1901 autobiography chapter 4 · redeems the practical from drudgery. prophet and man of reason,...

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1 Chapter 4 There are experiences no human language can interpret. Every attempt to express their idealistic form in common speech fails. And there are feelings of the spirit which no hieroglyphic of sound or symbol can utter. How sluggishly the ink flows when the patriot’s blood is hot. And how insignificant an instrument is the point of a pen from which to distil the dream of a prophet. Prosaic souls whose spiritual vision is measured by a nine-inch span, smile when minds of a higher order take wing to continents of life and pleasure where the soul’s area is only bounded by the infinite. The Catholic Cardinal who speaks of only needing clearer vision to see behind each wayside flower the angel of the Lord, is dismissed as a mystic. But this thing we call mysticism, the clear perception of something above and beyond us, the recognition of spiritual phenomena beneath and behind the material fact, is “the one undying element in human thought,” so writes Mr. Balfour. When Goro is speaking in “Romola ” to the barber of Florence, George Eliot makes him say, “When God gives a sign it is not to be supposed He would have but one meaning.” True, and the meanings behind the visible “sign” are oft too big and beautiful for expression. Truth is wider than logic. The eternal is larger than any proposition. Infinity is more than fact. The man who feels is needful to the man who thinks. The poet redeems the practical from drudgery. Prophet and man of reason, wing and foot, are but two essential parts of the same Divinely-created and Divinely-inspired organism which we call Humanity. The great need of the time is the redemption and glorification of the commonplace. He is a true apostle who can see the Divine procedure behind the bare fact. Paul links the eternal God to a fragment of speech. It was this thought no doubt, which led Shakespeare to put into the mouth of King Lear the words; “Yen and Nay, Is not good divinity.” Fairbairn, contrasting Plato with Jesus, speaks of the culture of the one ands the lack of literary form of the: other. Then in words of deepest import adds: “No apostle of culture can judge for man; his soul knows the truths it needs, knows when these satisfy him, proves his satisfaction by the progress they enable him to make, the order they cause him to achieve.” True, and Fairbairn might have added that, “Man finds those truths as Jacob found his God, in unsuspected places.” All I have written applies to the subject of this chapter - a subject almost too sacred for me to touch, and which would be passed over by me in silence did I not feel the record may, under the blessing of God, do good to some who read. MY MOTHER. Yes, “my mother” still, though she has for many years been living “within the veil.” Though “thereshe seems to be “here” Though unseen, I have a feeling that she is actually present. If I devote this chapter to her let no man charge me with desecration. If any man did so he would be ignorant, both of the writer’s purpose and spirit. I give my reader credit for a finer judgment than his, who commenting on that beautiful book called “Margaret Ogilvy,” said that, “Barrie would sell his mother’s bones if he could only make money out of them.” The utterance of such a sentiment is proof that some of the original mud still exists in the make-up of human nature.

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Page 1: 1901 Autobiography Chapter 4 · redeems the practical from drudgery. Prophet and man of reason, wing and foot, are but two essential parts of the same Divinely-created and Divinely-inspired

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Chapter4Thereareexperiencesnohumanlanguagecaninterpret.Everyattempttoexpresstheiridealisticformincommonspeechfails.Andtherearefeelingsofthespiritwhichnohieroglyphicofsoundorsymbolcanutter.Howsluggishlytheinkflowswhenthepatriot’sbloodishot.Andhowinsignificantaninstrumentisthepointofapenfromwhichtodistilthedreamofaprophet.Prosaicsoulswhosespiritualvisionismeasuredbyanine-inchspan,smilewhenmindsofahigherordertakewingtocontinentsoflifeandpleasurewherethesoul’sareaisonlyboundedbytheinfinite.TheCatholicCardinalwhospeaksofonlyneedingclearervisiontoseebehindeachwaysideflowertheangeloftheLord,isdismissedasamystic.Butthisthingwecallmysticism,theclearperceptionofsomethingaboveandbeyondus,therecognitionofspiritualphenomenabeneathandbehindthematerialfact,is“theoneundyingelementinhumanthought,”sowritesMr.Balfour.WhenGoroisspeakingin“Romola”tothebarberofFlorence,GeorgeEliotmakeshimsay,“WhenGodgivesasignitisnottobesupposedHewouldhavebutonemeaning.”True,andthemeaningsbehindthevisible“sign”areofttoobigandbeautifulforexpression.Truthiswiderthanlogic.Theeternalislargerthananyproposition.Infinityismorethanfact.Themanwhofeelsisneedfultothemanwhothinks.Thepoetredeemsthepracticalfromdrudgery.Prophetandmanofreason,wingandfoot,arebuttwoessentialpartsofthesameDivinely-createdandDivinely-inspiredorganismwhichwecallHumanity.Thegreatneedofthetimeistheredemptionandglorificationofthecommonplace.HeisatrueapostlewhocanseetheDivineprocedurebehindthebarefact.PaullinkstheeternalGodtoafragmentofspeech.Itwasthisthoughtnodoubt,whichledShakespearetoputintothemouthofKingLearthewords;

“YenandNay,Isnotgooddivinity.”

Fairbairn,contrastingPlatowithJesus,speaksofthecultureoftheoneandsthelackofliteraryformofthe:other.Theninwordsofdeepestimportadds:“Noapostleofculturecanjudgeforman;hissoulknowsthetruthsitneeds,knowswhenthesesatisfyhim,proveshissatisfactionbytheprogresstheyenablehimtomake,theordertheycausehimtoachieve.”True,andFairbairnmighthaveaddedthat,“ManfindsthosetruthsasJacobfoundhisGod,inunsuspectedplaces.”AllIhavewrittenappliestothesubjectofthischapter-asubjectalmosttoosacredformetotouch,andwhichwouldbepassedoverbymeinsilencedidInotfeeltherecordmay,undertheblessingofGod,dogoodtosomewhoread.

MYMOTHER.Yes,“mymother”still,thoughshehasformanyyearsbeenliving“withintheveil.”Though“there”sheseemstobe“here”Thoughunseen,Ihaveafeelingthatsheisactuallypresent.IfIdevotethischaptertoherletnomanchargemewithdesecration.Ifanymandidsohewouldbeignorant,bothofthewriter’spurposeandspirit.Igivemyreadercreditforafinerjudgmentthanhis,whocommentingonthatbeautifulbookcalled“MargaretOgilvy,”saidthat,“Barriewouldsellhismother’sbonesifhecouldonlymakemoneyoutofthem.”Theutteranceofsuchasentimentisproofthatsomeoftheoriginalmudstillexistsinthemake-upofhumannature.

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ThefadedportraitwhichisbeforemewhileIwriteofherIloveisprecioustome.Herbeautywasnotoftheface,butofthemindandheart.Yetthosewhorememberedherinthedaysofhermaidenhoodtellmeshewashandsome.Buttheface,asIseeitnow,tellsitsowntaleofsorrowandstruggle,andpain,endured,notforherself,butwithalovethatneverweariedevenwhentestedtotheutmostforthoseaboutherfeet.Thisisheroism,topassthroughthesolitudesofutterorphanhood,intothetear-besprinkledwayofacrushedandblightedwomanhood,andyetretainthevirginmodesty,sweetness.fidelity,andlove,totheend—thisisheroism.Dearladyreaderofthehandsomecheek,courtedandflatteredbecauseofyourphysicalcharms,donotdespisethispictureofmymotherbecauseitdoesnotconformtoyourdefinitionofbeauty.Shewasbeautifultome,letthatsuffice.Andperhapsthecharmofyourownpersonmightnotbesogreatiftheimpressoffiftyyearsofsorrowwereputuponyourform.Isaidjustnowthatmymotherwas“here.”Andsoitseems.“Thethoughtwhichofteludesmymindseems,whenreached,tobegivenbyaninvisiblehand.”Sowroteoneoftheclearestandsweetestofourexpositors.Therewas,forhim,asubtle,butnonethelessreal,relationshipbetweentheministryoftheunseenandtheserviceofthepresent.Andinmywakingdreamstheformandspiritofmymotherseemconsciouslynear.Iknowthatcertainwritersoftherealisticclasshavebutlittlesympathywiththosewhobytheaidofaconsecratedimaginationinvestthepersonalitiestheylovewithanidealsupremacyandglory.ButthevisionoftheChristwhichfillsthelifeoftheChurchto-dayistheidealisationofOnewhotoHisactualcontemporarieswasbutanordinaryman.Thatwhichinsomepersonalitiesisthoughttobeafictionofthemindmaybetotheonewholoves,thesimplediscoveryoftheactualself.Loveisthetransfiguringpoweroflife.ItistheelementbywhichGodre-discoversHisowncreativeidealinman,andthespiritbywhichmaninterpretsthewholeredeemingpurposeofGod.Hewhowouldjudgeeitherapictureorasoul,throughtheclearbuticyfacultyofreasonalone,willfailtoenter“withintheveil"ofmeaningandpurposethatboththeartistandtheCreatorhaveintendedbytheirwork.Onlife’shighwayreasonmayholdthereins,butthemysteriouscurrentwhichsweepsthechariotalongisbeyondherpower.WecallJohn’sGospelidealisticbecauseofitsmysticalatmosphere.Cold,prosaicsoulscannotseethatitisthepassionoflovecoronating,itsKing.WhowillsaythattheApostlewhowrotedidnotdiscoverforhisownsoulinJesusChristallwhichhismindandpendictated?So,hadyou,dearreader,seenherwhomIcallmother,onthecrowdedstreet,notknowingallthewealthoftenderaffectionbeneathherfadeddress,youmighthavepassedherbyunconsciousthatshereignedsupremeinanysingleheart.Queenlyshewasatleasttome.Ifnotinthesphereofintellect,wheresolitaryminds,likelonelyplanetsshineinloftyspace,orinthetrumperysplendoursofafictitioussocialcircle,yetinspirit,gentlenessandlove,andintherevelationoftheunseenGodtomysoulshewasenthroned.

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MymotherwasborninthetownshipofEdwinstowe,inthecountyofNottingham.EdwinstoweissituateaboutsevenmilesfromMansfield,myownbirthplace,andisplantedintheheartofmagnificent“MerrieSherwood”Forest,whereRobinHoodandhisboldoutlawshuntedtheearl’sdeerandbrokeeachothers’headsatquarterstaff.SometwoorthreemilesfromEdwinstoweisthefineoldresidencecalledThosebyHall,theseatoftheEarlsManvers.Thefamous“Dukeries”areincloseproximity.Thecountryformilesaroundisfinelywooded.Theparksaboundindeer.Theoakswhichstudtheforestareafinesight.AmileortwofromThosebyHall,inasecludedpartofthewoodisthemajestic“majoroak,”withitsenormousgirthandwide-spreadingbranches,underwhichthousandsofvisitorshavelunchedandsung.Itwasinthisprettytownship,sobeautifullysurrounded,thatmymotherwasborn.Herparentsweresimple,honest,piousfolk.Theymadenostirintheworld,thoughsomeoftheirchildrenandtheirchildren’schildrenhavetakenrankamongthebestandtruestsonsofthegreatRepublic.Ifthesesimplepeasantheartsdidnot“shineaslightsintheworld,”theydidwhatsomewhoboastofnoblenamedidnot—kepttheirbloodpure,honouredthecommandments,anddiedleavingtheheritageofagoodnametothosewhofollowed.Forfortyyearstheytoiledonthe“Manvers”Estate,attendedtheparishchurch,saidtheirprayers,paidtheirway,andthenenteredintopeace.Mymotherneverforgotthetendermemoriesofherchildhood.Itwastheonedreamofheryouthwhichcastitscomfortingradianceovermanyanhourofgrief.Oftontheroadside,orinthedarkenedhomeshewouldallowhermemorytowanderbacktothevillagestreetandthecottagehome.Shewouldresurrectthehappycirclesofullofquiet,simplejoy.Themarchtochurch;thestolensalutationsamongthechildrenandtheyoungfolkonthevillagestreetashandinhandtheywalkedtoDivineservice,allsosoberandquiet,yet,withal,allsorestfulandblessed.LetmoderncantsneeratPuritanicalsimplicityifitwill,theformerSabbathinruralandurbanEnglandhadaquietrestfulnesstheselatterdaysarestrangersto.ThenIrememberhowmymotherloweredhertoneasshetoldoftheblowwhichfelluponherhomewhenherfatherdiedintheprimeofmanhood,andafewdaysafterwards,tocompletetheirsorrow,hermotherbreathedherlastamidthetearsofherselfandherorphanedbrothersandsisters;theylaidthebodiesofherparentsinsureandcertainhopeofabetterresurrectioninthevillagechurchyardinonegrave.Irememberhow,withpardonablepride,shewouldspeakofthemannerherfather’scharacterhadimpressedthebigfolkattheHall.Andhow,onthedayhermotherdied,oneoftheEarlManvers’ladyrelativescametovisitthehomeofdeathandtocomfortthepoormotherlessandfatherlessbairns.Onesceneseemedmostvividlytohaveimpressedher-thedayofthefuneral.Thesolemnprocession,thecrowdedvillagestreet,thereverentialattitudeofthevillagers,theaffectingserviceinthechurchyard,thetendertonesofthekind-heartedclergyman,and,aboveall,thequietcornerofthechurchyardwherethe-gravelay,andwhereoft,alone,thoughagirlshesatandwept.Sooftandsovividlydidshedescribetheplace,thatwhenIwasaladIusedtothinkIcouldfindthespotwithoutaguide.Tovisitthesescenesofearlydaysinmemorywastoherameansofgrace.Shesupportedherselfintheimmediatesorrowbythethoughtofhappierdays.ThisistheDivinemethod.TheglorythatwasandistobesupportsthesoulthroughalltheCalvariesthatliebetween.Whenthegraveclosedovertheformsofherfatherandmother,sheturned,anorphan,theyoungestofallthatwereleft,toacold,unsympatheticworld.Fromthathourtothehourwhenlikeatiredchild,shesleptindeath,Providencegavehernorestforthesoleofherfoot.

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SodeeplyhadmymotherimpressedmewiththescenesofheryouththataftermyconversiontoGodIlongedtovisitthem.Buttosolicitavisitwascontrarytobothmyheart’sfeelingandresolve.Formycallintotheministrywasdistinctlyfromheaven.Andoneresolveofmyheartwas,thatIwouldneveradvertiseforservices,andIwouldneverseekforopeningsofChristianwork.IfmycallwasofGod,Hemustcleartheway.Idonotrecommendthisruletoall,butitwasmine,withoneexception,andthatwasinrelationtotheplacewheremymotherwasborn.IrememberprayingthatGodwouldopenmywaytopayavisittotheplaceofherbirth,thatImightpreachtheGospelwhichhadsavedmeamidtheassociationsofmymother’searlydays.Ashorttimeafter,alettercamefromthePrimitiveMethodistSocietySteward,askingifIcouldconductafortnight’smissionatEdwinstowe.Ianswered,“Yes.”IrememberthedayIarrived.Mr.andMrs.Freeman,accordingtothenativegenerosityoftheirkindlyhearts,receivedmeasaservantofJesusChrist.Afterthefirstsalutation,Iasked,“Whereisthechurch?”“Attheheadofthetown,”Iwasanswered,“theteaisready,comeandtakeameal.Youcanvisitthechurchafterward.”“Thankyou;no,thatchurchyardisasacredspottome,Imustgotherefirst.”LeavingthehouseIwendedmywaytotheupperendofthevillagetotheoldchurch,which,forthesizeoftheplace,wasafinestructure.Thechurchandchurchyardbeingelevatedabovetherestoftheroadway,Ipassedthroughtheswing-gateandascendedthefewstonestepswhichopenedonthepathwayleadingtothechurchdoor.Theoldsextonwasbusyputtingsomegravesinorder.“Sexton,”Isaid,“Iamastrangerhere.Mymotherwasborninthisplace.Herparentslivedhereall

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theirdays,anddiedwithinafewdaysofeachother.Theywereburiedsomewhereinthischurchyard,andmymotherhasdescribedthespotsoman;timestomethatIthinkIcouldfinditwithoutaguide.”Theoldmanseemeddeeplyinterested,andleaningonhisspade,heaskedmetheirnames.“Robinson,”Ianswered.“Ah!”saidhequickly,“I___”Isawatonceheknewthenameandtheplace,soIstoppedhimbysaying,“Pleasedon’ttellme.Iwant,ifIcan,todiscoveritmyself.ButwillyoupleasewalkbehindmeandtellmeifIgowrong.”Theoldman,withasmile,andspadeinhand,cameclosebehind.Makingmywaytotheleftsideofthechurch,Icametoaquietcornernearthehedgewhichdividedthechurchyardfromthevicaragegarden.There,inashadyspot,wherethefeetoftheirreverentseldomstrayed,weretwograves.Istoodforafewsecondsatthefootobservingcarefullythesurroundingfeatures.Turningtothesexton,Isaid,“Myfriend,Iamnotsure,butIbelievethegraveIseekisoneofthese.”“Youareright,sir,”heanswered,“thegraveofMr.andMrs.Robinsonistheonenearestthehedge”“Thankyou.Andnow,sexton,Iwanttopray.PerhapsyouwillnotmindmekneelinghereandspeakingtoGod."“Ohno,Idonotmind.”Kneelingdown,whiletheoldgrave-diggerbaredhishead,IaddressedmyselftotheEternal.IthankedGodforthesimplicityandpurityofthelivesofthosewhosebodieslaybeneaththatsod.IthankedHimforHismercyinpassingthereligiousinstinctthroughtheirlivesintomymother’sveins,andthenintomyown,andforthecrowningmercywhichhadbroughtmetothatspotapreacherofrighteousness.IprayedthatashehadheardmyformerpetitiontoopenthewaythatImaypreachtheGospelwheremymotherwasborn,hewouldsoqualifymefortheworkthatthemissionshouldneverbeforgotten.NevershallIforgetthatscene.Blessedly,consciously,powerfullyGodenduedmewithhisgrace.NotonlydidGodmanifestHimselftomebymyfaith,butthroughalltheavenuesoffeeling.LanguageistoopoortotellwhatIexperiencedinthathour.OfonethingIwascertain,thevictoryofamarvellousspiritualtriumphwaswon.Ionlyhadtogoandgatherthespoil.Thatmissionwillneverbeforgottenbythosewhopassedthroughit.Apostolicsceneswerewitnessed;thelittlechapelbecametoosmalltoholdthepeoplewhowishedtobeconverted.TheWesleyanfriendsthrewopentheirdoors,andthewideravenueswerenotsufficienttocontaintheglory.Inthelanes,thefields,thestreets,eventhepublic-houses,theonethemewassalvation.This,perhaps,isnottheplacetogivedetailsofthiswonderfulworkofgrace.Sometimeinafullerrecord,thewholemaybetold.Strangetosay,whilewritingthesewordsalettercomestomebypostfromonewhoselifewasredeemedduringthisgracioustime.Thewritertellsmeofthevividimpressionmadeuponhismindbytheservices.Howthesceneshewitnessedimpresshimeventothishour.Hespeaksofone,hisnextdoorneighbourinthosedays,whoselifewasgodless,butwho,onthesecondnightofthemissioncametoGod.“She,forsixyears,livedaholylife,”andthenwasnot,forGodsuddenlycalledherhome.Hetellsmeofamanwhooutsidethechapelwassmittentohis

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kneesbythemightoftheHolyGhost,andwho,at,thishour,isinfellowshipwiththeChurch.Hewritesofonewholiterallyfelltothegroundas"onethatwasdead,andreceivedtheforgivenessofsin.ThismandiedtriumphantinJesusChristinthegrandoldhistoricAbbeyofRufford.Yea,andherecordsthecaseofanother,who,beingoftenreproved,hardenedhisneck,andwassuddenlydestroyedwithoutremedy.Wellmayheclosewiththewords,“Eternityalonewillrevealthegoodthatwasdone.”

MoreIwouldwrite,butspaceforbids.LetmeclosebystatingthatIcanneverforgetmymother’slasthours.Herlifehadbeenfullofgrief,butnowthetragedywastoend.Naturewassinking,notbeneaththeweightofyears,butbeneaththeweightofcares.Leftanorphanatanearlyage,castupontheworld’scoldcharityuntilshebecamethewifeofmyfather,when,forfortyyearssheexperiencedallthemiserywhichcanbesummedupinthatmostwretchedtitle-adrunkard’swife.WithshamedoIconfessthatmyownprodigalityandsinhadoftencausedthosecheekstobestainedwithtears.Butnowtheracewasnearlyrun,thefightwasalmostended,onemorestruggleandshewouldbefree.Standingwithintheroomwhereshelayoneday,IfeltasbysomestrangepresentimentthatIshouldneverlookuponherlivingformagain.Ihadtakenmyeldestboywithme,forwhomIwishedmymother’sblessing.StandingatthefootofthebedIscannedthethin,wastedfeatures.Allthepastcamebeforeme.Thedisobedientact,theunkindword,allpassedbeforemeinvividreality.WhatwouldIhavegiventohaverecalledthewrongsofthepast.InthatonebriefhourIseemedtoliveallmylifeoveragain.ThankGod!withthosekeenregretscamethecomfortingreflectionthatIstoodbymymother’sdeath-bedaregeneratedsoul.TakingmyTestament,Iopened

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itatthefourteenthchapterofSt.John’sGospel,andreadaloudtohertheconsolingwordsoftheLordJesus.Ispokebrieflyoftherestabove.Herupliftedhand,solemnlook,andtrustfulwords,confessedhersecurityofsoul.Mysonreceivedherblessingonhisknees.Kneeling,IcommendedoncemorehersoultothetenderGod.Thenlsangtoher:

“Jesus,Loverofmysoul,LetmetoThybosomfly,

Whilethenearerwatersroll,Whilethetempeststillishigh;Hideme,OmySaviour,hide,Tillthestormoflifebepast,Safeintothehavenguide,Ohreceivemysoulatlast.”

Whenleavingtheroomoureyesmetoncemore,andinanecstasyofjoysheclaspedherhands,exclaiming,“ThankGod,IhaveonesonservingtheRedeemer.”Ineversawheraliveagain.Thenexttimewemet,thepoorhouseofclaywastenantless.Takingmystandbythesideofthecoffininwhichhersilentformwaslying,Iboretestimonytothegoodnessofherlifetothosewhogatheredround.HowblessedtoknowthatmydevotiontoJesussmoothedthedeath-passageformypoorsufferingmother!Ihavegonetothequietspotwhereherasheslie,andkneelingwithmychildren,IhavefeltmyheartthrobwithjoyatthethoughtthatmyworkfortheLordbrightenedformymotherthegloomofthevalleyoftheshadowofdeath.Andsurelyitiseternallytrue,thatkindlyactionsandgentlewordsdonetothedeardepartedmakericherharmonyinthesoulthaneversoundedfromcathedralchoir;butbitterwordsandunkinddeedsbringbackfromthegrave’sdeepvoidnonoteofjoy.Mymother’striumphoverdeathstronglyconfirmedmeintheveritiesoftheChristianfaith.Herstrugglesforrighteousnesswhilesurroundedbysomuchdevilryandsin,wererewardedwithafinalvictory.And,saywhatwewill,themoraltoneofeachperson’slifethrowstheshineortheshadeacrossthelastfewhours.Death,likesorrow,bringsthesoultothefront.Thereisacloseconnectionbetweencharacterandthelightordarknesswhichgathersroundthedepartingspirit.

“Farewell!dearheart,tillmorningbreaksInsplendourontheshore

OfHeaven:I'llseetheethenandpart,No,never,nevermore."

(Tobecontinued.)__________________________________________________________________________________ReferencesPrimitive Methodist Magazine 1901/273