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seen after many days. But, although he was saved by these means, and others of a kindred description, from gross immoralities, and was frequently the subject of deep convictions, even while yet a boy, yet was his goodness as the dew; it early vanished away. In this manner the days of his youth unhappily glided along, till he was about eighteen years of age. It pleased the Almighty, however, in the year 1825, to favour Cinderhill, the place where David then resided, with a remarkable outpouring of the Spirit. This effusion of the Holy Spirit commenced at a prayer-meeting, held in the month of August, in the year abovenamed. In this revival, beginning in a private house, and in answer to fervent prayer, scores of immortal souls were converted to God. David felt himself guilty and depraved, and trembled before the Lord. He now solemnly vowed to abandon his sins, and give himself wholly to God; yet he suffered the present moment to escape without taking hold of Christ by faith, and so left the means of grace in the spirit of heaviness and distress. And from that time to the 4th of December, as he was not renewed in the spirit of his mind, but weak, like other young men who have no strength from God, a course of sinning and repenting marked his steps. He was induced, by a company of friends, to go with them to Burton-Dean, a few miles from the town of Holmfirth, to hear Edward Brook, Esq., whose energy and zeal have long been owned of the Lord as a means of doing much good. On that Sunday Mr. Brook took for his text the following impressive words :-"Behold, He cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see Him, and they also which pierced Him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of Him." (Rev. i. 7.) The discourse was most awakening and rousing; and several felt its effects at the time, but none more than young David Cuttle. His mind was SO affected under the sermon, that he fancied the final scene was just taking place. The Judge seemed seated before him, the books were opened, the universe stood assembled before God, and the destiny of the wicked world was, then and there, about to be fixed for ever. Under these awful impressions, his agony became insupportable; for his sins all stared him in the face, and his heart seemed smitten within him, and withering away in his breast; so that his loins trembled as with weakness, and his knees smote each other. At the prayer-meeting after the sermon, he tarried for a while; but his anguish of soul was so great, that he took up his hat and came away.

Some of his friends overtook him as he was returning towards home; and to these, with his wonted frankness, he unfolded his state, and thereby received some relief. Night, however, still shrouded him round; the sky was blackness, and darkness, and

tempest; not a star cheered the gloom. He was still only awakened to see the dread lightnings of Sinai, and to hear the thunders of the broken law. He did, however, then and there resolve, that if pardon was to be obtained, and salvation found, he would seek and enjoy them both; and in this state he continued all that week.

On the Sunday following he attended a morning prayer-meeting, at the house of Richard Smith, Underbank; and there, after a mighty struggle with God in prayer, he obtained pardon and peace, exchanging his darkness for light, his sorrow for joy, and his tears of gall and wormwood for shouts of ecstatic bliss. The usual effects of a sound conversion followed. The word of God was sweet; the house of God was like heaven; and the returning Sabbath was as the commencement of everlasting rest. All nature seemed changed; and the universe around him appeared clad in raiment of joy.

David now joined the society; and when his Leader died, David was appointed his successor. And thus, on the hallowed spot where his soul was converted to God, and among the same people who had witnessed his transition from death into life, did he commence his duties as Class-Leader, which office he retained, with satisfaction and honour, to the day of his death.

Two years after his conversion to God, namely, in July, 1827, when he was just twenty years of age, he went to the Woodlands, to be present at an annual lovefeast. One feature of that lovefeast was, the prominence which was given, in the experience of many who spoke, to the blessing of entire sanctification, a blessing which many of them enjoyed. Others, who did not yet enjoy it, were on full stretch in its pursuit. This mnade a deep impression on the mind of young David Cuttle, and he resolved to obtain it too. The day after, at a prayermeeting held in the vestry of Holmfirth chapel, David was present, having a special and well-defined object fully in view; nor sought he that object in vain. God sanetified him wholly then, and in that very place; so that he returned home from the meeting filled with love and thanksgiving to Him who had applied his own blood, cleansing him from all sin. through all his subsequent life, a period of eighteen years, he retained this "second blessing," to the glory of the grace of the Lord.

And

From the time of his conversion to God, he entered heartily and vigorously into the way of doing good; and God succeeded his attempts. His class gradually increased under his zealous and judicious leadership. Of this class he was the Leader till 1837. when he removed from Cinderhill, and went to reside at Hinchliffe-Mill; yet, during the summer of that year, he regularly went once

BIOGRAPHY.

a week to meet his Underhill class. Afterwards, on account of the distance, and other necessary engagements, he resigned the care of that class, and, for a little more than twelve months, he became a private member of the society. Here he still grew in grace. But David, like another of that name, was in heart a hero for God. And while the Philistines were seen tented in the plains, his soul had no rest; so that on the 3d of October, 1839, he commenced a new class. This was at Kilnhouse-Bank, in the house of Mr. Firth Barber, a gentleman residing at that place. This class was small in its commencement, there being only one member in it, himself making two, with one or two more on trial. But it grew like a handful of corn; and at the time of his decease, its members were twenty-two. Twelve months afterwards, in 1840, he commenced another class, which also was small at the beginning, but increased to thirty-one souls. Thus he had fifty-three members under his care, all loving him as a Leader, and growing in grace. Besides his attention to these classes, his attendance on public worship, prayermeetings, visiting the sick, and the like, all which duties had a full portion always of his attention, David Cuttle was

one

of the most useful Teachers of a large and well-ordered Sunday-school, belonging to the Wesleyan chapel at Hinchliffe-Mill. In addition to his regular teaching in this school, it was his common practice to make a selection from among the scholars of such as he deemed the most hopeful, and to meet them on Sunday evenings, in order to give them instruction from the oracles of God. And the good which was thus effected, who can point out? It kept them from manifold evils; gained their confidence and affection; and he still lives in their affectionate recollection.

Thus did this good man live a long life in comparatively a few years. He attended to his daily avocations till the 27th of September, 1845. He then retired from his work, never to resume it again. During his illness, which was short, he was mercifully preserved, in general, from harassing conflicts with Satan, sustaining only one, in which he was tempted to doubt the mercy of God to his soul. But this temptation appears to have been soon done away. friend, calling in to see him, asked if the enemy was at a distance. "Yes," he replied. At another time, a friend who visited him inquired respecting his temptation; to whom he said, "The enemy fled when I resisted him." Several other friends, who called, always found him relying upon the Cross, and happy in God.

A

279

An event occurred on the Tuesday before his decease, not uncommon, I believe, to truly good people, in the moment of death.' yet such as does not always appear to those. who stand by. His brother Joseph, and his wife, approached his bed-side. They saw his whole frame convulsed, and in a state of great agitation. They looked on him for awhile, and then said, "He is going." In the course of about ten minutes he turned himself in his bed, lifted up his eyes, and said, "Who is going?" Joseph said, "We thought you were going." "O laddie," he replied, (this being a familiar term, which he was accustomed to use,) "I have seen such glorious sights as have made my whole body tremble. Jesus is precious: He is come; He is just here. I shall soon be with Him in glory; and shall then be with the Prophets, and Apostles, and saints of the Most High." He was now in a state of rapturous and ecstatic joy. His whole soul was wrapped in visions of eternal day. He now wished all the neighbours to be called in, that they might praise God together. He then said to his brother, "Joseph, kneel down, and let us praise God." This was a time never to be forgotten, Every earthly tie seemed dissolved, and the portals of glory opened to receive his happy soul, which was then "trembling, hoping, lingering, flying," and experiencing, not "the pain," but "the bliss, of dying." On Wednesday he was a little delirious; but in his wandering he only spoke of his native element, of heaven; and when any of his friends called to see him, he was collected and serene, On Thursday, the last day of his earthly existence, he was collected, and throughout the day kept repeating, "I shall soon be in glory." About five in the afternoon, his old friend, Mr. Barber, went again to see him, and said, "Well, David, you are still a prisoner of hope." He then lifted up his eyes and said, "All is well; all is well." Shortly afterwards, he faintly, but firmly, exclaimed, "A few more minutes; a few more minutes;" and ceased to speak the language of mortals. At twenty-seven minutes before seven o'clock on Thursday, the 6th of November, 1845, the weary wheels of life at last stood still; and on the Sunday following, in the presence of a large concourse of people, who loved him in life and respected him in death, and in the graveyard adjoining the Hinchliffe-Mill Wesleyan chapel, his body was committed to the ground by the Rev. Thomas Hill. He died at the age of little more than thirty-eight years; twenty of which had been spent in the service of God.

A. WATMOUGH,

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BAXTER'S PULPIT AT

KIDDERMINSTER.

Ir is worthy of being generally known that the pulpit occupied by "the Reverend, learned, venerable, and holy Richard Baxter, of immortal memory," at Kidderminster, still exists; being preserved, with great care, in the vestry of the Socinian, or "New MeetingHouse." It is small, made of oak, quite sound and firm; and is "rather a handsome production of its kind. It is of an octagon form. The panels have long, carved flowers on them, which are painted different colours, and some of the gilding still remains. There is a large octagon-shaped sound-board, surmounted by a crown upon a cushion; around the top is inscribed, And Call Upon His Name, Declare His Works Among the People.' (Psal. cv.) Upon the back is the inscription, Anno 1621, Mistress Dawkx.' A sentence encircles the pulpit, one word in each partition; namely, Widow Dawkx Gave This;' from which it appears that it

was presented to the parish church at Kidderminster by the above-mentioned lady." Above this sentence, and in front of the pulpit, is another; namely, "Praise The Lord."

From what has been stated above, it will be seen that this pulpit was not built for Baxter, but was the gift of " Allice Dawkx, Widow," in the year 1621, nineteen years before Baxter came to the town. "In 1780 it was sold, together with the pewing of the parish church, for a trifling sum. A gentleman, anxious to preserve it from destruction, bought it from the first purchaser for five pounds, and placed it in the vestry of the

New Meeting,' where it may still be seen." It is said that the friends of the Church deeply regret that it was allowed to pass out of their hands; and that liberal sums have been offered for its recovery, but all in vain, as the party in possession of it, for some reason, set a very high value upon it.

The following poem is suspended on the

MISCELLANY OF EXTRACTS AND CORRESPONDENCE.

back of the pulpit, written in Latin and English. It is from the pen of the late Rev. George Butt, Vicar of Kidderminster, who presented it to the congregation of the "New Meeting," during the ministry of the late Rev. Robert Gentleman, editor of "Job Orton's Exposition of the Old Testament," and the first stated Minister of the "New Meeting," after their separation from the "Old Meeting," in 1780.

"Here, let the name of Baxter long be known;
Here let his glory live, whom none excell'd
In all the duties of the Pastor's care;
Whether his mental faculties you weigh,
Or the yet nobler virtue of his heart.
Vain pomp and worldly riches he despised,
That fame which strenuous virtue gives the few,
He saw, he sought, he seized; then raised his
head,

Towering superior, like some cloud-capt cliff
Which scorns the fury of the stormy winds,
Whence rushes forth the fertilizing stream,
To which the plenteous harvest owes its birth,
(An harvest long remember'd through these
plains,)

Thus Baxter stood, amid surrounding foes.
By his example fired, go, banish sloth;
Pour forth the streams of sacred eloquence;
Instruct, then add example's clearest light,
And gain a harvest of immortal souls.
Go, banish sloth; and strive to equal him:
But vain the' attempt. Let this at least be thine,
(Whoe'er thou art, whate'er thy strength can do,)
With pure benevolence to serve mankind,
And, through a Saviour, gain immortal bliss."

Baxter's pulpit is an object of considerable interest to strangers visiting Kidderminster; and many Ministers, both of the Established Church and of the Nonconformist bodies, have gazed upon it with very peculiar emotions, remembering "what a saintly and apostolic man had often occupied it;" and "what an eloquence of piety had been, with almost miraculous efficacy, poured from it;" and recollecting, too, his own well-known lines, as descriptive of his preaching, especially at this period of his ministry,—

"Still thinking I had little time to live, My fervent heart to win men's souls did strive.

281

I preach'd, as never sure to preach again,
And as a dying man to dying men!"
Poetical Fragments.

The profound, yet eccentric, John Foster, author of the "Essays," &c., visited Kidderminster in the year 1814, and went to see the pulpit. The following is the account which he gave of his visit, in a letter to his mother, written immediately after his return home, and dated Bourton, September, 1814:

"Kidderminster, where Baxter preached with such marvellous success, being at no great distance from Worcester, I took a ride there, with one or two friends, and walked a long time in and about the church in which he preached, and in which the people, it is said, are now taught no doctrine similar to his. His pulpit remained till within a few years back, when it was removed as an old-fashioned thing. We went to see it, where it is carefully preserved, in the vestry of a Socinian meeting-house. An ancient-looking inscription carved on it, shows it to be nearly two hundred years old, being placed in the church many years (nineteen) before Baxter preached there. It is small, of oak, quite sound and firm, and is decorated with old carving, painting, and gilding, in a manner which must have been strangely gaudy; insomuch that, unless this was common in those days, one could almost fancy Baxter must have been displeased with so showy an object every time he looked at it. It was striking to stand in this pulpit, and reflect what a saintly and apostolic man had often occupied it; what an eloquence of piety had been, with almost miraculous efficacy, poured from it; and what the state of that Preacher may be now. It was impossible not to feel some emotions of sorrow at having been so little like him, and of desire to be more enabled and animated to follow him as he followed Christ." (Life and Correspondence.) JOHN SMART.

Kidderminster.

MISCELLANY OF EXTRACTS AND CORRESPONDENCE.

LAMARTINE'S INFANCY.

[IN his "Confidences," M. Lamartine gives the following account. His father had been cast, by the Revolutionists, into a prison exactly opposite his own house.]

My father, when suddenly thrown into this prison, found himself therefore on wellknown ground. To crown his good fortune, the jailer, a most corruptible republican, had been, fifteen years before, a cuirassier in my father's company. His new rank had not changed his heart. Accustomed to re

spect and love his Captain, he was deeply moved on seeing him again; and when the gates of the Ursulines closed upon the captive, the republican was the only one who shed a tear.

My father found himself in the midst of a goodly and numerous company. The prison contained about two hundred persons, confined without any crime being laid to their charge; the suspicious characters of the department. They were huddled together in the halls, in the refectories, and in the corridors of the old convent. My father

282

MISCELLANY OF EXTRACTS AND CORRESPONDENCE.

requested, as a sole favour from the jailer, to lodge him alone in a corner of the garret. A lofty dormer-window, looking towards the street, would permit him at least the consolation of seeing sometimes, through the grating, the roof of his own abode. This favour was granted him, and he installed himself beneath the tiles, with the aid of a few planks and a miserable truckle-bed. In the day-time he descended to his companions in captivity to take his meals, to play at games, to talk over the affairs of the time, respecting which the prisoners were reduced to conjectures, for they were not permitted to hold any communication in writing with those outside the walls. But this isolated state did not last long, as far as my father was concerned.

The same feeling which had induced him to ask the jailer for a cell looking out on the street, and which kept him stationed for whole hours together gazing at the roof of his little house opposite, had also inspired my mother with the idea of frequently ascending to the garret of her dwelling, and of seating herself near the skylight, a little hack from the opening, so as to see without being seen. She contemplated from thence, through her tears, the roof of the prison which had snatched from her love, and hidden from her eyes, him whom she adored. Two looks, two thoughts, which seek each other through the universe, ever end by meeting, and a fortiori, when they are separated only by two walls and a narrow street. Their eyes met, their hearts were stirred, their thoughts beat responsive, their signs supplied the place of words, for fear that the sound of their voices should betray their intercourse to the sentinels in the street. They passed in this manner regularly several hours each day, seated face to face. All their soul was centred in their eyes. My mother, who had retained some paper and pens, thought of the expedient of writing in large characters some concise lines, containing in a few words what she wished to communicate to the prisoner. The latter replied by a sign. Thenceforward a communication was established, and it was not long before all the arrangements were completed. My father, as a chevalier of the arquebuss, had in his house a bow and arrows, with which I have often played in my boyhood. It occurred to my mother to make use of this means to communicate more satisfactorily with the prisoner. She practised for several days in her apartment at shooting with the bow; and when she had acquired sufficient address to be certain of not missing her aim at a few feet distance, she attached a thread to an arrow, and shot the latter into the window of the prison. My father concealed the arrow, and pulling the thread towards him, he secured the letter which was fastened to it. By means of this apparatus, under cover of the night, were transmitted to him

paper, pens, and ink. He replied at his leisure. My mother, on her side, came before daybreak to release long letters, in which the captive poured forth his tenderness and sorrow, questioned, advised, and consoled his wife, and spoke to her of his child. My poor mother carried me every day in her arms to the garret-window, showed me to my father, gave me nourishment before him, made me stretch out my little hands towards the bars of the prison; then, pressing my forehead to her breast, she devoured me with kisses, in the sight of the prisoner, and seemed thus to waft him mentally all the caresses which she lavished on me with this purpose.

Thus glided on months and months, troubled by terrors, agitated by hopes, sometimes illumined and consoled by those gleams of light which two beings who love send each other by a look, even in the darkest night of sorrow and adversity. Love inspired my father with a bolder and still happier idea, the success of which rendered captivity itself delightful, and banished from his mind all dread of the scaffold.

Not

I have already said that the street which separated the convent of the Ursulines from our paternal abode was very narrow. content with seeing my mother, with writing and speaking to her, my father conceived the idea of enjoying closer communion with her, by crossing the interval of space which separated them. She shuddered at the thought; he persisted. Some hours of happiness, snatched from persecutions and death, were well worth a few moments of danger. Who could tell if this opportunity would ever again present itself? If to-morrow orders might not be received to transfer the prisoner to Lyons, to Paris, to the scaffold? My mother yielded. With the aid of an arrow and a thread, she managed to transmit a file to the captive; one of the iron bars of the little window of the prison was silently filed through, and then restored to its place; then one evening when there was no moonlight, a stout cord was fastened to the thread, and glided from my mother's attic to the prisoner's hand. Firmly fastened on one side to a beam in the garret of our house, my father tied it on the opposite side to one of the bars of his grated window. Then, clinging to it by his hands and feet, and sliding himself along from knot to knot above the heads of the sentinels, he crossed the street, and found himself in the arms of his wife, and beside the cradle of his child.

Having thus escaped from prison, it was perfectly at his option not to return; but by so doing he would have been found guilty of contumacy, or condemned as an emigré, and in either way would have ruined his wife and family he therefore never dreamed of such a step. He reserved to himself, as a last means of safety, this method of escape, to be

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