Nervous Depression
Most persons, I suppose, imagined that Mr James’s broad chest, firmly compacted frame, and powerful voice, indicated a constitution never troubled by the shado’nT’ but terrible sufferings which arise from a morbid condition of the nervous system. For thirty or forty years before his death, he had the appearance of a man accustomed to pure air and constant exercise; his build was that of a country gentleman, rather than a Nonconformist divine. In the pulpit, and on the platform, he appeared to be completely at his ease; he never betrayed any agitation, except that which is occasioned by strong emotion; no one would ever have suspected that he could have had any sympathy with that dread of an audience which often paralyses strong men, and makes wise men talk very foolishly. There was never any appearance of fear, nor was there that overstrained audacity, or that unnatural calmness by which fear is often disguised. And yet for many years he scarcely ever slept on a Saturday night, so uncontrollable were the apprehensions with which he looked forward to the services of the Sunday. I have myself seen him manifest extraordinary nervous excitement in the vestry just before entering his own pulpit, — excitement occasioned by the restlessness and uncertainty of which, I suppose, many public speakers are conscious when they are intending to make any unusual effort.
LIFE OF JOHN ANGELL JAMES.
In his later years, all perturbation seemed to subside the moment he faced his congregation, and it was transformed into that genial and kindly warmth which was one charm of his eloquence. Earlier in his ministry, I believe that though his fear ceased as soon as he began to preach, it left him in a state of great excitement and keen sensibility. He suffered a double loss of energy; the anticipation of having to preach deprived him of rest, and in the preaching itself there was an unnatural consumption of strength. After a time, this began to tell upon his constitution; he became so prostrate, that any special public engagement haunted and terrified him till it was over. Twice or thrice his dread became so excessive that he was compelled to leave important services at the last moment in the hands of his brethren. His sufferings reached their climax in the prospect of an engagement at Hanley, where he had promised to take part in the ordination of the son of his old friend Dr Fletcher. As his agony on that particular occasion is fully described in one of the letters appended to this chapter, I need only say that I believe his fears did not exaggerate his danger. It became evident that for a time it was necessary he should limit himself to his home engagements, and for several years he preached but seldom away from Birmingham. The restless, hurrying life of the popular preacher was exchanged for the more quiet life of the faithful pastor; and during these years of concentrated activity, his growth in all the highest elements of wisdom and power was both sure and rapid. His temporary retirement from general public life awakened the concern of his friend the late Dr Redford of Worcester, whose intellectual power, learning, and Christian excellence Mr James regarded with the greatest admiration, and in 1837 Dr Redford wrote him the following letter of remonstrance: —
“Worcester, Juhj 5, 1837.” My dear Brother, — Ever since those feelings have come upon you which have caused you to retire from nearly all your extra pubHc engagements, I have felt strongly that it was my duty to remonstrate with you, and to endeavour to convince you that the enemy has gained, in this, at least, an advantage over you. I have felt this inchnation seriously to address you upon the subject, greatly strengthened since our last interview, and particularly so because we had not then any opportunity of praying with and for each other, as on former delightful occasions. I have feared that you might deem it intrusive and presumptuous in me to interfere in a matter that must necessarily be so much dependent on your own feelings, and rest almost exclusively between God and yourseK; and had I supposed that you could take what I may say in any other than the kindest and most affectionate manner, I should certainly have been content to mourn and pray for you in silence and secresy. But I feel quite satisfied that you will at least attribute what I may say to none but the purest motives, and that your friendship, which I have so long enjoyed and prized, will ensure my forgiveness, if I should inadvertently drop a word that may cause you a moment’s pain. The thought of circumscribing those talents to your own immediate charge, which have hitherto been so serviceable to the Saviour’s cause at large, is exceedingly painful to me. I have no doubt it is so to you; and I think I hear you say. It is incomparably more painful to myself to be obliged so to act, than it can be to my best friends to witness it. I remember, also, that you attribute it to physical causes; and in doing so, the conscience feels, perhaps, that responsibility is no way imphcated in j-ielding to what is conceived to be a necessity. Now, I will not take upon me to argue this point, whether your feelings originate in a physical, or a metaphysical, or a moral, or a strictly mental cause. But I do most earnestly entreat you as a brother to examine the cause very seriously; and unless there are satisfactory proofs that your nerves are affected, or your physical strength in some degree impaired, try whether the whole has not originated either in being worried into a little irritability by pubUc engagements in time past, or whether it does not arise from an excess of anxiety to acquit yourseK fully to your own idea of excellence and the expectations of the public, or from a want of simple reliance for assistance on Him who has said He will never leave us. I hint only s</ much for your own consideration, and by no means as my opuiion oi your case. If I thought it were really a jealousy for your reputation, I would tell you so. But I feel quite convinced that this is not the case; and I confess to you I never was more completely at a loss to name a cause in any given case. But the fact itself distresses me, because I see you in the vigour of bodily health — never, I think, better — certainly in as energetic a state of mind, with a maturity of knowledge, of piety, and of Christian feeKng, that is, with far gi-eater powers of usefidness to the church and the world, yet now falling under a sort of paralysis of purpose and timidity of effort which -nill cut you off from a very large measure of usefulness. Let me, then, my dear brother,
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entreat you to wrestle with this infirmity for your own sake — for the church’s sake — and, above all, for the love of that Master, in whose service I am sure you could suffer far more than you are likely to do in resisting this feeling. Usefulness to souls is a master-spring in your heart, and you must not suffer it to be relaxed. When you and I reflect for a moment upon our period of life, and remember, that should we live and be continued in health, ten years more service or thereabouts is all we have to look forward to, — then, or soon after, we must decrease. While, therefore, our great Lord continues to us almost unimpaired health, and we may hope somewhat improved grace, let us not think of limiting our exertions. You, at least, ought not, because you have achieved already an instrumentality for spiritual good, through the Divine blessing, which few other men possess. I think I may assume, moreover, that when called upon and induced to stand forth, you have felt no diminution of strength or ability for any engagement. Yoit have not been forsaken of your Master, — His Spirit has not left you without unction and power. Why, then, should you shrink from the opportunities of still further usefulness which He affords 1 Oh, it is, indeed, a delight and privilege to serve Christ! The richest solace, next to that of feeling Him our own Saviour, is to be the means of leading others to experience the same supernal blessedness. You have in time past put your hand vigorously to the plough, and can you now relax your grasp before the Lord has weakened your strength in the way’? You have hitherto lived and preached, not for Birmmgham alone, but for England; and do you think we can now spare you from the wider sphere? No, my brother; you must think again, and make another more vigorous effort to conquer this painful feeling. Will you allow me to suggest, as to the remedy for it, first, to resolve not to make more than your usual preparation for your own pulpit when you have an extra service — say, leave it always till the day before — and then, after moderate preparation, calmly commit the engagement and yourself to the hands of God, — and since ’tis His honour, and not your own, you seek, trust in Him to give you at the hour what you ought to speak. I feel confident He will not forsake you; and depending upon such a Master, you have nothing to fear. When did He ever forsake a right-tliinking, right-aiming, and right-feeUng minister of His gospel? Might I be allowed to say farther, try speedily to shake off this shackle. Do not let it gather strength by delay; it has restrained you too long. Yet I do not wash to urge you to any excess of pubUc engagements. There is some probability that this in past times may have been the cause of your present revulsion of feeling from them. But a moderate share — just such as might neither interfere with your home engagements, nor lead to too much excitement and fatigue — would, I conceive, soon restore you to the delightful consciousness that you were really doing all, or nearly till, that your talents and strength would admit. Time is short; work while it is called to-day. You have nobly and eifectually roused others to exertion. Inferior men have grown great by your example; and you shall yet, my brother, see the hand of the Lord with you, maldng you a blessing unto thousands, both mediately and mmediately. Trim again the lamji, and seek to have it replenished with fresh oil. Brace up once more your energies for the goodly fight. These are no times for retiring within our camps and our tents. “We must go forth into the high places of the field, and eye our great Captain and Leader as He appoints us our posts. Our day of active exertion is at least hastening to its close, and I hear Him saying, ’
Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no wisdom nor work in the grave whither thou goest.’ We most probably have both thought often of this solemn issue, — we have felt how near we may be to our last sermon, our last testimony for Jesus our Master. Probably we have applied to om-selves these words. Be diligent, that ye may be found of Him in peace. But I am extending my remarks too far, and troubling you with a long letter, contrary to my intentions. But I have written currente calamo, and just as my thoughts have flowed. If I should be the means of drawing your attention to the duty of endeavouring to regain your former calmness in anticipation of public engagements, I shall have accomplished something; and if I should have done no good, I hope my effort -will do no harm. You will receive it, I am sure, as it is meant, in brotherly regard; and forgive me if I have trespassed upon the bounds of fraternal and respectful intercourse. — Believe me, unfeigncdly and affectionately, your friend and brother,
“George Bedford.”
The unlimited confidence which Mr Jame.s reposed in Dr Redford’s judgment — a confidence which led him, even before the railway made the journey a very short one, to go over to Worcester for conference with his friend, in the anticipation of all the more important events in his public life — and their strong mutual aflfection, gave Dr Bedford the right to speak very freely on what he supposed to be a sinful weakness, or, at least, an unconscious submission to a crafty and injurious scheme of the devil to diminish the usefulness of one of Christ’s servants. In this instance, the Doctor was probably mistaken. I am inclined to think that it was God’s wise love, not the cunning of the devil, which tempo-LIFE OP JOHN ANGELL JAMES.
rarily interrupted Mr James’s public activity. The letters on this subject cover several years, one of them was written so late as 1845; I have brought them together, for the sake of illustrating a very painful, but very interesting part of Mr James’s history: —
TO THE REV. J. PARSONS, YORK.
“Januai-y 17, 1835.
“My dear Sir, — It is at no ordinary expense of feeling that I ever negative an application from t/ou, but I must do so in the present instance. I have become of late so exceedingly nervous, especially in prospect of public services, as to lose my rest, or else have it only very partially for many successive nights, and to be incapacitated when the season of exertion comes for doing anything. I was lately obliged to come away from Oswestry without f ulfiUing my engagement, after losing three almost whole nights’ rest, and about a month since I was almost in a similar state at Oxford. And, indeed, generally I find my nerves in such an irritable state that I am ever liable to lose my rest. It is my purpose, therefore, to avoid all pubUc engagements except the London one in May, and spend all the time I can spare from my people in entire relaxation. Acting on this principle, I have lately negatived a pressing application from Mr Smith of Sheffield, who wishes me to give him a Sabbath about the time you wish me to visit York. It would give me real and great pleasure to come and see you, but I must forego it. If you were a little more prudent about public engagements, it would be quite as well for your own health and the good of your family and flock.”
TO THE REV. JAMES PARSONS, YORK.
“Edgbaston, December 24, 1836.
“!My DEAR Sir, — It grieves me to deny you anythhig, much more the matter of your present request; but my public services from home, at least for the present, are suspended. I cannot sleep, as you know, in prospect of them; and if a man cannot sleep, how can he preach? I fear I shall never break this spell. The dread is in the ratio of the distance, and as York is a hundred and fifty miles, or more, from Birmingham, I should be restless for a week, and a great part of the time sleepless too. Pity me, but do not blame me. I have a letter from Clunie to come to Manchester, but I must return the same answer.
“Beverley’s letters do not surprise me. He is one of the unaccountables. The book is a sharp threshing instrument, having teeth; all the mountains come in for a flagellation, but I do not think any of them will become chafi’ under his hand. There is something for all to oppose, yet something that all may learn from.”
TO THE REV. DR FLETCHER, STEPXEY, LONDON.
“Edgbaston, March 13, 1840.
“My dear Friend, — I wi-ote to your son a few days ago, with the expectation that you would see my letter, supposing that you did not intend to leave Hanley this week. I conclude from what you say in yours, that you left the day my communication reached the Potteries.
“It is impossible for me to say what measure of disappointment was felt in consequence of my absence, but I should be ready to suppose, that put it together, it scarcely amounted to the misery which was compressed into my one poor tortured mind. I have been suffering during the winter from occasional attacks of nervous distress, but the week before the Hanley engagement it had greatly increased. I was in frequent, almost constant dread of losing my intellect. This was not produced by the prospect of a public service, but was probably increased by it. On Sunday I preached -with great debility, having lost much sleep during the preceding week. Sunday night was dreadful. StUl I resolved to go, feeUng quite sure that if unable, not only would great confusion ensue, but that all hope of any further engagement at pubHc services, except in the smallest congregations, and in my own vicinity, was gone. At the last hour I failed, and the day was spent in a state bordering on insanity, if not over the border, ily wife was terrified, and my daughter, too, into illness. Jily medical attendant says, had I gone, he does not know what would have been the result either to body or mind. Last week was distressing, and I am still a poor shattered vessel. I preached once on Sunday at the recommendation of my medical friend, being helped in the devotional ser’ices. He said that I was sinking into a sad state, and wished a little gentle excitement. He is still attending me, and is anxious to keep down the mental agitation and terror. Such is my state, a poor bniised reed, out of which I fear little music will ever be brought again that is worth listening to. My nervous system is gone. No more public engagements — if I can do a little for my congregation, it is the utmost I can hope for.
“And now, my good friend, about yourself. Deeply grieved am I on your account. You can do more for the pubHc than I can if your strength returns, and therefore your life is far more valuable as a public man. May God restore you: may good nursing and good doctoring, by the blessing of God, set you up. I pray for you fervently. Do, do spare yourself; and if, like me, you are tried by public services, though I suppose this is not the case, avoid them. Better live only for your flock and family than not at alL Recreate in the summer — lie by — yours is physical disorder; mine is mental, and lying by would be more
LIFE OF JOHN ANGELL JAMES.
injurious than moderate work. Mine is the effect of a morbid imagination, which must not be left to worry me in idleness.
“Oh, may God sanctify us both by His dealings with us! I trust I am a holier man by what I suffer. Unless my heart greatly deceives me, I can say, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation, ‘It is good for me that I am afflicted.’ Sometimes a wish arises that it were not this kind of suffering that I am tried with; but I dare not question the skill of the Physician, nor ask him to change the medicine. My affliction is relative as well as personal; my wife vnll never be well again, and my daughter gets worse. We are, to outward appearance, a gloomy family. But it is all right. Time is short. We shall soon see the reason of all. May God strengthen our faith!
“Let me hear that you are arrived at home, and improving.
“Give my kind regards to Mrs Fletcher and your daughter, and believe me, as ever, your affectionate friend,
“J. A. James.”
TO THE SAME.
“Edgbaston, Novemher 2, 1840.” My dear Friend, — I am ashamed to look at the date of your last letter; but really this merciful, oppressive penny-postage is making such demands on my time, already too little to meet the numerous and heavy demands upon it, that I am sometimes ready to wish Eowland HUl had been with his namesake in heaven, before he thought of his plan for relieving my pocket, at the expense of what, to me, is far more valuable than money.
“Is it so that you have begun to preach again 1 Has our God so far had mercy on you, and not on you only, but on many others also, as to give you strength for this? Prayer in abundance has ascended for you, and should it please Him, ’ who doeth all things well,’ to restore you, the incense of praise Alill rise from thousands of hearts before His throne. You need not be admonished to be cautious. Festina lente must be your motto and your rule. I could have wished a longer respite. A whole year might have been well and profitably spent in eUence. But oh, how could / have taken such advice! What a trial is silence to him who loves to speak of Christ and for Him! What humbling lessons we learn by being laid aside from labour! How the world goes on without us! and when we are silent for ever it ■niU be the same. I am glad to perceive in your letter such elident proofs of cheerful submission to the ldll of the Great Master. An over-eagerness to get to work, as if we would thrust ourselves upon Him, and He should have us, is not the temper which befits us: to be willing to work or suffer as He shall please, is the most unequivocal mark of a minister’s sanctified afiliction. If, as you say, Christ has been more than ever endeared, you cannot have suffered so many things in vain, and to secure that, we might be willing to suffer any thing.
“I was sorry you could not be present at the pleasant and well-timed, well-intentioned ceremony of the Wilson Memorial. It was due to the good old man, to whom our denomination stands more indebted, not only than any other, but to any ten men that could be found in all England. We have no man like-minded who will forego one fortune by his early retirement from business, and spend another in promoting our cause. It must have been peculiarly gratifying to him, and I trust the vase will remain an heir-loom in a long line of descendants that shall inherit his name and his spirit. What think you of the state of our denomination? There seems to be, notwithstanding the great multipUcation of our students, a great paucity of young ministers rising up of talent and power. Our rich people are going over to Mother Church, and I am afraid that there is more bluster about the Voluntary principle than intelligent, deep-rooted conviction. Scotland is far a-head of us in this. With the Dissenters there it has more of the aspect of a religious question than it has with us. It is better understood and more deeply felt beyond the Tweed than here; and there the great battle is being fought. What will Chahners and his party do, and what will the civil courts do 1 I am inclined to think the matter will be compromised somehow or other, but how I cannot imagine.
“And now to poor Finney. I so far agi-ee with you as clearly to perceive a tendency in this age to oscUlate from the extreme of Antinomianism on one side of the pendulum to Ai’uiinianism on the other, and that caution, and in order to this, warning voices are necessary; but I am still confident that, with all the palpable faults which attach to his books, they have done immense good in this country; far more good than they will ever do harm. Our whole system of theology and of preaching was, in my judgment, too scholastic, stiff, and cold, to be either scriptural or efficient, and needed to be untrammelled, warmed, and made more a thing of the heart, and especially of the conscience, than it had ever been. Finney, with all his vulgarity, and, frequently, rash and hazardous phraseology, is a more perfect exemplification of that passage than any preacher or wiiter of sermons that I know, ‘Commending ourselves to every man’s conscience in the siht of God.’ This is the grand excellence of his sermons. It is a perpetual grappling with the conscience, and a successful method of making the sinner, and the believer too, feel and know what they have to do, and when to do it. I do not think responsibility can be too much dwelt upon and pressed home, till it has excluded sovereignty, which I do not think Finney has done. True it is, that the danger to be dreaded is from
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the men who swallow liini whole, and as he is, without discrimination; men who become his imitators, and have not judgment enough to avoid his faults. It was as much for the purpose of caution as recommendation that I wrote the short preface that you regret. After all, I should be glad to see a caution sent forth by some able pen — would that you had health to do it! — against what I admit to be the tendency of this day. Our pastors in many parts of the country have been dehghtfully roused to action, revivals in lukewarm ministers and churches have followed, and I cannot help hoping that a spirit of healthful, energetic piety is rising up.
“And now as regards myself and my family. / am tolerably well; still troubled with, nerves that are like the fibres of the aspen leaf, so feeble and so dehcate as to make the leaf tremble with every breeze, and almost without one. Liv dear wife is much the same, gradually but certainly decUning — ever verging to a point the contemplation of which makes every husband’s heart tremble, who loves his wife and feels how much his comfort depends on her life. May God prepare me for all that is before me!
“I shall be glad to hear from you soon, to be informed how you are, and what you are doing. I beg to be most kindly remembered to your good and excellent wife, whose health I hope is improved, and to your daughter. — Yours, as ever, most affectionately,
“J. A. James.”
TO THE EEV. JAMES PARSONS, YORK.
“Edgbaston, Feb. 14, 1845. “My dear Friend, — I must first express my deep and tender sympathy with you under your long-continued, though I rejoice to hear now mitigated afiliction. God does much bi, you, and therefore it is to be expected He will have much to do mi and vnth. you. You know who said, Study, prayer, and temptation make a good minister of Christ. I now turn to my own trial, and it is an aggravation of it that it compels me to return another negative to your application. My thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, still continues to wound and lacerate my poor nervous temperament. It has been supposed by some that it was either extracted, or that my frame had accommodated itself to tlic intrusive annoyance. Alas! my feelings at this moment are a painful proof to the contrary. I gave a conditional promise to one of our students to preach at the opening of his chapel at Shrewsbury the first week in March. More than a week ago, the recollection occurred to me, when in a nervous state on some other account, and immediately all the dark thoughts left the original cause of disquietude and clustered round this Shrewsbury engagement, and I have not had a comfortable day since, and have had several broken nights. Nor -vdll my nerves be tranquil again till the engagement is either dissolved or fulfilled. There ■nlll be a mouth’s discomfort and interrupted pursuits as the consequence of one trifling engagement. Can you vconder I am compelled to say ‘No ’ to applications for foreign service? I find it difficult to explain the idiosyucracy under which I labour. It is something like this: I make a promise to preach — after a while I am somewhat poorly — I wake in the night — the promise comes up like a spectre before me — it is a trifling concern, no matter, it is a concern, it is future — I cannot sleep. I rise uncomfortable, and continue so through the day. I go to bed dreading I shall not sleep — the prediction verifies itself. Then I calculate there are so many weeks to intervene, and that I shall not sleep comfortably till it is over — and how can I endure broken rest so long 1 By this time the matter has got hold of me, and neither reason nor religion can throw it oif; and where others would find that which they would never think about for a moment tiU the time comes, I find that which darkens every moment tiU it is past. It is not, observe, a dread of the service itself, but a dread that I shall not sleep tiU it is over. I could, if called to it, get up at Surrey Chapel and preach on a missionary occasion to fiU up an unexpected gap, if I knew it only the day before; but a little engagement at a month’s distance unnei-ves me. It has become a kind of monomania. The whole, therefore, may be resolved into a morbid association of ideas, between a future service, and not sleeping tin it is over. Perhaps you can now understand my trial — and it is a deep and afilictive one to myself — and it is sometimes annojing to others to whom I give promises, extorted from me by importunity, and which I am compelled at length to break. God grant that whatever afiiiction He may see fit to visit you with, it may not be of a kind to prevent you from serving the denomination as well as yovir own congregation.”