 
 VVe must wait His good time." 
 
 " But why/' said Mr. Hilson, who was a blunt, good-natured 
 man, " why, Betsey, should you wish master Anderson to change ? 
 I am sure there is not a cleverer, honester man, nor better master 
 to be found. And as for his religion, he's as serious and prayerful, 
 and studies his Bible as hard, as any of them, though, to be sure, he 
 is not for making sach a noise about it. Now, to my mind, this is 
 the right way ; and I am sure, that if any body could make me a 
 Christian, it would be just this Mr. Anderson. And his quiet sort 
 of religion, now, would do more to work upon the minds of one- 
 half the people here, than all the stir that's been made here this 
 Winter. Why there's a great many been driven away from all kinds 
 of religion, by the confusion we've had about it. I believe I should 
 have been myself, if it had not been for the master. And there's 
 many a one that will never get over this disgust, but is made, I war- 
 rant it, profane for life.' 7 
 
 " You astonish me,'' said I, for this was entirely new to me; "it 
 is not conceivable that men should be so unreasonable. What, fly 
 off to irreligion, because their neighbours are so engaged in reli- 
 gion? They must be very ill-disposed persons." 
 
 " No," replied he: "not so indisposed neither; some very con- 
 scientious men have been affected in this way; and if I was to speak 
 my mind, I should say that this stir has cooled as many friends to 
 religion, as it has made." 
 
 " Husband, husband," cried Mrs. Hilson, "how can you say so ? 
 I am truly ashamed of you." 
 
 " Look here, my dear," said he, " who is likely to know most of 
 it ; you, who see only one side, or I, who see both sides ? Now 1 
 know all that's going on, and all that's said every where in the vil- 
 lage; while you only know what passes at meeting, and among go- 
 to-meeting folks; and I can tell you, beyond all doubt, that the 
 Devil has gained some disciples as well as Christ. I'll tell you a 
 few things. L've heard more swearing, and seen more drinking and 
 ill temper, amongst the men, because of this thing, than I ever knew 
 in the village before in my life ; and from some very reputable folks 
 too. There's the Joneses and the Malcolms have not been calm 
 this two months; and tnere's no doubt their wives would do more 
 for religion by staying at home, and making their houses happy with 
 it, than by running away, and causing their husbands and children 
 to hate it. Then, besides those that are hurt in this way, you know 
 there are fome of the converts that are said to be none the better 
 
 B 2 
 
18 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 since their zeal has coolled. You know how * * and * * and * * 
 turned out ; and there are more too." 
 
 " You ought not to triumph over this," said I. 
 " And I do not," said he ; " but there are them that do ; and it 
 has afforded more joy and jests to Infidels and blasphemers, than I 
 can tell you of. Now does not this do harm to real religion? And 
 would not it all have been prevented, by permitting matters to go 
 on quietly and soberly, as in times past ? For, take five years to- 
 gether, there would have been as many Christians made in the usual 
 way, as by all this extraordinary movement; while, at the same 
 time, none of this extraordinary evil would have been done. This 
 is not all. It is incredible what sin has been committed in the way 
 of slander and lying, and that by very pious people, too. I'll tell 
 you what reports have been spread about you, master Anderson, 
 just by way of specimen. First, it got about that you were under 
 deep concern of mind, and had written home to your father, who 
 told you not to be troubled, for the people were mad, and religion 
 would spoil you for a schoolmaster. That you became afterward 
 more earnest ; and when you could get no comfort from your father's 
 principles, he sent you to Mr. Reynolds, and you found peace. 
 That then your father, too, became anxious, and came to see Mr. 
 Reynolds, and confessed to him that he had never felt religion, and 
 was more than half an Infidel; and that he was converted, and went 
 home, and got up a revival in his own parish. All this, and much 
 more, was made up out of the whole cloth, and circulated, as so 
 much gospel, by those who knew it was all false. And when it was 
 discovered that your mind was settled another way, then it was said, 
 and is believed to this day, that you have got another Bible, different 
 from ours ; and that a good part of the time you pretended to be 
 studying the Scriptures, you were playing cards in your room, with 
 
 R and E For a whole day, it was believed, that you 
 
 had told the children it was all nonsense to pray in the school, and 
 you should do it no longer. I could tell you a great deal more of 
 the same sort ; and so you must not wonder that some folks think 
 there is no religion in what bears so much bad fruit." 
 
 Mrs. Hilson appeared as much disconcerted at this disclosure, as 
 I was amazed. She said, however, that it was fair to look on both 
 sides, and count the wheat in the field, as well as the tares. " True," 
 said her husband; "but will every body do that? Most persons 
 will not do it; and, consequently, most persons will be injured." 
 
 " But you and I must do it," said I ; " religion is a solemn re- 
 ality, whatever imperfections there maybe in its friends; and surely 
 you will not, on account of those imperfections, refuse to strive for 
 your own salvation." 
 
 Mr. Hilson has since told me that this sentiment struck him 
 more forcibly than any preaching he had ever heard. I am happy 
 to add, that he became, in after life, one of the most enlightened 
 and sincere Christians I have ever known. 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 19 
 
 I parted from my friends the next morning, amidst the most af- 
 fectionate wishes. Deacon Lumbard came to give me his parting 
 blessing, and to say that he did not doubt he should yet see me all 
 that he could wish, for he loved me too well to think otherwise. As 
 I passed the minister's door, 1 stopped to bid him farewell. He 
 shook me by the hand, saying, he loved me none the less for my 
 honesty, and doubted not God had a blesing for me. The kindness 
 of these two good men was a cordial to my spirits. I left them 
 better and happier for having known them ; rejoicing that there was 
 a better world, where imperfection would be done away, and where 
 the holy light of unveiled truth would dissipate the little cloud that 
 now hovered between us. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 My college life, on which I now entered,, was like that of many 
 other young men, I applied myself zealously to the duties required 
 of me, and became ambitious of distinction. My thirst for know- 
 ledge increased, and, with it, my desire of eminence. I allowed 
 myself little time for sleep, or recreation. I denied myself even food, 
 that I might sit at my books, without the necessity of exercise to 
 help digestion. I know not how it was ; but, gradually and insidi- 
 ously, literary distinction became my ruling passion. My Bible was 
 consulted less frequently, my seasons of devotion were hurried over, 
 and even the worship of the Sabbath came, at last, to be attended by 
 me with little interest or feeling. 
 
 I was sometimes uneasy at perceiving the change which had taken 
 place in my affections, and felt alarmed for the result. But I satis- 
 fied myself with saying, that as soon as I should be relieved from 
 my present hurry, or have finished the study I had now on hand, I 
 should have leisure to resume my religious vigilance. But this lei- 
 sure did not come, and I suffered myself still to go on. I quieted 
 the remonstrances of my mind with the persuasion, that a man can- 
 not feel equally engaged at all times on any subject; and that, at 
 any rate, I was preparing myself for the duties of life, and why was 
 not this as acceptable service as the performance of my religious 
 duties? Then, if concience answered, that the preparation for fu- 
 ture duty is no excuse for the neglecting present duty, I stifled the 
 suggestion, by burying my thoughts in study. 
 
 I tremble to this day to think of the hazard I was running, and 
 in how dreadful a ruin it might have ended, if it had not pleased 
 God to send me a rebuke. I had already entered my senior year, 
 and, with a heart full of ambition, was pressing on to realize, in the 
 honours before me, the darling object of my hope. I had overplied 
 my powers, and they gave way. My body refused to sustain the 
 labours of my mind , and, after four weeks' severe illness, it was 
 thought I must sink to the tomb. 
 
 Of the early part of my sickness I have no recollection, except of 
 
20 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 a confused feeling of disappointment and vexation at being thus 
 stopped and frustrated in my career. It seems to me like some 
 long dream, in which I was struggling with envious and malicious 
 foes, who were conspiring pgainst my improvement and reputation. 
 I seemed, at length, to awake from the dream, and found myself a 
 feeble and helpless man, stretched upon my bed, and attended by 
 friends, whose anxious countenances revealed to me their fears. 
 
 '•What is that bell for?" was the first question I asked. 
 
 " It is tolling for the Exhibition," said my friend. 
 
 "The Exhibition," said I, starting with surprise; "how long 
 have I been sick ?" 
 
 " Nearly four weeks." 
 
 " Exhibition 1" I repeated—" and I am not ready ; I cannot be 
 there; — when I had so depended on it — so longed for it — and here 
 am I shut out from- — . When shall I be able to go out, 
 Thompson ?" 
 
 " You must lie still," said Thompson, " you are too weak to talk ; 
 keep yourself quiet." And he withdrew from the bed. 
 
 Thompson's voice and manner struck me, and I at once suspected 
 the truth. Never shall I forget the feeling that came over me, as 
 the conviction flashed across my mind, that I was dangerously ill. 
 A cold thrill ran through my fiame, and the sweat issued upon my 
 forehead. " And is this," thought I, " the end of my hopes? Is 
 it all to end in an early grave, and a forgotten memory? — Spare me, 
 O God, that I may recover strength before I go hence to be seen no 
 more/' 
 
 As soon as my first surprise was over, I set myse'f to collect my 
 thoughts, as well as I was able, and to prepare my mind for the 
 event. And now the wide extent of my folly became visible at 
 once. I saw the full measure of my negligence, and the whole un- 
 worthiness of my delusion. I felt the emptiness of that ambition, 
 for which I had sacrificed my religious affections, and would have 
 given the world to return to that spiritual frarae which I had possessed 
 two years before. Then I thought of my privileges, my opportunities, 
 the discipline I had passed through, the early instructions of my 
 mother, the faithful counsels of my father;— and, as I thought of 
 him, I involuntarily spoke out, — "Has my father been sent for, 
 Thompson ?" 
 
 Thompson looked at me with surprise, and, after a few moments' 
 hesitation, answered, "Yes, and he is expected to arrive to-morrow." 
 
 To-morrow came, and, at the expected hour, my father entered 
 the chamber. He had evidently come from a hurried journey, and 
 wore a countenance of anxiety and grief. I held out my hand, 
 and he took it without speaking. We were both thinking of a se- 
 paration, and, for some moments, could not trust ourselves with our 
 voices. At length I broke silence, for I had been fortifying myself 
 for the interview, and had my powers under my controul. 
 
 " My father," said I, " I rejoice to see you. I know why you are 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON, 21 
 
 tome, and shall feel the easier for your presence. You led me in 
 the beginning of life ;- and, if my life must close, it is a consolation 
 to lean on you at the last.. 77 
 
 " The will of God be done," said he ; " I had hoped it would be 
 otherwise ordered, but the will of God be done. I am glad to find 
 you look upon it so calmly. Your religion supports you, as I 
 thought it would.' 7 
 
 " 1 trust in God's mercy," said I ; " I need it. O, my father, you 
 do not know how foolish I have been, and how nearly I have lost 
 myself in the love of worldly honours. 7 ' And I told him the state 
 of my mind for some time previous. " But, 7 ' I continued, " I have 
 humbled myself before God, and cast myself on his compassion. I 
 have thrown away my false ambition, and renewed my vows and 
 prayers, and I hope I have found pardon and peace. 1 have given 
 up every thing to my Maker, and trust I may depart in hope. Fa- 
 ther, give me your blessing.' 7 
 
 lie knelt down by my bed, and prayed. My soul was thrilled 
 by the sound of that voice, so familiar and so loved, and a thousand 
 tender recollections crowded upon nay mind. I was refreshed and 
 strengthened as I listened, and lifted nearer to heaven; 
 
 A long silence continued after he had ended, while we both pur- 
 sued our own reflexions. At length T untied from my neck the 
 locket, containing my mother's hair, and handed it to my father. 
 u I wish to leave this," said I, " to my sister Jane, with the same 
 injunction with which my dear mother gave it to me. Tell her that 
 it has been a talisman to me, in many a difficulty and temptation ; 
 and that if I had never suffered myself to be unmindful to it, I 
 should have been spared the only pain I feel at this time. Bid her, 
 therefore, wear it in memory of her deceased brother, and mother, 
 and as a pledge that she will never pass a day without prayer; re- 
 membering, that if we cannot see how she fulfils this pledge, God 
 does ; and the day is coming when we shall know, also. 77 
 
 I was too feeble to pursue the conversation, and soon became 
 faint. I thought myself dying. After I revived, I could catch, 
 from the occasional whispers in the room, that it was thought I 
 could not live through another night. I had nothing further which 
 I wished to say, and I laid quietly, in the perfect possession of my 
 powers, waiting the signal to depart. O, the indescribable subli- 
 mity of that hour ! Words cannot picture the solemnity of feeling 
 which pervaded my mind, as my thoughts flew, in the pressure and 
 excitement of the season, with the rapidity of lightning, to the past 
 and to the future, — to my own life, to the truths of Christianity, to 
 the perfections of God, to the promises of Christ, to the prospects 
 of heaven, — and the whole was framed, with an intense energy, of 
 which I can now hardly conceive, into a perpetual mental prayer. 
 Thus I was occupied, until sleep overcame me, and I was lost in 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 It was ordained that we should be deceived. He who had brought 
 
22' 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 me low, intended but to chasten and heal me ; and, when I had 
 learned ail that a death-bed could teach, he again breathed into my 
 frame, and bade me live to praise him. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Seek first the kingdom of God, and the righteousness thereof, and 
 ull these things shall be added unto you. 
 
 These words were perpetually present to my mind, during my 
 recovery from the illness which I have mentioned, and gave rise to 
 much salutary reflection, which helped to establish my resolution 
 for the future. I felt how easily the one thing needful slips away 
 from those who cease to seek it, and how liable even a relig'ons 
 man is to lose the substance of happiness, in pursuing the shadow. 
 I persuaded myself, that if the prime object of duty were secured, 
 a man could never feel any thing actually wanting to his well-being ; 
 for it is very evident, that the pursuit of the highest duty, and most 
 permanent gcod, is consistent with the pursuit and enjoyment of 
 every other object really desirable. 
 
 I experienced the truth of this at once, in returning t3 the studies 
 of my class. My great struggle had been to subdue my inordinate 
 ambition. It had interfered with my religion, and must be sacri- 
 ficed. It was a dear sacrifice, but I took my resolution, and it 
 was performed. The consequence, I supposed, would be, that I 
 should fail from my standing as a scholar, and graduate with less 
 reputation than I had coveted. This was a mortifying anticipation ; 
 but better risk my scholarship than my religion, thought I, and I 
 summoned firmness to brave the result. 
 
 This result was quite other than I expected. In proportion as 
 I became indifferent to my reputation for mere reputation's sake, I 
 found myself able to study and recite with greater ease and self- 
 possession. Formerly, my extreme anxiety to do well, and my 
 morbid dread of doing ill, had occasioned an irritability and hurry 
 of spirits, which often threw me off my self-command, and produced 
 the very evils I sought to avoid. But now, having little desire, ex- 
 cept to do my duty, I was cool, collected, and preserved the full 
 command of my powers. So that, to my surprise, I acquitted my- 
 self better than formerly, and rose in my class, rather than fell. A 
 certain portion of every day was sacredly devoted to religious exer- 
 cises and studies ; and the time thus subtracted from classical pur- 
 suits, was more than compensated by the steadiness of mind and 
 equanimity of feeling which it produced. 
 
 Here, then, was the first reward of my renewed fidelity. I was 
 permitted to experience, then, as I have always done since, that our 
 religion has the promise of the life which now is, as well as of that 
 which is to come. How many deceive themselves, and are misera- 
 ble from not knowing this ! They sell themselves to the world, and 
 lake the world's wages ; which; at the moment of death; they ar@ 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSONS 23 
 
 rompelled to resign, and then have nothing which they can carry 
 hence. Whereas, in the service of God, they might have no less 
 enjoyed what earth affords, besides all the present and future satis- 
 factions of the soul, which are far richer and purer. There is no 
 state of the mind so happy in itself, and, at the same time, so fitted 
 for success in the duties of the world, and for contentment amid its 
 difficulties, as the tranquil and composed frame of habitai devotion,, 
 
 From this time my resolution was taken to devote myself to the 
 ministry. There had always been a prevailing desiie in my mind 
 to engage in this office ; but sometimes my distrust of myself, and 
 sometimes my occupation in other studies, had prevented me from 
 making an absolute decision. But my late experience had so 
 wrought upon me, that I could think of no other occupation con- 
 sistent with duty. I suspected it to be my father's wish, though he 
 had never intimated it to me. When I named to him my determi- 
 nation, he expressed his hearty approbation. " 1 his," said he, w is 
 what 1 have looked forward to with earnest hope. It has been, from 
 your childhood, my constant wish and prayer, that I might see you 
 joined with me in the great work of the gospel. I rejoice that ihe 
 day has come; and that, without one doubt or fear, I may encou- 
 rage you to go on, and bid you God speed. Your faith and perse- 
 verance have been tested. Ycu know what trial is, and will be able, 
 from the wisdom of personal experience, to help others who are 
 tried. Enter the w^ork, and prosper. You will still meet with 
 trials severe and heavy ; but lie, in whose strength you have hitherto 
 been safe, will always provide a way of escape, if you but seek it. ,; 
 
 I would that I had room to record all the instruction which he 
 imparted on this and on other occasions, with the affectionate piety 
 of a Christian minister, and the overflowing tenderness of a parent. 
 J would that I had been more sensible, at the time, of their value, 
 and how much it was enhanced by the fact, that I was not long to 
 enjoy his intercourse. But, for two precious years, I did enjoy it, 
 J was employed as a teacher of the school in my native village, and 
 lived and studied in the house of my birth. 1 was my parent's 
 companion at home, and in his visits abroad. I read with him the 
 most important books, in my preparatory studies, and we conversed 
 familiarly on all topics of theology and morals. Happy and pro- 
 fitable were those days ! when I was permitted to cheer the declining 
 path of him who gave me being, at the same time that I was draw- 
 ing from him treasures of ministerial experience, to guide me after 
 ha should be departed ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The entrance on the ministry is a period of anxiety and excitement 
 of spirit, to which no one can look back, even after the lapse of 
 years, without a throb of emotion. To a conscientious man, who 
 feds the weight and responsibility of the office, the exercises of that 
 
24 THE RECOLLECTIONS Of 
 
 season are deep and trying. About to appear as the messenger of 
 God's word to the souls of men— to be the herald of eternal truths 
 — to be a fellow- labourer with Christ, in the work of human salva- 
 tion, and the bearer of the prayers and intercessions of men to the 
 mercy-seat of heaven ; his spirit is oppressed, and trembling, and 
 ready to faint— for how can he discharge so various and awful vo- 
 cations? But, then, again, when he considers the incalculable im- 
 portance of the work, to which none other on earth is to be equalled ; 
 when he thinks of the honour of bearing a part in it, the shame of 
 drawing back, and the wide field for doing good — his spirits become 
 animated, and he girds himself for the toil, with alacrity and zeaL 
 It seems as it were but yesterday, that I was passing through this 
 alternation of hopes and fears, of exhilaration and despondency. — 
 I still see the chamber which I paced for hours, anxious and sleep- 
 less, night after night ; and where I gradually gained resolution to 
 begin the sacred work. Forty-seven years are past and gone, but 
 it is fresh as the memory of to-day. I have, in those years, passed 
 through heavy vicissitudes of earthly lot, and waves of trouble have 
 rolled over my heart, enough to obliterate from it every trace of that 
 early anxiety. But it abides vividly in my memory, and the old 
 man of seventy- two feels over again, as he writes, all the solicitudes 
 of the youth of twenty-five. 
 
 It was on the third of September, that, after a ride of twenty 
 miles, I reached the village where my father had recommended me 
 to make the first trial of my gifts. I bore a letter from him, in my 
 pocket, to Mr. Carverdale, the infirm minister of the place, offering 
 my service to aid him on the Sabbath. The sun was just throwing 
 its last beams upon the spire of the meeting-house, as I came upon 
 the little common where it stood, and cast my eyes around, in search 
 of the minister's house. This is easily known in a country village, 
 and I immediately rode up to a neat cottage, with a small yard be- 
 fore it, which stood just back of the meeting-house, and was almost 
 lost amid the trees, which thiew their aged branches around and 
 over it. The old gentleman was sitting in his arm-chair at the open 
 door, looking out upon the setting sun. I alighted, and approached 
 him with the letter in my hand. While he w r as engaged in reading 
 it, I had leisure to collect myself, and study the appearance of a 
 man, whom I had not seen since I was a child, and to whom I was 
 an entire stranger. He was a tall, thin man, whose few remaining 
 hairs were white with the hoary frost of age, and his countenance 
 marked with years and suffering. But there was a majesty and se- 
 renity in it, which struck me with awe, and would have become an 
 apostle. I think St. John might have looked so, when he was car- 
 ried into the church, as he approached his hundredth year, to repeat 
 his customary benediction, ' Little children, love one another. 1 
 
 " You are heartily welcome;" said he, when he had finished the 
 perusal of the letter , " and I thank your father for his kindness in 
 sending you. But he was always kind ; and I can present no better 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 65 
 
 prayer for his son, than that he may be like him. I was doubting 
 if I should be able to speak to my poor peopie to-morrow. I am 
 unusually feeble ; I have sensibly decayed this week. I might not 
 be able to address them. But now they will be instructed from 
 younger lips. It will be enough for me to break to them the holy 
 bread. I am glad to have all my strength for that. Who knows 
 but it may be the last time V 9 
 
 I felt called upon to say something ; and, with the real diffidence 
 which I felt, I said, that I was very sorry he would not have a 
 better substitute to-morrow. 
 
 " Young man, v said he, " let me warn you against a trick of dis- 
 paraging yourself in this way. It does not become the simplicity 
 and sincerity of the ministerial character. You are in your Master's 
 service, and should use such language to none but him. It may 
 be modesty now, but it will become vanity; vanity in its most dis- 
 gusting dress, the guise of humility. Think of nothing, but to do 
 your duty. Do that as well as you are able, and be not anxious to 
 say, or to hear in what manner it is done.' 1 
 
 This advice did me great good. It taught me to guard against 
 that sensitiveness to the opinions of others, which is so apt to dis- 
 order the motives of action; and has saved me, perhaps, from that 
 painful and ridiculous habit, which I have witnessed in some, of 
 always speaking slightingly of what they do, for the sake of hearing- 
 it praised. It becomes the dignity of a preacher of the gospel not to 
 speak of his labours at all, except to some confidential friend, and 
 for the sake of improvement. 
 
 " I do not mean to pain you," continued he, " for I have no 
 reason to doubt your sincerity ; but I use an old man's privilege of 
 plain speaking, to put you on your guard. My light is almost out, 
 and I must do good while I can. I am as low in my horizon as 
 yonder sun now is. But while I am here, I would give light to 
 the last. It has always been my prayer, that I might sink to my 
 bed as that glorious luminary does now, useful to the latest moment, 
 and unshadowed by a cloud. God save me from the empty, shat- 
 tered remnant of existence, which would be a weariness to myself, 
 and a burden to others. Yet I fear that the prayer will not be 
 granted, and it will try my patience and faith to have it denied. 
 But li is will be done! You/' continued he, " are like that sun 
 in his rising, rejoicing in the prospect before you, of a day of light 
 and glory, of a work of beneficence and love, in which you shall 
 cause righteousness and piety to bud, and become fruitful. It is 
 an excellent and most blessed work ! Enter it, and prosper ! May 
 God be your light, and honour you, abundantly, in the kingdom of 
 his dear Son." 
 
 He rose from his seat, and, leaning upon me, entered the room 
 where the family were sitting. " We always pray at sunsetting," 
 said he. The ancient family Bible was brought forward, from 
 which a chapter was read, upon which he made a few remarks, and 
 
 c 
 
26 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 then uttered a fervent prayer. It seemed to come from a patriarch's 
 lips, and to be instinct with the devotion of that future world, on 
 whose borders he stood. We retired eaily to rest, and arose with 
 the sun, on the morning of the Sabbath. The trembling voice of 
 the aged servant of Christ mingled with the early stirrings of the 
 morning breeze, and welcomed, in the animated accents of praise, 
 the blessed recollections of holy time. His whole air was serene, 
 tranquil, and thoughtful. He seated himself, again, by the door of 
 his cottage, and remained there, musing and conversing, at inter- 
 vals, until we were summoned to the public service. 
 
 My attention had been so much diverted from myself, and my 
 mind so interested in the conversation and character of this good 
 old man, that I passed through the trial of my opening ministry 
 with far happier feelings than I had anticipated. When the exer- 
 cise was concluded, he arose in his place, and reminded the church, 
 that the emblems of their Master's love awaited them. " Would to 
 God/ 7 said he, in his feeble, tremulous voice, while he turned his 
 eyes around upon the congregation ; " would to God, that ye were 
 all disposed, and ready to partake of them. My infirmities warn 
 me, that this is the last time they will be dispensed by my hand. 
 Ah, why are ye not all waiting to receive them? For more than 
 half a century have I broken this bread here. How often, in that 
 long period, have I entreated and urged you all to come and par- 
 take. I have warned, and admonished, and pleaded with you ? 
 even unto tears; and yet how many of you suffer me to leave you, 
 and carry up with me, when I go hence, the sad story, that you 
 have no mark of gratitude for a Saviour's love — no obedience for a 
 Saviour's dying command. You are willing to oppress my last 
 hours with the bitter thought, that, for many of you, 1 have laboured 
 in vain; and, though 1 have loved you here, I may hardly hope to 
 join you again in the eternal communion with the Saints. Dear 
 friends, let it not be thus. I stand here to bid you farewell. Who 
 of you is willing that it should be eternal? Who of you would 
 part, never to meet again ? I hope and pray for better things. I 
 will hope, that, although we have not sat down together here, we 
 shall be permitted to do it hereafter. And let me ask of you, for 
 this once at least, this last opportunity, not to leave me : but re- 
 main, one and all, to witness, though you do not participate. 
 Who can tell how it may please God to manifest himself to you? 
 Who can tell, while we all join our prayers and devotions for the 
 last time, what influence may descend to bless us? W 7 ho can tell, 
 but our remaining together now, may be the omen that we shall be 
 prepared to meet in a higher state?" 
 
 The effect of this unexpected address, delivered with quivering 
 lips, and the piercing accents of deep and earnest feeling, was irre- 
 sistible. Not one of the congregation left his place. The minister 
 descended to the table, and an affecting set vice ensued, whose deep 
 and touching solemnity I have never seen surpassed. Many there 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 2? 
 
 were, who, like myself, received impresions that never passed 
 away. And many, 1 doubt not, will be found at the supper of the 
 Lamb in heaven, who, but for that hoar's holy and overwhelming 
 feeling, had never sat at his table on earth. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It will not be thought surprising, that, by the scene which I de- 
 scribed in the last chapter, Mr. Carverdale was entirely exhausted. 
 While the excitement of the occasion lasted, he looked and spoke 
 with almost the animation of youth. But, when it was over, he 
 sank down, weak, trembling, and nearly fainting. The old cords 
 liad been stretched more than they could bear, and lost their tone 
 for ever. When the people had dispersed, he attempted to rise 
 from his seat, and follow them, but was unable. Several of his 
 friends advanced to his assistance. " The light is almost burnt 
 down," said he, in a voice scarcely audible ; '■ might it only go out 
 here at the altar, how privileged I should be !" Some one express- 
 ed a hope, that it might yet be continued for a season, to the bene- 
 fit of his church. He shook his head. " No," said he ; i( and why 
 should I wish it? It is only a flickering, fitful flame. It may 
 brighten a moment to-day, but will be dim again to-morrow, and 
 cheer no one. No ; my poor flock need a vigorous flame — a burn- 
 ing and shining light. I am wasted. And if it please my God 
 soon to remove me to a place among the stars of the firmament, 
 why should I lament, or why should you 1 For I have that hope ; 
 I thank God, I have that hope." 
 
 This he said with frequent interruptions, showing that his spirit 
 was stirring, though his body was weak. He seemed unable to say 
 more, and was carried, in the arms of his friends, to his house, and 
 placed in bed. He fell into a sleep, which the physician declared 
 to be the prelude of death, and which, he said, it would be useless 
 and cruel to disturb, by attempting to prolong life. " The machine,'* 
 said he, " is worn out, and will gradually come to a stop." 
 
 He remained in this state, apparently unconscious of what was 
 passing around him, until I was summoned to the afternoon ser- 
 vice. In the same state I found him, on my return. In the mean 
 time, the report had obtained currency among his parishioners, that 
 their minister was dying. With affectionate concern, they crowded 
 around his dwelling, and manifested the strongest sense of his worth, 
 and liveliest gratitude for his past services. Never have I known 
 eulogy more eloquent than that which I read in their tearful eyes, 
 and whispering voices, as they stood silently waiting, or anxiously 
 conversing, before the door, and beneath the windows. Their sound 
 was distinctly heard in the chamber, as I stood with his friends be- 
 side his bed. It, at length seemed to arouse him, and he opened 
 his eyes. " What is this?" said he. 
 
 " The people have come from meeting," it was replied^ " and are 
 anxious to know how you do." 
 
28 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 "They are kind souls/ 7 replied the old minister; and, turning his 
 eyes around, as if looking for some one, he called me by name. I 
 bent over him, and he took my hand. " Go to them, my young 
 friend ; tell them I thank them for all their fidelity and kindness. 
 Carry them my last farewell Bid them remember* my last instruc- 
 tions; and God bless them." 
 
 I went to the door, and, beckoning to the several groups, collect- 
 ed them together, and spoke to them as I was desired. When I 
 returned to the chamber, the good old man was taking leave of his 
 friends, and to each of them giving his blessing. He called for me. 
 Hewas exhausted, and. could no more speak audibly. His lips 
 moved, and I thought I would have given worlds to know what 
 they would utter. After a few moments' silence, he exerted himself 
 again, and we understoood him to ask that there might be prayers. 
 I kneeled down, with his hand still in mine, and commended his 
 spirit, in such words as I was able, to the Great Father of Mercy. 
 It was a solemn moment. There was a silence and awe like that 
 of the tomb, interrupted only by the laborious breathing of the 
 dying man, and the low voice of youthful supplication. When I 
 had ended, he pressed my hand, but said nothing. We feared that 
 he would not speak again; but it was permitted us to hear his last 
 words distinctly. For, when something had been said respecting 
 the good man's support in death, he spoke out audibly, "The tes- 
 timony of conscience, and the mercy of God in Christ." 
 This was his last effort. We stood silently, watching for his de- 
 parting breath, when, as the sun was going down, its beams forced 
 their way through an opening, amid the branches of the thick trees, 
 which grew before the windows, and fell full upon his face. A 
 smile came over his countenance ; and, before it had entirely passed 
 away, he ceased to breathe. I remembered his conversation on the 
 preceding evening, and rejoiced at his quiet departure. 
 
 When it was known that their pastor was actually dead, all those 
 of his parishioners who had not retired to their homes, pressed into 
 the house, to take a last look of one whom they had loved and re- 
 verenced so much. Not a word was spoken by any one in the 
 chamber of death. The silent gaze, the tearful eye, and the cau- 
 tious tread, evinced the impression which was upon every heait, 
 and the feeling of awe with which the sleep of the patriarch was 
 contemplated. 
 
 My own feelings, during these scenes, it is impossible for me to 
 describe. But I have always felt, that 1 had reason to thank God 
 for appointing me to open my ministry in so singular and affecting 
 a manner. The serenity of aged piety, and the peace of a Chris- 
 tian's death-bed, gave me impressions, which helped still more to 
 prepare me for my work. I am certain, that, for years, this day was 
 present, almost constantly, to my mind, and endowed me with cou- 
 rage, fortitude, and spirituality, which I might not otherwise hav© 
 attained. 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 29 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 It was in less than a year after this, that I found myself occupying 
 the place of this venerable old man, of whose last hours I had been, 
 so unexpectedly, the attendant. It may readily be conceived, that, 
 with no ordinary feelings, I took possession of the pulpit where I 
 had heard the expiring sounds of his ministry, and seated myself 
 in the room where he had studied, and at the table upon which he 
 had leaned, and written for half a century. To my ardent view, 
 every thing about me was sacred. 1 fancied there was inspiration 
 in the very walls, and that I inhaled a good spirit from the very air 
 in which the holy man had breathed. And while I studied in his 
 books, and dipped my pen in his inkstand ; while I read from his 
 Bible, in the family circle which he had left, and in which I was a 
 boarder, and stood up to offer their daily devotions on the spot 
 which his prayers had consecrated, I am sure that I felt a glow in 
 my heart, which more important circumstances have oftentimes 
 been incapable of producing ; but which was, nevertheless, highly 
 favourable toward forming a frame of thought and feeling suited to 
 my vocation. 
 
 Indeed, it rarely happens to a young man> to begin the arduous 
 work of the ministry under happier auspices. The circumstances 
 of my lot and education had been so ordered, as constantly to ex- 
 cite and keep fresh the religious sentiment. It had been stirred 
 and animated by the frequent remarkable scenes through which I 
 had passed. The manner of my introduction to my parish was cal- 
 culated to revive and strengthen, in no common degree, all the 
 feelings I had ever experienced, and all the resolutions I had ever 
 made, in relation to the great duties of personal and pastoral reli- 
 gion. I cannot recall to mind this period, without an expression 
 of devout gratitude to Him who appointed my lot, and in whose 
 strength I have toiled on to this day. 1 have seen some of my 
 brethren disheartened, and sinking beneath their load, the victims 
 of a sickly sensibility ; some miseiable in their work, because their 
 hearts were not engaged in it ; and some losing their reputation and 
 usefulness, through indolence. But for myself, being always pos- 
 sessed of bodily health, and heartily attached to my duties, I have 
 never found them burdensome and fatiguing. And I may say, that 
 I never have found them so to any, except those who have wanted 
 the spirit of their office. How shall 1 cease, then, to be thankful 
 for the early instruction of those kind parents, and the severe in- 
 fliction of that youthful discipline, which formed in me inclinations 
 and desires, which nothing could have gratified, but the labours of 
 the sacred office ! They have been my pleasure ; and nothing else 
 would have afforded me p'easure. 
 
 I soon found, however, that there is much to damp the ardour of 
 enthusiastic expectation, with which a young man, ignorant of the 
 
 C 2 
 
30 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 world, enters upon his career. I can hardly help sighing now, 
 when I call to mind the many fair visions which were cruelly dis- 
 sipated, by my further acquaintance with mankind ; and the severe 
 and mortifying rebukes by which my open-hearted inexperience 
 learned prudence and caution. It was a great shock to me to dis- 
 cover, so soon as I did, the necessity of distrusting appearances. 
 This was one of the first lessons which I learned, by intercourse with 
 my parish — perhaps one of the most important I ever learned. 
 Certainly none has influenced me more in my whole life since ; 
 none, perhaps, has made me, at times, so unhappy. 
 
 Like other young persons, I trusted to the good show which any 
 one made, and confided, implicitly, in ail that any one might say 
 of himself. I delighted in the warm expression of religious feel- 
 ing, and was ready to give up my heart to it, wherever I might find 
 it. I could not believe that zealous profession could be made by 
 any one who was insincere at heart. It was a great blow to me to 
 be undeceived. 
 
 There were few men in the town more assiduous and kind in 
 their attentions to me, after my ordination, than Josiah Dunbar. 
 lie recommended himself, by his punctual attendance at meeting, 
 and by his fondness to call upon me, and converse on religious 
 subjects. He entered fully into the history of his experience, and 
 drew from me the relation of my own. Id is appearance was aus- 
 tere, his manners simple and solemn, his voice a little whining, and 
 his eyes were cast, in humility, upon the ground. His age was 
 about fifty ; and I thought that no young man was ever so blest in 
 the confidence and advice of a devout parishioner. 
 
 I found, however, that he was not popular in the village; and 
 that the worldly, sober part of the inhabitants, especially, spoke 
 of him rather slightingly. This grieved me ; but I accounted for it 
 by a remark which he himself, once, or rather often, made, with a 
 deep sigh, and solemn shake of the head : — " Ah, there is nothing 
 that the world can find lovely in the children of Cod. They are 
 always despised and trodden upon/' My experience has since 
 taught me, that this is far from being true But, at that time, I 
 took it for an established fact; and, when I found any commen- 
 datory remark, which I made respecting Mr. Dunbar, received in 
 silence, or with a sneer, I imputed it to the natural dislike of men to 
 superior goodness. Ere long, however, I observed some things in 
 his conversation, which I, myself, disliked. He was too fond, I 
 thought, of complaining of the want of religion in others, and of 
 the gieat coolness of church members. There was, doubtless, room 
 for complaint in many instances, but he was too frequent and petu- 
 lant, and spoke too sarcastically of good moral lives. Now I could 
 see no harm in a good moral life, and once told him, " that I did 
 not think it so much against a man, that he was a moral man ; that 
 I rather though it the part of charity to believe, that what we can- 
 not see is as good as what we do see ; and that what we do see, is, 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 31 
 
 really, though not visibly, grounded on right principle." He was 
 dissatisfied with this remark, and ever after affected to be concerned, 
 lest I was resting too much on works. He thought that I preached 
 "works" too much; and he harrassed me often with minor ques- 
 tions about justification, and faith, and righteousness. All this, 
 however, was done in the kindest way imaginable, and with so 
 earnest appearance of desiring my good, and that of the Church, 
 that, although I thought he urged matters a little too much, yet my 
 respect for him, and love to him, rather increased than diminished. 
 No man had made me so much his confidant, and, consequently, 
 no man was so much mine. What he proved to be, finally, I will 
 tell in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was the universal custom of the people, in the strait days of my 
 youth, to keep the annual day of fasting, literally, so far as to ab- 
 stain from a dinner. Nothing was eaten between breakfast and 
 sun-down, except, perchance, a light luncheon, in the interval be- 
 tween the morning and evening services. It was not uncommon, 
 however, to compensate for this extraordinary abstinence, by a sup- 
 per as extraordinary ; and the meat and pudding which had been 
 .refused at noon, were devoured with a keener appetite in the even- 
 ing. It was thought that the whole duty was performed, if the 
 body were but mortified during day-light. 
 
 There were some in my parish, who had departed from this cus- 
 tom. Mr. Dunbar came to me the week preceding the fast, in the 
 Spring following my ordination, lamenting the decay of ancient 
 manners, and begging me to urge, in my next sermon, the impor- 
 tance of a literal fast. He said much of the aid which devout men 
 had derived from it in all ages, the profoundness it gave to their 
 contemplations, and how it aided their prayers and spiritual-mind - 
 edness ; he insisted that self-mortification was necessary to growth 
 in grace ; and that we were in danger, from employing it too little, 
 of becoming entirely devoted to our animal and sensual nature. 
 
 I replied, that I had no doubt of all this, and that such had been, 
 and would be, the efficacy of fasting, when it was voluntary. He 
 that will, from religious motives, and the desire of holy meditation, 
 deny his appetite, and spend his dining hour in devotion, will, un- 
 questionably, find it profitable. But if the fast be kept by compul- 
 sion, or from no better motive at bottom, than that it is the custom, 
 then it will probably be unprofitable, and will hinder, instead of 
 promoting, the devotion of the day. Besides, I added, temperance 
 is a better aid to the powers of the mind than abstinence ; and, 
 moreover, they who abstain at noon, are very likely to revel at 
 night ; and, in that case, whatever good may have been wrought, 
 is more than lost. Mr. Dunbar' said, he was aware that the day 
 oftentimes ended in festivity and indulgence; but ; for his part, he 
 
32 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 abhorred it; in his own family, the supper was always frugal and 
 religious ; and he wished that I would attack this crying sin, as 
 well as the other. 
 
 " Or at least," said he, coming, at last, to the point at which he 
 had, all along, been aiming, " if you do not think right to preach, I 
 wish you would speak a word of quiet advice to Mr. Ellerton, for 
 his example goes a gieat way; and it is a sinful thing that he should 
 cook and eat on fast-day, just as on any other day. He makes no 
 difference in the world. And what will become of religion and the 
 church, if such men are to lead astray the simple people, by their 
 example ? A good moral man, to be sure, and the world speaks 
 well of him. But no man can say that he has ever experienced re- 
 ligion ; and I am sure, for one, that he is an Arian at heart, if not a 
 Deist. Indeed, I think he ou°ht to be brought before the church, 
 and not tolerated in quiet any longer. There is no knowing what 
 mischief his example may do; and our fidelity to the Head of the 
 Church requires that we cut him off." 
 
 Mr. Dunbar had more than once before spoken to the prejudice 
 of Mr. Ellerton, but never so explicitly as now. I did not, alto- 
 gether, like the tone in which he continued to enlarge, and, at last, 
 replied, that even if I thought lukewarmness, and suspected error, 
 proper subjects of church interference, yet I was too much a stranger 
 in the place, to promote any such objects now. And as for the 
 matter of fasting, I could not interfere at all; for I intended myself 
 to take my usual meals 
 
 He left me, evidently disappointed. On the day of the fast, 
 there was observed in him a studied appearance of rigour and me- 
 lancholy, and every external manifestation of suffering for sin, and 
 absorption in divine meditation He was of a " sad countenance, 
 and disfigured his face " In the evening, according, as it was as- 
 certained, to his usual custom, a sumptuous supper was provided. 
 He ate and drank to excess, and died the next day, in consequence 
 of the surfeit. 
 
 The shock my mind received, on learning these circumstances, 
 may be easily conceived ; mnch more so, when the whole history 
 and character of the man were revealed. He was discovered to 
 have been altogether unprincipled in his transactions with men, 
 artful, and fraudulent, and sensual ; so that, in a word, for I can- 
 not enlarge on so unpleasant a theme, his name became a by-word 
 in the village, and never was spoken, but with an accent of indig- 
 nation. Yet so great had been the cunning of the man, that he 
 had both escaped detection, and had passed, for the most part, 
 though not altogether, without suspicion. There was but ene per- 
 son who thoroughly knew him, and that was Mr. Ellerton. When 
 I learned this, I perceived, at once, the cause of his ill-will to that 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Ellerton was one of the principal citizens of the place, and, 
 in most respects, the very reverse of Mr. Dunbar, He was, like 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 33 
 
 all other respectable men of that day, a professor of religion. Bat 
 no man could be less anxious about its Jorms. He appeared with 
 a dress, and countenance, and speech, like those of other gentle- 
 men. He seldom made religion the subject of conversation, and 
 was generally supposed not to be fond of reading the Scriptures, 
 and not to have devotions in his family. He was suspected, also, 
 of not being quite sound in the faith. He was esteemed precisely 
 what is called a good moral man. Very few would venture to call 
 him a religious man, though he was punctual at church, and 
 friendly to the ministry. But, then, he was proverbial for his truth, 
 integrity, and kindness, and " every virtue under heaven." No man 
 could be more universally respected and beloved. 
 
 I did not, at this time, know so much of him, for my ear had 
 been poisoned by Dunbar. I had been led to look upon him 
 coolly, and to avoid, rather than seek, his company. I had, con- 
 sequently, in the seven months of my ministry, become, hardly, in 
 any degree, acquainted with him. The circumstances of Mr. Dun- 
 bar's death led me to suspect the correctness of my impressions, 
 and made me solicitous of greater intimacy with Mr. Ellerton. 
 
 I soon discovered and admired the purity and firmness of his 
 moral principle. But I wished to go further, and ascertain the 
 state of his religious sentiments and affections. When we had be- 
 come well acquainted, and were together by ourselves, I found him 
 ready and pleased to converse frankly. I immediately found that 
 he was, indeed, an Arian ; and as I had always been taught, with- 
 out knowing why, to look with horror on Arianism, as little better 
 than Infidelity, and to take it for granted, that there could be no 
 religion at heart, without the worship of the Trinity, I thought 
 that I saw, at once, how it happened that he wore no show of reli- 
 gion, for he certainly could possess none ; that is, none of its fer- 
 vour, life, and spirituality ; nothing of it, but its decent, every-day 
 morality. 
 
 But a more intimate acquaintance taught me, that he was no 
 stranger to the holiest and tenderest feelings of piety; that he had 
 experienced, deeply, the inward power of the gospel, and acknow- 
 ledged it as a religion of the affections. So that, in a word, it has 
 seldom fallen to my lot to know a soul of more elevated, expanded, 
 and heavenly-minded religion, than dwelt within the frame of that 
 unobtrusive man ; giving direction and beauty to his whole life, but 
 itself unseen and unheard, in any separate or ostentatious display. 
 
 The observation of these two characters, furnished me with much 
 matter for reflection. It made me, ever after, cautious, and dis- 
 trustful of appearances, to a degree that was even painful. I learned 
 to be jealous of lip religion, and cold towards those who were for- 
 ward in profession. Nay, I was beset with an indefinable reserve, 
 which sealed my lips, and checked the current of my feelings, when- 
 ever the subject of religion was touched by strangers, destroying 
 much of the comfort and satisfaction I had hitherto enjoyed in reli- 
 
34 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 gious conversation. How much have I suffered from this cause ! 
 while nothing that I have gained has been able to compensate for 
 the quietness and peace of the unsuspecting temper which I have 
 lost. I think, however, that I have gained something, by teaching 
 myself and others to lay the stress upon the solid excellence of a 
 good life. The longer I have lived, the more have I been per- 
 suaded, that this is the great end of human endeavour, and the great 
 touchstone, by which we are to judge one another. The heart we 
 cannot see ; it must be left to the judgment of God. But wherever 
 the life is uniformly and consistently good, 1 have learned to con- 
 sider it as the part of charity to suppose that the heart, also, is 
 right. I have been unable to join in the outcry against moral lives, 
 as if they were, of course, signs of a worldly heart. I have thought 
 it mischievous : I may say I have found it mischievous. Religion 
 is helped, by maintaining the dignity and importance of good 
 works; yea, even though they stand by themselves. But it is in- 
 jured, if they be sneered at and defamed, because, however you 
 may explain and qualify, many will understand you to say, that if 
 there be faith and zeal, a good life is, at best, of only secondary im- 
 portance. They will, therefore, make only secondary attempts to 
 attain it. How many souls have been ruined in hypocrisy and 
 spiritual pride, thtough this mistake! 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mr. Ellerton, of whom I spoke in the last chapter, was another 
 added to the number of the " excellent of the earth/' whom it had 
 been my privilege to know. Some of the peculiarities of his reli- 
 gious faith, and those in pretty important paiticulars, were widely 
 different, I had reason to think, from those of any other good man I 
 had met with. He did not believe in a tri-personal Deity; and this 
 was a sort of unbelief, which I, like ten thousand others, looked 
 upon with a vague sort of horror, I knew not whence nor why. 
 For a long time, therefore, I could not believe that he was really so 
 good a Christian as he seemed to be : and when it was impossible 
 to doubt this, my next conclusion very naturally was, that Trini- 
 tarianism, though the truth, yet could not be essential to the Chris- 
 tian, for here was a Christian without it. This discovery did a 
 great deal to set me a thinking, and to enlarge my views. But its 
 best and happiest consequence was, to confirm me in my persua- 
 sion, that the great practical and vital principles of our religion are 
 common to all believers. From this persuasion I had never varied. 
 Experience has every year confirmed it ; and it is still one of the 
 most comforting convictions of my heart. 
 
 I look forward with the most delightful anticipations, to the day, 
 when I shall join in one communion the souls of those many good 
 men, whom 1 have honoured and loved here, but from whose fel- 
 lowship I have been shut out, by the miserable bars which preju- 
 dice and piide have put up, amid the churches on earth; 
 
JOTHAM ANDEESOH, 35 
 
 But another important consequence was, that, not finding Ari~ 
 anism the monstrous thing that I had imagined it, but, on the con- 
 tray, consistent with every Christian grace, I was led to look upon 
 it with complacency. I felt ashamed of the prejudice I had suf- 
 fered myself to entertain. 1 felt mortified and humbled, that I should 
 have permitted myself to gather, from the wholesale censures of 
 books, and the sweeping sneers of conversation, an inimical im- 
 pression against the holders of an opinion, of which I knew nothing. 
 This was the precise fact : I did know nothing, absolutely nothing, 
 about them. I had examined other opinions, but not this. To 
 this I had never turned my attention; had never asked a question 
 about it ; but had gone on in the way my father taught me, taking 
 it for granted that I was right ; and not so much as troubled with 
 a suggestion, that it was possible I might be wrong. I recollect 
 perfectly well the first time the thought occurred to me. It was 
 when I had become well acquainted with Mr. Ellerton's character, 
 and had been striving in vain to reconcile it with his anti-christian 
 creed. The question seemed to be asked me, how do you know it 
 is anti-christian ? I felt, at once, that I did not know, for I never 
 had inquired. I cannot describe the sensation which passed over 
 me, as this thought flashed through my mind. A cold thrill went 
 through my frame — a tumult of thoughts crowded and agitated my 
 mind. I soon felt that it was my duty to inquire, and know that 
 whereof I would affirm ; and, in great anxiety of mind, and earnest 
 supplication for heavenly guidance, I at once entered upon the in- 
 vestigation. 
 
 The first discovery I made, was one, which has been %ade by 
 multitudes besides, but which filled me with inexpressible surprise, 
 It was, that I was not, and never had been, a Trinitarian. When 
 I came to see the definitions and explanations of the doctrine, and 
 compared them with the state of my own mind, I found that I had 
 used its language, but had never adopted its meaning. I had fal- 
 len into its use, just as I had fallen into the common language of 
 men, about the rising and setting of the sun— not because I believed 
 what the words literally imply, but because it was the phraseology 
 in common use where I lived, Trinitarian doxologies I had em- 
 ployed, because I had always heard them from childhood; but I 
 found that I had never affixed to them Trinitarian notions. I found 
 that I never had worshipped any being, but the Father of Jesus 
 Christ, and that all my religious feelings were grounded on the sup- 
 position of his single divinity. 
 
 So then, I thought to myself, I have been guilty of contemning 
 and denouncing a sentiment, which, all the time, I ignorantly held ; 
 and of thoughtlessly using language, which implied a faith different 
 from my actual opinion. This discovery humbled me to the dust, 
 I could scarcely bear the burden of shame and reproach which my 
 .conscience heaped upon me. I have since found that this thought- 
 lessness is, by no means, uncommon. Inexcusable as it is, yet 
 
36 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 many have I known in precisely the same situation with myself. 
 Indeed, I have reason to believe, that the large majority of those 
 educated in the orthodox faith, are no more truly Trinitarian than I 
 was, though they imagine themselves to be so ; and I have, accord- 
 ingly, found, that, when they allow themselves to look fairly into the 
 matter, they discover themselves to have been Unitarians all their 
 lives, without knowing it. 
 
 Had I been acquainted with this fact, at the time of which I 
 speak, it would have saved me much unhappiness. As it was, I 
 had a long and painful labour to go through, in ascertaining whe- 
 ther my language or opinions were the truth of revelation on this 
 subject. The one or the other must necessarily be rejected as 
 wrong. For two years, I pursued the inquiry with all the anxiety 
 and impartiality of a conscientious mind. It would take too much 
 room to detail the progress of my experience at this time. Suffice 
 it to say, that I obtained complete satisfaction at last, and have been 
 ever since happy in the simplicity and consistency of my Unitarian 
 belief. I have known many pass through the same process, with 
 an equally happy result; and many, I may add, with a result still 
 more happy, because their minds were relieved by it from the dis- 
 tressing burden of other ungenerous doctrines, which had preyed 
 upon their spirits, and disquieted their lives, but from whose bon- 
 dage I had been redeemed some time earlier. I cannot but re- 
 mark, hpre, how much is effected by the light of a good conversa- 
 tion. I was set on thinking, and won to the knowledge of the 
 truth, by observing one man's Christian deportment. It would be 
 well, if Christians were generally aware, that they cannot produce any 
 so powerful argument in their favour as a holy life. Thousands will 
 understand it, and be convinced by it, whom no reasoning, though 
 it were demonstrative, would at all effect. " Let your light so shine 
 before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your 
 Father, which is in heaven." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Ir was in the Summer of , that Mr. Garstone took up his 
 
 residence in our village. It occasioned no little surprise and spe- 
 culation in that retired place, that a stranger, of education and pro- 
 perty, should select it for his abode lie built a commodious, but 
 small house, upon a little hillock, by the side of a beautiful pond, 
 which lay about a mile from the meeting-house. I never had seen 
 him; but, as scon as he had taken possession of his place, I felt it 
 my duty to call, and bid him welcome. 
 
 The room into which I entered, impressed me, at once, with re- 
 spect for the owner of the mansion; and, as I cast my eyes around 
 on its neat and elegant comforts, I thought that I saw indications 
 of taste and refinement, beyond any thing to which I had "been ac- 
 customed. A piano-forte ; a rarer luxury then than now, stood open 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 37 
 
 on one side, and, opposite to it, a book-case, well and handsomely 
 filled. I could give but a hasty look, when Mr. Garstone entered. 
 He was, apparently, about fifty years of age, thin and pale, with a 
 settled melancholy upon his countenance, which, sometimes, ap- 
 proximated to sternness; and a manner reserved and cold. His 
 appearance rather repressed the warmth with which I was disposed 
 to greet him ; and, after several ineffectual attempts to throw off the 
 restraint which his manner imposed, I left him, disappointed and 
 sad. 
 
 I looked, in vain, for his entrance to the meeting-house on Sun- 
 day, though his two daughters were there. They were dressed in 
 deep mourning ; and this, I thought, might account for their father's 
 manners, though he had made no allusion to any affliction. I soon 
 visited him, again, and, gradually, we became a little acquainted. 
 His wife, I found, had died about ten months previous; he had lost 
 his only son just before, and had now bid farewell to the world, in- 
 tending to spend the remainder of his life with his daughters in re- 
 tirement. He attended to their education, he studied and read, 
 and amused himself with the cultivation of his lands. He had an 
 extensive acquaintance with books and subjects, and, oftentimes, 
 would delight me with his animated and intelligent conversation, 
 I derived much instruction from his society, and he seemed to take 
 pleasure in mine. But all attempts to introduce religious conver- 
 sation, he uniformly set aside; and never attended public worship. 
 This made me uneasy ; and I longed to know why it was, that a 
 man who was evidently unhappy, was yet willing to be a voluntary 
 stranger to the consolations of religion. 
 
 It was not so with his daughters. They were little instructed in 
 religion, but they took an interest in it. Indeed, as far as they had 
 been taught, they felt its great truths deeply, and exercised a pro- 
 found piety. They were glad to converse, when it happened— 
 which was very seldom — that their father was not present ; and I 
 often thought, that their countenances expressed sorrow, that the 
 subject must be dropped on his entrance. I one day expressed 
 my surprise to them, that their father should habitually absent him- 
 self from public worship. They replied, that it had been so ever 
 since their memory ; and that they believed he did it from prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 " Has he no sense of its importance and value," said I; "does 
 he feel nothing — think nothing of the great truths of religion?" 
 
 "Alas,'* replied the eldest, whose name was Charlotte, " I fear 
 he thinks but too much, and feels too much. I have reason to sup- 
 pose, although he never speaks of it, that it is this which lies at the 
 bottom of his unhappiness; and that, if this burden could be re- 
 moved, he would be a cheerful and happy man." 
 
 I looked at her for explanation. " Unreflecting men," said she, 
 " may be happy without religious faith : for their habitual thought- 
 lessness excludes the subject from their minds. But a man who is 
 
 D 
 
38 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 in habits of reflecti6n, and who cannot keep from his mind the 
 thoughts of the Author of his being, and the great concerns of fu- 
 turity, must be often wretched without a settled faith." 
 
 " It is tiue, then," said I, " what I have suspected, that your fa-* 
 ther is not a believer in the Christian religion V 
 
 "It is," she replied ; "and to you who know hira, this will ac- 
 count for all his appearance and habits. For how can such a man.,, 
 who longs and pants for the refuge of its truths, be happy without 
 them? He may have every thing else; but the want of these will 
 leave an aching void, which nothing else ean fill. O, what a bless- 
 ed day it would be to us all, which should make him a believer ! 
 He has every thing else to render himself and us happy ; but for 
 want of this, there is a bitter taste to every enjoyment, and discon- 
 tent in every scene." 
 
 "Is he not aware of the cause of his dissatisfaction?" I asked. 
 
 " He is," replied Charlotte, " and yet he is not. That is to say ? 
 he acknowledges the power of the Christian faith in others, and, I 
 believe, is truly happy that we possess it. But he will not allow,, 
 that it would do any thing for himself. He insists, that in his li- 
 terary and philosophical pursuits, he has all the satisfaction that the 
 human mind can attain, and that nothing could add to his happi- 
 ness. But it is very seldom he speaks on the subject. Indeed, he 
 is so strongly prejudiced, that we avoid any allusion to it altogether,, 
 for I think he is the more violently positive, from the very feeling 
 he has, that there is an essential thing wanting. He tries, in this 
 way, to stifle his feelings, and to convince himself, that he wants 
 nothing. " 
 
 " I have seen something like this," said I, "in other cases ; but 
 I should not suspect it in your father. How -is it that he is thus 
 prejudiced ?" 
 
 " It is partly," she answered, " his misfortune, and partly his 
 fault. His misfortune, because, in early life, he was thrown into 
 the midst of fanaticism and bigotry, which disgusted him, and ren- 
 dered the whole system incredible to him : his fault, because he 
 suffered prejudice to sway him, and did not deliberately institute 
 an inquiry, which should separate the false from the true, and show 
 him that the system itself may be true and excellent, notwithstand- 
 ing the follies of its friends." 
 
 "Can you state to me at length," said I, "the circumstances 
 under which these indelible impressions were made ?" 
 
 Before Charlotte could more than commence a reply to this 
 question, Mr. Garstone came in, and the conversation took a different 
 turn. I returned home, deeply interested in what I had heard, and 
 anxious to hear more. 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 39 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 What I had now heard, interested me too much to suffer me to 
 rest, until I had learned more. The history of Mr. Garstone I 
 found to be this : — He was the son of parents, whose religion par- 
 took of the character of austerity and superstition. He was edu- 
 cated in the most rigid restraint, and imbued, diligently, with the 
 dogmas of the Assembly's Catechism. When he had grown to 
 years of understanding, being of a strong mind, and peculiarly sus- 
 ceptible feelings, his reflections on the subject of religion became 
 earnest in the extreme, and occupied him day and night. A fear of 
 God, rather dreadful than pleasant, as he expressed it, had always 
 oppressed him, and it now made him miserable. The doctrines 
 which he had learned in childhood, he now began to understand, 
 and reason upon, and apply to himself. He saw, that if they were 
 true, he was condemned, by his birth, to an eternal curse, which 
 only the re-creating grace of God could remoye. And this" grace 
 was appointed to visit only a chosen few,. Was he one of those 
 chosen ? Should he ever taste this grace ? Or, was he abandoned, 
 by the discriminating spirit of God, to his horrible destiny? 
 
 Beneath the agony of heart which this personal application of 
 bis creed produced, he struggled long and wretchedly. His misery, 
 he told me, was indescribable. His life, for months, was a burden 
 ©f terror and torture. Every thing lost its relish, in the desperate 
 attempt to gain satisfaction and hope, from what appeared to him 
 the sentence of despair — a sentence, which he was sometimes 
 tempted to pronounce inconsistent with every attribute of justice 
 and goodness. But this temptation he was taught to reject as blas- 
 phemous, and a foul instigation of the DeviL He strove to smother 
 every feeling of this nature ; and, in spite of the clear demonstra- 
 tion, which, the more he reflected, the more strongly was forced 
 upon him, he compelled himself to believe, that all this might be 
 so, and God still be just. In this tumult of contradictions — in this 
 struggle of his mind to be reconciled to what he felt to be dreadful, 
 and tried, in vain, to perceive to be right, two years of misery pass- 
 ed away, .and health and cheerfulness passed away with them. 
 Reading, reflection, tears, prayers, were all in vain. The counsel of 
 friends was also vain ; for his state of mind was a cause of congra- 
 tulation to them, being, as they supposed, the struggle of the natural 
 man in the throes of the new birth, from which he would come forth, 
 regenerate and rej oicing. They rather increased than allayed his per- 
 plexity. They rebuked his attempts to reason on the subject, and 
 told him it was vain to hope for satisfaction, except only in that 
 prostrate faith, which God would give, if he pleased, and when he 
 pleased. They bade him, therefore, wait, and not be guilty of the 
 blasphemy of trying God's ways by the rules of human reason, 
 lie did wait ; but to no purpose. He humbled himself, and 
 
40 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 strove to quell what was called his pride, and to believe the con- 
 sistency of what appeared to him contradictory, and made it the 
 burden of his prayer, that he might only find peace, and he would 
 willingly sacrifice every other thing. It was all in vain. No peace 
 came. But, not to prolong the story, the powers of his mind, at 
 last, triumphed. lie found it impossible, after every effort, to at- 
 tribute to the government of God, what he had been taught to at- 
 tribute to it. He gradually came to the determination, that such 
 a system could not be true; and he rejected it, as contradicting al- 
 most every high and holy truth, which nature and common sense 
 teach of the great Creator. 
 
 I could not help being deeply interested in this history. Un- 
 happy man, thought I, thus driven away from the light and com- 
 forts of God's Word ! How different might have been the result, if 
 he had been blest with early opportunities like mine. He would 
 have found help in his difficulties, as I did ; he would have learned, 
 that the Gospel of God's love is not implicated with any of those 
 dogmas, " at which reason stands aghast, and Faith herself is half 
 confounded ; v and he might have received it in its native beauty 
 and uncorrupted lustre, 
 
 " Majestic in its own simplicity," 
 
 the ornament, support, guide, ^and joy of his scul, conducting him 
 tranquilly through life, to an everlasting hope. But of all this he 
 had been deprived. He had come to reject the Gospel, from never 
 knowing, truly, its real character. He had thrown away its peace, 
 from having a counterfeit offered in its stead. 
 
 But though he had rid himself of this cause of trouble, he was 
 far from tranquillity. His religious propensities were strong, and 
 his education had been siach, as to associate ideas, of the highest 
 importance, with the subject. His reverence for God was deep and 
 habitual, his belief in a future state fixed, and his conviction, that 
 God had revealed himself to the world, was too deep-rooted to be 
 easily removed. There was a great deal, too, sublime, and beau- 
 tiful, and delightful, in the history, character, and teaching of Jesus, 
 w r hich he could not reconcile with his imposture, any more than he 
 could reconcile the doctrines he had been taught with his truth. 
 Here, then, was another distressing embarrassment. At length he 
 strove to escape from it, by avoiding the subject altogether. He 
 put away his Bible, he neglected public worship, he involved him- 
 self in other studies and active pursuits, and tried to forget all he 
 had ever known or thought about revealed religion. 
 
 But he could not succeed. It came to his thoughts in spite of 
 him, and never suffered him to be at rest. His mind often misgave 
 him ; he became anxious, melancholy, fitful, unsettled ; an unbe- 
 liever, yet longing to believe ; striving to think himself wiser and 
 happier than others, yet secretly hoping he should, one day, be like 
 them; with a fixed abhorrence of what had been urged on him as 
 

 JOTHAM ANDERSON. 41 
 
 the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel, yet conscious that human wis- 
 dom can have no light, and human weakness no hope, except from 
 the declared mercy of Heaven, 
 
 Such was Mr. Garstone, when I knew him. And I may truly 
 say, that I never have seen the man more deserving of compassion ; 
 nor can I imagine a more sad picture of the deplorable effects of 
 unbelief. I bent my knee in devout gratitude for the felicity I en- 
 joyed in the glorious faith and hope of Christ; and breathed an 
 earnest prayer, that I might be enabled to heal the errors, and com- 
 fort the spirit of this unhappy and mistaken man. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 My first object was to gain the confidence of Mr. Garstone ; for it 
 was, above all, important, that he should not be prejudiced against 
 the person who would endeavour to remove his prejudice against 
 the Christian revelation. . In this attempt, I had reason to think 
 that I did not fail; and having secured his friendship, I laid in wait 
 for opportunity to use it. 
 
 I was not long in finding one It was after the death of Mr. 
 Elierton, his friend and my friend. I spoke of his character, and 
 of the loss we sustained in his removal, with the feelings of a friend, 
 and of his prospect in a better world, with the hope of a Christian. 
 I dwelt at some length on the assurance of our immortality, de- 
 rived from the instructions and resurrection of Christ ; and, with all 
 the emphasis I could command, pictured the blessedness of a be- 
 liever's hope. I could perceive that Mr. Garstone was moved. I 
 had touched a string, which vibrated powerfully to every word I 
 uttered. 
 
 " These are delightful thoughts," he said, after a pause ; " but 
 — — — ." He hesitated, and stopped. 
 
 I took the word from his mouth, " But there is no assurance of 
 this truth, except from the voice of revelation. All is doubt, ex- 
 cept from the instructions of Jesus Christ. His resurrection makes 
 all clear." 
 
 u Mr. Anderson," said my friend, " my respect for you, and for 
 the opinions of those with whom I live, has always prevented me 
 from obtruding my own sentiments on subjects of this nature. 
 You cannot, however, be ignorant of my mind; and it were better, 
 perhaps, that we should be silent where we cannot agree." 
 
 I felt that this was the decisive moment; and, with a violent 
 effort, said the first thing that occurred to me, lest 1 should be un- 
 able to say any thing. "I know," said I, "that you have doubts, 
 as to the Christian revelation ; but I hope they do 'not extend to 
 the immortality of the soul. And I see not why we should not 
 converse on the subject. I do long to know on what your doubts 
 are grounded." 
 
 " I do believe in the immortality of the soul," he replied; " and, 
 D 2 
 
42 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 for this very reason, I cannot believe in the Christian religion. 
 For, how can I suppose that immortal beings are formed by their 
 Creator in a bondage so degrading and so hopeless, as that system 
 teaches — from which only a small proportion of them can ever be 
 rescued, and they only by the sufferings and death of the Creator him- 
 self, in human form ? How can I imagine him to be divinely com- 
 missioned, who proclaims to me such horrors — and yet calls them 
 glad tidings, and a message of peace, though only calculated to 
 harass and torment the soul, as they once did mine ? It is true, 
 he teaches the doctrine of a future life ; but how can I believe in that 
 life, suspended on so unequal conditions ?" 
 
 He spoke with a deep and convulsive emphasis, that showed how 
 strongly he felt. I asked him, if he saw no evidence in favour of 
 Christ's pretensions? 
 
 He answered, that all the evidence in the world would not be 
 sufficient to prove what all nature and reason contradict. " Who 
 has tried to believe more than I?" he continued. " Who has more 
 earnestly longed to believe ? and who has been more wretched for 
 want of believing? Yet I might as well have tried to persuade 
 myself that I could walk upon a sun-beam. But it is all past : let 
 us say no more about it. It is a subject on which I have not 
 talked nor read for years. I cannot bear it." 
 
 But now that the ice was broken, and the first feeling over, I 
 found him ready and disposed to converse, for he saw that he might 
 entirely trust himself with me, I soon drew from him the acknow- 
 ledgment, that there was much evidence in favour of the Christian 
 system, too strong to be satisfactorily set aside ; that the character 
 of Jesus was inconsistent with imposture, "and not less so," he 
 added, "with the doctrines which he taught;" and that a revela- 
 tion was, in itself, neither an uncredible nor an undesirable thing. 
 
 " Then it appears," I remarked, " that what decides you against 
 it, is the character of the religion itself." 
 
 "Yes, together with its consequence — the divisions and miseries 
 of its followers." 
 
 " How long since you made up your mind in this way ?" I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " More than twenty years," was the answer. 
 
 " And, during this period, you have not pursued the investiga- 
 tion at all?" 
 
 No — he had avoided the subject as much as possible — had read 
 no books-— held no conversation — not once opened the Bible. 
 
 I asked him, if he thought it safe to put this confidence in the 
 decision of his youthful judgment, and to retain this obstinate pre- 
 judice on so momentous a subject? I reminded him, that Chris- 
 tians differ in understanding their religion ; and how could he tell 
 that another interpretation of it would not solve all his difficulties? 
 
 He said, that, in his view, this very circumstance destroyed all 
 its claims to the certainty of a divine origin; for if God should teach 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. U 
 
 men, he would do it clearly, and leave no room to doubt his 
 meaning. 
 
 I gave the obvious and satisfactory solution of this difficulty, 
 drawn from the moral nature and probationary state of man ; and 
 then went on with the topic I had commenced. I endeavoured 
 to show him, that the objections he felt to the Christian system 
 were, in fact, objections only to a certain mode of interpreting that 
 system; and that, therefore, he had no right to reject it, unless he 
 had satisfied himself, from faithful inquiry, that this was the only 
 true interpretation. " For myself/' said I, " I freely declare, that I 
 think it a very erroneous interpretation* I have hardly less dislike 
 to it, than you have yourself. I think it an incredible system. 
 But I still receive the instructions of Jesus with the greatest delight 
 and comfort. You have shut yourself out from these, by taking the 
 representations of your catechism for a true picture of the Bible, 
 and never doing yourself the justice to ascertain whether they were 
 so, or not." I went on to expostulate on the unreasonableness of 
 this conduct; I illustrated, at large, my own views of the Christian 
 faith; I explained to him their consistency with the noblest reason, 
 and the best affections, with all we delight to think concerning 
 God, and all we ought to do as moral agents; and I entreated him, 
 by all that is dear and sacred, to open his mind once more to in- 
 quiry ; to read the Scriptures again; and try to welcome Jesus as 
 the way, the truth, and the life. 
 
 I was very earnest, and I did not speak in vain. Mr. Garstone 
 once more opened the book, which he had thrown by so long, and 
 read it with the sober judgment of mature life; not interpreting it, 
 as before, by the standard of Westminster, but by the light of a 
 careful and sound comparison of itself with itself. Long and zea- 
 lously he studied, Other matters weie neglected—other studies put 
 aside. Light on this great question he longed for, and sought after 
 it far and near. He did not pause, till his mind settled in a firm con- 
 viction of the truth; and, with devout and happy faith, he could 
 exclaim, I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of the living 
 God. And he was able, afterward, to add, Though I die- with thee, 
 yet will I not deny thee. 
 
 From this time, he was an altered man. The change cannot be 
 described, but it was evident in every habit of his life, and every 
 feature of his face. His mind was at peace. He was happy. 
 Often has he described to me the relief which he felt, as if a heavy 
 burden- were removed from his soul ; and, instead of leaving the 
 world a distressed and obstinate unbeliever, he died tranquilly, tri- 
 umphant in faith, rejoicing in hope. 
 
 I have met with other instances not unlike this; and I find it re- 
 freshing to my soul, as the shadows of death approach, to reflect, 
 that the faith which supports me, I have known to vanquish con- 
 firmed infidelity, and bring home to the Saviour those who had been 
 wanderers from his peace. So let it support me in that hour ! 
 
44 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 In the Spring of the year, it was rumoured, that the old cottage on 
 the hill, just at the edge of the village, was to be tenanted again. 
 It had been, for a long time, out of repair, and considered not ha- 
 bitable. They must be exceedingly pressed with poverty, it was 
 thought, who would be willing to make it their abode. And, as 
 there is always supposed to exist an antecedent presumption against 
 the wretchedly poor, it was a matter of lamentation, in the village 
 circle, that we were to be troubled by vagabonds. 
 
 It was with no small surprise, therefore, that I w^s requested, by 
 an interesting looking girl, of about fourteen years of age, to come 
 and see her mother, who, she said, had over-fatigued herself, and 
 taken cold in moving into the cottage, and was quite ill. u We 
 came but two days ago,' 7 said she; "and are quite strangers here. 
 But mother said, the Minister is always the friend of every body, 
 and we can make bold to speak to him ; so she sent me, Sir, to beg 
 you will please to step and see her." 
 
 The modest and respectful manner of the girl, whose tears stood 
 in her eyes as she spoke, touched me ; and, taking my hat, I im- 
 mediately accompanied her to the cottage. It was little better than 
 a ruin. The roof and the walls let in the weather ; the casements 
 were crazy, and the glass broken ; the floors worn, and unsafe ; and 
 the only habitable room gloomy and comfortless altogether. " It is 
 but a sad place to which you have come/' said I, as we approached 
 it, 
 
 " I could hardly bear to come to it," said my guide ; " but, then, 
 mother says, that peace may be found in a hovel, when it flies from 
 palaces ; and contentment is worth more than splendour. We have 
 seen worse things than this, as well as better. She teaches me to 
 make the best of every thing, as she herself does. But now she 
 has got sick, in trying to fix up this poor old place. The work 
 was too hard, and the weather too exposing." 
 
 It was even so. The appearance of every thing, as we entered 
 the door, boie marks of severe labour expended in the attempt to 
 make the dwelling decent and comfortable. I was astonished, that so 
 much could be done in two days, by two females. There was an 
 air, even of neatness, in the apartment to which we were intro- 
 duced. It was a small room, with but one window, of which half 
 the panes were broken, and their places supplied by various sub- 
 stances, which shut out the light as well as the wind. The only 
 furniture was a bedstead, three chairs, a trunk, and a table, on 
 which lay several books, evidently long used, but with care. The 
 broken floor had been cleaned; and an old piece of carpeting was 
 spread by the side of the bed, on which the sick woman lay. The 
 bedding was coarse, but perfectly clean ; and it was impossible not 
 to feel, at once ; surprise; respect, and pity, for one who seemed so 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON. 45 
 
 capable of adorning a better lot, and yet was condemned to one so 
 wretched. This was my first feeling. 
 
 The invalid raised her languid head, as I drew nigh, begging me 
 to excuse the trouble she had given me. "But I was sick," she . 
 added; "and a stranger in a strange place; and I knew no one, on 
 whom to call, but the preacher of the Gospel. I need help, and 
 advice, and comfort. I have been cast off from the world, and 
 have been seeking to fly to my God ; and I felt that his minister 
 would be ready to help me." 
 
 " It is our office," I replied, "in this way humbly to imitate our 
 Master. We must bear one another's burdens ; and I am happy 
 that you applied to me at once. First of all, you need a physician, 
 and I will send Dr. Bowdler to you, immediately." 
 
 In fact, her whole appearance indicated a state of aggravated dis- 
 ease ; and, after a few more inquiries, which served but to heighten 
 my interest in the mysterious stranger, I took my leave. The phy- 
 sician attended. The disease gained ground. I was every day at 
 the house, and every day increased my wonder and sympathy. 
 Benevolent ladies, in the village, gave their kind attentions, and 
 much was done to alleviate the united sufferings of want and dis- 
 ease. The patient endured with fortitude and cheerfulness, and, 
 seemingly, with a spirit of religious acquiescence. At length, the 
 violence of the disorder gave way, and she became able to converse 
 freely ; but was evidently sinking and wasting into a settled decline. 
 In my frequent conversations with her, I learned the circumstances 
 of her past history, and the misfortunes which had brought her to 
 her present situation. These were fully confirmed by testimony 
 from other sources, and I soon felt that she had a claim upon the 
 kindness of all who could serve her. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Mrs. Holden — for such I found the name of our invalid to be— 
 was the daughter of a minister, in a small village near the metropo- 
 lis. She was, unfortunately, subjected to the care of a step-mother, 
 who sought to compensate for her want of affection and maternal 
 fidelity, by care to forward her young charge in those external ac- 
 complishments which might most attract the notice of spectators, 
 while the more solid and important branches of education were ne- 
 glected. Gay, inexperienced, untaught, and regarding the world 
 before her but a scene of enjoyment, she relieved herself from a 
 guardian whom she despised, by marrying, in her seventeenth year, 
 a handsome and dashing young man from the capital. Thither she 
 removed with him ; but, alas, not to realize her visions of felicity. 
 Beauty and gaiety availed her little. Iier spirits sank, and her 
 bloom faded under the cares of a growing family, and unkindness 
 of a brutal husband. Years rolled on, but brought no peace with 
 them. The fireside had no comfort, and the evening return of him, 
 
46 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 who should have been her best friend, was the signal for tears in- 
 stead of smiles. The morning had no cheerfulness in its beams, 
 that roused her only to toil and. weariness. And the lonely day of 
 . labour and privation was darkened by the anticipation of unkmd- 
 ness and abuse at its close. 
 
 Her life was thus wretched, without alleviation or hope. Her 
 father died soon after her marriage, and she was left, with neither 
 brother nor sister, to depend only upon a husband, who laughed at 
 the oath by which he had bound himself to her, and sported in her 
 misery, who had none to befriend her, but himself. Her children 
 — a mother's heart cannot be without something like bliss ;• but 
 this, in her's, was bitter as the tears that fell in showers upon them, 
 when she watched over them in her deserted home. 
 
 At length, a new evil came upon her. Her two youngest children 
 sickened, faltered/and died. In the same week, they passed away 
 together, and slept in one grave. Even the father's soul was 
 touched ; and, as he wept with her over their pale forms, she en- 
 joyed the first hour of domestic sympathy which she had known 
 for years. But it was on\y an hour; and she felt herself doomed to 
 drink a cup of ten-fold bitterness, now that she had lost two of the 
 only three objects which attached her to the world, or made life 
 sufferable. She did not know, shortsighted woman, that her Fa- 
 ther, who had given her the cup to drink, had also sweetened for 
 her its draught. 
 
 A mixt feeling of pride, shame, and obstinacy, had made her, for 
 a long time, as it makes many, a stranger to God's house. Her 
 thoughtless childhood and youth had given her no sufficient religi- 
 ous impressions ; and when she could not go to meeting for display, 
 she knew no desire to go for worship. The trouble and disap- 
 pointment of her married state she attributed solely to her husband's 
 misconduct ; and they had, therefore, never led her heart to God, 
 but had rather been suffered to exasperate her spirit, and keep her 
 in obstinate alienation from him. But now the cause of her sorrow 
 was changed ; she perceived it to be from a superior power ; and 
 her heart was softened. A near minister came to pray at the fu- 
 neral of her little ones; and, while she listened to the voice of his se- 
 rious and affectionate sympathy, the remembrance of her early days, 
 and of her father's prayers, came over her, and she wept convul- 
 sively. How often is the heart awakened by the recollections of a 
 pious home, which had long been sleeping and dead ! He visited 
 her; he conversed with her; he spoke to her of her Maker; he re- 
 vived her remembrance of a Saviour; he pointed out to her the 
 light, the comfort, the promises, the peace of the blessed Gospel. 
 She listened, and was persuaded. She perceived that she had 
 found the friend whom she needed. She felt that no one need be 
 alone, or comfortless, in God's world. She found occupation for 
 her troubled thoughts, objects for her wandering affections, and was 
 able to forget the irritations and trials pf her lot; or, when she could 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON, 47 
 
 not forget them, to bear them calmly and cheerfully. She had be- 
 come a Christian; and, weary and heavy laden as she was, she 
 found rest to her soul. ' 
 
 "You, who have always known the happiness of a religious 
 mind," said she; "you, who have never had experience of the va- 
 cancy of soul which belongs to those who have neither comfort on 
 earth, nor hope in heaven — cannot readily conceive of the change 
 which now took place in my feelings, and my whole existence. I 
 seemed to have come into a new world. Every thing wore a new 
 aspect. I could hardly believe it was myself, who was now bear- 
 ing quietly what had before been an intolerable burden, I was as- 
 tonished to rind myself smiling and happy — not happy, perhaps, 
 but contented — amid scenes which had before only irritated me, and 
 made me wretched. My husband was still negligent and unkind 3 
 my lovely infants were still among the dead, my days were stil! so- 
 litary, and my food scanty and poor. But these had become 
 smaller evils, for my thoughts and affections had something else to 
 rest upon. Religious truth had become interesting to me. The 
 Sabbath led me abroad to worship, and thus gave variety to my 
 life, excitement lo my mind, and peace to my heart. The Bible, 
 and other good books, gave me me some new topic of wonderful 
 and delightful contemplation every day. I was engaged, with an 
 eagerness I never had felt before, in teaching and guiding my only 
 surviving child, for I felt a new responsibility in her behalf. I thus 
 became too much occupied to think of my troubles ; or, at least, 
 when sometimes they would intrude themselves, I had a refuge 
 from them, and could drive them from my mind. When they were 
 at the worst, I knew where I could find comfort, for God's ear was 
 open to me; and, in pouring out my sorrows before his mercy- 
 seat, I, at any time, could relieve my full heart of its burden. Mr. 
 Anderson," continued the invalid, checking the animation with, 
 which she had been speaking, " I freely say this to you, for you can 
 sympathise with me. You will not count me either boasting or 
 enthusiastic; for you know what is the power of religious trust. 
 You feel what I mean, when I say, that the promise was fulfilled to 
 me — I will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on me ; 
 because he trmteth in me. 7 ' 
 
 I did, indeed, understand her, and rejoiced to witness the effi- 
 cacy of ihaA faith, which overcomes the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 I go on with the continuation of Mrs. Hold en's history. It was 
 appointed to her to endure a long and severe trial of her faith. She 
 had felt, as all are so apt to feel in the first experience of religious 
 purposes, that she was ready for any thing, that nolhing could now 
 seem hard to her, that no temptation could be too powerful for her, 
 that any yoke would be easy ? and any burden light. She little knew 
 
48 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS *GF 
 
 what Providence had in store for her. . It pleased God to prove 
 her severely, to try her in the hottest furnace of affliction ; and it 
 needeth faith and fortitude, like that of the <r three children" of old, 
 to pass, unharmed and triumphant, through the flame. 
 
 When affliction does not soften and amend, it hardens and makes 
 worse. Thus it happened to i\Jr. Holden. The death of his two 
 children had been heavily felt by him, but not as the providence of 
 God. He murmured and complained. II is spirit was rebellious. 
 His feelings were exasperated, as if wrong had been done him. 
 He became more irritable and sullen, and hurried with greater de- 
 votion than ever to the scenes of irregular pleasure ; attempting 
 thus to supply, from worldly sources, that void which his wife was 
 seeking to fill from the living streams of heavenly truth. But he 
 found them broken cisterns, which could hold no water. 
 
 In vain did his wife strive to lead him to those truths which 
 were sustaining her. He obstinately refused to listen, and angrily 
 forbade the very naming of the subject. And, although the sere- 
 nity and evident contentment of her mind might have proved to 
 him, that the part she had chosen was, indeed, good ; yet he sullenly 
 endeavoured rather to destroy than to partake her peace. He was 
 angry that she should be happy, while he was discontented. Her 
 very sweetness and forbearance were new occasions of offence; and 
 the more she submitted to his injustice, and strove, by mild pa- 
 tience, to pacify and win him, the more did he brutally persevere in 
 wounding her feelings, and increasing her privations. Would that 
 I were recording a strange and solitary case ! But, alas ! many are 
 the meek wives, and pious mothers, who have thus suffered be- 
 neath the unmanly persecution of men who had sworn to be their 
 protectors, but who were afterwards wedded to pleasure and sin ; 
 and who vented their insane revenge, even on the humblest means 
 which were used as a refuge from their violence. 
 
 Mr. li olden proceeded from step to step, till he had forbidden 
 the visits of the minister, and destroyed every book but the Bible, 
 and that "she was obliged carefully to conceal. These were griev- 
 ous privations, and bitter were the tears which they drew from her. 
 But she redoubled her diligence in the instruction of her daughter, 
 and found her Sabbaths ten-fold a delight. Even this, however, 
 was to be denied her. In a fit of drunken brutality, he swore that 
 she should go to church no more; and, to make effectual his threat, 
 he destroyed the few decent garments which she had reverently re- 
 served for the service of the temple. This was a heavy cross; but 
 a heavier yet was awaiting her. He had long threatened to remove 
 from her their daughter, who, he said, should nqt stay to be spoiled 
 by a moping, spiritless, whining woman. In vain she entreated, 
 and prayed, and resisted. Her misery was his sport, and he tore 
 the child away — whither to be borne, or by whom to be educated, 
 she could not learn. 
 
 Her cup seemed now to be full. Every earthly solace was gone, 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON'. 49 
 
 every human hope destroyed. Alone, deserted, unfriended, no- 
 thing seemed left her but misery and despair " For a long term" 
 said she, "I was stupified and amazed. These repeated blows ap- 
 peared to have stunned me, and I sat and walked with vacant and 
 bewildered stupidity. But, at last, it occurred to me, that God had 
 purposely withdrawn every earthly and visible good, that he might 
 prove me, whether I could be satisfied with heavenly and invisible 
 good alone ; whether I could trust him, as I had thought I could, 
 in the darkness as well as in the light." This reflection brought 
 her to herself. She humbled herself, and asked for faith. She 
 stretched her eyes upward, and looked steadfastly on the clouds 
 and darkness of the eternal throne, until she discerned the righte- 
 ousness and mercy which rest at its foundation. She thus found 
 peace; but it was sad, and trembling, and alarmed. She was like 
 the timorous dove, that, fleeing from the violence of the vulture, 
 takes refuge in the bosom of a man; but, for a long time, flutters 
 and trembles, unable to quell its agitation, though it knows that its 
 hiding-place is secure. 
 
 There is a point, beyond which the heart of an abused wife and 
 a desolate mother is unable to bear. It must be relieved, or it 
 must break. To this point the ill fortunes of Mrs. Holden had 
 nearly brought her, when the over-ruling Power, which had per- 
 mitted her trial, interposed for her deliverance. Her husband died 
 the miserable death of a drunkard, brutish, delirious, hopeless — 
 without preparation, or warning for himself, and with only horror 
 and agony for his wife. 
 
 In the language of the world, this removal would be called a re- 
 lief — and so it was, and so she could not but regard it. But what 
 a relief! Only an exchange of sufferings. For when one has loved 
 some object, dearly and devotedly, been united with it for years, 
 watched for it, prayed for it, suffered for it, there is nothing which 
 can eradicate the affection from the heart. No unkiudness can de- 
 stroy it — no ingratitude or harshness can cancel it. It may be 
 wounded and blighted ; it may seem so crushed and broken, as 
 never to revive again. But death awakens it to life. The early 
 love of the young heart returns in all its strength; and sorrow for 
 the friend whom we had once adored, is ten-fold embittered by the 
 thought, that we must sorrow as those without hope. 
 
 When Mrs. Ilolden saw that life was departed, the feelings of 
 former time rushed to her bosom, and she remembered nothing, 
 but that he was the chosen and kind lover of her happiest days. 
 All wrong was forgotten and forgiven, and she indulged freely in 
 that reverie of grief, which feasts on the images of days that are 
 past, and the shadows of pleasures that are long gone by. But 
 from this the reality soon called her. The hope of finding her 
 daughter occupied her whole mind, and the search for her became 
 her only care. For a long time, it was vain; and was successful 
 at last, only by one of those strange turns of fortune which men 
 
 E 
 
BO THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 call accident, but in which she was willing to recognise the hand 
 of Heaven. " I had once," said she, " regarded tfee singular coinci- 
 dences of life, as the mere accidental creations of chance; but my 
 suffering and my faith had made me wiser. I had learned to trace 
 them to the kindness of my Father. And when my dear child, so 
 long lost, so long sought in vain, and, at length, so unexpectedly 
 restored, was again folded in my arms — oh, I am sure, that any one, 
 who could know how the rapture of that moment was enhanced by 
 a certainty that God had done it, would earnestly seek to increase 
 the happiness of life, by an habitual acknowledgment of an over- 
 ruling Providence. It brightens joy as much as it comforts sorrow*" 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The hasty outline which I have given of Mrs. Holden's history, in- 
 sufficient to explain the character of the woman, whose loneliness 
 and sufferings drew the sympathy of the whole village. A life of 
 disappointment, toil, and privation, had made early inroads on her 
 constitution, which was now slowly sinking, in torture and pain, to 
 a state of final exhaustion. But her spirit bore all cheerfully, and 
 passed, with almost an angel's serenity, the fearful avenue to the 
 grave. 
 
 " I cannot be sufficiently grateful," said she, one morning, " to 
 the Providence which has cast my lot, unexpectedly, among so 
 kind friends. I have every thing that I could wish ; more than I 
 need ; and, oh, how much more than I deserve ! After a stormy 
 and perilous passage, I am not suffered to be wrecked, but am led 
 to this quiet haven. And yet/' she added, with a sigh, "there is 
 one thing wanting to my peace — one duty that my soul longs to 
 perform." 
 
 " And what is that?" I asked. 
 
 "To commemorate my Saviour's love," she replied, "in his ap- 
 pointed ordinance." 
 
 I told her that I would willingly administer it in her chamber, if 
 she wished ; for, although not customary, yet, as a means cf com- 
 fort and faith, it should not be refused. 
 
 " Alas," said she, " I have never made a profession of religion. 
 I do not belong to any church." 
 
 I expressed my surprise at this, having taken it for granted, that, 
 from what I had heard of her story, and perceived of her feelings, 
 that she had long been a communicant in the church of Christ. 
 
 "It is not my fault," said she; "at least I trust not, for God 
 knows how earnestly I have desired it. I thought it my duty ; I 
 longed for it, as my dearest privilege; I thirsted for it, as essential 
 to the peace of my soul. But I have been debarred— if through 
 my own fault, may God have mercy on me. But I trust not. I 
 tried to remove the obstacle. I would have done it if I could, bul 
 1 was unable. My conscience does not reproach me*" 
 
JOTHAM ANDERSON* 51 
 
 •* What has this obstacle been ?" I inquired. 
 
 u It has arisen from my religious opinions," said she. *' When 
 I received ray first permanent impressions of religion, after the death 
 of my dear children, they were owing;, under God, to the sympathy 
 and instructions of the worthy minister, who visited me At that 
 time, when all was horror and despair within me, he showed me 
 the character and providence of God, explained his dealings, 
 pointed me to his revelation in Christ, and thus led me to that 
 trust and peace, in which I have since rejoiced. But, before I 
 could feel myseif at liberty to profess my faith, the interference of 
 my cruel husband had cut me off from all religious privileges. 
 After his death, I removed to another place. And there I hoped 
 to testify and strengthen my religious purposes, by a profession be- 
 fore the world, and communion with the church. But my desire 
 to do so was rejected." 
 
 u Upon what ground was it rejected V 9 said I. 
 
 *" I will relate the circumstances at length," said Mrs. Holden. 
 4( After residing in the village nearly a year— for, in a situation of 
 poverty and obscurity, I could not sooner be sufficiently known to 
 the inhabitants— I made known, to the minister, my history, and, 
 especially, my religious convictions, concerning which he inquired 
 minutely, and appeared to be satisfied. But, I found, that, in or- 
 der to admission to the church, I must give my assent to a parti- 
 cular list of doctrines, which were contrary to my convictions. This 
 was a severe disappointment. ' Is there no dispensation V I asked . 
 & Can I be admitted to my Master's table on no other conditions V 
 
 " ' On none other, certainly/ replied he. * It is Christ's churchy 
 and I can dispense with nothing which he requires/ 
 
 " * And does he require all these articles to be believed V said L. 
 * Some of them appear contradictory, some unreasonable, and some 
 J do not remember in the Scriptures/ 
 
 " Mr. Welston seemed surprised, and endeavoured to convince 
 me of my error. But the truths which had consoled and supported 
 me, in which I had rejoiced and hoped, were not the doctrines of 
 a depraved nature, election and reprobation, and the saving of only 
 a few, by the suffering, in their stead, of the second person in the 
 Trinity. I had not so learned Christ, and was unable to assent to 
 ffcus expostulations. He, at length, told me, that I needed to be 
 humbled; that my pride of reason must be rebuked, ere I could 
 receive the testimony of God. 
 
 " This cut me to the heart. I had been humbled — thoroughly^ 
 bitterly humbled; and if I knew myself at all, I was willing and 
 glad to cast myself, unreservedly, on God's word. What else had 
 I? Where else could I go? That word was every thing to me. 
 I had not a desire, or wish, or hope, except what rested there. To 
 be thus suspected of proudly opposing it, to be accused of trusting 
 <© myself, when my whole heart leaned on God — seemed cruel. 1 
 t#U n deeply* and wept bitterly. 
 
52 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 " Here was a new trial. It seemed as if my faith must be, in 
 every possible way, exposed, that it might be proved what it could 
 endure. I found myself looked upon with an evil eye, and re- 
 garded as an enemy to that religion, which was my only friend, and 
 for which I was ready to sacrifice every thing. I was treated as 
 dishonouring my dear Lord, whose name was a precious balm to 
 my Spirit, and rebelling against the authority of God, to whom it 
 was my first desire and study to be submissive. For the first time 
 in my life, I found religious truth made the subject of controversy, 
 I had got where the Christian standard was composed of party 
 materials. I found that devotion, meekness, humility, charity, and 
 good works, love to God, love to man, and an unspotted life, were 
 not thought to constitute a disciple ; and that men judged of the 
 Christian, not by the graces that he exhibits, but by the articles of 
 faith he subscribes. My own case, therefore, was hopeless. I had 
 been mainly anxious for the Christian heart and life, and my ar- 
 ticles were of a different complexion. U»happy as I was made, 
 by being obliged to defend them, I yet could not renounce them ; 
 unhappy as I was, to be denied the privilege of owning and ho- 
 nouring my Lord, yet I had no alternative, for I could not assent 
 to a confession which he had not taught me. 
 
 "Under this disappointment I have lived, year after year. 
 Wretched, indeed, has it sometimes made me; more wretched now, 
 as the end of life approaches, for my soul longeth, yea, panteth, 
 for the consolation of this communion with Jesus. I trust that 
 it is not an act essential to ray salvation ; but I feel that it would 
 greatly conduce to my peace. And all that I desire on earth 
 would be complete, if this one further blessing could be allowed 
 me, before I go hence/' 
 
 It was one of the happy moments of my life, when I assured 
 this pious sufferer, that her desire should be granted. I had had 
 abundant evidence to satisfy me, that she exercised an acceptable 
 faith ; and the church did not hesitate to welcome to their commu- 
 nion one who was evidently to be, in so short a period, admitted to 
 the higher communion of the church in heaven. 
 
 It was on the bright afternoon of a beautiful Sabbath, that, ac- 
 companied by a few friends, I visited the lowly abode of the dying 
 believer, to administer this token of her faith, and instrument of her 
 consolation. Her wasted form was supported by pillows, on the 
 low bed. Her wan cheek was flushed slightly with the excitement 
 of expectation, and her eye lighted up with a peculiar and animated 
 lustre. Her trembling daughter stood over her, and the siient com- 
 pany gazed with sympathy and admiration, till the holy service 
 commenced, and then, I trust, that all hearts were absorbed in the 
 act of devotion. It was a poor hovel, and a passenger might have 
 cast upon it a look of compassion and disgust, at the wretchedness 
 which must inhabit it. But the scene that was transacting within, 
 where faith and patience were serenely waiting the summons of 
 
MAY MORNING. 53 
 
 'death, and religious friendship was kneeling around the couch, as 
 an altar, and presenting supplications in the name of him who died 
 for man. This was a scene, at which it was a privilege to be pre- 
 sent, and which more than changed the cottage to a palace. The 
 whole soul of the dying believer seemed collected in her counte- 
 nance. It seized upon, and responded to, every expression of faith, 
 penitence, gratitude, and hope. And when the service was closed, 
 and she sunk back exhausted, we gazed upon it, as it had been the 
 face of an angel. She said, with a faint smile : — " Now, I can de- 
 part in peace ;" and, before the smile had faded from her cheek, 
 death set its seal there for ever- 
 
 
 MAY MORNING 
 
 Beautifully broke forth the clear bright sun, and balmy was the 
 breath of " incense breathing morn," which welcomed the coming 
 of the queen of the months. The blue sky seemed to smile, and 
 the early birds were loud with their salutations. Nature, by a 
 thousand cheerful sights, and a thousand sweet sounds, testified her 
 rejoicing, and the earth had decked her bosom with the first little 
 flowers and budding greens, for the steps of her lovely visiter. 
 
 But what was all this to one imprisoned within the dark cham- 
 bers of the city — where the early hum of human traffic drowns the 
 melody of Nature's hymns, and high piles of brick shut from sight 
 the azure heavens and the rainbow clouds ? Man learns to sleep 
 over the tokens of reviving spring, hardened to its holy serenity by 
 the bustling avocations of ambition and gain. But childhood yet 
 feels its native sympathy with the young year, and owns its influ- 
 ence, and loves to go forth with the glad birds and the infant flow- 
 ers. It was the voice of children, cheerfully preparing for their 
 May-morning stroll, which broke my slumbers. The sun, just 
 risen, poured a tranquil light abroad, and I sprang from my couch, 
 resolved once more to be a child, and taste the pleasures of spring- 
 time in the field. 
 
 I had soon passed the streets and the bridge, and was fairly in 
 the country. I breathed a fresher air, I trod with a freer step. I 
 was in the domains of nature once more, escaped from the confine- 
 ment of man's invention, and the crowd of man's works. I saw 
 nothing around me but the works of God, and the light and peace 
 which he sheds upon the world that he loves — loves and blesses, in 
 spite of its sins. I looked upward, and, in letters of living light, 
 the -heavens spread before me his love. I looked around, and I saw 
 it in the swelling blossoms, in the budding branches, in the spring- 
 ing carpet of green. It came to my ear in the glad melody of the 
 
 E 2 
 
54 MAY MORNING. 
 
 birds, and in the heartfelt accents of delight which burst from the 
 groups cf happy and active children. I felt it in every breath I 
 drew, laden with the morning fragrance, which is sweeter than all 
 perfume, and wafts health and pleasure on its wing. It all has but 
 one Author, I exclaimed, and he is Love. It is his spirit which 
 breathes in the gale, and lives in all these signs of joy and life. 
 
 "Thy footsteps imprint the morning hills, 
 Thy voice is heard in the music of rills, 
 In the song of birds, and the heavenly chorus, 
 That Nature utters around us, o'er us. 
 In every thing thy glory beameth ^ 
 From every thing thy witness streameth." 
 
 And so it has been from the beginning — " He has never left him- 
 self without a witness ," and what more delightful witnesses than these 
 days, in which " he renews the face of the earth ?" It seems like 
 the freshness and purity of an original creation. I was ready to say 
 with Buchanan, in his beautiful hymn. On such a morning as this 
 it was, that the new created world sprung up at God's command. 
 This is the air of holy tranquillity which was then upon all things ; 
 this the clear and fragrant breath that passed over the smiling gar- 
 dens of Eden ; this the same sweet light that then shot down from 
 the new-born sun, and diffused a gentle rapture over the face of Na- 
 ture, and through the frame of living things. And such, too, shall 
 be the aspect of that morning which ushers in the time of heaven's 
 eternal year; such the serenity and glory of that day, which shall 
 call forth, to renewed existence, not the plants and flowers from a 
 temporary death, but the spirits of immortal men ; and shall roll 
 through earth and heaven, not the music of an earthly spring-time, 
 but the rapturous anthems of the ransomed children of God, rising 
 to the birth at the everlasting year. 
 
 Hail, then, all hail, thou fair morning of this fairest of the months 
 — emblem of the fair morning that yet shall be ! Memorial of the 
 nativity of earth — image of God's ever-present love — pledge of an 
 everlasting year! Thou shalt pass away, beautiful as thou art, and 
 thy blossoms and pleasures perish. The hot summer shall scorch 
 them, and the stormy winter bury them beneath his snows. But 
 that glorious springtime, which shall revive the being of man, shall 
 never fade. The soul shall blossom and flourish for ever, in the 
 garden of God. His spirit breathes there a perpetual balm, and 
 the sunshine of his countenance knows no variableness, nor shadow 
 ©f change. Roll on, ye tardy seasons ! accomplish your appointed 
 periods, and introduce that unfading May. Ye may change, but 
 -ye bring on that which cannot change. Ye may waft to me sor- 
 rows and disappointments, as ye fly ; but ye are fast bearing me 
 wliere sorrow and disappointment cannot come. And I will wel- 
 come even the winter of death, since it shall be followed by the 
 spring of Heaven. 
 
65 
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 ON PRAYER. 
 
 As through the pathless fields of air 
 Wander'd forth the timid dove, • 
 
 So the heart, in humble prayer, 
 Essays to reach the throne of love. 
 
 Like her, it may return unblest — 
 
 Like her, again may soar, 
 And still return, and find no rest, 
 
 No peaceful happy shore. 
 
 But now once more she spreads her wings, 
 
 And takes a bolder flight, 
 And see, the olive branch she brings, 
 
 To bless her master's sight. 
 
 And thus the heart renews its strength, 
 Though spent and tempest-driven, 
 
 And higher soars, and brings, at length, 
 A pledge of peace with heaven. 
 
 "THY WILL BE DONE/' 
 
 How sweet to be allowed to prav 
 
 To God the holy One; 
 With filial love and trust to say, 
 
 " Father, thy will be done." 
 
 We, in these sacred words, can find 
 
 A cure for every ill ; 
 They calm and sooth the troubled mind, 
 
 And bid all care be still. 
 
 Oh let that will, which gave me breath, 
 
 And an immortal soul, 
 In joy or grief, in life or death, 
 
 My every wish control, 
 
 Oh could my heart thus ever pray, 
 With joy life's course would run ; 
 
 Teach me, oh God, with truth to say, 
 "Thy will ; not mine, be done." 
 
56 HYMNS. 
 
 HYMN ON CHRISTIAN LOVE. 
 
 Fountain of life! thy beams diffuse, 
 To warm each Christian heart ; 
 
 And teach thy servants, Lord, to choose 
 The wiser, better part. 
 
 Each mean and sordid view dispel, 
 
 And in our souls unrivall'd dwell. 
 
 What though our hands thy gifts dispense 
 In alms, — the deed were vain, 
 
 If, slaves to passion and to sense, 
 Our hearts should still remain. 
 
 The man alone, whose bosom glows 
 
 With Christian Love, true freedom knows. 
 
 Friendship shall fade, and friends shall part, 
 
 As days and years glide on ; 
 But Christian Love shall warm the heart, 
 
 When days and years are gone. 
 Its flame shall glow divinely bright, 
 When suns are sunk in endless night. 
 
 A HYMN, ON THE SUCCESS OF THE GOSPEL AMONG 
 THE HEATHEN. 
 
 Anointed Son, clad in the Father's powV, 
 
 Thou art triumphantly proceeding still — 
 To spread thy happy kingdom ! Ev'ry hour 
 
 Some human soul thou turn'st to good from ill ! 
 
 Blessing to him who overcomes to bless ! 
 
 Speed well and prosper, pure and gen rous Lord ! 
 In light and grace, predominant success 
 
 Be on thy bloodless weapon, God's own Word. 
 
 Before it, perish selfishness and hate, 
 
 Hypocrisy, delusion, anger, pride ! 
 And love, joy, peace, spring purely and elate 
 
 In those whom thou to God hast sanctified ! 
 
 Hail to the Son, crown 'd with the Father's might, 
 Who makes all captive, that he all may save! . 
 
 Well may all view his triumphs with delight, 
 Whose foes are sin, and sorrow ; and the grave ! 
 
HYMNS. 57 
 
 THE DEPARTED. 
 
 There is a grief to memory dear, 
 
 Linked with the joys of by-gone days ; 
 
 A transient gleam illumes the tear 
 That down the face of sorrow strays. 
 
 Why does remembrance still delight 
 
 Past hopes, past smiles to dwell upon,— 
 
 To keep the lamp of sorrow bright, 
 When other lights are dead and gone ? 
 
 Is it, poor soul, to feed thy pain, 
 
 That thou would'st catch joy's empty shade — 
 That thou would'st cling to sorrow's chain, 
 
 Which binds thee to the silent dead ? 
 
 Yet in that chain which grief may weave^ 
 One golden link, at least is given; 
 
 And faith, when other hopes deceive, 
 Shall find it terminate in heaven , 
 
 HYMN; 
 
 Oh Thou ! to whom, in ancient time, 
 The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung ; 
 
 Whom kings adored in song sublime, 
 And prophets praised with glowing tongue. 
 
 Not now on Zion*s height alone, 
 
 Thy favoured worshippers may dwell; 
 Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son 
 Sat, weary, by the patriarch's well. 
 
 From every place below the skies, 
 The grateful song, the fervent prayer, 
 
 The incense of the heart, may rise 
 To heaven, and find acceptance there. 
 
 To thee shall age, with snowy hair, 
 
 And strength and beauty, bend the knee ; 
 
 And childhood lisp, with reverent air, 
 Its praises and its prayers to thee ! 
 
 Oh Thou ! to whom in ancient time, 
 The lyre of prophet bards was strung; 
 
 To thee, at length, in every clime, 
 
 Shall temples rise, and praise be sung! 
 
68 HYMNS. 
 
 HYMN, ON THE BAPTIST. 
 
 Ween Judah's day was drawing to its close, 
 And as our new and brighter morning rose, 
 Between the waning and the waxing light 
 Stood John the Baptist ; with a voice of might, 
 Calling his sinful people to prepare 
 The coming sun's auspicious beams to share. 
 
 John was the star of morning, shining bright, 
 But to decrease before the rising light 
 Which he foretold ; and whence, indeed, to him 
 Came forth the glory its ascent should dim. 
 When over all the Sun of Righteousness 
 Aloft should shine, all tribes of earth to bless. 
 
 Well did this more than Prophet manifest 
 That he came forth from God, when he addrest 
 The multitudes to turn their eyes away 
 From him, that they his greater might survey ! 
 Well was he worthy to have first made known 
 To Him the wish'd-for heir of David's throne. 
 
 FAREWELL TO A DYING FRIEND. 
 
 Fare, fare-thee-well, beloved one, 
 
 Thou'rt sinking to thy rest, 
 And well wilt fare — me, me alone, 
 
 This parting will invest 
 With pain and grief — too calm and deep, 
 To mourn for me, will be thy sleep. 
 
 But in that rest no vision new, 
 
 Shall from thy spirit drive 
 The thoughts and feelings which it knew 
 
 While thou wert yet alive ; 
 And thou, undimm'd, for me wilt keep 
 The love with which thou fall'st asleep. 
 
 I will not then lament; but strive 
 
 To keep my waking breast, 
 To thy true worth as much alive, 
 
 As if I shar'd that rest ; 
 That when we both rise up from sleep, 
 True concert still our hearts may keep. 
 
HYMNS. 59 
 
 "BUT ONE THING IS NEEDFUL. "—Luke x. 42, 
 One tbing is needful, one alone; 
 
 One thing is needful to my rests 
 C6uld I that one thing call my own, 
 
 I were, indeed, of all possessed ! 
 
 Tis not the power of wealth or state,— 
 Treasures consumed by moth or rust i 
 
 'Tis not that men should call me great, 
 And flatter me, their fellow-dust; 
 
 Tis not to wear a crown of gold ; 
 
 And not on earth a king to live : 
 Tis nothing knowledge can unfold, 
 
 And nothing that this world can give I 
 
 Tis all my Saviour's will to do : 
 'Tis as my Saviour's self to be : 
 
 And — like a Christian soldier true- 
 March onward to eternity ! 
 
 O thou, the undivided God ! 
 
 My pardon sealed — my sins forgiven— 
 Be mine the path the Saviour trod 
 
 On earth ; my recompense in Heaven ! 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 Mysterious are the ways of Go'd, 
 
 Yet ever merciful and kind ; 
 We mourn beneath his chastening rod, 
 
 Children of earth ! because we're blind* 
 
 Impending clouds his love has spread 
 O'er this low vale, where mortals dwells 
 
 And oft we mourn his spirit fled, 
 
 When adverse tempests round us swell. 
 
 But in those storms that sometimes roll, 
 
 Our mortal dwellings dark above, 
 Whose threat'ning shades dismay the soul, 
 
 Dwells the bright presence of his love 
 
 We cannot see him — not a ray 
 
 Of all his glory then appears, 
 And oft we tread our darken'd way, 
 
 Trembling with anxious doubts and fears. 
 
<> JL 
 
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 I S. Archer, 29, Castle-Place; J. Hodgson, 9, High-street ; 
 
 H. Greer, 31, High-street; and G> Harrison, 
 
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 CHRISTIAN TRACTS. 
 
 No. I. 
 THE GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 By WILLIAM H. FURNESS. 
 Price, One Penny each; or Sixteen for One Shilling. 
 
 No. II. 
 [A SABBATH WITH MY FRIEND; 
 
 AND 
 
 wants w&&&<sn wsrsgs&kma 
 
 By The Rev. H. WARE. 
 Price, One Penny each ; or Sixteen for One Shilling. 
 
 
 To be succeeded by other Tracts, of a similar 
 description; 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
CHBI8TIAK TRACTS.-9TO. 3. 
 
 THE 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OP 
 
 JOTHAM ANDERSON; 
 
 AND 
 
 MAY MOnWKNG. 
 
 By The Rev. H. WARE, 
 
 Of Cambridge University, New England. 
 
 A SELECTION OF HYMNS. 
 
 BELFAST : 
 
 PRINTED BY FRANCIS D. FINLAY, 
 
 CALENDAR* STREET. 
 
 And Sold by S. Archer, 29, Castle-Place ; Hodgson, 9 High-st. ; 
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 Price, SIXPENCE each; or Sixteen for Six SHiLLiNGS,/or the purpose || 
 of distribution. 
 

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