Recollections of the Rev. R. M. M'Cheyne
Among Christian men a “living epistle,” and among Christian ministers, an “able evangelist,” is rare. Mr. M’Cheyne was both; and for the benefit of our readers, and to the praise of that grace which made him to differ, we would record a few particulars regarding one of whom we feel it no presumption to say, that he was “a disciple whom Jesus loved.”
God had given him a light and nimble form, which inclined him, in boyish days, for feats of agihty, and enabled him in more important years to go through much fatigue, till the mainspring of the heart was weakened by over-working or disease. God had also given him a mind of such a frame was the appropriate receptacle — active, expedite, full of enterprise, untiring, and ingenious. He had a kind and quiet eye, which found out the living and beautiful in nature, rather than the majestic and sublime. Withal he had a pensive spirit, which loved to muse on what he saw; and a lively fancy, which scattered beauties of its own on what was already fair; and an idiom which expressed all his feelings exactly as he felt them, and gave simplicity and grace to the most common things he uttered. Besides, he had a delicate sensibility, a singularly tender manner, and an eminently affectionate heart. These are some of the gifts which he received at first from God, and which would have made him an interesting character though the grace of God had never given more.
He was born at Edinburgh twenty-nine years ago, and received his education at its high school and its college. When it was that the most important of all changes passed upon him, we do not know; but the change itself is described in some stanzas on “Jehovah-Tsidkenu,” which strikingly describe the difference between the emotions originating in a fine taste or tender feeling, and those which spring from precious faith. At the two periods of its history his own susceptible mind had experienced either class.
He was only one-and-twenty when he became a preacher of the gospel; and his first field of labor was Larbert, near Falkirk, where he was assistant-minister about a year. That was the halcyon day of the Scotch establishment, before the civil power had laid its arrest on the energies of the church and the hopes of the people. In every populous or neglected district new places of worship were springing up, with a rapidity which made gray-haired fathers weep for joy, thinking the glory of our second temple would surpass the glory of the first, and which promised in another generation to make Scotland a delightsome land again. Among the rest a new church was built to the westward of Dundee — a district which combines almost everything desirable in a parish — not a few of the more intelligent and influential citizens in the near neighborhood of its industrious artisans, while the flax-spinners of one locality are balanced by the almost rural population of another. The church was no sooner opened than it was fully occupied; and in selecting a minister, Mr. M’Cheyne was the choice of a unanimous congregation. He entered on his labors in St. Peter’s, Nov. 27, 1836; and, as an earnest of coming usefulness, his first sermon was blessed to the salvation of some souls. When he became more minutely acquainted with his people, he found a few that feared the Lord and called upon his name; but the great mass of his congregation were mere church-goers — under a form of godUness exhibiting little evidence of being new creatures in Christ; while he found throughout his parish such an amount of dissipation, and irreverence, and sabbath-breaking, as plainly told that it was long since Willison had ceased from his labors. The state of his people pressed the spirit of this man of God, and put him on exertions which were not too great for the emergency, but which were far beyond his strength. He knew that nothing short of a living union to the second Adam could save from eternal death; and he also knew that nothing short of a new character would indicate this new relation. He was often in an agony till he should see Christ formed in the hearts of his people; and all the fertility of his mind was expended in efforts to present Christ and his righteousness in an aspect likely to arrest or allure them. Like Moses, he spent much time in crying mightily to God in their behalf; and when he came out to meet them, the pathos of Jeremiah and the benignity of John were strugghng in his bosom, and flitting over his transparent countenance by turns; and though he had much success, he had not all he wished, for he had not all his people. Many melted and were frozen up again; and many sat and listened to this ambassador of Christ spending his vital energies in beseeching them, as if he himself were merely an interesting study — a phenomenon of earnestness. The vehemence of his desire and the intensity of his exertions destroyed his strength. It seemed as if the golden bowl were about to break; and, after two years’ labor, a palpitation of the heart constrained him to desist.
Each step of a good man is ordered by the Lord. This “step” — the sickness of Mr. M’Cheyne — led to the visit of our deputation to Palestine, and gave a great impulse to that concern for Israel which is now a characteristic of Scottish Christianity; and the temporary loss of their pastor was the infinite gain of St. Peter’s church. When, after twelve months’ separation, Mr. M’Cheyne returned, it was like a husbandman who has lain down lamenting that the heavens are brass, and awakes amid a plenteous rain. During his absence a singular outpouring of the Spirit had come down on his parish, and the ministry of his substitute was the means of a remarkable revival. Mr. M’Cheyne came back to find a great concern for salvation pervading his flock, and many, whose carelessness had cost him bitter tears, “cleaving to the Lord with full purpose of heart.” We remember the Thursday evening when he first met his people again; the solemnity of his reappearance in that pulpit, like one alive from the dead; his touching address, so true — “And I, brethren, when 1 came to you, came not with excellency of speech;” and the overwhelming greeting which awaited him in the crowded street when the service was done — many, who had almost hated his ministry before, now pressing near to bless him in the name of the Lord. From that time forward, with such discouragements as the impenitence of the ungodly, the inconsistency of doubtful professors, and the waywardness of real disciples, occasionally caused him, his labors were wonderfully lightened. The presence of God was never wholly withdrawn; and besides some joyful communion-feasts, and several hallowed seasons of special prayer, almost every sabbath brought its blessing. St. Peter’s enjoyed a perennial awakening, a constant revival; and the effect was very manifest. We do not say that the whole congregation or the whole parish shared it. Far from it. But an unusual number adorned the doctrine; and it was interesting on a sabbath afternoon to see as you passed along the street, so many of the working people keeping holy the sabbath, often sitting, for the full benefit of the fading light, with their bible or other book at the windows of their houses; and it was pleasant to think how many of these houses contained their pious inmates or praying families. But it was in the church itself that you felt all the peculiarity of the place; and after being used to its hearttuned melodies, its deep devotion, and solemn assemblies, and knowing how many souls had there been born to God, we own that we never came in sight of St. Peter’s spire without feeling “God is there;” and to this hour memory refuses to let go, wrapped round in heavenly associations, the well-known chime of its gathering bell, the joyful burst of its parting psalm, and, above all, that tender, pensive voice, which was to many “as though an angel spake to them.” On sabbath, March 12, he met his people for the last time. He felt weak, though his hearers were not aware of it. On the Tuesday following, some ministerial duty called him out; and, feeling very ill on his way home, he asked a friend to fulfil an engagement for him, which he had undertaken for the subsequent day. He also begged his medical attendant to follow him home; and, on reaching his house, he set it in order, arranging his affairs, and then lay down on that bed from which he was never to arise. It was soon ascertained that, in visiting some people sick of the fever, he had caught the infection; and it was not long till the violence of the malady disturbed a mind unusually serene. At the outset of his trouble he seemed depressed, and once begged to be left alone for half an hour. When the attendant returned, he looked relieved and happy, and said, with a smile —” My
soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of a fowler;” and thenceforward, till his mind began to wander, he was in perfect peace. During those last painful days of unconsciousness, he fancied he was engaged in his beloved work of preaching, and at other times prayed in a most touching manner, and at great length, for his people. His people were also praying for him: and on the evening of Friday se’nnight, when it became known that his life was in danger, a weeping multitude assembled in St. Peter’s, and with difficulty were dissuaded from continuing all night in supplication for him. Next morning, he seemed a litde revived; but it was only the gleam before the candle goes out. At a quarter past nine he expired; and all that day nothing was to be heard in the houses around but lamentation and great mourning, and, as a friend in that neighborhood writes, “In passing along the high road, you saw the faces of every one swollen with weeping.” On Thursday last, his hallowed remains were laid in St. Peter’s burying-ground, their proper resting-place till these heavens pass away.
If asked to mention the source of his abundant labors, as well as the secret of his holy, happy, and successful life, we would answer, “His faith was wonderful.” Being rationally convinced on all those points regarding which reason can form conclusions, and led by the Spirit into those assurances which lie beyond the attainment of mere reason, he surrendered himself fully to the power of these ascertained realities. The redemption which has already been achieved, and the glory which is yet to be unveiled, were as familiar to his daily convictions as the events of personal history; and he reposed with as undoubting confidence on the revealed love of the Father, Son, and Spirit, as ever he rested on the long-tried affection of his dearest earthlykindred. With the simplicity of a little child, he had received the kingdom of heaven; and, strengthened mightily by experience and the Spirit’s indwelling, he held fast that which he had received.
A striking characteristic of his piety was absorbing love to the Lord Jesus. This was his ruling passion. It lightened all his labors, and made the reproaches which for Christ’s sake sometimes fell on him, by identifying him more and more with his suffering Lord, unspeakably precious. He cared for no question unless his Master cared for it; and his main anxiety was to know the mind of Christ. He once told a friend, “I bless God every morning I awake that I live in witnessing times.” And in a letter six months ago he says,” I fear lest the enemy should so contrive his measures in Scotland as to divide the godly. May
God make our way plain! It is comparatively easy to suffer, when we see clearly that we are suffering members of Jesus.” His public actings were a direct emanation from this most heavenly ingredient in his character — his love and gratitude to the Divine Redeemer. In this he much resembled one whose “Letters” were almost daily his delight — Samuel Rutherford; and, like Rutherford, his adoring contemplations naturally gathered round them the imagery and language of the Song of Solomon. Indeed, he had preached so often on that beautiful book, that at last he had scarcely left himself a single text of its “good matter” which had not been discoursed on already. It was very observable that, though his deepest and finest feelings clothed themselves in fitting words, with scarcely any effort, when he was descanting on the glory or grace of the Saviour, he despaired of transferring to other minds the emotions which were overfilling his own; and after describing those excellencies which often made the careless wistful, and made disciples marvel, he left the theme with evident regret that, where he saw so much, he could say so little. And so rapidly did he advance in scriptural and experimental acquaintance with Christ, that it was like one friend learning more of the mind of another. And we doubt not that, when his hidden life is revealed, it will be found that his progressive holiness and usefulness coincided with those new aspects of endearment or majesty which, from time to time, he beheld in the face of Immanuel, just as the “authority” of his “gracious words,” and the impressive sanctity of his demeanor, were so far a transference from Him who spake as no man ever spake, and lived as no man ever lived. In his case the words had palpable meaning; “Beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, we are changed into the same image from glory to glory, as by the spirit of the Lord.”
More than any one whom we have ever known, had he learned to do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus. Amid all his humility, and it was very deep, he had a prevailing consciousness that he was one of those who belong to Christ; and it was from him, his living head, that he sought strength for the discharge of duty, and through him, his righteousness, that he sought the acceptance of his performances. The effect was, to impart habitual tranquillity and composure to his spirit. He committed his ways to the Lord, and was sure that they would be brought to pass; and though his engagements were often numerous and pressing, he was enabled to go through them without hurry or perturbation. We can discern traces of this uniform self-possession in a matter so minute as his handwriting. His most rapid notes show no symptoms of haste or busde, but end in the same neat and regular style in which they began; and this quietness of spirit accompanied him into the most arduous labors and critical emergencies. His effort was to do all in the surety; and he proved that promise — “Great peace have they which love thy law, and nothing shall offend them.”
He gave himself to prayer. Like his blessed Master, he often rose up a great while before it was day, and spent the time in prayer, and singing psalms and hymns, and the devotional reading of that Word which dwelt so richly in him. His walks, and rides, and journeys, were sanctified by prayer. The last time he was leaving London we accompanied him to the railway-station. He chose a place in an empty carriage, hoping to employ the day in his beloved exercise; but the arrival of other passengers invaded his retirement. There was nothing which he liked so much as to go out into a solitary place and pray; and the ruined chapel of Invergowrie, and many other sequestered spots around Dundee, were the much-loved resorts where he had often enjoyed sweet communion with God. Seldom have we known one so specific and yet reverential in his prayers, nor one whose confessions of sin united such self-loathing with such filial love. And now that “Moses, my servant, is dead,” perhaps the heaviest loss to his brethren, his people, and the land, is the loss of his intercessions.
He was continually about his Master’s business. He used to seal his letters with a sun going down behind the mountains, and the motto over it, “The night cometh.” He felt that the time was short, and studiously sought to deepen this impression on his mind. To solemnize his spirit for the sabbath’s services, he would visit some of his sick or dying hearers on the Saturday afternoon; for, as he himself once expressed it to the writer, “Before preaching he liked to look over the verge.” Having in himself a monitor that his own sun would go early down, he worked while it was day; and, in his avidity to improve every opportunity, frequently brought on attacks of dangerous illness. The autumn after his return from Palestine, many of his hearers were in an anxious state; and on the sabbath before the laboring people among them set out for the harvest-work in the country, like Paul at Troas, he could not desist from addressing them and praying with them. In one way or other, from morning to midnight, with scarcely a moment’s interval, he was exhorting, and warning, and comforting them; and the consequence was, an attack of fever, which brought him very low. But it was not only in preaching that he was thus faithful and importunate. He was instant in every season. In the houses of his people, and when he met them by the wayside, he would speak a kind and earnest word about their souls; and his words were like nails. They went in with such force, that they usually fastened in a sure place. An instance came to our knowledge long ago. In the course of a ride one day, he was observing the operations of the workmen in a quarry; when passing the engine-house, he stopped for a moment to look at it. The engine-man had just opened the furnace-door to feed it with fresh fuel; when, gazing at the bright, white glow within, Mr. M’Cheyne said to the man, in his own mild way, “Does that fire mind you of anything?” And he said no more, but passed on his way. The man had been very careless, but could not get rid of this solemn question. To him it was the Spirit’s arrow. He had no rest till he found his way to St. Peter’s church, where he became a constant attendant; and we would fain hope that he has now fled from the wrath to come. His speech was seasoned with salt, and so were his letters. As was truly remarked in the discriminating and affectionate tribute to his memory, which recently appeared in the “Dundee Warder,” “Every note from his hand had a lasting interest about it; for his mind was so full of Christ that, even in writing about the most ordinary affairs, he contrived, by some natural turn, to introduce the glorious subject that was always uppermost with him.” It was always quickening to hear from him. It was like climbing a hill, and, when weary or lagging, hearing the voice of a friend, vsrho has got far up on the sunny heights, calling to you to arise and come away. The very subscriptions usually told where his treasure was: “Grace be with you, as Samuel Rutherford would have prayed;” “Ever yours till we meet above;” “Ever yours till glory dawn, Robert M. M’Cheyne.”
The tenderness of his conscience — the truthfulness of his character — his deadness to the world — his deep humility and exalted devotion — his consuming love to Christ, and the painful solicitude with which he eyed everything affecting his honor — the fidelity with which he denied himself, and told others of their faults or danger — his meekness in bearing wrong, and his unwearied industry in doing good — the mildness which tempered his unyielding firmness, and the jealousy for the Lord of Hosts which commanded, but did not supplant, the yearnings of a most affectionate heart — rendered him altogether one of the loveliest specimen’s of the Spirit’s workmanship.
He is gone, and in his grave’ has been buried the sermon which for the last six years his mere presence has preached to Dundee. That countenance, so kindly earnest; those gleams of holy joy flitting over its deeper lines of sadness; that disentangled pilgrimlook, which showed plainly that he sought a city; the serene self-possession of one who walked by faith, and the sequestered, musing gait, such as we might suppose the meditative Isaac had; that aspect of compassion in such unison with the remonstrating and entreating tones of his melodious voice; that entire appearance as of one who had been with Jesus, and who would never be right at home till where Christ is there he should be also: all these come back on memory with a vividness which annihilates the interval since last we saw them, and with an air of immortahty around them which promises that ere long we shall see them again. To enjoy his friendship was a rare privilege in this world of defect and sin; and now that those blessed hours of personal intercourse are ended, we can recall many texts of which his daily walk was the easy interpretation. Any one may have a clearer conception of what is meant by a “hidden life,” and a ‘* living sacrifice,” and may better understand the kind of life which Enoch led, who has lived a day with Robert Murray M*Cheyne.
April 3, 1843.