The Life And Testimony Of Joshua Tuckwell

Gospel Standard 1868:

[Joshua Carby Tuckwell, Deacon Of The Particular Baptist Church, Allington, Wilts. (Contributed by the Editor)]

There are few things more sensibly felt, as we advance in life, than the departure, one by one, of dear and esteemed friends; and though every such removal is a loud, personal, and repeated warning to us that we too shall soon be numbered with them, yet we do not less painfully feel that in this world we shall see their face and hear their voice no more.

Among these old and esteemed friends thus removed by death, I must ever bear in affectionate remembrance the subject of the present Obituary. Him I had known, and with him I had walked in union and communion in the precious truths of the gospel for about 32 years. I feel, therefore, a sweet yet melancholy satisfaction in recording from the scanty materials which I possess, some account of the dealings of God with his soul, as well as to trace out how he lived and how he died, how he sank and rose, was afflicted and comforted, fought and conquered, until he finished at last his course with joy. My desire and aim in so doing are not only to rear “a little testimony to the memory of one of my oldest and warmest friends, and one of the sincerest and worthiest men whom I ever knew in my life, but to set forth the triumphs of free, sovereign, and superabounding grace as manifested in him that it may be a means of promoting the glory of God and the good of his people, two objects which were always near to his heart.

As, like many other good men, he has left behind him no special account of the dealings of God with his soul. I am dependent chiefly on the memory of surviving friends who have heard him speak of his experience, and partly on my own recollections. But I have the special advantage in his case of having had put into my hand some choice-letters written by him to a mutual friend of us both, with whom he had long felt much union and communion of spirit; and by the combined help of these sources, I hope to be able to present to his friends and my readers some connected, trustworthy memorial of his spiritual life.

I need not enter into any long, detailed account of his natural birth and education, though I am strongly of opinion that some little knowledge of these external circumstances always adds a peculiar interest to the spiritual biography of the people of God, and particularly so as often displaying in very marked characters the providential hand of God with them and over them from the beginning, and indeed, I may add, before they had birth or being. (Jer. 1:5; Gal. 1:15.) The father, then, of my late dear friend was originally by profession an officer in the Royal Navy, serving under Sir George, afterwards Lord Rodney, and was present with him in his celebrated action off Guadaloupe, April 12th, 1782, when, by breaking the enemy line, a naval manuevre then for the first time practised, the English Admiral completely defeated the French fleet of thirty-four ships of the line under the command of Comte de Grasse. In this celebrated action, which saved the West Indies from a French invasion, and in which my friend’s father had some hair-breadth escapes of life, besides the vessels which were sunk or escaped, for a good many sheered off, six prizes were taken, and amongst them the French Admiral’s own flag-ship, the renowned “Ville de Paris,” 110 guns, with Comte de Grasse aboard, who had fought her to the last with the most desperate courage, and only hauled down her flag when he was forsaken by his other ships, and the sun was setting.

[This ship was a present from the city of Paris to Louis XV., and cost £176,000 in building and fitting out; and at the time of her capture, had on board thirty-six chests of money to pay the French troops in the West Indies.]

The reason why I specially name this will be presently seen. In command of one of the prizes, Lieutenant Tuckwell, as I shall call him, his naval rank not now being exactly known, was sent home invalided, there being at that time much sickness in the English fleet, from bad victualing and the unhealthy climate. Now here we may see the Providence of God watching over my friend even before his very birth; for if his father had not been invalided he could have claimed by right of seniority to have gone home in command of the “Ville de Paris,” and had this been the case, in all human probability he would never have reached his native land; for three days afterwards that noble ship, having been so terribly knocked about in the action, foundered at sea, and went down into the depths of the ocean with every living soul on board, not one of whom escaped a watery grave. Lieutenant Tuckwell reached home safely in command of his prize; but being invalided, and the war being terminated in January, 1783, by the conclusion of a general peace, his connection with the navy became terminated, and after having made some ineffectual attempt, on the recovery of his health, to join the Russian service, finally relinquished the naval profession. In June, 1793, he married, and not long after took a large farm at Netheravon, in the county of Wilts, where he resided to the time of his death, in 1819.

At Netheravon, then, on the 7th of May, 1799, Joshua Carby, the subject of the present Obituary, was born into this world of sin and sorrow; and when old enough was sent to a large school at Wantage, Berks, then kept by a Mr. Jennings, under whom he received a good and sound education. He was not, I believe, brought up to any particular profession, but like many sons of large tenant farmers, was chiefly occupied on the farm, which, being carried on by the widow for ten years after her husband’s death, would necessarily demand his care and supervision.

I have been thus far furnished with materials for these temporal and outward circumstances from some members of his family who still remain to mourn his loss; and I could but wish I had equally trustworthy materials for spiritual and inward circumstances, so as to be able to describe as clearly the when and the how, the time and the place, that God was pleased to begin the work of grace upon his soul. But it evidently was when he was quite young; for he was at the time living at Netheravon, so that most probably it was some little space after his father’s death. I have heard him speak, however, of the effect produced upon his mind by the first convictions of sin which fell upon his conscience, and that it drove him amongst the Wesleyans, whose meetings he for some time attended. But one evening, in the very midst of these first convictions, the leader of the prayer-meeting, to use his own words when he related the circumstance to me, “prayed to the devil;” for he cried out with a loud voice, “Come, devil, and shake them over the flames of hell;” which words so terrified and shocked him that he felt actually afraid lest Satan himself should take the man at his word, appear in person, and show himself in some bodily shape. From that moment he firmly resolved that if he got safely out he never would be found at such a meeting again.

In a letter, which I shall by and by insert, he speaks very clearly of having experienced the work of the law upon his conscience; and this therefore is the period at which I have reason to believe he became first acquainted with its spirituality, curse, condemnation, and bondage.

When his soul was thus under this first concern, the late Mr. Roger Hitchcock came, in the providence of God, as curate to the neighbouring parish of Figheldean, where he preached with considerable boldness and clearness the discriminating doctrines of grace. His preaching caused great excitement in the neighbourhood, and Carby Tuckwell, as he was generally called, and as I shall henceforward call him, was induced to go to hear him; and finding his ministry suitable and acceptable to the state of his soul, left his own parish church, and became a constant hearer at that of Figheldean. I have reason to believe that it was under his ministry that the first comfort was administered to his soul. At any rate, it was under him that he first learnt and became established in the doctrines of grace.

It pleased the Lord soon after this time to convince Mr. R. Hitchcock of the errors and corruptions in the Church of England, and that so forcibly that he felt compelled to secede from her communion, and to resign his curacy at Figheldean. As, however, he had gathered round him there an attached people, he felt that he could not leave them without a shepherd until he saw the pillar of the cloud going before him, and therefore used for some time to meet with and speak to them in a shoemaker’s room, which became called in the village “the cobbler’s shop.” Thither Carby Tuckwell followed him as a constant hearer; and as he thus manifested his boldness and faithfulness as well as his attachment to Mr. Hitchcock’s ministry, he was brought into a more intimate acquaintance with him, and a mutual friendship and affection sprang up between them which was never broken. Here, then, he continued to hear the preached word, and worship with his friends, until some time afterwards Mr. R. Hitchcock was led to remove from that little knot of people to the town of Andover, where he preached at a chapel, and continued until he became pastor over the old Baptist Church at Devizes. But the loss of his ministry was not so greatly felt by Carby as might have been expected; for about this time the Lord raised up a gracious, godly man, named Stephen Offer, to preach the word at a small Baptist Chapel at Netheravon. His ministry, therefore, Carby now attended, and under it was led more deeply into a knowledge of sin and self than he before had seen or known. He thus passed from under a doctrinal to an experamental ministry, which, I have observed, is a frequent leading of the Lord in the experience of his dear family. As far as I can judge from what I have seen and heard, it was under Roger Hitchcock’s ministry that Carby first learnt and tasted the sweetness of the discriminating doctrines of the glorious gospel of Jesus Christ; but he had now to learn something more than doctrine, and for this reason was brought by the hand of the Lord under the ministry of Stephen Offer. Stephen, who lived many years after this, dying in 1854, was a simple, humble man, well taught and exercised in the things of God, and one who strongly insisted upon a godly, consistent walk. My friend has been heard to say that under Stephen’s ministry he was often humbled down into the dust of self-abasement, and was made much more sensible of the depths of the fall, and his own sinfulness, corruption, and misery, than he had ever known or felt before. And he has been heard also to say that he thus became more deeply convinced of his personal need of Christ, was led to see more of his suitability, beauty, blessedness, and excellence, was made willing to embrace him, and long to lay hold of him, but found and felt that he could not, as being held down firm and fast by the power of unbelief. But when he was in this wretched state of mind, these words were applied to his heart with power: “What thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter;” and these also: “I have many things to say unto thee, but thou canst not bear them now.” But besides these helps and encouragements by the way, though not yet fully delivered, he had many sweet tastes of the love of God in his heart; and having seen baptism as a divine ordinance, and feeling desirous to pass through it, he offered himself as a candidate to the Particular Baptist Church, which had been formed at Netheravon, and being received by it was baptized by Stephen Offer in the neighbouring river in the year 1828. There was a very large concourse of people to witness the baptism, and amongst them many of the neighbouring farmers, some out of respect, and others out of curiosity, but there were few among them who did not esteem him as a sincere and good man. Early in the following year, the widow and family, who had held on the farm after his father’s death, gave it up, and Carby was left apparently without a fixed occupation or home. But the God of all his mercies had, in his own eternal mind, already provided a home for him, and had fixed it in a place where he should be blessed and made a blessing. This was the little hamlet of Allington, near Devizes, in which town his old friend Roger Hitchcock was then residing as the pastor of the Old Baptist church there.

There were circumstances connected with his first going to, and specially of his being afterwards permanently fixed at Allington of a very marked and providential character, which I should be glad to name, but they are of such a private and peculiar nature that, however striking they were, I am obliged to pass them by. It was at this time that the little Baptist chapel at Allington was being built, and when the church was formed, some time afterwards, Carby Tuckwell was chosen one of the deacons an office for which he was well qualified, and which he discharged with the greatest faithfulness and affectionate interest in the cause of truth and people of God to the time of his decease.

I have mentioned that, though at various periods of his spiritual life he had been blessed and favoured, yet at this time he had not been fully delivered into the glorious liberty of the gospel, nor was it until about two years afterwards that he received a clear testimony to his interest in the blood and righteousness of the Lord Jesus Christ. Writing many years afterwards to the friend whom I have named, he gives him some little account of the way in which the Lord was pleased to manifest himself to his. soul:

“I have not forgotten the sweet and blessed feelings I had when you preached at Avebury. I could follow you nearly all through your discourse; for I knew that I had felt the condemnation of the law, and that I was cursed by it, knew no way of escape from it, and expected to be crushed into hell by it every moment. It was against the law of a holy God I had sinned; it was his commandments I had broken, and it was the wrath due to me for so doing that I feared would fall upon my guilty and defenceless head. But, blessed be God, there was mercy for wretched, sinful me, in the Son of his love; and when Jesus Christ revealed himself to me as my Saviour, spoke comfort to my miserable soul, brought joy and gladness into my troubled heart, and said to me: “All is yours; for ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God.” O, my friend, how great the change! How the tears of godly sorrow for sin; yes, and tears of joy, thankfulness, gratitude, and praise also gushed from my eyes, dropped from my cheeks on the floor of the room, and I kept saying, ‘Why me, Lord? Why such a wretch as I?’ I could not understand why the Lord should so manifest himself to me, and fill my soul with such joy and peace. At that time I was looking for hell, and expected to be sent there, but the Lord brought heaven into my heart. I can’t forget the time I was so favoured and blessed of the Lord; but the sweet feeling of it has long been gone, and I have had a dark and mournful path to walk in since, and many a time have I thought I should never hold on my way.”

As it was not very long after this special deliverance that I became first acquainted with him, I hope I shall be excused if I now speak a little of myself, and of some circumstances connected with my first going to Allington, especially as it will presently be seen to have a bearing on the experience of my departed friend, the subject of the present Obituary.

In March, then, 1835, after some years’ conflict of mind, and prayer and supplication to the Lord, I was enabled to secede from the Church of England, both as a minister and a member, and cast in my lot with the poor despised people of God. At this time, I had no place or people in view among whom to minister; for I went out, almost like Abraham, not knowing whither I went; nor, indeed, could I well expect any such door could be opened to me, as my health at that time was so weak, and my chest so tender, that I could not preach twice on the Lord’s day without suffering from it for some days afterwards. But for some time previous to my secession, though at the time unknown to me, a remarkable spirit of prayer had been poured out on a leading member and brother deacon of Carby Tuckwell’s, at Allington, since a dear and valued friend of mine, who had heard of me through my dear brother, the late William Tiptaft, and who knew, through him, the exercises of my mind, that I might leave the Church of England, and come and preach there. He has often since told me how suddenly and how unexpectedly (for never having even seen me, and having only heard of me through report, he could not himself account for it) this spirit of prayer came upon him; nor could he find any rest in his mind until he had come up to Stadhampton, in Oxfordshire, where I was then residing, that he might hear me preach, and form my personal acquaintance. I hope to be excused if I add, that, having accomplished this desire, the spirit of prayer in him was much strengthened and encouraged, though it was more than a year and a half afterwards before I was enabled to secede. Upon this point, however, I do not wish to dwell, or mention other circumstances, all of which worked together to the same point; but I believe that if I could fully detail them, my readers would feel, with me, that my going to Allington was one of the most remarkable answers to prayer that are often recorded.

[I cannot forbear, however, giving an extract from a letter, received a short time since, from the dear friend to whom I have thus alluded: “Your coming to Allington was at a most suitable time; and it must have been the Lord’s hand and the Lord’s will, as the sequel has proved to be. If ever a spirit of prayer was given to me for any one thing, it ivas on that point, viz., that the Lord would be pleased to send you to Allington. I felt constrained in my feelings at that time, so that it was somehow a pleasure to beg of the Lord that he would answer my prayer. But what the end would be, I did not know, or whether I should ever succeed or not But I am sure of this one thing, that my thoughts at that time were more about you than all my business and everybody else put together perhaps more than I thought about my own soul’s standing. It has been brought very much of late to my mind afresh, and I remember how, when I used to walk about the orchard, my thoughts used to be running about making preparations for you, if you should come, contriving sometimes one plan and then another. Sometimes I thought, if you would never come here, I would move to wherever you settled. Still, I could never move back from calling upon the Lord that you might come here, though often questioning whether I was right. Nor was I ever easy till, after my begging and entreating, he made a way open, and answered my cry. Let whatever will take place, I know there was a real spirit of prayer for you on me then, and I feel satisfied that your coming to A. was wholly of the Lord.”]

In June, then, 1835, I paid the friends there my first visit, and was with them for five Lord’s days. Having been for some years somewhat sharply exercised in my own mind, not only as to my continuing in the Church of England, but as to my own personal experience of the truth of God, as well as my state and standing for eternity, I may freely say my ministry was at this time of a very separating, searching, and I believe I may add, cutting character; and having much zeal and warmth as most young soldiers have,’I used to cut away right and left, without fearing foe or sparing friend, if I thought him wrong. In this spirit and with this ministry I went to Allington, where I found a people both there and in the neighbourhood who had been accustomed to smoother tidings than those which I brought, and as I thought sunk into a dead and flat state of soul. This put a fresh edge on my sword, and I dare say I cut pretty sharply at a lifeless profession. But I have every reason to believe that my going there, and my ministry at that time, judging from the effects, were of the Lord. It is difficult to speak of one’s self, and therefore I shall only say that the impression made upon the people by my ministry was very marked. Some fell under it, others fought against it, and some did not know what to make of it, partly because it was a sound to which they were unaccustomed, and partly because they misunderstood my meaning and drift. Amongst these latter at that time was Carby Tuckwell. He treated me with the greatest kindness and respect; but as I spoke sometimes pretty freely of the state of things at Allington, declaring from the pulpit that I believed the deacons were in some measure to blame for it, he was induced to think that I set myself almost personally against him, that I suspected his religion, and tried to uproot it as not being genuine. This was not the case, but still such was the impression on his mind. He however cordially joined in inviting me to come again, which I did in the following September; and as my ministry became better understood and more fully received by the people, I continued with them not only all the winter, but remained with them, though I always declined their repeated wish to be settled over them, until in the autumn of 1838, when I saw my way to remove to Stamford, though I have never failed visiting them every year, generally for a month, from that time to this. But to return to the subject of my Obituary.

One Lord’s day, viz., Oct. 18th, 1835, on my second visit to Allington, I preached from John 17:3: “And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent.” In that discourse, after pointing out what it was to know the only true God by some discovery of his Being, Majesty, and Greatness to the soul, I went on to show what it was to know Jesus Christ in the light and by the power of his blessed manifestations. This sermon fell with great weight and power upon Carby Tuckwell’s mind, and showed him what he could not see before, that my searching, separating, and cutting ministry was not directed, as he thought, against himself, or against real religion, but was a cutting down of what was merely natural and notional, in order to trace out and bring out more clearly the real work of God upon the soul. I may add that previously to this sermon he had been so exercised with what he had heard from me, and the fear that I suspected him of being wrong altogether, that he had almost come to the resolution of resigning his deaconship, and giving up his church membership. But the effect of this sermon was quite to change the current of his feelings, and to receive my ministry as seasonable and suitable to the case and state of the people at that time, and to see that it was not personal against him, or aimed at real religion, but to draw a line of separation between nature and grace, the religion of the flesh and that of the Spirit. This gave him, therefore, a union with me and my ministry from that time forward. Scores, I might say hundreds, of miles have we travelled together in those days when I used to preach, at the various little chapels of truth round Allington, and on many subsequent visits, as he was always my companion in the vehicle which took me out and brought me back often quite at a late hour of the night. Nor have I ever had a kinder, more attentive, or affectionate companion and friend.

In common with all the family of God, he had his trials and afflictions, though he was for the most part very silent about them, carrying them to the Lord and not to man; but his chiefest trouble arose from the inward conflict in his own breast. Sometimes, indeed, he was much favoured, but often sank very low. In a small scrap, casually preserved in his handwriting, he mentions a blessing which he received about the middle of December, 1843. He was sunk very low in his soul, when one morning he was led to read a sermon which I had preached at Zoar Chapel, London, Aug. 10th, 1843, published in the “Zoar Chapel Pulpit,” No. 21, entitled, “The Farewell,” the text being, “Finally, brethren, Farewell.” To use his words: “A great light shone upon one particular part, and also into my heart, showing me the state I was in. I went up into my bedroom, and fell on my knees before the Lord, when I was favoured with his presence and with a spirit of grace and of supplications.” Here the paper abruptly ends; but I have heard him speak of that season, and how the Lord favoured and blessed his soul, and assured him of his interest in his mercy and love to almost a greater extent than he had ever felt before.

But I think I cannot do better than let him speak for himself, which he does in a letter written to the friend to whom I have already alluded:

“My dear Friend, I thank you for your kind and affectionate letter, which ought to have had an earlier acknowledgment of its having reached me. Had I replied to it by return of post, I could have given you an account of a few moments of an humbling nature which I had that morning been favoured with before the Lord. In fact, I had but a short time risen from my knees, my tears had just ceased to flow, and my face wiped dry of them, when the postman delivered your letter. I need not say the perusal of it brought tears afresh into my eyes, as some part of it touched upon things my soul had been exercised and harassed with during the night; and if I could not have poured out a few heartfelt sighs and cries to the Lord to have mercy oa me, to keep alive his fear in my heart, and to preserve me from falling into the temptations of the devil and from the reigning power of sin, of which my heart seemed so full, I do think I should almost, if not entirely, have sunk into despair. I had that morning read Ps. 5., in which David says, ‘But as for me, I will come into thy house in the multitude of thy mercy! What a glance for a moment I had of the multitude of the Lord’s mercy, and how my soul desired to fall down before him in ‘the multitude of his mercy.’And while on my knees confessing my sins to him, and in sincerely acknowledging what a base, vile wretch I was, I had a feeling sense that ‘the multitude of his mercy’ reached sinful me. In a moment my heart was softened, slavish fear dispersed, my doubts of the Lord’s compassion towards me removed, and my captive soul enjoyed for a short time sweet liberty, and I knew feelingly that it is the goodness (manifested) of God which leadeth to repentance, which induces a loathing of self before the Lord, a casting away of everything of, and all confidence in, the flesh, and makes one ready enough to ‘crown him Lord of all.’ But what changeable creatures we are! How soon we return to our own place, in the flesh. And what a wretched place that is; in it we faint, mope, and mourn, and there we should remain but for ‘the multitude of his mercy.’ “But you wish to know how it is with me since my affliction. As regards my bodily health, through the goodness of the Lord I am much better; but I still feel the effects of my late illness, and shall, I suppose,. for some time to come. As to my soul, my dear friend, if I were to tell you of all that I pass through, the wretched unbelief of my heart, the vileness which beset me; the complainings, murmurings, and rebellions that at times stir within me, with many other things that I cannot well mention, you would, I am sure, confess my tale was a sorry one. This, I must say, hitherto the Lord’s compassions towards me have not failed, although many times I have felt as if his mercy was clean gone, and that his compassion had failed. But when the blessed Spirit again revives his work in my heart, when some token of my interest in Jesus is given, and I am favoured to feel that “the multitude of his mercy” reaches me, then my unbelief is stilled, the sins which plague me are subdued, complainings, murmurings, and rebellions are all hushed, and I declare, in the simplicity of my heart, the Lord is better to me than he is to anyone. I neither envy great or small, but I certainly covet more of that grace, long after more of that love to be shed abroad in my heart, which my dear friend is favoured with so great a share of, to be blest with more of a spirit of grace and supplication, to be kept in the fear of the Lord, to have my conscience made very tender, that I may not grieve the blessed Spirit, and that a love to Christ Jesus may constrain me to deny myself of ungodliness and worldly lusts, that I may walk in his ways unto all pleasing, and do all things with a single eye to his glory. I have many trials of late come upon me, outward and inward, temporal and spiritual; many enemies, but the worst of all is my deceitful and desperately wicked heart. This, I suppose, will be my companion through life. A wretched companion indeed it is, one that causes many groans, sighs, and prayers too to the Lord, that this enemy may not reign and rule, although it so often strives for the mastery. If we had not such an enemy, and if we were free from trials, exercises of soul, and sore temptations from the devil, I expect there would be very little time spent in earnest cries to the Lord to hold us up in our goings to guide us by his counsel, to watch over us night and day, to make a way for our escape out of temptations, and to keep us at his feet, little in our own sight, less than nothing in ourselves, that Jesus may be the all and in all to our souls.

“Affectionately yours,
“J. C. Tuckwell
“Allington, May 28th, 1850

I would gladly give some others of his letters addressed to the same friend, but as I shall hope to insert them, or some of them, as opportunity may offer in our pages, and as my limited space compels me for the present to omit them, I shall pass on to the- closing scenes of his days upon earth.

He had for two or three years been suffering from a very painful disease of a somewhat cancerous nature, for which no relief could be obtained, and which was evidently bringing him to the end of his race. Still he was not laid aside nor confined to his bed during any part of his illness; and when I went to Allington last August, though I saw him much altered in appearance, yet I found him still able to walk about much as usual. He was able to fill up his place at both services at the chapel, and gave out the hymns in his usually clear, distinct, and emphatic voice. One Lord’s day evening during my visit he gave me a very blessed account of a gracious visitation from the Lord with which he had been lately favoured. It was much commended to my conscience, for indeed it was unmistakeable, both in its nature and its effects; and the simplicity, savour, and sweetness with which he related it were such as I had rarely witnessed in him before. I could not but tell him how fully I received it as a blessed manifestation of the Lord’s goodness and love to his soul, and expressed my doubt if he ever would be so highly favoured again. To a friend who was present I said, after he was gone, that I thought it was to prepare him for some heavy affliction or trial; but it did not occur to me at the time that it was to anoint him for his burial, for so, indeed, it proved to be.

But I am thankful that I have not to eat my morsel alone, and that I can share it with my readers, for I feel a pleasure in feeing able to lay before them his own account of this special blessing, written a few days afterwards to the same friend as before:

“My dear Friend, May grace, mercy, and peace be with you, and may a covenant God abundantly crown with great success your labours of love in the Gospel vineyard.

“Accept my best thanks for your kind, affectionate, and welcome letter. After I had read it I said to myself, ‘ I shall not receive many more letters from my old and much-esteemed friend G. for I was sunk very low, both in body and mind. I had, indeed, been so for some time, and I much feared I was about to go out of time into eternity, in great darkness of soul under the hidings of the Lord’s face, and a horrible dread overwhelming me, lest, after all my profession and what I had (hoped the Lord had done for my precious and never-dying soul. I should be banished from his presence, and my portion be with the lost in hell. Yet I could not help begging and beseeching the Lord once more to appear for me, bring my soul out of trouble, restore to me the joys of his salvation, and again assure me of my interest in the precious blood and spotless righteousness of his dear Son. When our much-esteemed friend Mr. H. was here, I heard many things drop from him to encourage me to hope in the mercy of God, and quietly wait for his coming to me again; but I could not realise the Lord’s presence with me, and what was much worse; I began to think he never would manifest himself to me any more, and that I should never be favoured with one more smile from him, or that he would speak one word more of comfort to my troubled heart. O what a sad state was this to be in; at least I felt it to be so; and how I longed to be delivered from my captive state! I could not help telling the Lord if he would bring my soul out of bondage into liberty, I would indeed bless, praise, and adore his most gracious name; and yet I seemed to have no expectation this would be the case, neither that he would hearken unto my cries, or bring my soul out of its distress. On the previous evening (Wednesday) to my deliverance, I was at the prayer-meeting, attempting to pray. Although I found and felt it to be a solemn thing to address a holy God, and did not wish to do it presumptuously, I felt much shut up in my mind, and I could not get access to the throne of grace as I fain would. This rather increased the weight of the burden under which I was ready to sink, and it appeared that this was another mark of the hot displeasure of the Lord against me and .against my numerous sins and aggravated offences. Yet I nad not been living in the allowed practice of sin; thanks to his preserving1care of me, and for keeping me in many hours of temptation.

“‘Yet have been upheld till now.
Who could hold me up but thou?

“In this sad condition I was full of darkness, confusion, and dismay, greatly fearing I was about to be given over to a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation to devour me as an adversary of the Lord. Yet I could but remember the Lord’s former loving kindnesses to me, and two or three special times, when he, blessed be his name, had most conspicuously manifested himself to me, brought my soul out of trouble, delivered me from all my sins, and assured me, ‘All was mine, for I was Christ’s, and Christ was God’s.’ This was in June, 1831.

“But I wish now to speak of the Lord’s goodness to me, in turning my captivity, and manifesting himself to me in the freeness of his grace, mercy, and love. On Thursday, June 6, I was in a most wretched state of mind. I was dark within, and all seemed gloomy without. In the evening, just before going to bed, I fell upon my knees, thinking I would again attempt to call upon the name of the Lord. As soon as I had opened my mouth, these words dropped with some little power into my heart; “He will keep the feet of his saints.” My soul immediately went out in strong cries to him that he would keep me by his power from all evil. I felt my heart softened before him; my spirit was meekened into godly sorrow and contrition; my soul was humbled; and I was lost in astonishment at the goodness and mercy of the Lord thus once more manifested to me. I went to bed, but not to sleep, for I had the pre- sence of a good and gracious God with me. The whole of the night was spent in blessing and praising him, confession of sin, and earnest prayer that he would bless the souls of his dear people with whom I was in church-fellowship union and communion. My heart was full of love to the Lord and to his people. I did indeed talk with him as a man talketh with his friend; and, blessed be his most holy name, he was not offended with the familiar way I talked and communed with him, but seemed rather to encourage me, and helped me to tell him all the feelings and thoughts of my heart. And, as to sin, I did not feel one to press upon my conscience, or feel the guilt of it before a holy God. All were drowned and swallowed up in love and blood. The Father was most precious to me; the Son was most precious; and so was the Holy Ghost, My heart was full of love to God, and glad I should have been to have died, that I might never again sin against him, or offend his most gracious Majesty. I had the peace of God in my heart, and I could say:

“‘Not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.”

“I watered my couch, at times, with tears, not of trouble or sorrow, but of joy and gratitude for the great things the Lord had done for me. I cannot tell half the goodness and mercy that he bestowed upon me, and how I felt I did not merit or deserve the least of his favours, yet how kindly he heaped them upon me. I said in the simplicity of my heart, and this I feel now, that when I entered heaven the greatest sinner that ever lived upon this earth would be there. And would it not indeed be a delightful employment throughout the countless ages of eternity to sing, ‘All honour, praise, and glory to God and the Lamb?’ What can I render to the Lord for all his benefits towards me? I will take the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the Lord; and I would desire the short time I may live upon the earth, to be living upon and unto the Lord. “It is now thirty-eight years this month since I first came to Allington. I esteem it a privilege that, during that time, I have had for a companion in tribulation, and in the kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ, our much beloved and highly valued friend, Mr. P., but we cannot now expect to be much longer together in this world. I am daily reminded that to me the end of all things is at hand. I had need, therefore, to be sober, and watch unto prayer, for in an hour when I think not the Son of man may call me out of time. Then, should his presence be with me, that will make me willing to leave all things here that I may for ever be with him. With much love to you and Mrs. G.,

“I am, affectionately yours,
“J. C. Tuckwell
“Allington, June 12, 1867

The above letter speaks for itself, and needs no comment from me; for I am very sure, if a man do not see and feel the grace of God manifested in it and shining through it, no words of mine or of anybody else would carry conviction to his breast.

On Aug. 30th I left Allington, and he bade me farewell with more than his usual warmth and affection. It was, indeed, a solemn parting on both sides. For more than thirty years often had we met and often had we parted in brotherly esteem and affection, and usually in the expressed or implied hope of seeing each other again. But now there seemed to rest upon the mind of each the prevailing thought that we might never meet again, in this world. And, indeed, so it proved; for it pleased the Lord very soon afterwards mercifully to cut short what would, most probably, have been a most distressing and protracted affliction, had his bodily complaint been suffered to run its usual course. I was in London, supplying at Gower Street Chapel, when I received a few lines from Allington, on Monday, Sept. 9th, to announce his decease on the preceding day, coupled with an earnest request that I would come down to bury him. He had been seized, on the Saturday evening, with what appeared to be a severe attack of English cholera, and was very ill all night; but immediate danger not being apprehended, medical aid was not sent for, nor his friends summoned to his bed side till an early hour the next morning, when he seemed to be sinking fast. Amongst these was the dear friend and brother in the Lord of whom he speaks above, and from whose letter to me I now give an extract:

“I feel it to be a great trial, as well a a source of grief and sorrow to part with one whom I had known so very intimately the last thirty- eight years. His end was peace, sweet peace. I took him by the hand just before he departed, and said to him, ‘I take you by the hand once more. God bless you.’

“A few more tears, a few more sighs,
And you will bid adieu to pain.”

“He replied, though not with a loud voice, ‘Yes, yes;’ and in about five minutes after expired, without a groan and scarcely a sigh, or the least struggle whatever. He was no worse than common the day before (Friday), was down at our house, and in the evening related to us a dream which he had had the night before. It was that the last day was come, and that he heard such a crash, pointing to us the quarter whence it seemed to come; and then added, ‘I was ,so happy, and hoped that you and I should go together.'”

I felt that I must comply with the request to go down and “bury one to whom I was so much attached as a personal friend, and whom I so much valued and esteemed as a godly, upright, consistent man, and one favoured and blessed of the Lord; and on Sept. 12th I stood once more in the pulpit at Allington, my eyes resting upon the coffin containing the remains of my dear departed friend. I never recollect to have seen so many tears shed at any funeral by those who were not immediate relations.

But sincere grief for his loss was not the only feeling with the members of the church and other gracious friends present who had known him so many years as going in and out amongst them, both in his office as a deacon, and his intercourse with them as a Christian friend and brother. Mingled with deep regret that they should meet with him in that place, where they had so often assembled themselves together, no more, there was a feeling of thankfulness to the Lord for the blessing lately bestowed upon him, which seemed to cast a sweet and sacred light both over his life and death, and for the testimony also thus afforded to the power of the truth for which he and they had so long and earnestly contended as the faith once delivered to the saints. And there were those present who, if they could not altogether, from personal experience, enter into the testimony which I bore to him as a favoured partaker of divine grace, yet could and did sincerely mourn his loss as a warmly attached, kind friend, and a most sincere, worthy, consistent man.

I may seem, perhaps, to some to speak with too much partiality of my departed friend; but all I can reply to such a charge as this is that after many years’ observation of the professing church of God, I have not often found a man who could live thirty-eight years in a small village where every eye was upon him, and besides a sweet and marked experience of the blessing of God, so carry out his profession of religion as not during all that time, amidst much temptation, to have been betrayed into any one inconsistent, unbecoming word or deed, and to live and die not only in the esteem and affections of the people of God, but to win for himself the general esteem and respect of all who can value amiability of disposition, kindness in word and action, and consistency and uprightness of life.

From the chapel he was borne to the adjoining graveyard, where part of Hart’s hymn (463) was sung with faltering voice. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the sloping sun shone upon the little chapel yard, which lies open to the west. When I had committed his remains to the silent tomb, there to sleep by the side of other saints whom I knew to lie near him, and I looked down upon his coffin to take a last farewell, the oft repeated prayer of my dear friend and brother, the late William Tiptaft, came strongly to my mind, and I felt it had been fully answered in him, for that indeed “he was well laid in his grave.”

Joseph Philpot