older, had pursued those cottage and fieldpreachings, and the studies and discipline of each day were counteractive of any vanity that might spring from the commendations of the ignorant. But it would seem that Mr. Winter had brought himself to the verge of difficulties, by selfrenouncing charity to others, and it became necessary for his pupil, now thrown on the world, to seek some humbler settlement. Such a one he found in the village of Christian Malford. No doubt Christain Malford is a place where any common man might hide himself effectually, but this youth had made himself too well-known to be concealed. He had already won the respect of hundreds in that very neighborhood, and each time he raised his voice he added to his popularity. With a salary of thirty-five pounds per annum, he calculated on living humbly and happily in private lodgings, devoting his days to study, preparing for a wider sphere, and waiting until the lapse of time should bring him to an age that the world would accredit as mature. He tried to be obscure. But this might not be. Frequent applications to render occasional service, drew him into neighboring places, and threw him into an ever widening circle. It was at this time, and before he had reached his twentieth year, that the Rev. Rowland Hill invited him to preach in Surrey Chapel. Perhaps the announcement of so youthful an orator might have been attractive to a large audience, but the hearers were far from being disappointed, and the crowd was so great that, after the service, he had to address, from a window of the chapel-house, a multitude that thronged the chapel-yard, and not being able to find admission to the sermon lingered there in hope of catching a glimpse of the young man, or hearing a word from his lips. He occupied the pulpit of Surrey Chapel several times, and addressed immense congregations. Once the Rev. John Newton was present; and after observing the germs of future excellence, and considering how strong must be the pressure of temptation to pride by such extreme popularity, he followed the young preacher into the house after service, and gave him some affectionate and faithful advice, which he treasured with gratitude, and often made respectful mention of in after life. He also began to preach in Bath, where he supplied the pulpit on account of the sickness of the minister, whom he afterward succeeded, and there met with Lady Maxwell, who engaged him to officiate in her chapel. This severed him from the little congregation of Christian Malford, and brought him to the town with which his name will always be associated: for "Jay of Bath can never be forgotten. Lady Maxwell invited him to take charge of this congregation; and, at the same time, the Rev. Mr. Tuppen, the Independent minister, for whom he had often preached, being on his death-bed, named him as his successor. The Argyle-street Chapel was then in course of completion: but Mr. Tuppen, for whom it was erected, did not recover to occupy it, and on Sunday, Oct. 4th, 1789, Mr. Jay preached the first sermon therein. Mr. Tuppen died February 22d, 1790; and on January 30th, 1791, Mr. Jay was ordained to the pastorate of that Church, and opened his ministry to the flock, now become his own, by preaching from the words: "What thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter," with allusion, no doubt, to the perplexity in which he had been involved by diversity of proposals and by conflicting views, both in himself and others. His honored friend and tutor, of all men the most proper for such a service, delivered the ordination charge. Bath, it should be observed, was then a very different place from what it is now. It was far more celebrated. The baths were in the height of their reputation. There were the noble, the gay, the dissolute. The spirit of Beau Nash still haunted that theater of profusion and folly. Even the languishing came thither that they might struggle against death, amid the warbling of songs and the vibration of dances. It was a Paphos. Yet religion, as we have seen, had some genteel followers even in Bath, and it was a noble lady who had sought to enlist Mr. Jay's talent and fervor on its side but even listeners to the gospel were fastidious. "For such a situation," to borrow the words of his friend, the Rev. J. A. James, " Mr. Jay was eminently suited. Attractive in personal appearance, with a voice of music, a demeanor that combined the simplicity of village manners with the inartificial polish of the city: and what was more than all, and better than all, with a deeply-rooted piety in his own heart, and a rich unction of evangelical truth in his sermons, he was suited to the place and the place to him. His ministry soon drew upon him, not only the eyes of the citizens, but of those who came there as visitors; and as, at that time, Bath was not favored, as it happily now is, with evangelical ministrations in the pulpits of the Church of England, the pious, and many of the illustrious members 'of that communion, who came there either for recreation or health, were glad to avail themselves of the benefit of his acceptable public services and of his private friendship. Among these were Wilberforce and Hannah More. Unworthy attempts have been made to conceal the friendship of these distinguished individuals for Mr. Jay. His autobiography, however, will successfully draw aside the vail which has been cast over this subject, and prove how close was the intimacy between the liberator of Africa, the holy and lofty authoress of Barley Wood, and the minister of Argyle Chapel." loved and honored them no less than when he lived in that mean dwelling, and knew no vocation higher than his father's craft. The even career of a preacher, however eminent, cannot afford much incident to his biographer. The most remarkable period of Mr. Jay's life was that which we have already traced; and all that now remains for us to do is to gather a few notices of his manner of preaching, his course of life, and the calm and glorious eventide in which that life closed. His voice, as it has been truly said, can never be forgotten by one who has heard it once. Its fine barytone soothed the audience, and prepared the way for the teaching or admonition that should follow; and, while his eloquence was capable of great variety, he chiefly excelled in the expression of tenderness. His object was to produce impression, not indeed on the imagination, but on the heart; and, aiming at this, he threw aside, whenever occasion required, mere pulpit conventionalities. Curt, grave, impressive, he strove to concentrate as much meaning as possiSen-ble within the compass of his sentences; and sometimes breaking off the current of thought, he would catch a conception fresh as it came, letting it serve his end even if it interrupted his argument. The first words of a discourse were often abrupt, and even foreign from the subject to be treated, but they served his purpose of winning the ear, and perhaps the heart, of some hearer at the same time. They were like an arrow just shot at a venture— a first essay of the elasticity of the bow that he was bending. And he bent that bow, and leveled those shafts, with an intensity of satisfaction that was apparent in every lineament of his expressive countenance, and fully justified a saying of his own, that he would rather be a preacher of the gospel than the angel that should blow the trumpet at the last day. And the soul, and emphasis, and music of his discourse was such that oftentimes, as we have heard, an accustomed hearer-one who knew and loved the man-confessed he could almost imagine, as the longloved voice came upon his ear, that it was indeed the utterance of an angel. The sententiousness of his discourses was made happily subservient to their perspicuity, and tended to fix both sermon and doctrine on the memory. A beautiful Nobles and bishops drove up to Argyle Chapel and heard him with delight. ators and comedians, each in his own way, came to profit by his eloquence, which was as unaffected as it was devout; except, indeed, when with flashes of wit, and strokes of satire, that thickened as he advanced, he poured a ridicule upon prevailing vices that must have made some of his hearers contemptible in their own eyes, which was just what he desired. Never ashamed of his origin, he did not talk about it, with an idle ostentation of humility, but from the affluence which had fallen on him unsought, it was his care to supply his father and mother in Tisbury with all they needed for the comfort of their advancing age; and as long as they lived they were sustained by his filial care. "Is your name Jay ?" said a stranger, who once found out the cottage, and was curious to enter the birth-place of the man who was at that time a prince of pulpit orators. "Ay," said the old man, my name is Jeay." Have you got a son?" "Yes, I've 'a got a son in Bath. That's Passon Jeay. Ay! bless 'im!" And then the old gentleman and his wife, with a simplicity like that inherited by the "Passon" himself, related at great length the bounties and the tendernesses of their noble and reverend child, who 66 illustration of this was furnished, not long ago, by one of his congregation when on his death-bed. He was an aged man. For the last time he heard his pastor preach from these words: " My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest." The old pilgrim returned no more to Argyle Chapel, but lay at home enjoying in frequent meditation the lessons he had learned there. This last sermon dwelt much in his thoughts. "I wish," said he, "I could give you some idea of a discourse so suitable to my present circumstances; but though my memory serves me, my speech begins to fail. But think of this: "1. My presence shall go with thee, to guide thee; and I will give thee rest from perplexity. "2. My presence shall go with thee, to guard thee; and I will give thee rest from apprehension. "3. My presence shall go with thee, to supply thee; and I will give thee rest from want. "4. My presence shall go with thee to comfort thee; and I will give thee rest from sorrow." Here was nothing scholastic, nothing labored; but here was the voice of a faithful shepherd, sounding in the memory and cheering the soul of one of his flock, while passing through the dark valley and shadow of death. "His speech," says a member of his congregation, and one who is himself no stranger to the occupation of a pulpit, "his speech is calm and steady, indicating a mind self-reliant, possessed, content with the divine majesty of his theme. As he speaks, you glide with him through a galaxy of light; and yet he seems indifferent to the graces or other arts of eloquence; never says a word too much, or a word too little dreams not of a Demosthenes, yet is a Boanerges; recks not of gaudy words, yet is When unadorn'd adorn'd the more.' "How hushed is the assembly! With what power of conviction his plain, manly, devout sentences fix the soul upon his lips, the eye upon his face! Yet what he says, we almost fancy all knew before; but who could have spoken it like him? If we fancy we can, let us try. No; it is not a pastor's robe that makes a pastor's heart; and we believe the best eloquence is born there." During the greatest part of his life he preached extempore, as it is called, but it would be more correct to say, without verbal preparation. Latterly, on great public occasions, he read his sermons, perhaps conscious of less of that buoyancy of spirit, which once rose freely to the height of the theme and overcame the exigency of the moment. Even in his ordinary discourses he aided his memory by short notes, but in private expressed regret that he had fallen into this new habit, finding it often a hinderance rather than a help. Every one who describes his manner, mentions the emphasis he threw into his reading. The simplicity of language in which a granddaughter of his own describes that perfection of a good reader, conveys a clearer idea of it than could be given in an elaborate description. walked down at seven to hear dear grandpapa. He preached a most glorious sermon upon 'the manifestation of the sons of God.' I doubt if you can possibly imagine our feelings when the venerable silver head appeared in the pulpit, and then bent in silent prayer. The expression with which he reads is wonderful-his words distill as the dew; so softly, and yet so effectually do they fall. His manner of emphasizing some passages gives you an entirely new view of them." 66 The last words-except the benediction that he ever delivered in Argyle Chapel, were in a sermon on the morning of Sunday, July 25th, 1852, which closed in a manner that might almost seem prophetic. With great feeling he quoted these verses from the Apocalypse: "Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple, and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." He made no comment, and how could he? But he pronounced these final words: "If this be heaven, O that I were there!" His home was made happy by the charm of a lovely temper and pure example. Temperance and early rising helped to keep him alive to green old age, and some of his habits were peculiar. He rose at six, breakfasted at seven, and took exercise after breakfast. In winter, or in rainy weather, his exercise consisted in chopping firewood. An amusing story is told of his wood-chopping. Lustily at work one morning in his cellar in Percy Place, the quick ear of a policeman caught the reverberation of his blows, and at length, fancying that some operation was going on inconsistent with his own notions of public order, the guardian of the peace roared through the grating-" I say, there, what's all this noise about? What are you doing there?" "What am I doing here! I'm chopping wood. Hasn't a man a right to do what he likes in his own house?" It can scarcely be necessary to say that the honest author of the "Address to Masters of Families," discharged, in his own househeld, the duties of a Christian master; and that the writer of the "Morning and Evening Exercises," ministered faithfully at his own domestic altar. On the completion of his fiftieth year as pastor at Argyle Chapel, his flock held a sort of jubilee, and, on that occasion, a beautiful purse was presented to him, containing six hundred and fifty sovereigns fresh from the mint. Mr. Jay received the gift, and turning to his wife, who was present with him at the meeting convened on the occasion, addressed her thus:-"I take this purse, and present it to you, madam-to you, madam, who have always kept my purse, and therefore it is that it has been so well kept. Consider it entirely sacred-for your pleasure, your use, your service, your comfort. I feel this to be unexpected by you, but it is perfectly deserved. Mr. Chairman and Christian friends, I am sure there is not one here but would acquiesce in this, if he knew the value of this lady as a wife for more than fifty years. I must mention the obligation the public are under to her-if I have been enabled to serve my generation-and how much she has raised her sex in my estimation; how much my Church and congregation owe to her watching over their pastor's health, whom she has cheered under all his trials, and reminded of his duties, while she animated him in their performance. How often she has wiped the evening dews from his forehead, and freed him from interruption and embarrassments that he might be free for his work! How much also do my family owe to her! and what reason they have to call her blessed! She is, too, the mother of another mother in America, who has reared thirteen children, all of whom are walking with her in the way everlasting." When Mr. Jay had reached his eightyfourth year, and was also suffering under an attack of a painful disease, he deemed it right to resign his pulpit. It was in April, 1853, that he sent in his final resignation. There had been some discomfort in the congregation, in consequence of difficulties that arose concerning the settlement of a co-pastor, or of supplies. But, with a generous cordiality, “the Church assigned him an annuity of £200 per annum for life, out of the income of the place." But he did not live much longer. For many years, he had anticipated the end of his career. On his meeting a good old man once, this pithy colloquy took place between them. "How do you do?" said Jay. "I am longing to leave this world," said the weary pilgrim; "I am tired of it." "I am tired of it too," was the reply; "but I must work on, until it pleases God to give me rest." And later, he remarked, "that he had known, in his time, many excellent and eminent men, all of whom were gone into eternity; but," said he, "of late they all seem to stand nearer to me than they ever were." The truth is, that he was nearer them. The last hours of his life were calm. "On my referring," says Rev. J. A. James, "to that expression in the ninetyfirst psalm, as applicable to his own case, 'With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation;' Ah!' he replied, "I have known the fulfillment of every part of the psalm but the last verse, and I shall know that in an hour.'" That hour soon came. He departed December 27th, 1853. SWEDISH NAMES.-Few of the Swedish peasants have surnames, and in consequence their children simply take their father's Christian name in addition to their own for example, if the father's name be Sven Larson, his sons', in consequence, would be Jan or Nils Svens-son; and his daughters', Maria or Eliza Svens-daughter. The confusion that this system creates would be endless, were it not that in all matters of business the residence of the party is usually attached to his name. |