The Book Fund Diary for 1882
A MESSAGE FROM MENTONE FROM MY DEAR HUSBAND.
SITTING in Dr. Benners garden, I saw, rising above a building, the top of a fine young pine, named Araucaria excelsa. Its highest point seemed a simple line, or straight shoot, the growth of the present year, not yet quite complete. Below were five little branches (I dare say that is not the right word, but I know no better), and these were succeeded by another length of stem, and then again a fivefold growth. Looking at it, it seemed to be like the Book Fund, with its annual periods of labour, and the consequent Report, which crowns the growth of each year. I know that a new Report is soon to be thrown out, and I remember the pain and labour of its development; but it will come as surely as the Araucaria will put forth its star. Each outgrowth is nearer heaven, and tends to the perfecting of the tree. To you, I dare say, each year’s work has less in it whereof you might glory, even as the tree grows less as it climbs higher; but there is to the eye of an onlooker a beauty and symmetry about the whole of a work which is done for Jesus, and my love may rest
assured that her service is beautiful to Him whose approbation is her chief reward. He marks the Book Fund tree, not as I do this pine, in part; but He sees it from the root upward, and notes each leaf of its evergreen foliage. You see, I have used my unaccustomed pencil to depict what I saw, and it is a feeble failure; but when all things done on earth shall have their photographs exhibited at the last day, your Book Fund will be “a thing of beauty and a joy for ever,” and holy intelligences shall agree in the verdict of “Well done.”
There, too, among the roses, oranges, geraniums, lemons, heliotropes, and olives, I thought of the time when this superb garden was little more than bare rock. Who made it what it is? Of course there was a master mind which arranged, and planned, and ordered all, and to him the garden belongs, and the honour of it. But I saw a woman toiling up from the shore, with a load of earth upon her head, as much as she could carry; she shot this down to form a terrace, and then she went down for more. How many times she laboured upward with her burdens I do not know; but I have rejoiced in the fertility which has come of all her many loads and labours. I wonder whether she has any idea of the exquisite odours, and dainty blossoms, and charming fruits, which are the result of her ascents and descents beneath a burning sun. I know another female burden-bearer, whose heaps of books and loads of volumes go to and fro in an endless fashion, borne, not upon her head, but in her brain and heart; and I know how she almost faints beneath the never-ceasing labour. But she, too, is carrying the essential ingredients of fruit-growing to places which greatly need it; pouring out fertile matter for thought upon shelves which else had been bare as the rock; helping the Lord’s tillers to make gardens wherein shall grow choicer flowers than those which have enchanted me this day. Go on, dear bringer-up of blessed burdens: you may not, nay, you will not, see the full result of your continuous service; but He will see it who has set you to the work. “Supposing Him to he the Gardener,” you will renew your strength, and your poor ministers will again and again see their libraries replenished, and their hands helped in their work of causing the wilderness to blossom as the rose.
X qEW YEAR’S DAY, 1882. — It seems but as yes- ) terday that we bade farewell to 1880, and greeted f with solemn yet kindly welcome the year which t expired last night; yet already some hours have passed away since our introduction to this new ‘ period of our existence, and without pause or
hindrance the moments are silently and swiftly carrying us forward to meet the unknown joys and sorrows, the pleasures and the pains, of this year of grace 1882. Trite and commonplace as any remark on the quick flight of time may appear, there are seasons when the thought forces itself upon our consideration in an extraordinary way, and the fact assumes the importance of a new and startling discovery.
In the cathedral at Milan, a careful observer may note, at a certain hour of the day, a small round spot of light travelling steadily across the marble pavement. Nothing can divert its course, nothing can stop its progress. From some tiny and invisible opening in the vast roof, a sunbeam descends, and with its bright finger marks on the tesselated floor the silent yet certain passing of the moments. I shall never forget seeing this solemn portent amid the stately marvels of that
matchless edifice, nor the awe with which one asked the question, “Is it possible that my life is hurrying to its end with such an awful persistency as this?”
“Still on it creeps,
Each little moment at another s heels,
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back.
Worn and bewilder’d, wondering how it is.”
True, the same warning is given in the lengthening of the shadows, the movement of a minute-hand, or the wasting of sand in an hour-glass; but none of these ever spoke so impressively to my heart as did the fast and unfaltering pace of that small disc of light across the marble pavement of Milan Cathedral. Twenty years have passed away since I actually trod those “dim mysterious aisles” and gazed on the surrounding wonders; but to-night memory carries me back to stand once more beneath the fretted roof, amid the sculptured pillars, while at my feet the bright monitor still bears witness to the haste of Time’s unwearied footsteps. In bygone years the glories of the silver shrines and splendid jewels of this vast treasure-house had each and all an irresistible attraction for the eager traveller; but now, when memory is set free to revisit the place, she hovers persistently around this solitary spot, and quietly folds her soft wings there in the restfulness of sacred contemplation. Here, then, I would linger a while, that I may look back through the vista of the years, and thankfully acknowledge* the greatness of God’s mercies, and the infinite number of His lovingkindnesses. They have been countless as the particles which compose these massive marbles, and far more precious than the costly gems which gleam with awful radiance on the dead and shrivelled brows of embalmed saints in the crypt beneath me. To the Lord I owe all the clustering blessings which enrich my life, and all the fair hopes of eternal bliss which transform even death itself into an angel of light. And what have I rendered to Him for all this grace and favour? What record have the fastflying moments carried up to Him of my works and ways since I first gazed upon this strange register of their silent though rapid progress? Ah! there is no comfort to be gained by a look within l for faults and failures are ready to bear swift witness against me, and “unprofitable service” is inscribed on even my best performances; so the glance must be quickly raised from self to Christ, for “He is a sanctuary” where, with sin atoned for and forgiven, my soul can rest, and worship, and hide itself from all accusers* And may I not from here also look forward, and in such a place becomingly consecrate myself anew to His sweet service, resolving by His grace so to “redeem the time” in future days, if they be granted to me, that its quick feet may no more reproach my dull, loitering steps? for I realize with a profound solemnity that “the night cometh when no man can work,” and that opportunities of service are now yielding themselves, which, if not immediately embraced, will be lost to me for ever.
But now the fair vision fades, and I am recalled to present surroundings by the sweet chiming of Sabbath bells, which ring out for evening worship. I listen to the distant music with sorrowful realization of my loss in being unable to join God’s people in the services of His earthly courts, yet rejoicing that I can catch an echo in my heart of better and more heavenly melody; for the Lord’s own gracious words are borne in upon my soul, like stray notes from the harps of angels, “I the Lord will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not, I will help thee,” and the power of this blessed promise strengthens and braces me for whatever work or suffering may be appointed by His love.
So, as I make this first entry in my journal for the New Year, and try to weave some tangled thoughts and floating threads of memories into a smooth and pleasant web of meditation, I sing at my work, and bless the Lord for all His grace and goodness, past, present, and to come, while from my inmost heart the prayer ascends, “Lord, make me more devoted and useful; let this seventh year of the Book Fund’s existence be a holy and happy period, a very Sabbath of delight, more fruitful in blessing than any which have preceded it. May all the work be done as unto Thee, and for Thy glory, and may Thy poor ministers rejoice in plenteous increase from its stores, and in loving sympathy from its willing servant. Command Thy blessing upon it,
O my God, ‘from the beginning of the year, even to the end of the year.’ For Christ’s sake. Amen.”
January 8. — A generous friend sends a very welcome wedding present, to commemorate the anniversary of the happy day which made me “Mrs. John Ploughman.” A goodly cheque to my husband “for any work of the Lord tnost needing help,” and to me a gift for my Book Fund of exceeding interest and value, as being another instance of hidden treasure brought out, and laid at the feet of Jesus through His love’s constraining power.
Last year I was delighted when a dear friend felt impelled to give up her long-cherished crown pieces to the Master’s use, and now I have the joy of receiving six splendid golden guineas of the third George’s reign, with this touching inscription: —
“Hoards of many years at last given up to the Lord.”
They have been heirlooms in the family for a generation or two, and are beautiful coins; but never so beautiful as now, when the glory of consecration rests upon them, and they are willingly and lovingly offered for the service of the work of the Lord. My friend knows she will never regret the dedication of these treasures to Him who says, “The silver is mine, and the gold is mine”; but I can promise her much more than a negative interest in the transaction; for her joy in giving has already outweighed the pleasure of possession, and the very act of self-denial for Christ brings its own sweet and satisfying reward.
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The eager enquiry by clergymen for Mr. Spurgeon’s works, and their warm appreciation of them, as recorded in my last Report, has agreeably astonished many friends, and loud and hearty have been the congratulations offered to me on this most interesting and important phase of my dearly-loved work. I am very conscious of the gravity of the trust thus committed to me, and feel an increasing conviction that in this matter the Lord has laid a solemn charge upon the Book Fund, and I constantly seek His aid, that by a wise and discriminate distribution of the books, His gracious purposes of love and mercy may be furthered and unfolded. With the divine blessing on their pages, what may not the teachings of these volumes effect? “You will doubtless be interested in the fact,” wrote a young curate the other day, “that your husband’s works were the chief books I found on an episcopal table; they were lent for the use of men about to be ordained.” I am sure my readers will agree with me that this is a remarkable” sign of the times,” and one for which we should devoutly u thank God and take courage.”
February. — Taking down an ancient volume from my husband’s book-shelves lately, I was greatly interested to find the following quaint story, which, with a rugged pathos of its own, serves to show that u history repeats itself” in the present low estate of many of God’s ministering servants, while it carries with it an unspoken plea for those to whom a little display of careful love on our part would secure an exemption from much needless distress. Thus runs the curious tale: —
There was one Phillipus, a priest among the heathen, so poor that he begged for his living, and yet he would go about and tell how happy he should be. “When,” quoth one, “will that be?” “When I am
dead,” says he. “Then, poor fellow!” quoth the other, “thou art to blame that thou diest not quickly, that thou mayest be happy.” And thus it is often with the poor, despised, distressed ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ. “The Lord is our portion,” say they, “and we shall be happy.” “But when?” says the world. “When we die,” say the ministers. “Why, then,” says the world, “ye are to blame that ye die not quickly, to be happy in heaven, whom the world hath taken an order with never to be happy on earth.” This is the voice of those who would rather put a church into their purse than any way empty their purses towards the church’s maintenance.
By the blessing of God we are trying to alter this sad state of things; and though our beginnings are small, we work on in patient hope of steady growth and progress, and
Ten Tfears of my Life
even now see cheering signs of awakening sympathy among those whose co-operation will be the future life and power of our scheme.
I note with extreme pleasure a paragraph in a letter received to-day by my dear husband, and I look upon it as an earnest of brighter days for poor Pastors — the modest commencement of united and organized effort on their behalf, which I pray may extend and increase till these grievous woes are remedied, and these intolerable burdens removed. The writer of the letter in question is one of “our own” men; and, after giving his President some account of church matters and means, he says, “The Ministers* Aid Association, which aims at helping our brethren in this country, is doing good service in families where the pinch of want is most severely felt. This society is really an echo and reflex of a Book and Pastors* Aid Fund, of which you know much, and which has earned for one we need not name the loving title of ‘ The Ministers* Friend.*
Here is the wherewithal of great rejoicing for me and all those friends who so generously help me; for if the Book Fund shall indeed become the mother of many such promising children, the Lord will have fulfilled our petition, and given us the desire of our hearts.
If only two or three strong churches in each county would look after and tenderly help the weak ones, there would be no more complaints of the bitter destitution of our village Pastors, and the work of the Lord would be manifestly revived throughout the land. May the Lord surely bring it to pass, and His name shall be glorified! Since making the preceding entry I have been in communication with the wife of another of “our own** Pastors, whose heart has been stirred with pity for the sorrows of her poorer ministerial neighbours. I gave her the name of one very needy, that she and the ladies of the church (by no means a wealthy one) might work with loving, skilful fingers for the necessities of the impoverished family. “We have begun to pray for them,” she says, and I gather from her womanly, earnest words that her helpers expect the service thus rendered will bring them as much blessing as it will bestow benefit upon the poor recipients. Every stitch in the garments they make and send will enchain a gentle thought, every fold reveal a touch of sisterly sympathy, and the many loving prayers breathed over them will impart a sweeter fragrance than any earthly perfume can boast. Oh! that the happiness of so delightful a service were better known, and more ardently coveted — that gifts so good and gracious were less rare and capricious. If it be true that “the heart grows rich in giving,” what millionaires might we not become by entering zealously into the brave trade of loving our neighbours as ourselves, and ministering constantly of our substance to the necessities of the saints! Such gains might be counted in the light of heaven, such riches amassed without fear of corruption or loss. But how many of us are thus “laying up treasure” in heaven? There are some on whom God has bestowed much of this world’s wealth who grudge to give a coin of it to the poor and needy, and think themselves hardly used if any sort of etiquette compels the confiscation of one of their golden gods. What an awful sight must the poverty and emptiness of such a barren life present to the eyes of the angels 1 “He gave them the desire of their heart, but sent leanness into their souls.” The Lord in His mercy deliver us from such a curse.
An aged minister of Christ, many years in his service, and still labouring in word and doctrine, received help lately from both Pastors’ Aid and Book Fund, and writes most gratefully and tenderly of the cheer and comfort the opportune gifts brought to his anxious heart. It is pleasant to see how devoutly he is affected by the mercy, and how it has inspired in his heart a loving recognition of God’s faithfulness and care. Says he — “We are both astounded at the goodness of the Lord to such unworthy servants, and cannot thank Him enough for inclining you to send us so needed a gift.” This is just how I desire the help from the Fund should be received, straight out of the Lord’s hand into that of His poor servant. He goes on to tell me how on the night previous to receiving the present he felt very much cast down and depressed in mind, and tried to sing, “In darkest shades if He appear”; but it was of no use, the notes
died away on his quivering lip, and only sighs came forth from his oppressed heart. “The next morning,” he touchingly says, “I had some liberty in prayer” — perhaps this was a foretaste of the coming deliverance; but after breakfast the sorrows gathered round his soul again — he began to count up the various items which must soon be paid — rent, grocer’s and miller’s bills, etc., and onlyi 5s. in the house to meet them all; and Satan and a deceitful heart whispered that “the Lord had forgotten to be gracious, and His mercy was clean gone lor ever.”
Then came the parcel to him like a ministering angel, with both hands full of blessings, and he recounts again the delightful fact that its contents led him with a humble, thankful spirit to the mercy-seat, there to pour out his thanksgivings to his heavenly Father, who had sent such relief to his necessities.
March. — This seventh year of happy and prosperous service brings me special gladness in the constantly multiplying testimonies which certify to the increasing value and usefulness of the Book Fund. Ministers who, five or six years ago, received a small grant of books, now write with pathetic earnestness for another parcel, their necessities having grown with their mental growth and strengthened with their intellectual strength. Moreover, their congregations largely share in the blessing; for the pastor’s heart cannot be warmed with celestial fire, and his soul fed with heavenly manna, without his people feeling in a greater or lesser degree the precious influence of such a visitation. There are very few men like “Williams of Wern,” of whom it is recorded that he remarked to a book-loving brother — “You read too much. My plan in preparing sermons is to examine the connection of a passage, extract its principle, and think it over in my own mind. I never look at a commentary except when completely beaten.” This experience is rare and peculiar, and in the case of hundreds of Pastors positively unattainable; for the absorbing cares of poverty, the ceaseless demands of family emergencies, and the pressing burden of increasing liabilities, — these choke up the workings of the mind, paralyze the capacity for reflection, and render the poor servant of Christ doubly dependent on the written thoughts of others for assistance in the study of the Divine Word. Milton says, “A good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life”; and we thank God that it is our joyous duty to supply this grand restorative to weary and overworked minds.
To-day a pastor thus writes: —
How can I express to you the thankfulness of my heart for this repeated help you have given me! The books are polished shafts for the King’s service, and the suitable selection you have made impresses me much. The stream of your kindness is strengthening and refreshing to the spirits of hundreds of humble workers for God. Your Book Fund is a “river that maketh glad the city of God.”
In another letter this same good brother thus touchingly justifies his renewed application to the Fund: —
A heavy debt on my chapel, six in family, a very expensive place to live in, and a small salary, are my pleas for knocking again at the door of your Christian charity. No tongue can tell the extent of the cheer and help you render to the servants of God, and their churches and families, by the delightful ministrations of the Book Fund.
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The following letter is too good to be entombed among the mass of unrecorded correspondence. It also sets forth delightfully the glorious aim and object of my work; gives a bright glimpse of it from a poor preacher’s own point of view, and enshrines a grateful and touching tribute to the kindness of those dear friends whose contributions enable me to carry it on: —
Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — The parcel of books has arrived safely. No words of mine can express my gratitude to you for such a rich gift. It is the most valuable present I have received during my twenty years’ ministry. I never felt at such a loss to know what to say by way of appreciation and gratitude for your kindness to one wholly unknown to you. May the Lord Jesus bless you more and more, and spare you many, many years — send you friends, and give you joy in seeing this noble work growing in your hands! If those who contribute of their wealth only knew the gladness awakened in our hearts — the stimulus and food supplied to weary, jaded minds — the instruction and precious
truth which find their way into our sermons, and which in turn cheer and bless many other souls through these noble presents, they would feel themselves more than recompensed even in this world, and before the Master shall say, “Well done!” Surely you can never doubt that it was the Lord who put this work into your hands; it is as plainly so as if He had spoken audibly to you from the stormy cloud or the evening breeze. He knows how the poor minds of many of His servants are heavy and enfeebled in endeavouring to keep up the freshness of their ministry; constantly telling out, but receiving little in; isolated, and with few stimulating books; and He has honoured you to be an angel of mercy to bring refreshing and strength to them. We may never meet on earth; but your name and your work shall have an abiding place in my heart. I need scarcely say I had none of the books you have so kindly sent; and, strangely enough, they are the very books I hccve long wished for l How many delightful hours I shall have over them, if my life be spared! How many sermons they will suggest which I shall delight to preach! How they will refresh the work of divine grace in my own heart, and reveal the glories of Jesus Christ by me to others! My own dear pastor used in early life to impress on my mind the importance of earnest reading and studious habits, and I will promise you this, that, if I live, the books you have now given me shall be well and prayerfully used. With gratitude beyond expression,
Yours,
Goodwin says, “Sermons preached are, for the most part, as showers of rain that water for the instant; such as may tickle the ear, and warm the affections, and put the soul into the posture of obedience. Hence it is that men are ofttimes sermon-sick, as some are sea-sick — very ill — much troubled for the present, but by-and-by all is well again. But printed sermons are as snow, that lies long on the earth, they are longer-lived, they preach when the author cannot, and — what is more — when he is not.”
These words I read in my husband’s study, and lifting up my eyes I looked with reverent love at the twenty-seven goodly volumes of printed “Sermons” which are the fruit of his lips in as many years, and my heart blessed God, not only for what He has done by them, but for all they shall yet accomplish by His grace till He come of whom they speak. I am never tired of imagining the possibilities of blessing garnered up in the pages which I am constantly sending forth, and when the precious testimonies to their soul-winning and edifying power come — as they do — in perpetual abundance, I take them thankfully to my heart and confidently look out for more. Here is one which calls forth a song of praise
All last winter, in our little mission on the Labrador Coast, your honoured husband’s “Sermons” were read in the Mission Church, Sunday by Sunday by the lady teachers, who were left by themselves for eight months, through the failing health of the devoted missionary, who had laboured there for many years. These simple services on the Sunday and week-day evenings, when Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermons” were the staple of the teaching given, were greatly blessed by God. Many Sailors came from the ships anchored off the coast, and, with the resident fishermen, eagerly listened to the word of life, and not only were their hearts cheered and comforted, but some were brought to a knowledge of the truth as it is in Christ Jesus.
Blessed sowing of the seed! Who can tell what the harvest may be!
. Then here follows a more personal testimony, which gave me special delight in the perusal
Will you allow an old and worn-out local preacher among the Wesleyan Methodists to join your many correspondents in their acknowledgment of benefits received again and again from Mr. Spurgeon’s sermons? Prevented by the infirmities of advanced years from attending the public services of the Lord’s house on the Sabbath evenings, I am in the habit of having one of these “Sermons” then read to me, and the result has been a deep sense of personal obligation to the author, and an increasing conviction that it has pleased God to grant to the Christian church of our day, through the instrumentality of Mr. Spurgeon, a gospel light and power that, by the blessing of the divine Spirit, will tell not only on this generation, but on generations yet to come. Earnest and fervent are the prayers we offer that so useful a life may be spared; that the thousands who read the “Sermons” throughout the world may receive the truth as it is in Jesus, and that God may be more than ever glorified by the distribution of such precious books through your Fund. I intended a year ago, when I first saw the Book Fund Report, to send you a small gift; but I put it off, and did not think again about it until I saw the announcement on the “Sermons” that the “Diary” for 1881 was ready. On obtaining and reading k, I was sorry I had not carried out my former intention, and now I make the best amends I can for my neglect, by doubling the sum I meant to give before.
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April. — Blessed be the Lord for a grand flood-tide of
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financial prosperity which has been rolling in these many months, and has borne me up on its glad waves far above all anxiety and carking care! The Lord hath “opened His good treasure,” and bountifully provided for the charges of the work He has given me to do. In years gone by I have known what it was to be brought very low in money matters, and the trial of faith was painful and grievous; but deliverance, though it tarried a while, surely came; and, with it, such unmistakable interposition of divine faithfulness and love, that songs of triumph quickly succeeded the sighs of disquietude. Lately I have been spared this burden; but if ever the Lord sees fit to impose it again, I pray that the remembrance of former liberation and enlargement may so strengthen my faith in His mercy and power, that I may be unmoved except to closer waiting upon Him. Again I say, “Blessed be the Lord l” To Him first be ascribed all praise and grateful adoration; for “the silver and the gold are His,” and of His own have we given Him; for “of Him, and from Him, and to Him, are all things”; and then to the dear friends whose love is a reflection of His own, and whose gifts are the choicer because given for His sake, — to them I offer the earnest thanks of many grateful hearts, all gathered up into a fervent benediction, which, though unheard on earth, is surely recorded in heaven.
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Some large sums of money have come to me this year, overwhelming me with thankful emotion; but the main strength of the Fund lies, I think, in the constant inflowing of smaller donations, which, like a tiny rill of living water, trickles on and on with unfailing regularity. Such a “continual dropping” makes sweet music in one’s life, and again I praise the Lord for the blessed portion of both “upper and nether springs.”
If my readers will bear with me a little longer on this subject, I will endeavour to catch some bright and sparkling drops from the rivulet, and present them for their refreshment and delight, confident that three such cups of cold water will be as acceptable to them as they were to me.
EXTRACT FROM THE LETTER OF A CHURCH OF ENGLAND
CLERGYMAN.
Dear Madam, — You may remember my applying to you for some books last year, and the very kind response you made to my application! It was indeed a kindness for which I shall ever feel most grateful* Since then, I am thankful to say, I am in a little better position, pecuniarily, and I feel it a duty, as well as a real pleasure, to send a subscription to your Book Fund, the Report of which I have just read* Please accept the enclosed guinea, with my warmest thanks for your generous help to me, and my earnest prayers for an increasing blessing upon your labours on behalf of the Lord’s ministers. I already reckon you amongst my best friends, and only wish I could express my feelings in anything like adequate terms.
EXTRACT FROM A LETTER FROM ONE OF “OUR OWN” PASTORS.
Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — Will you please accept the enclosed gift from our dear little girls, “Mercy” ana “Grace,” who would be glad to do much more for your Book Fund, were it in their power? We often remember you at the throne of grace, and ask that you may be made the means in the Lord’s hand of helping and comforting as many of Christ’s faithful, yet needy, servants in the future as you have in the past. Oh! dear Mrs. Spurgeon, I have come across several cases in which you have stretched forth a helping hand, and spoken a cheering word to weak and struggling brethren, and it has been good to witness their evident joy and gratitude, and to hear from their lips expressions of the love they bear so true and real a friend. I pray that a spirit of liberality, and, above all, “the love of Christ,” may constrain many of the Lord’s own people to sustain you and your blessed work with all needed means, and to Him shall be all the praise, and honour, and glory.
ANONYMOUS NOTE ACCOMPANYING VARIOUS DRILLED COINS*
Will Mrs. Spurgeon accept this little store of “lucky money,” that burned a hole in its box after its owner read the record of the Book Fund work? And will she also accept many hearty good wishes for its future prosperity, and the happiness of Mr. Spurgeon and herself?
A pathetic little note received to-day has stirred my soul to renewed diligence in my happy work, and intensified my longing desire to try to satisfy the book hunger by whicn so many poor ministers are hopelessly consumed. I think when my friends read it they will, with me, feel afresh the joy of service in this matter, and while deploring the desperate need which urges on our efforts, yet rejoice that in so many instances it has been our privilege to confer Ten Years of my Life
the happiness of which my correspondent so touchingly speaks: —
Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — This morning I have enjoyed the almost forgotten luxury of handling and inspecting a parcel of new books. In my early days, when I had no lack of friends, and no domestic responsibilities, the reward of each three months* hard toil was to collect my money and walk twelve miles to the neighbouring town, and spend an entire day in selecting books to take home with me. The next day I would spend in the delightful work of looking them over, and the pleasure I found in this occupation it is impossible to describe. The joy of these red-letter days in my youth has been almost effaced by the friction of the troubled years as they have passed painfully by. But as I sat with your books spread before me this morning, a gleam of the old happiness returned, and I was glad to find that my old love had riot been quite starved, nor crushed to death. I thank you most fervently for your kind gift, and for the large number of books you sent “above what I asked or thought.*’ I pray that I may be enabled so to use them that harvests of blessing may follow the sowing of such precious seed.
May. — The Pastor’s Recovery from Illness. “Shadow and sunshine is life,” says Tennyson, in one of his poems; and happy are we if, in the gloom of the one as well as in the glory of the other, we can recognize the loving leading of our Father in heaven.
Relative affliction is often a heavier burden and a greater grief than personal pain. We think it would be easier to bear any anguish ourselves than to see those whom we tenderly love fighting a fierce battle with a malignant foe, or lying prostrate and vanquished by a weakness no less terrible. Truly our days are overcast then, and not only is the sun obscured, but the night withholds its ordinary solace, for neither moon nor stars appear. When that sick chamber is occupied, there is no light in the sky, no sweetness in the flowers, no music in the songs of the birds, no delight in anything on earth. It is desert life for a while, and it doubtless brings to bear upon us an excellent discipline of patience and of humble waiting upon God; we are taught to look more constantly and anxiously to the cloudy pillar for guidance, and while it tarries, and enjoins our tarrying also, we learn what good Bishop Taylor calls the “practice
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of the presence of God,” and find how blessed a thing it is to “abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
Just emerging from the twilight of such an experience, and almost trembling with delight in the returning sunshine, let this page bear a grateful record of praise to Him who has again proved Himself “Jehovah-Rophi” by healing His dear servant after a long and painful sickness, and once more granting him strength to preach the word and resume his happy life-work. Ah! what thankful hearts we have when we see returning health smooth out the pain-wrinkles from the brow, give back the brightness to the kind eyes, the music to the voice, and the power to the dear hands which work so willingly and well when they write of “things touching the King”! Now the harps are taken down from the willows, and tuned to glad thanksgiving. The voices about the house, which a while ago were hushed to mournful minor notes, are ringing out joyously, with no fear or faltering. One footstep at least has grown lighter because the spirit of heaviness is removed, and with the sweet scent of the fresh May blossoms, and the awakening of life in tree, and flower, and bird, our hopes are renewed for our beloved, and our gratitude to God finds some expression in intense enjoyment of this great happiness. “Joy is the grace we say to God,” and it is a comely fashion to be glad when He makes all His goodness pass before us.
“From pain a keener bliss I borrow —
How natural is joy, my heart!
How easy after sorrow!”
* * * *
It is comforting to know that those who have wept with us during the afflictive time will now rejoice that the calamity is overpast. u Many loving hearts,” writes a kind though anonymous correspondent, “even amongst those who are called ‘ church people,’ have been anxiously watching and praying for your honoured husband’s restoration to health. Our vicar is always delighted to communicate any good tidings of ‘ our friend,’ as he delights to call Mr. Spurgeon, and we pray heartily for you both.” Other friends write with earnest and tender congratulation, devoutly praising
God for the mercy He has shown us in withdrawing this sore trial of the dear Pastor’s illness, and giving “pleasant words which are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.” In one loving, sympathetic letter I find the following lines quoted, and as they aptly set forth what I would fain hope has been our own heart-experience lately, I lay them as a morsel of pure frankincense on this my offering of thanksgiving to our kind and gracious God: —
“And, day by day, whatever betide me,
Herein I find my rest;
Eternal mercy is beside me,
My Father’s will is best.
These passing moments make a ladder
That God, my God hath given;
Some steps are shining, some are sadder.
But all lead up to heaven.”
A very pleasant and chatty letter from a minister in the Midland Counties gives an appreciative estimate of the contents of a Book Fund parcel, dwelling tenderly on each item, as if to assure me that all will be well loved and valued. I must confess to a decided fondness for such epistles, they are a delightful requital for the pains taken in the selection of suitable books, and an agreeable contrast to the short, but not necessarily sweet notes which are by some deemed a sufficient acknowledgment for the effort made on their behalf.
Dear Madam, — The new volumes are all in their places upon my bookshelves, and form a valuable addition to my little library. How much do I prize the five volumes of “The Treasury of David”! The three with bindings worn by frequent use look dull beside the gilded covers of the two you have kindly added; but all five have a sort of expectant look for the final volumes, which I hope one day to be able to obtain. I have no doubt but that hundreds are also waiting anxiously for the announcement of the sixth; for can you not understand that it is quite tantalizing to stop short of the glorious 119th Psalm? But we are con* fident that they will one day come from the pen of the gifted writer, and they will be hailed with universal delight. Who can estimate the labour of this great work? Yet this is but a small part of Mr. Spurgeon’s doings; indeed, we have reason to “glorify God in him.” The two handsome volumes of the “Sermons” I shall much prize. Already I have looked through all file subjects, and see that I shall find the nuggets as I need them. Rest assured that the “Sermons” shall be diligently read and honestly employed. The two volumes of “Lectures to Students” must be studied at once. I am very anxious to correct some suspected faults, and learn how they are to be removed. I was agreeably surprised at “Our Christian Classics,” expecting to see only one volume, and lo! there are four. At present I have only scanned the contents, but hope to find in them some of the “old corn of the land.’ The other books I have scarcely looked at yet, save the “Glories of Christ,” which at your recommendation I have begun to study. On Sunday afternoon, while reading your Report for 1880, I was struck with the text quoted on page 37 — “They came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him. ’ This will be my subject for Sunday morning, and, as you intimated, I have found some thoughts ready to be appropriated m the choice little book. You have sent me an overflowing cup, and I hope to pass it round to many who will be refreshed by my public and private ministrations of the word. May the Lord bless, sustain, and prosper you more and more. Very gratefully yours,.
After reading such a letter as this, is it any wonder that I settle down to my work with renewed energy and satisfaction, blessing God for such comfortable encouragement?
My “Conference gift” this year — or rather your present dear generous helpers — was a very original and spiritual book bearing the odd title of “What Aileth Thee?” It has been much the fashion among authors lately to seek out curious designations for their mental offspring — whether appropriate or otherwise, does not seem to matter to them much; but in the case of the book in question the authoress in her preface disarms all criticism on the point by declaring that the title was chosen for her by one “who has spent her life for others, and by her own sharp experience knows the meaning of pain.” One cannot even remonstrate after this, though we may be permitted to wish that so excellent and suggestive a volume had borne a more captivating title as a passport to our favour. “My business is with tears,” says the writer, but she throws upon them so clear and holy a light from God’s word that they turn into diamonds, and reflect the glory of the grace of God. Mr. Spurgeon says, “By whatever name this rose is called, its smell is sweet”; and he gives this testimony to the book’s worth and helpfulness: —
“We have had quite a feast in reviewing this singular
volume; we found a sermon in it, and, what is far better, we were refreshed in heart, and were drawn away from the world into nearer communion with God.” This will suffice to show that it was a fitting gift to the assembled pastors, and I hope that, as on other occasions, I may hear of its having admirably answered its purpose. The Conference has grown to be so large a gathering now, that I had to obtain 320 copies of the work at a cost of £ 40. Some few are left over, which during the year find their way to those ministers who were unable to be present at the annual reunion.
In the garden there is a large and deep stone basin of water where some goldfish find a pleasant and congenial home. In the hot summer days their existence is somewhat slumberous; they bask in the sunshine, or hide from the heat in the miniature caverns formed by the rockwork, and comport themselves generally as very idle and sleepy little fish. If we watch them now, we shall see some lazily poising themselves in the water with scarcely visible motion of body or fin, while others are slowly swimming round, too indolent even to seize the prey which floats temptingly upon the surface of the water. But look! from the centre of the basin a fountain rises, and if we set this in motion a most notable difference is observable in their behaviour; their dulness is exchanged for transports of unmistakable joy. As soon as the secret spring is touched, and the mimic tempest commences, they are full of excitement, darting hither and thither like ruddy flames beneath the tiny wavelets, and now and again leaping up to catch with open mouth the refreshing drops as they patter down upon the surface of the pool. It is pleasant to stir up this happy tumult among the little shining creatures, and pretty to watch their delight in the gladdening showers; but one day as I sat loolung on, pondering these things in my mind, I thought I could see in this simple circumstance a faint shadow of a grand and glorious reality. Might it not set forth the blessing which descends upon our hearts and lives when God graciously gives a revival of spiritual life and energy by the outpouring of His Holy Spirit? Have you not known times when guilty indifference to your best interests has stupefied your spiritual senses, and withheld you from holy activity? You have been listless and apathetic, just going the round of your daily duties, but with no heart, no enjoyment, no satisfaction in them; no looking up to God in loving dependence for the grace each moment of life requires. At such times you seem to make no progress in anything, but live like my fish, in a round basin, where the monotony of existence predisposes to sluggishness. Then, all at once — it may be in answer to an unconscious cry for help — there comes to you from above such a flood of joy, and revival, and refreshing, that you can scarcely believe yourself to be the same creature who but a moment before had been deep in the torpor of unconcern and carelessness. What a change has come over you! How your heart leaps to meet the blessed influence! What life there is in all your actions now! What “grace of supplication” rests upon your lips! What delight in all spiritual exercises! What sweet realization of the constant presence of the Lord Jesus l The fish in my fountain give forth no vocal praise for the refreshment they find in the descending drops of water 5 but you sing all the day long about “showers of blessing,” and, under the gracious quickening which the Lord has vouchsafed, new life is infused into all your services, a holy activity chases away your self-indulgent langour, and the joy of the Lord becomes your strength. Happy souls, unto whom the Holy Spirit thus comes with power, and who are made to rejoice in “times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord”!
A smile at the quaintness of this conceit may yet cover a responsive thrill to the truth it is meant to illustrate. Let my musings by the fduntain have the blessed result — at least upon myself — of instilling a dread of slothfulness in divine things, and of recommending the constant habit of looking up and longing for the gracious outpourings which God will not long withhold from His waiting and expectant children.
*
June. — Letters both cheering and charming have been numerous lately, and I am anxious to give my dear friends some of the pleasure which has been so bountifully bestowed upon me. At this moment I have before me quite a pile of epistles, most of which bear words so grateful, loving, and tender, that their perusal is in itself a reward for the small service which called them into existence. But I am like an inexpert worker in mosaics, who has at his hand choice morsels of precious things, whose fingers are willing to labour lovingly under the influence of a deep and patient interest, yet who has many misgivings as to his dexterity in dealing with the materials provided, and anxious fears lest the picture which he is expected to produce should but feebly exhibit, as a whole, the intrinsic beauty of each gemlike fragment. Deep shadows, high lights, lovely colourings, tender neutral tints, all are here awaiting felicitous arrangement; but what if the eye should possess no artistic perception, the fingers lack “cunning,” or in the very solicitude of disposal some clumsiness should mar the desired beauty, or some faulty filling-in should spoil the effect of the entire work? The glorious mosaics of St. Mark’s, at Venice, have a groundwork of pure gold, the very perfection of completeness; these of mine are but roughly placed, irregularly formed, and they lack all sumptuous surrounding. Nevertheless, they are set in the cement of love, and I rely on their own intrinsic grace and beauty to cover all the deficiencies of my poor workmanship.
MOSAICS.
I have only a few things on earth, for my treasure is laid up on high; but I can assure you that the valuable present I have received from you shall, as long as I live, be numbered amongst my choicest blessings. Neither for the books nor for the kind wishes accompanying them can I recompense thee, “but thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”
Since I received the post card intimating that you were going to send a. parcel I have been full of anticipation. No boy could be more excited about a coming treat than I was in the expectation of your present — it even had a place in my dreams. You cannot imagine with what joy I fetched it from the station this morning, and now with all my heart I thank you, and pray the Lord may long spare you to labour in such a loving and useful way.
The parcel came duly to hand on Saturday night. Surely the time was opportune. My wife and I were both very very weary, she with household work, and I with sermonizing, and both with nursing two sick children. The books seemed to put new life into us.
Some eighteen months ago you kindly sent me “The Treasury of David,” and other books. Words fail me to express the value they have been to me, or the gratitude I feel to you for placing such a store in my possession. As I then told you, my stipend as a Congregational pastor is only ^80 per annum, and this allows little or no margin for books. [The italics are mine: I desire to draw my reader’s serious attention to the sad fact so simply stated.] Therefore your kind gift has enabled me to work with far greater satisfaction than I could otherwise have done, and has been a cause of continual thankfulness.
Your very handsome present came safely to hand this morning, and I should be very glad if I could tell you how grateful I feel for this
f eat kindness. But if you turn to one of the pages of your bright little eport for 1880 you will see how you have depicted my condition to-day. “Mists of pain and suffering” have been gathering around me for a week, but not too thick for the dear Master to shine through yesterday, for I was much helped in the services of the day; but now the “window pane is blurred with rain drops,” and my spirit looks through silently and sorrowfully. I am sure you will let me defer writing in detail till the brain gets cloudless again. Meanwhile, please accept warmest thanks for so generously and promptly coming to my aid.
This is one of the shadows in my Mosaic — the picture could not truthfully be all bright.
*
This has indeed been a day of gladness to me, for this morning I received your splendid present. For years my heart has coveted “The Treasury,” but I had feared to ask, and hoped in vain for means to purchase. Since writing to you I have wondered at my own boldness, but you have so generously exceeded my request that now I am amazed at your kindness. I thank God for your Book Fund. I have spent a great part of the day in admiring, examining, and studying the precious volumes, and I hope to use them long for the glory of God.
The books you sent me were the most delightful gift of the kind that I have received during the ten years of my ministry. While unwrapping
the volumes I was quite overpowered with a sense of God’s goodness, knowing what a boon they would be to me in my work. Tears would come when I found “The Treasury of David.” May our great Master bless you in this noble service! He only knows what a struggle it is for some of us to keep up anything like a respectable appearance, and get a book very occasionally.
Now, dear friends, group together these variegated fragments of fact and feeling for yourselves, and see if the inlaying does not compensate for your love and liberality to the work which produced them. All the kind things that are said to me belong positively to you; I am but the hand which distributes your largess, and therefore receives on your behalf caresses of grateful acknowledgment. Let me try to repay them in these pages with compound interest!
The late Miss F. R. Havergal used to keep what she called a “Daily Journal of Mercies,” a record “partly spiritual, and partly material, in which the homeliest and most trivial, occurrences were noted side by side with high religious blessings.” May I quote the force of her fair example as an apology for presuming to transfer from my note-book to these pages a little home song which I have tried to sing “to the praise and glory of God.” Debarred by various reasons from the joy of going up to the House of the Lord, and joining in the glad assemblies of His people, I feel constrained to confess here to a secret source of spiritual supply, and to acknowledge with deep gratitude of heart the blessed compensating privilege which I am permitted to enjoy on the evening of the ancient Sabbath. Many have found it true that God’s house is where His presence is, and very sweetly has the comforting promise been fulfilled to His sick or disabled children, that “where two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them”; and I know that this record of His goodness to me will awaken echoes of grateful praise in hearts which have experienced somewhat similar blessings.
It is not in a desert that the Lord has rained down manna for His hungry child, and opened a well of living water for her thirst; but here, in my own sweet home, and by my husband’s side, and by that husband’s hand, He has led me into green pastures, and beside the still waters, and restored my souL Joyfully, therefore, let me tell of these streams from Lebanon, and glorify God for thus tenderly supplying all the needs of my soul. For some time past it has been the dear Pastor’s custom, as soon as the texts for the Lord’s* day services have been given by the “Master,” to call me into the study and permit me to read the various commentaries on the subject-matter in hand. Never was occupation more delightful, instructive, and spiritually helpful; my heart has ofteffr burned within me, as the meaning of some passage of God’s word has been opened up, and the hidden stores of wisdom and knowledge have been revealed; or when the marrow and fatness of a precious promise or doctrine has been spread like a dainty banquet before my admiring eyes. Shall I ever forget those solemn evenings when the sufferings of the Lord Jesus were the theme of tearful meditation; when, with “love and grief our hearts dividing,” we followed Him throughout the night on which He was betrayed, weeping, like the daughters of Jerusalem, and saying, “There was never sorrow like unto this sorrow”: or, the more rapturous time when “the exceeding riches of His grace” was to be the topic for the morrow, and we were fairly bewildered by the inexhaustible treasures of love and grace to be found in that fair “land of Havilah, where there is gold”?
Gracious hours are those thus spent, and unspeakably precious to my soul; for while the Lord’s dear servant is reaping the com of the kingdom for the longing multitude who expect to be fed by His hand, I can glean between the sheaves, and gather the “handfuls of purpose” which are let fall so lovingly.
Then come delightful pauses in my reading, when the book is laid down, and I listen to the dear voice of my beloved as he explains what I cannot understand, or unfolds meanings which I should fail to see, often condensing into a few clear, choice sentences whole pages of those discursive old divines in whom he delights, and pressing from the
gathered thoughts all the richest nectar of their hidden sweetness. Thus a poor prisoner has the first sip of the ‘‘wines on the lees, well refined,” the first morsel from the loaves with which the thousands are to be fed and refreshed on the morrow. How shall I sufficiently thank God for this drink of the brook by the way, this “holy place” within my home where I find the Lord deigns to meet with me, and draw out my heart in adoration and worship? Ix)rd, I bless and praise Thee that thus Thou hast most blessedly fulfilled Thine own word, “I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you.”
“But what can this revelation have to do with the Book Fund work?” say some of my readers. Well, dear friends, just this — that my happy Saturday evenings show me more and more the value and helpfulness of good books in sermon-preparation, and make me feel how great is the privation of those to whom such gracious assistance is denied by their poverty. Even while I am enjoying the sacred pleasure I have tried to describe, and rejoicing that “at our gate are all manner of pleasant fruits,” there stirs in my heart an intense pity for those poor bookless ministers, who sit sighing for thoughts in the face of their unfurnished shelves, and I long to lay at their door also the provision which is so stimulating and needful, so important to the minister, so refreshing to the people.
A workman that needeth not to be ashamed should have tools of finest quality and adequate number, and though no amount of tempered and burnished steel will make a man a first-rate artisan, nor a multiplicity of theological expositions endue a preacher with divine unction and power, it is well understood that workers, both for God and man, have their labours lightened by the possession and use of choice implements of their craft. Seldom does the world produce a Quintin Matsys, who, with hammer and file alone, could persuade the rigid iron to assume forms of such grace and beauty that men have not yet ceased to count his labour a wonder; and in the kingdom of grace there is but one John Bunyan, whose immortal work was fashioned with no other aids than his Bible and Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs.”
A young missionary, writing lately for books, touches gracefully on this very point: —
I know, he says, that there is no preparation for the work of God which can supersede the power which is acquired by patient waiting in His presence for His Holy Spirit; but next to this I earnestly seek the sanctified use of those “helps” I may be able to procure, that I may bam rightly to divide the word of truth.
Men must have helpful books if they are to preach good sermons. A constant reception of divine instruction enables the teacher to impart his knowledge to others. God’s Spirit works by such means; for often on rising from his knees, where he has been seeking light on a shrouded text, the minister will find the needed illumination come through the printed pages of his well-beloved volumes.
Blessed seventh-day Sabbath evenings! Your sweet privileges shall incite me to still greater sympathy with poor Pastors, and shall awaken more earnest effort to supply their mental necessities.
* * * *
July. — The other day the sad position and prospects of some poor ministers were the subject of conversation between a very critical visitor and one of the home circle, and I heard a murmur against my poor friends, which much grieved and irritated me.
“An over-stocked market,” said this unsympathetic grumbler, “is at the bottom of ministerial troubles. Most of them get as much as they are worth, and many of them have no business in the ministry at all.”
Now, as a reproach always stings the sharper if there be just half a drop of truth on the extreme point of it, this sentence has rankled in my heart to sore purpose ever since it was uttered, and I feel constrained to deliver my soul on the subject, and testify what I do know, though I am neither called upon nor competent to argue out so intricate and important a question; moreover, I remember that I am a recorder, not a reformer.
That there are good men in the ministry who would do
God better service by coming out of it, I have no manner of doubt; they would make far better shoes than sermons, and more consistently occupy a pew than a pulpit; they are fitted to work with their hands rather than with their heads, and everybody but themselves can see that they have intruded into the sacred office, and lack the credentials with which a true ambassador of the King of kings is always furnished. Dwindling churches, empty baptisteries, lifeless prayer-meetings, fruitless services, — these all mark the course of such a man, and methinks he had better go and sweep a crossing, “doing it heartily, as unto the Lord,” than seek to remain in a position for which his Master never designed him, and where, consequently, the dew of His blessing does not fall.
So much I must sorrowfully confess as regards some who have evidently mistaken their vocation, and there I leave them, for to their own Master they stand or fall
But my reflections and my somewhat extensive experience in the matter both assure me that by far the majority of poor Pastors are true shepherds of the sheep, feeding the flock of God with loving care, bearing the burden and heat of the day with patient fortitude, enduring hardness for Christ’s sake and the gospel’s, doing good and faithful work which will have its reward in heaven. I do not believe that their poverty is the result of their unfitness for service, or is owing to repletion in their ranks, but that it is partly an outcome of the universal depression brooding over our land, partly a dishonour on the churches to whom they minister, and wholly a state of things to be ashamed of and remedied as soon as possible. I can with perfect truthfulness say that I know scores of men who toil on from year to year in the face of bitter privation, seeking not their own but their people’s good, and in many cases hiding their sufferings, lest the work should be hindered. They are “heroes,” some of them; and though the world never hears their name in song or story, it shall be proclaimed in that day when the Lord shall say, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.” I know one brother, with a wife and seven children, and barely ^100 per annum to keep them on; yet he says, “Our need is very real, but the Lord knows it, and I would not for the world take the matter out of His hands!” And another, who writes, “With Jffio a-year, a wife, and three children, I have but very little to spend in books; but it is God’s work, and He will provide.”
Are not these bright stars shining out of a dark night? Does not such sweet submission and cheerfulness under trial bring glory to God? This radiance of faith and trust would not have been visible in the daylight of prosperity, and so the very darkness is made the means of revealing the grace of God shining in the heart. “A few years ago,” writes a very poor but successful preacher, “I was an untaught collier boy, yet from the depths God called me to labour in His vineyard, and by His grace I have been upheld till now. My whole soul is in the work, and I would not exchange my pulpit for a throne.” This is the manner of spirit God’s ministers are of, and surely such men claim our hearty love and sympathy — men who, like Paul, are ready, not to be bound only, but also to die for the name of the Lord Jesus!
Those who are u called, chosen, and faithful” have necessity laid upon them, yea, woe is unto them if they preach not the gospel, and then it naturally follows that “even so hath the Lord ordained, that they which preach the gospel should live of the gospel.”
I have said that some sensitive natures try to hide the fact of their poverty from the people, and it is often thus; but why do not their congregations open their eyes, their ears, their hearts, their purses? Is not the labourer worthy of his hire? If he has sown unto you spiritual things, is it a great thing if he shall reap your carnal things? Why, the rough men in yonder brickfield are far better paid than many a village pastor, and the wages of a head gardener, coachman, or valet would be comparative riches to some of our straitened brethren. There are people who act as if they thought their ministers were fashioned in a different mould to other mortals, not needing so much to eat or so many garments to put on; they deem them, in fact, so nearly celestial, that a little judicious starvation will transform them
altogether into angels! (The experiment will succeed one day if they are allowed to persevere.) Ah! if they would but know it, this way of dealing with His servants is displeasing and dishonouring to the Great Master, and is likely to provoke His correction and rebuke. They do not, perhaps, go to quite such extremes as did the husbandmen in our Lord’s parable, who, when the messenger came to them, “caught him, and beat him, and sent him away empty;” and yet — and yet I fear there have been cases in which it came to pretty much the same thing; and then is it any wonder that straightway that vineyard brought forth nothing but wild grapes? The minister’s comfort should be the church’s care, and then his care for them will be their constant comfort. An old writer says — “A minister’s calling is not easy, but painful and laborious; as it is an honour, so it is a burden, and such an one, too, as requireth the strength of angels to bear it”
People of God, let your love for your Pastors flourish again; hold up the hands that hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees; help them with sympathy, prayer, and temporal blessings. “Bring ve all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
“There is no present so useful to a minister as a parcel of hooks, except perhaps, — another parcel of books.”
So writes a longing pastor to-day, and his quaintly-put conclusion has a great deal of force and truth in it. If the first gift of these mental aids be received with enthusiasm and delight, the second is likely to be hailed with warmer demonstrations of welcome; for the worth and preciousness of such companionship have been tested and proved, and a great yearning takes possession of the man to gather around him a goodly company of authors whose friendly voices shall comfort, encourage, suggest, and stimulate when the work of the study presses hard upon heart and brain. Such fellowship is essential to a minister’s happiness and success; and if his choice has been wisely directed, this intercourse will “do him good, and not evil, all the days of his life.”
I have often remarked that the mental appetite is strengthened by indulgence, and constantly I find that those who can best use and appreciate exegetical works are the most eager for them: not because they have exhausted the stores already in their possession, but that their capacity for knowledge has been enlarged by the very process of reception.
A minister in a seaport town says: —
May I tell you that, having tasted of the good things Mr. Spurgeon sends forth, I shall not rest satisfied till I am the happy possessor of all he has published, or may publish? It is my privilege to own a few of his “Sermons.” I have read them with delight and profit, and the result is that I pant for more. If I could have a few volumes by paying for them in monthly instalments I should be so glad.
And a London pastor writes: —
With all my heart do I — and with a hundred hearts, if I had them, would I — wish for heaven’s richest blessing upon your noble work. With the exception of a few separate “Sermons” by Mr. Spurgeon, I did not possess any of his books. Your gift, however, has keenly sharpened my appetite, and as soon as I can afford it I hope to purchase some more volumes.
I should here remark that the volumes of Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermons” are sought after and studied as an encyclopaedia of interpretation, exposition, and illustration, and the full indices brought out by the publishers render reference so easy that they are fast assuming the character of a homiletical commentary on the whole Bible. I know some ministers who even now carry out this idea; for instead of purchasing the bound volumes, which consist of sermons preached from texts chosen from all parts of God’s word, they prefer to gather single copies, and arrange them according as the texts are taken from each of the books of Holy Writ, and their testimony is that the plan is both pleasant and profitable. The disadvantage of loose copies is obviated by using lettered cases, and every week adds a choice contribution to some portion of the sacred store. May God in His tender mercy grant that the supply may not cease for many a year to come!
It would be a happy work only to distribute good and
IS
helpful books by any writers. The welcome gifts of friends, and my own frequent purchases, prove that I am not insensible to the value and importance of works by other authors; but there is a very deep and tender joy in sending forth my husband’s precious books, and I confess to a very real delight when, after giving a pastor his choice of other volumes, I receive such a reply as this, which came lately: 91 Thanks for your offer; but please send me ‘ The Treasury of David.’ I can say of it what he said of Goliath’s sword — there is none like it, give it me.”
August — A letter from the far-off “land of Sinim” makes a pleasant interruption to the long line of home epistles which have lately claimed attention, and gives a welcome change to the current of our thoughts and sympathy. Friends will read it, I think, with tender interest, as I did; they will see that it is an application for books, to which I need scarcely say response has already been made, and if the acknowledgment should arrive before the end of the year, I hope to be able to insert it in these pages.
The writer, after telling me some particulars of his history previous to his settling in China, comes to the main object of his letter, thus: —
I know that in asking a donation of books from your Fund, my need is sufficient claim; but in order that you may be led to pray for us and our work, and that you may be encouraged in your own, I give you a few details of our life. My dear wife (who is also my fellow-worker), myself, and our two little sons, are the only foreigners in this inland city, [Think of this, dear readers, and realize their solemn position, if you can.] Month after month we see none but Chinese, and we are alone, as far as human sympathy is concerned; but, ah! so satisfied and happy working here for Him who so wonderfully helps us in our trials, and paints a rainbow upon every cloud. We have a little Baptist church of thirty-one members. Don’t smile at our tiny gathering — these souls are the fruit of hard labour, much sorrow, many prayers. They are all poor; but they give one-seventh of their income to observe the Lord’saay, and they bear the expense of a mission in a city seventy miles from this place, where until now the gospel had never been preached. I greatly feel the need of books; for preaching daily to the heathen, besides Bible-classes every evening, and the three services on Sunday, necessitates a serious amount of preparation. My little library has been well thumbed indeed, and if you can help me to feed others as well as myself, I shall be deeply thankful. You know that we inland missionaries have no regular income. As the Father sends it, so we are supplied. It is a life of perfect restfulness; but we have to practise strict economy — this is but right, the work needs every shilling we can spare for it.
I have waited two years before writing to you, in the hope of being able to purchase your husband’s works; but I do not seem any nearer my object, and I at length decided to make the venture. Pardon me if I have taken too great a liberty, and, at least, pray for us, and for the heathen — the poor heathen — who daily perish while salvation is so near.
Is not this appeal irresistible? If I had ever closed my heart against the petitions of foreign missionaries, it must have yielded to this tender assault, and opened wide its door of sympathy to such a suppliant. But, happily, there are no bars of unfriendliness to break down, no entrenchments of formality to be forced, before the spoil of the Book Fund can be won; and only in the deep humility of the good man’s mind could the necessity of an apology for his application be even dreamed of. With a very glad heart I sent forth the precious volumes which will carry comfort, refreshing, help, and light to that lonely worker in a land of darkness and the shadow of death.
* *
“Go abroad
Upon the paths of nature, and when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep beauty of the world.
Kneel at its simple altar.”
Sometimes I wish very earnestly that I were an artist, and could with pencil or brush perpetuate some of the lovely little pictures which I come across when wandering within the enclosure of our Dulce Domum. There are everywhere sweet surprises of beauty to meet expectant eyes; and garden, fields, and orchard all yield their store of pretty sights to those who watch for them.
Let me tell of two occasions on which such observation was well rewarded, premising that the companion who shared my delight and discoveries was the dearest in all the world to me.
The grass was springing thick and fast for the hay
harvest, when one morning we went down to the field to admire the crop. Rain had fallen plenteously the night before; but this was one of the rare sunshiny days of the summer, and everything looked at its brightest and best, as we leaned on the fence rails and gazed down into the cool green depths of the dense verdure at our feet Doubtless our thoughts took an imaginative flight, and measured the height of the forthcoming hay-stack before the scythe had laid low a single blade; but they were soon recalled, and our attention fixed upon an exquisite little picture which lay like a gem among the clover thickets of the rich undergrowth. On a streamer of one of the broad-leaved grasses a raindrop sparkled like a diamond, and by its side had settled a large and beautiful greenish-blue fly. The safety of the drop was secured by its position on the leaf, and from this crystal goblet so cunningly contrived and balanced the insect was drinking with full enjoyment and satisfaction. The most simple thing in the world, was it not? A drop of water and a fly! Yet, dear reader, my pen must fail to describe the attractiveness of these two common objects when thus brought together; the drop alone, or the fly by itself, would have passed unnoticed; but their association gave the charm, and the picture produced was one of nature’s loveliest aquarelles. Looking long and lovingly, I think we learned this lesson: —
“Teach Thou that not a leaf can grow,
Till life from Thee within it flow;
That not a drop of dew can be,
O Fount of being! save by Thee.”
Then, again, as lately as yesterday another simple combination of common things gave us much pleasure. I had plucked an over-ripe egg plum, to which the busy little gentlemen in black and yellow had been paying close and devouring attentions, and I was carrying it in my hand when we saw a very fine specimen of the “Red Admiral” butterfly resting on a flower. A desire seized me to obtain a closer view of its charms, and I very cautiously advanced the plum, gently offering the golden throne to the feet of the lovely queen; when to my surprise she lighted on it at once, and allowed me to carry her in triumph down the garden. But what a dainty picture was this! The exquisite contrast of colour was perfect, between the topaz-hued fruit and the regal robes of the quivering little beauty upon it, while her fairy-like poise on the plum, and the alternate opening and folding of her gorgeous wings were details which completed the fascination of the beholders. She even began to feed on the juices which the ravages of the wasps had set free, but after a while fluttered off to the flowers again, and the grace of the moment was gone.
In my poor fashion I have fellowship of feeling with Wordsworth when he writes,
“Tome the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
It seems a “Paradise Regained” to hear the story of God’s love in every breeze, and recognize the wonderful touches of His hand on insect, leaf, and flower; and my intense delight in His creations of beauty must plead my excuse for permitting butterflies and dewdrops to intrude amid the serious business of the Book Fund chronicles.
The daily life and the dear book work have grown to be so indivisible, that now and again one is puzzled how to keep the former modestly in the background; but I may say in extenuation of this present outburst, that, being a little tired to-night of transcribing letters, I thought to refresh myself by thus recalling the simple incidents of some sweet strolls with my beloved. If any of my readers happen to share my passing weariness, they will the more readily forgive the insertion of such an impertinent paragraph.
September. — The following sentences, taken from a letter addressed to the President of the College by one of his former students, will show that the Conference present of this year, mentioned previously, has not failed to accomplish some good work. This is a result I always earnestly anticipate, and any tidings of the usefulness of the gift to
the Pastors is received with much satisfaction. This brother says: — 44 May I be allowed through you to thank dear Mrs. Spurgeon for 4 What Aileth Thee? * It has so far given me six or seven sermons, and will, doubtless, suggest many more. Some of them have already been very richly blessed.”
My absent son’s last letter from Auckland also contains a reference to this book, and I transcribe it because I believe the dear friends through whose kindness the gift is annually made will be pleased to read his genial, loving words. 44 Let me thank you most lovingly,” he writes, 44 for the kind present to the 4 dearest son of the College.’ The book is sweet, but the inscription is still sweeter. It came without any damage; and, though I have only had time as yet to read three or four chapters, I can speak only well of it The style is unusual and eccentric, but the matter is very suggestive, and I like it much. I am happy indeed to be included in ‘Conference presents,’ though so far away. There’s nothing like having a mother at head-quarters.”
God bless the dear exiled boy, he is working well and faithfully for the Master, though separated from all his 44 kith and kin,” and it would be strange indeed if his mother’s heart did not feel very tenderly towards her long-absent one, and rejoice to cheer and encourage him in every possible way.
It will not be inappropriate in this place to record most hearty thanks to the many friends who have lately testified their regard for our dear son, by generous gifts of money and work to aid in the great undertaking of building a 44 Tabernacle” in Auckland. The father and mother of the young pastor feel very grateful for the help given and the kind interest manifested, and ask that the gifts may be followed by earnest prayer that the Lord will 44 send now prosperity,” real, deep, and abiding to the church which has been the object of so much kindly thought and care.
The arrival during this month of two huge cases of stationery for the use of poor ministers, and the Book Fund work ‘generally, gives me a most pleasant opportunity of renewing my heartfelt acknowledgments to the generous friend who thus places at my disposal a most kindly and suitable present for poor Pastors. Since first I told, in the Diary for 1880, of his exceeding liberality in furnishing me with writing-material of all sorts, in quantity so large that, like the Lord’s promised blessing to His people, “there was not room enough to receive it,” there has been no cessation of his thoughtful kindness. Always planning some deed of love and charity, this good friend, about Christmas in that same year ’8o, began to send packages of paper and envelopes to be enclosed in my book parcels, and the kindly river of his benevolence has since then continuously flowed on, always full, and occasionally, as at its first rise, overflowing with a spring-tide of abundance; but never dwindling, as some streams do, into a dried-up watercourse which only mocks the thirsty wayfarer with the memory of bygone blessing.
My friend’s bounty has cheered many hearts besides my own, and his gracious care for poor ministers has added much to the value and excellence of the parcels sent to them. I have put aside now and then a letter in which such an enclosure is mentioned in becomingly grateful terms; and when the dear donor reads the paragraphs, he will find conclusive testimony that his brotherly kindness has been esteemed, and his gifts, in most cases, truly consecrated to the service of the Lord. Thus, one good pastor says, “I will try to use to God’s glory every sheet of the note-paper you have so thoughtfully enclosed”; and another writes, “I thank you much for the quantity of useful writing material, which is indeed appreciated by us, and shall be used in the service of the Master.” u The thought of your considerate and practical kindness,” says a poor Primitive Methodist minister, “in sending the writing paper and envelopes deeply affected* me.” Here, and in most other instances, I receive thanks altogether undeserved; for it is by my friend’s thoughtful love done that the paper is sent, and I am but his joyful almoner. The gratitude of those he thus aids comes to him only at second-hand; but I think and hope it gains both in volume and value by passing through the avenues of another grateful heart, and bearing thence an additional tribute of loving obligation.
The gift of writing paper and envelopes to a poor minister
is a boon which he well knows how to appreciate. “You can hardly think how welcome it was,” writes one of the recipients. “It is one of the hardships of poverty to have to purchase paper and stamps, and we poor Pastors have much writing to do.” Another assures me of the usefulness of the present, and of his delight at its fine quality, naively adding, “My frugal wife, when she saw it, said, 1 My dear, you must be careful of this good paper, and not use it for ordinary purposes, it ought to last a long while for special correspondence.” A country pastor, who is evidently accustomed to be on the look-out for mercies, and has learnt the happy art of finding the brightest side of everything, thus describes the feelings awakened in his heart by the gift he received: —
What a fine plan it is to have the books wrapped up separately in paper! As I unfolded each parcel it was like a fresh blessing, and impressed me more than if they had all been displayed at once. Then, too, what thoughtfulness of a minister’s wants was manifested 1 A grand package of paper and envelopes, just the things we are constantly in need of; how much it will add to one’s comfort to have them at hand, and without the expense of purchasing! Having opened all, for five minutes I think I might have been mistaken for a “Salvation Army Captain” leading in a Hallelujah chorus 1
Of course it is only to the neediest of the Lord’s servants that this gift is made; my chief business is with them and their sorrows, and to such my friend’s thoughtfulness proves a very great boon. A hard-working pastor, not far from the city of London, writes: —
I untied the parcel, and had the pleasure of taking book after book from it, each one filling me with fresh delight; but when I came to the writing-paper and envelopes, I was indeed astonished. Surely, I thought, this is from one who understands a preacher’s needs, for I have to write very frequently on the back of old circulars, and cut open old addressed envelopes, in order to save spending the cash of which I have so little. I most sincerely thank you for your wise kindness to one whose joy it is to preach Jesus, and for the kind provision you have made, enabling me not only to obtain thoughts, but to preserve them.
A poor country pastor, to whom a large parcel of books and garments and writing material had been sent, says: —
My heart is so full that I know not how to thank you. “The Treasury” has been indeed a treasure to me, and now this sixth
In the Set vice of the Book Fund. volume promises equal if not greater riches. “Farm Sermons,” “Feathers for Arrows,” and all the other books are new to me, and will be of unspeakable benefit; and what a splendid present of note paper and envelopes, supplying a need which we poor ministers often feel when the purse is too empty to permit a visit to the stationer’s shop! A thousand thanks for everything. You have lightened our hearts, and made our home glad, and we can only pray that the richest blessing of our ever-gracious God may rest on you and the friends who help you.
it * * *
October. — The applications for grants of books which have reached me lately have been so extremely numerous that once again I am compelled to lament my inability to enlarge the present bounds of the Book Fund, or extend its benefits to a wider class than is represented by “poor Pastors in actual charge, depending wholly on the ministry I Lay workers, town missionaries, local preachers, Scripture readers, — all these are ineligible for grants, and the sheer necessity of keeping the work within the compass of my time and strength, compels strict compliance with the rules. Applications from brethren who are beyond the limits of my work are a grief and a burden to me. I must refuse them, though I long to bless them, and a letter of denial costs more time and thought than one of happy compliance, and, moreover, leaves a painful sense of imperfect service on the heart.
I should like it to be distinctly understood that these restrictions arise from no lack of sympathy on my part with Christian lay workers. On the contrary, I greatly honour those who, like the apostle Paul, “labour with their hands,” that they may not be burdensome to the church of Christ, and preach the gospel of God freely, being chargeable to no man. I should rejoice to help them all, and gladden their hearts with gifts of books; for their need of aid in the preparation of discourses and addresses is increased by the fact that their opportunities for study are seriously diminished by the claims of business. But, alas! my inclinations outgrow my industry, my desires run far ahead of my diligence; I work to the utmost of my power, yet can accomplish no more than the small service of which this “Diary” gives partial record. If I could ply many pens together, during days that numbered four-and-twenty hours apiece, there might be
reasonable hope of enlarging the range of operations; but while I remain sole manager, treasurer, secretary, and servantof-all-work to the Book Fund, I see not the faintest prospect of an extension of its favours beyond the bounds already laid down.
This fact grows to be one of the “shadows” on the bright picture of Book Fund work, toning down the glowing colours, and reminding one of the weakness and incompleteness of one’s best endeavours. The vast need that exists is not met by my greatest effort and I have the sorrow of seeing opportunities of usefulness vanish like a shoal of fish when the nets are not large enough to secure them. With almost the whole of my time given up to the dear service, I only manage to supply one class of hungry souls, — sending all others empty away, to their deep disappointment and my own sincere regret. If Christian people would but take the trouble to look into this matter they would be amazed to find what a serious book-famine prevails all over the land, and how eagerly all sections of workers for Christ stretch out their hands for the precious food, without which their mental powers flag and droop, and their service loses its vigour and freshness. For seven years now, without any break or interruption, the Lord has graciously enabled me to carry on the work He then gave me to do; but though I hope at the close of this year to record the fact, that at least fifty thousand volumes have been distributed by the Fund during this period of its existence, I am sorrowfully conscious that what has thus been accomplished is but as a drop in the ocean of want, or as dust in the balance of universal necessity.
Few people seem mindful of a minister’s dependence on books; it does not enter into their thoughts that these are the good man’s stock-in-trade, and that his business — sacred though it be — cannot be successfully and profitably carried on without “thoroughly furnished” shelves, and an abundant “reserve stock ‘* of material from which he can constantly bring forth “things new and old.” Because of this heedlessness on the part of the people, many a pastor fails in freshness and vigour of speech, and his discourses become dry and unattractive, while his congregation, lamenting this decline, and wondering at it, have not the sense to see that his empty bookcase reveals the sad secret, and silently reproves their neglect of their own and their minister’s best interests.
I think the good time is coming in which the need of much book help to preachers will be more readily and universally recognized; and I shall indeed bless God if the work of the Book Fund has in any degree contributed to this happy result. A gentleman who, during the past year, has been the donor of some valuable volumes for distribution, seems to cherish some such hope for the future when he thus writes: “I pray earnestly for the success of your labours, and that you may be spared amongst us till your efforts will be no longer necessary. I do not mean that the desire for knowledge ever will or can be satisfied; but that a better spirit will take possession of my fellow-sinners, and lead them to think of making due provision for both the minds and bodies of their ministers. The chosen servants of our loving Saviour will then have ample means of furnishing a banquet for those who look to them for spiritual food.”
November. — A Home Confidence. Other people may need blazing fires and noisy rockets to make them
“Remember, remember,
The fifth of Novemlper,”
but to me it is a marked day without any such demonstration, for my beloved said “Farewell” this morning, and is gone “over the hills and far away,” and I am left alone to mourn my absent lord.
How quiet the house is after the bustle of departure! What a desolate feeling creeps into the heart when the last “Good-bye” has been said! it seems to seal a silence on all things till the same dear voice shall sound joyfully at the home-coming.
I wander into the deserted study, and think the very books and chairs look miserable, so I take pity on them.
and bring in all the Book Fund paraphernalia, and the piano, and all the multitudinous belongings of a woman’s sanctum; and here, in the master’s own room, I establish myself, because it seems full of his presence, his work, and his love.
Poor dog Punchie comes to lay his head on my dress, and there is inexpressible sympathy in the droop of his uncurled tail, and the pitiful look of his eyes. Ah, Punchie, my dog! you will miss the tit-bits from that loving hand, and many a kind word and pat on the head; but your sorrow will not last long, nor your doggish brain realize the loss the master’s presence is to all within and without the house. I expect we shall soon find out that there is more fact than fiction in the old Scotch song —
“For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’;
There’s little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman’s awa’.”
But we’ll do our best, Punchie, to make all around us as happy as we can till “Johnny comes marching home.”
Dear John! The “smock” is discarded, the old plough is turned on its side, the horses are unharnessed and led out to pasture, and the home which is so dear to him has to be left behind while he follows the swallows to seek softei breezes and sunnier skies. I mind me (John’s wife may be allowed a country phrase now and then) just now of one of his pretty “talks ‘’ about “home.” “Ah!” says he, “that word home always sounds like poetry to me. It sounds like a peal of bells at a wedding, only more soft and sweet, and it chimes deeper into my heart. The ‘ way home ’ to me is the best bit of road in the country. I like to see the smoke out of my own chimney better than the fire on another man’s hearth: there is something so beautiful in the way in which it curls up among the trees.”
But he has to go, the parting must be borne, for only in a genial clime, and in the seclusion of a foreign resting-place, can he find the perfect peace which by God’s blessing restores his physical and mental strength. Away to the roses, and fuchsias, and olives, and palms, and oleanders, and bright southern skies; away from the bitter, biting winds which howl dismally over the hill-top, and tear wildly around the house; away from the fogs and frosts, to bask for a little while in constant sunshine, and breathe the sweet breath of countless flowers.
And does all go well with the watcher at home? What precious compensation from the Lord’s nicely balanced providence comes to her at such a time? Well, much, many ways, though the enforced separation is a great grief. There are daily love-letters that are better than sunshine, when the “old, old story” is told again, and is all the sweeter for sounding over twenty-seven years of happy union! There are little things to do and have done for the absent one, which spring up like flowers by the pathway, and attract and interest the mind; there is the intense joy of sympathy in the enjoyment of the beloved, and a mental participation in all his pleasures which gives real happiness, and then there is the blessed anticipation of his return, when the days of absence will not be remembered in the bliss of seeing his dear face once more!
Meanwhile, Book Fund work claims and receives such increasing attention that there is scant time for pondering over troubles; the work keeps its worker always busy, and this daily labour is, doubtless, the best panacea for such a sorrow as this which annually befalls me.
“Labour bringeth blessing,
And time spent in doing hath a comfort in it.”
It was a rather singular coincidence that on the evening on, hich I fairly wrote out the preceding paragraph I received by the last post the delightful little paper which with joyful pride I have placed as a preface to my “Diary.” It was accompanied by some sketches of the Araucaria, by the author’s own hand, and a curious photograph of two women bearing heavy loads on their heads, and preparing, I presume, to commence their toilsome march up to the terraces. How happy the little packet made me, with its charming contents! I think its coming was a lovely illustration of the compensating comfort which cheers me in my solitude. Constant dear tokens of my absent husband’s love and care for me are so exceeding precious that I rejoice over
them as one that “divideth the spoil,” and in their sweet company I am more than content to “abide by the stuff,” joyfully waiting his return.
Quite carelessly I took up to-day a volume of The Sword and the Trowel magazine for 1876, and was listlessly turning over the pages when I was startled into sudden interest by lighting on a “Letter from Mrs. Spurgeon to her Friends,” describing the progress of Book Fund work at that early stage of its existence. Eagerly I read through the article, and I think I need not hesitate to confess that I was charmed with the sweet story of the Lord’s loving dealings with me then. As I retraced the first steps taken in this pleasant path of service, and noted the gracious fulfilment of hopes then cherished, and the realization of expectations which seemed almost visionary, my heart glowed with loving gratitude to God, whose faithfulness has not suffered one good thing to fail, and whose lovingkindness has done “exceeding abundantly” for me, above all that I could ask or even think! Right royally have my petitions been answered, and as a King hath the Lord granted my requests! May I for a moment call my friends’ attention to a paragraph from the old letter? It will surely glorify His gracious name to show what great things He taught me to expect, and then how grandly He surpassed them!
There was a pretty little sketch of the “lemon plant on the last page of the paper, and, after introducing it very lovingly to my readers, these words occur: —
I have always cherished the fanciful idea that each leaf (of the little tree) must represent ^100; so now you can count them yourselves, and smile at the magnificent future which I anticipate for my Book Fund. Twenty-one, are there not? That must mean £2, 100, and plenty of strength to grow more. [The words are in italics in the original paper.] Well, it seems a great deal of money, certainly; but what a trifle it
* The lemon tree still flourishes vigorously, but has lost the symmetrical beauty of its earlier days. It is now a large tree, straggling and irregular, after the manner of its kind, and, as I will not allow it to be interfered with by grafting, it has as yet borne “nothing but leaves.” — S. S.
In the Sen’ice of the Book Fund. must be to the God who made all the silver and the gold! Ah! I believe that some day —
“When grace has made me meet
His lovely face to see,”
the subscription list of the Book Fund will record its thousands of pounds, the once tiny plant will be a tree bearing fruit to perfection, and the dear old motto, “Spend and God will send, will be found true and unfailing to the end.
There, dear friends, when I read this I felt speechless with gratitude, overwhelmed with the perfectly marvellous goodness of God! Not only has He brought all this to pass, but He has exceeded the prosperity which then seemed to me so ambitious that others would have to realize it after I had “gone home.” Not only has He given the “thousands” which I coveted for His poor servants; but into these hands, which I then thought would soon be cold in death, He has poured the riches, and has strengthened them to be His messengers of mercy and comfort to the many who were fainting and famishing for lack of mental food. “Come, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together.” Oh! that I had the power to praise Him as I would for the grace and graciousness of the last seven years! I need an angel’s tongue to sing the song that vibrates in my heart, and “lips touched with a live coal from off the altar” to speak the words which burn within me when all His goodness passes before me. My pen should write music if it only knew how, and every word should be a sonnet to celebrate His love 1
* * * *
In the light of all this mercy past and present, how ungrateful it seems to bewail an excess of work, and to murmur at the responsibilities which accumulate around so great a blessing! If the Book Fund grows and prospers, the labour attendant upon its management must increase also, and surely the same loving Lord who appointed the service when it was a “little one” will interest Himself in its accomplishment now that it has become a “thousand.” I have always looked with longing eyes on the dormant possibilities of blessing which lie within the boundaries of
my dear work, and I feel sure that in the Lord’s good time He will awaken them, and speak the word which shall clothe them with power for service. In abler and stronger hands than mine the Book Fund could do marvels; but as yet no sign is given that the Lord means to transfer it. I hope, and wait, and gladly work; for the Lord makes my service a choice delight to me, and munificently repays my labour, and “I love my Master, and will not go free.”
December. — I should like to give a few more extracts from the very sweet letters which have come lately; I do not wish to weary my readers with them, but they are really the outward and visible signs of the inward and spiritual grace of the Book Fund work; the leaves which prove the tree to be in a sound and healthy condition. Moreover, dear friends, without this assistance I should have no Annual Diary to present to you; I should never trust my pen to write were it not that my scribblings are, so to speak, interlinear, and, thus enclosed and guarded, can “do their spiriting gently,” and for the most part escape observation and criticism. Well, to begin my story, one recipient tells me I can scarcely conceive the pleasure which a poor country minister feels when he opens a Book Fund parcel, and finds himself the fortunate owner of volumes which he has vainly longed for, perhaps for years, and which, but for this Fund, would never have graced his bare shelves, or encouraged his sad heart. “Ah!” he says, “no one can tell how much you comfort those who toil in country places. You make them feel that some one cares for them, and sympathizes with their sorrows.” Often the gratitude of those who receive grants seems well-nigh inexpressible, and their tongues refuse to lift the load of thankfulness which rests upon their hearts. It is sad to suggest that this feeling may be mainly due to the rarity of such a charity; the kindness is so exceptional that it makes a deeper impression. Is it not a pity that this should be so? We would not wish poor Pastors to be less grateful, but would give them greater and more frequent cause for the exercise of so lovely a grace. “If the rich only knew,” writes another of my poor friends, “the joy a present of books carries with it, your fund would never suffer for lack of contributions.” Just so; but the fact turned the other way is equally forcible, and the Book Fund manager says, “If the rich only knew the joy of giving such a parcel, they would not let her monopolize the gladness, but would seek to share more directly and largely in the profitable pleasure of such service.”
It is touching to note how contagious is the happiness which the books bring into a pastor’s home, and how rapidly it spreads throughout the household. The wife and little ones all come to gaze on “father’s new treasures,” and again and again I am told — “We all knelt around the table on which the precious books were spread, and thanked God for sending so great a blessing to our home.* Sometimes, too, if a parcel happens to arrive during the pastor’s absence, it makes a delightful opportunity for his wife to surprise and gladden him with the sight of the goodly volumes all laid out in grand array. Says one — “My dear wife opened the parcel before I returned home. I suppose she felt too much interest in it to leave it alone till I arrived. And what a splendid parcel it was! ... I at once bowed my head in thanksgiving to the Lord, and asked His blessing upon her who had cheered my heart so much.”
Constantly I am informed, with some astonishment, that the books sent were the very ones needed. Such sentences as the following occur almost daily: — “I do not think I could have had any books which I really required so much. It seems to me that you have been directed by God in your selection.” And again: — “Surely God inclined you to put that book into the parcel, for I need it very much.” These are seals to my little service which I think much of, and for which I thank my God very unfeignedly. Another pastor writes: — “I had been studying hard all day, and before they (the books) came, I had fallen into what Mr. Spurgeon very properly calls * a fainting fit ’; but the sight of so many valuable volumes, and the kind wishes expressed in your letter, quite revived me, and it was with reluctance that I laid aside one of the volumes at midnight, so full and fresh did it prove to be.” Hear another speak: — “I found your splendid gift of books awaiting me, and though weary in
body, and mentally depressed, the sight of them was so refreshing, that as I turned over my treasures one by one — although it was past midnight — I felt I could sing aloud for joy. So touched was I by your exceeding kindness that I at once went to my knees and thanked God for His great goodness to me through you.” “I am delighted with the books,” writes a young preacher, “and I thank the Lord and you very much. * Jesus only * seems to me the very best sermon I ever read; it moved me as I have not been moved for a long while.
‘ Through my pulse the music stole,
And held high converse with my soul.*
With these beautiful books I feel rich, and as if I should never be in want again.”
Ah! dear brother, that is a very decided mistake of yours! Your appetite will be increased by such savoury food, and the more heartily it is received into the soul and digested there, the more certain and ravenous will be your hunger and yearning for more. It is always so; my long experience teaches me to know full well the signs of the famine-fever which my Fund so blessedly relieves, and I find that those who most eagerly grasp and assimilate the food with which I supply them, are liable to severe and repeated relapses. So be it; and may the Lord grant that the Book Fund may be always able to fill their “longing souls with gladness”! I could go on filling these pages with similarly delightful extracts, but must soon turn my attention to other matters which concern the history of my work. “One may quote till one compiles,” says a clever writer; yet with that warning flowing from the point of my pen, I am about to disregard it just once more, and complete the preceding extracts with the grateful words of one who has been much blessed by Book Fund gifts. He says: —
I am sure it will please you to know that the books you sent me some years ago have been of very great service in my work for the Master. My labours are continuous, and are sometimes a very severe strain both on physical and mental powers; and when I am feeling completely worn out, yet have to prepare a sermon, you can judge how thankfully I turn to the treasures you have so kindly given. Many times while seeking something for my flock I have found strengthening and life-giving food for myself, and this makes me very grateful to God and to you for another addition to my scanty library. I desire to be a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. I long to feed the flock of God with the pure milk of the word, and to be instrumental in God’s hands in leading poor sinners to the cross of Christ; and your precious gifts have helped me more than I can tell you, both in my pulpit ministrations and in my private devotions. I can never repay you for your kindness, but my Father will.
May these testimonies, so touchingly given and faithfully transcribed, induce many friends to interest themselves in a work which brings so much blessing to hearts sorely needing it!
* * * *
CONCLUSION.
The Book Fund has this year, I think, attained its zenith of prosperity, its meridian of usefulness, under present management. The Lord has given me more to do than in past years, and more to do it with, and I have done it to the very verge of my strength; but I do not think I shall ever again be able to record quite such another twelve-months of uninterrupted sunshine and unremitting labour. As a gathering up or conclusion to my many little talks with my readers, I intend to glance at the most notable points of my work, and give a rapid summary of each, though I must necessarily repeat an oft-told tale.
First, as to the material of the work, — the books themselves. The item, “To Books,” in my balance-sheet, will prove these precious things to be costly also, and will plainly show that the major part of the money with which I am entrusted is expended on them. I have given away more volumes than in any preceding year, and they have all been good, sound, theological helps, books that will teach men, and enable them to teach others. Kind friends have also sent again and again to replenish my shelves, and these contributions have largely aided to increase my distributions. I am not obliged to renew my complaint about having worthless and inappropriate books sent to me; for
happily, I have received so few of that sort that I am only too glad to be silent over them. A noble list of gifts stands recorded on my ledgers, and for all these my very grateful thanks are sincerely tendered to the kind donors.
These gift books, I should like my friends to understand, are used to enlarge and swell my parcels — they are extra blessings; for with applicants the rule is to ask for “Mr. Spurgeon’s works,” and to get them, all others being accepted with grace, but with not so much favour. I had some difficulty in making this plain to a kind donor of books the other day. When she saw the Book Fund shelves stored with sets of “The Treasury,” “Sermons,” and “Lectures,” and was told that most of these would be wanted for the next fortnightly despatch, and the shelves would then require refurnishing, and that this process went on throughout the year, she looked at me with extreme astonishment; for till that moment she had imagined I only gave away the books which kind friends, like herself, had forwarded for this purpose, and that I depended upon such means for the working of my Fund. I am truly thankful that this is not the case; for much of the charm of my work lies in the delightful consciousness that I am daily spreading abroad the precious works of my dear husband; works which God has so signally blessed to the conversion of sinners and the comforting of the saints, — works, too, so full of holy instruction and spiritual suggestiveness, that no minister’s library is complete without them.
Not once this year has my exchequer run low, and, to counterbalance that statement, notice this other — not for one day has the constant stream of applications failed to flow. But I must gratefully note the exceeding love and kindness of the Lord in sending supplies of money for my work with such amazing constancy and liberality. I have very much to bless Him for; but this mercy — of freedom from all anxiety concerning supplies — is a choice blessing, and He alone is to have all praise and glory for it. Dear friends, you know I never ask any of you for help; you send it because I ask Him; but this year I have not had even to ask: before I called, He answered me, and the money has come in advance of my needs. You are pleased that I should give Him all the glory, are you not? For you know that I am none the less grateful to you.
I turn over the pages of my day-book and see that during the past year a good many missionaries have been helped with books. India, Africa, British Honduras, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Jamaica, Australia, China, all these places and more are represented there by the names of some good men who have been furnished with the means of spreading the knowledge of Christ among the heathen. Little comparatively, however, of such work do I attempt, but confine my chief efforts to help for home workers. I find in England alone a sphere wide enough for my feeble operations; but a Cosmopolitan Book Fund is one of the future shining u possibilities.”
In a very loving and tender way has the Lord made my Ajinual Report a joy and a blessing to others, and therefore a source of thankful rejoicing to myself. The last issued — that for 1881 — found great favour, stirred much interest, and brought large increase to the Fund. I have treasured up many “good words” written to me up6n the matter, and have been greatly encouraged by their sweetness and sympathy. “Accept the enclosed ^2 for your Book Fund,” says a lady, “you will only know in eternity the good you have been the means of doing through it”; and one who says she is “only a servant,” sends 5s. with these kind words: “I look forward almost with impatience to the publishing of your charming Report, and wish on reading it that I had large means at my disposal wherewith to help so good a cause.” A minister says, “I read the Report through before I laid it down. I found it a delightfully stimulating commentary on a text I am hoping to preach from to-morrow — ‘ Serve the Lord with gladness.* I read extracts from it to my dear wife and daughter, and tears stood in their eyes, and joy and gladness glistened through the tears.” “It surely ought to encourage you in your work of love,” says another friend, “to knotu that you are making men more useful in their Master’s cause.”
There has been this year a large increase of payments for
books. In this matter I have diligently endeavoured to distinguish between those who can pay a little, and those whose poverty entitles them to a gift without question; yet, almost in self-defence, I have sometimes put forward this little barrier to the overwhelming flood of incessant applications. In other instances, ministers and clergymen have been only too glad to purchase essential books at a reduced price. Here, again, lies another “sleeping beauty” of a possibility. All the publishers with whom I have had transactions have been so kind and liberal, that untold treasures might enrich poor Pastors’ shelves if only I had the time and strength to organize a scheme, by which, with some help from a Fund, the grand standard theological works might all be attainable by them. Will not somebody start a “Book Fund” which shall be a grand development of my little work, and magnificently supply all that is lacking in it? It would be a happy day for me were I to see this!
The monthly gift of The Sword and the Trowel magazine to about forty poor ministers still continues, but shows no increase. Here also the work points out a pleasant path of service where sweet flowers of encouragement would soon reward the search oY a patient traveller. I am glad to know that some of my friends have already entered on it from previous suggestions, and are now regularly sending their monthly numbers both of “Sermons” and magazines to certain poor ministers, thereby conferring an inestimable benefit upon them and their households. A minister said to me the other day, “Your kindness has made too deep an impression ever to be forgotten. It brought gladness, the echoes of which are with us to this day; it strengthened faith, which has not ceased to grow; it produced an assurance of God’s care and faithfulness, which calmed us in our deepest sorrows.” Dear friends will you not seek more than ever to spread around you such blessing?
We come now to the last item in this simple summary of my work — T he Pastors’ Aid Fund.
I think all my readers know that this effort grew out of the loving thought of one dear friend, who judged that books did not supply all the wants of a poor pastor, and that sometimes a gift of mental food might be a mockery, if not preceded or accompanied by the means of sustaining physical strength. To meet the demand which he was assured woilld come, and before the Book Fund was many months old, this good friend set apart a certain sum for my use as occasion required, so that when an exceptional case of need was brought to my knowledge, I was allowed to draw on my generous banker. His kind forethought has been abundantly justified and his liberality appreciated. Six years this wonderful kindness has been manifested, and it has attracted other gracious charities around it, and bound other friends of like noble large-heartedness to my poor clients’ cause, so that each year lately my monetary gifts to poor ministers have somewhat exceeded ^300.
I do not intend to say much about this part of my work, it is carried on quite privately, and the recipients are known only to me and their kind friends; but I may again mention the fact which has often been brought before you, that there are hundreds of poor dissenting ministers in England — rich England — who exist and bring up families on the bare pittance of j£ 6 o or ^70 per annum. I have sometimes tried to plead the cause of these poor servants of the Master, whose empty larders, threadbare suits, and ill-clad children are a continual sorrow to me; but an occasional £$ has been the only result. I am thankful for even this, or for any little help; but I most devoutly desire to see the burden taken up by those to whom it rightly belongs — the churches themselves — so that by a united effort they would take up the load and remove it to the “land of forgetfulness.” This dire poverty of our ministers is a stain on the banner of Nonconformity which might and should be washed away.
Only to-day I had a letter from a Scotch lady, now residing in England, in which great surprise is expressed at the state of things she finds here, and I grew hot with shame as I read it She tells me of a good man, a “good preacher,” too, she says, who is obliged to take to secular business, in order to support his family, because the stipend is so “miserably small” “Surely,” says my friend, “there is a want of liberality among English Dissenters in the country l
The habit the people have in Scotland of giving something every Sabbath is a good one, the very poorest gives a penny or a half-penny, and almost all the working people give to the Sustentation Fund.”
Ah well! they love and value their Pastors in Scotland, I suppose, more than we do, and so they take greater care of them; but, “brethren, these things ought not so to be.** Even as I write, there comes sad and sorrowful con6rmation of the pitiful facts before alluded to, in the case of two Pastors whose health has been shattered, and their hearts nearly broken, in the silent, constant, wearing struggle with extreme and bitter poverty. I cannot tell you about them — the tale is too dreadful for these pages; but I have wept over them, and helped them, and hope to relieve them still more, if the dear Lord sends the means. But, oh! that something great, and noble, and lasting might be done for these suffering servants of the Master! There are signs abroad of a more general awakening to their needs, and with all my heart I say, “God speed” to all and every scheme for their emancipation from such hard bondage — a bondage, moreover, which, methinks, is insulting to the King whose ambassadors they are. Meanwhile, as the “Book Fund” is “my little corner of the great Kingdom,” I must work away there patiently and hopefully — “until the day break, and the shadows flee away.”
Dear friends, if, through the Lord’s gracious favour, this little book, as in other years, speaks to your heart again, interests you in His sweet service, helps your faith and love, or comforts you in any way; above all, if it brings the least atom of glory to Him, I shall be well rewarded for writing it, and most likely encouraged to “try again.”
Your
sake,
grateful friend and servant for the Book Fund’s
Susie Spurgeon.