His Early Life; Methodism at Tisbury; Conversion

My dear Children, — Mr. Thomas Turner, the memoir of whose eminently pious wife has been long before the public, and a second edition of which was published by Dr. Bogue, left Tisbury while young. He was then possessed of no substance; but he gradually succeeded in business at Trowbridge, and gained more than a competency. Being a truly religious man, he wished, to do something to evince his gratitude to God, and promote the welfare of his fellow-men. He, therefore, determined to introduce the preaching of the gospel into his native village, and, if possible, to awaken attention to the one thing needful in those he had left behind him in ignorance and carelessness. He took a house and licensed it, and opened it for preaching. After some length of time, he built also a neat chapel entirely at his own expense; and a very considerable congregation and church were raised there, which have continued ever since; and recently a new, commodious and beautiful chapel has been erected, which I had the pleasure of opening, and at the dedication of which more than £100 was collected, after more than £700 had been subscribed among the people themselves.

Some persons love to talk of their being born again, and of their being made new creatures, with a kind of physical certainty and exactness; and refer to their conversion not as the real commencement of a work which is to continue increasing through life, but as something which may be viewed as a distinct and unique experience,, immediately produced, originated, and finished at once; and perfectly determinable as to its time and place and mode of accomplishment; but I hope this is not necessary, for I have no such narrative or register to afford. A distinction is not always made between depraved nature and actual transgression. All are sinners, and all have come short of the glory of God; but all are not profligate, nor in this sense do all speak of themselves, as if they had been the chief of sinners. Restraint from evil is a mercy, as well as sanctification and good works. I cannot speak as some do of going great lengths in iniquity, and thereby rendering a work of grace more sure and more divine. I bless God I was from my childhood free from immoralities. I remember, indeed, one act of gross transgression (it pains me now in review); it was the uttering of a known and repeated falsehood, accompanied with an oath, to carry a point, as I was intensely at play. For this my conscience so smote me that I was soon constrained to withdraw from my companions, and went home, and retired to implore forgiveness. But, though free from vice, I now began to see and feel deficiencies with regard to duty, and to be dissatisfied with the state of my heart towards God. I also felt my need of something more than was held forth by the preaching I heard. Without knowing the nature of this good, I was just in the condition of mind that would welcome and relish the truth commonly called evangelical. Our minister, too, from some things which I had said (for he always allowed and encouraged me to speak freely), strangely put into my hands a letter, which, he said, had been written to a father by a young man who had (these were his own words) become a Methodist, and wished to convert him. I had never heard the name before; but when, soon after, persons of this description were reported to be coming to preach in the village.

my curiosity was the more excited; and, from the instruction and impression of the letter (which was a very striking one), I longed to hear them, conceiving and hoping it would relieve my concern of mind.

The private dwelling which Mr. Turner had purchased and licensed was first used for worship on the Saturday evening. I attended. The singing, the extemporaneousness of the address, and the apparent affection and earnestness of the speaker, peculiarly affected me: and what he said of ^’ the faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners,” was like rain upon the mown grass, or cold water to a thirsty soul. I scarcely slept that night for weeping, and for joy; and as the preaching was to be renewed the next morning at seven o’clock (not to interfere with the service of the Established Church), I happened to be the first that came. Mrs. Turner, who had come from Trowbridge to superintend things for the time, opened the door herself, and, taking me by the hand, benignly asked, “Are you hungering for the bread of life?” She continued talking to me most winningly for some minutes, till others began to enter. But this seemingly casual and trifling circumstance was important in the result j for from that day forward she particularly noticed me; and, as I had been recently apprenticed, and was returning from my work, which was then at Fonthill House, in the evening, she often met me, and conversed with me till I reached home; and her information and addresses were more useful than many of the sermons I heard, as she adapted herself to the state she found I was in, and to the present kind of knowledge which I required.

[Reluctant as the Editors are to divert the reader’s attention for a single moment from Mr. Jay’s interesting narrative, they yet judge that this is the most suitable place for introducing a few facts which they feel assured will add interest to the narrative, and increase the gratification of the reader. The mention of Fonthill House a page or two before, and of Mr. Beckford, its accomplished proprietor and builder, is followed by the statement, that, when the lad William Jay was first noticed by Mrs. Turner, he was not only working as an apprentice to his father, but both father and son were actually working at the erection of Fonthill House; and further, that it was on his return, evening after evening, from that place, that Mrs. Turner met him, and talked with him in that instructive way recorded by himself in this letter. We suppose William Jay to have been then little more than fourteen years of age, and but recently apprenticed to learn the art of stone-masonry It was just at this time that Mr. Winter came to preach at Tisbury, and was struck with the comely countenance of the lad. About a year after, when Mr. W. came again to preach at Tisbury on a week-day evening, there was William Jay in the chapel, with his flannel-jacket and his white leather apron, just as he had left his work at Fonthill Abbey, listening to the good Cornelius Winter. After that sermon he was introduced to Mr. W. for the first time, and, no doubt, wondered what the minister could want with him. Let the reader realize this scene, and connect with it the fact that he had been that day working at the mansion of a gentleman who afterwards, most probably with an utter unconsciousness that Mr. Jay had ever been in his employment, passed upon him as just and elegant an eulogy as perhaps ever was passed upon him; and frankly recorded the fact that he had been himself a learner from the eloquent piety and wisdom of William Ja.j. In proof of this we present the following interesting statement, which appeared in the Bath Herald immediately after Mr. Beckfords decease: —

“The Christian Contemplated had been perused with much interest by Mr. Beckford, as appears from his numerous notes, written on its leaves; and from which the following is extracted: This man’s mind is no petty reservoir supplied him by laborious pumpings — it is a clear, transparent spring, flowing so freely as to impress the idea of its being inexhaustible. In many of these pages the stream of eloquence is so full, so rapid, that we are fairly borne down and laid prostrate at the feet of the preacher, whose arguments in these moments appear as if they could not be controverted, and we must yield to them. The voice which calls us to look into ourselves, and prepare for judgment, is too piercing, too powerful, tp be resisted; and we attempt, for worldly and sensual considerations, to shut our ears in vain.’

‘’ Beckford told me that Jay of Bath, whom he had gone to hear incog., was one of the finest preachers he had ever heard, and showed me his sermons; and, curious enough, he had a correspondence with Jay about the bad poetry, both in the church and among the dissenters, as exhibited in the hymns and psalm versions which they used.’’ — Closing Scenes, Second Series, By Bev. E. Neale.

It will not be deemed irrelevant by those readers who have no knowledge of Mr. Beckford, if we state a few facts concerning him and the famous Abbey which William Jay and his father helped to build.

William Beckford, Esq., was the proprietor, designer, and builder of the splendid Fonthill Abbey, which cost in its erection £273,000, and the pictures, library, and furniture of which were valued at more than a million. He was the son of the famous Beckford, twice Lord Mayor of London, who reproved King George the Third on his throne, when he insulted a deputation of the citizens. Mr. Beckford, the son, who was placed, at his father’s death, under the care of the first Earl of Chatham, became a most accomplished man and distinguished author. His gorgeous tale, entitled ^’^Vathek/^ was written in French when he was barely twenty-two, at one sitting of three days and two nights. Byron said of it, that ‘* even Rasselas must bow before it.’^ He wrote also “Letters on Spain and Italy,’ ^” Observations on Celebrated Painters,^’ &c. &c. He was universally esteemed a man of exquisite taste and of keen discernment. His splendid fortune was spent in the gratification of his taste for the fine arts and literature. Over his mantel-piece, in his dining parlour, was a picture of St. Catherine, by Raffaelle, which cost him .£3000. One who knew him well says, “I had many conversations with him upon the subject of religion; for he was rather fond of controversy. I should say that he was an orthodox Catholic; but, like many, professed a faith he did not practise.”

He was famous for a most sumptuous entertainment which he gave to Admiral Lord Nelson. But though he was accounted in his day the richest commoner in England, yet he sustained, long before his death, immense losses of property, and the Abbey was sold to Mr. Farquhar for £330,000. The sale of its contents created an excitement throughout the nation, and during its continuance of thirty-three days, such was the influx of visitors, that not a lodging was to be had for many miles round. It is recorded that between seven and eight thousand catalogues were sold at a guinea each.

After this calamity Mr. Beckford retired to Bath, where he ended his days, at very nearly the same age as Mr. Jay, and where, probably, he availed himself of the opportunity of hearing him preach, and of carrying on the correspondence referred to in the previous extract. Such a correspondence is not unlikely, for Beckford was a proficient both in poetry and music. But we have found no allusion to this correspondence, and no trace of it, among Mr. Jay’s papers.

To the fact of Mr. Jay’s having been employed, apparently for more than a year, at Fonthill Abbey, we have his own testimony; yet he makes no allusion to any intercourse or acquaintance with Mr. Beckford, nor does he give any intimation that Mr. Beckford knew the fact of his having been employed at the Abbey. There appears to have been no mutual recognition, although in their later years they became near neighbours.

But never did two men come into contact and comparison with each other whose lives, deeds, characters, and ends, furnish more affecting and instructive lessons, than William Beckford, the gay, learned, accomplished, sumptuous proprietor of Fonthill Abbey, and William Jay, the stonemasons son, become minister of Argyle Chapel, and, by his books, the instructor of myriads of his fellow-creatures in the way of salvation.

Of Mr. Beckford, his friends have recorded that he battled manfully at first with his malady. When he saw that the struggle was vain, not before, and that life was rapidly ebbing, he wrote to his affectionate daughter in town his last laconic note:” Come, — quick, quick,^’ — and expired a day or two after the duchesses arrival.

“He spoke to no one about his belief or his hope. Indeed, he was one of those whose thoughts would have communed only with God at such a crisis. He used to say. What are forms? The heart is everything. A clergyman came. He thanked him for the offer of his services; but he could do no more: it was his last effort.^^ This was the testimony of one of his friends. Mr. Neale says:” From another source I learned that in his parting hour, the truly estimable rector of his parish attended at Lansdown (the name of his mansion). He assembled Mr. Beckford’s whole establishment for prayer, in the room adjoining that in

which the dying man lay Mr. Beckford himself

made no confession of faith His was a silent

death-bed as to the mighty future.

“One who saw a good deal of Mr. Beckford during the latter part of his life,, thus writes of him: ‘I believe he was one of the most keen-sighted men that ever lived. He fathomed human character and looked into a mans soul in a moment.’ Another observer thus speaks of him: ‘I am certain the author of ‘Vathek knew perfectly well what was passing in your mind. He has often said to me, Mens faces are a sort of alphabet to me j I can read their minds as easily as I can read a book.’

“Beckford was a very proud man, of violent passions... He adopted a certain line of policy towards his fellows; and his haughty spirit bravely supported him. He said just after Lord Byron’s death: ‘So, Byron is gone! He cared about the world, affected not to care, defied it, and was unsuccessful. I have defied it and succeeded. 1 have resources if I should live centuries V

“He directed by his will that his body should be embalmed, placed in a chest, and deposited in a tomb, erected in that part of his garden adjoining Lansdown Tower; that on his Mausoleum should appear the following inscription: on one side, — ‘William Beckford, Esq. late of Fonthill, A¥ilts, died 2nd May, 1844, aged 84,’ with this quotation from ‘Vathek’: —

“* Enjoying humbly the most precious gift of heaven to man — hope! ’

“On the other side the same obituary, followed by these lines, from a prayer written by himself: —

“‘Eternal Power!
Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam
Of thy bright essence on my dying hour! ’

“Was this gifted and wealthy man a faithful steward? What did he for his kind? Mighty trusts were confided to him / Blest with ample means, highly cultivated intellect, and unusual length of days, what permanent blessings did he confer on his fellows?

What hospital did he build? What asylum endow? What school did he originate? What sanctuary did he raise for the worship of the Most High? What cloud of heathen error did he seek to dissipate? What memorial has he left behind him to cheer and gladden, during lifers weary pilgrimage the aged, the sorrow- stricken the suffering, the desolate,, or the bereaved? What charity did he munificently support during life, or place beyond the reach of failure by his testamentary dispositions at death? What widows grateful tears or orphans’ murmured blessings will the casual mention of his name arouse? Was his a mere religion of the imagination; and his reverence for sacred subjects bounded by his admiration of The Madonna, ‘The Infant Saviour, ‘The Salvator Mundi, when placed on the canvas by the limners art? ‘^ — Closing Scenes, &c.

Between these two distinguished men how wide is the difference and how vast the interval!

What a contrast in their outward fortunes and original conditions! What a contrast in their characters, their achievements, their services to mankind, and the memoirs that now survive them! And, above all, how affectingly contrasted were the closing scenes of their two lives, both in the city of Bath!

Beckfords own verses, a part of which were inscribed, by his direction, on his splendid monument, though they display the exalted genius and exquisite taste of their author, yet afford no trace of Christian hope or peace. He calls them a prayer.

“Like the soft murmur of the secret stream,

Which through dark alders winds its shaded way.
My suppliant voice is heard: Ah, do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away.

“In the recesses of the forest vale.

On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod,
When the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely, communing with God.

“When the faint sickness of a wounded heart

Creeps in cold shudderings through my shaking frame,
I turn to Thee, — that holy peace impart

Which soothes the invokers of thy awful Name.

,” 0 All-pervading Spirit — Sacred Beam!

Parent of Life and Light! — Eternal Power!
Grant me through ohvious clouds one transient gleam
Of thy bright essence on my dying hour.”

Let our readers compare these lines, which no doubt expressed the last solemn, but yet gloomy, feelings of their author, with the account of Mr. Jays last hours, which will appear in its proper place in these pages; and then let him say which was the happier man while they both lived, and which is now the most honoured and the most illustrious, after the long career which they both enjoyed; the one in the full blaze of worldly splendour, or in luxurious seclusion from it, gratifying and improving his intellectual powers with everything refined, except the one thing needful; but the other, from the day that he left off working at Fonthill Abbey, till the day of his death, in the full hope of eternal life through the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, devoting all his energies to the service of God and man, and deriving all his pleasures from doing the work which his Heavenly Father gave him to do.]

Mr. Jay’s narrative thus proceeds: —

And here occurred, what is mentioned without a name, in the life of Mrs. Turner, concerning ‘’ a lad who, after hearing a discourse enforcing family worship, besought his father upon his return home to undertake it; and upon his refusing, on the ground of inability, offered to perform it himself. The offer was accepted with tears, and he became a kind of domestic chaplain.” This lad was the writer. A little while after this, he was urged

to pray at the private meeting in the chapel, which he did with no little backwardness, and also with no little difficulty. Connected with this, he cannot but mention a circumstance, as it affected him at the time with a shock of amazement, and has since aided him in not laying an improper stress on the figurative language of Scripture; and made him careful to avoid such views of the doctrines of grace as should exclude any from hope of salvation. It was this: — He had prayed that our names may be written in the LamVs book of life; but a high-toned brother, from a neighbouring congregation, who saw things clearly, took him aside, and rebuked him for the impropriety of his expression, saying,” You know that book was filled up from eternity; and if our names are not written there, they never can be now.^^

Bless God, my children, that from your infancy you have been familiar with a testimony too plain to be mistaken,” The Spirit and the bride say, Come; and let him that heareth say. Come; and let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will let him take of the water of life freely .^^

I shall soon resume the relation, and notice another link in the chain of occurrences which drew me from my native condition to set my feet in a large place.

I am, &c.