The Life And Testimony Of William Brown

Gospel Standard 1868:

Mr. William Brown, Minister Of The Gospel

My Dear Friend,—You ask me to give you some account of my dear husband’s early days, as well as the particulars of his last illness and death. I am thankful that he left a short record of the first work of grace upon his heart, which I wrote down from his own lips, about three months ago. It is as follows:

“From a child I knew myself to be a sinner, but for a year or two, I felt myself to be one. I knew that if I died, I must go to hell; but these convictions came and went off again, and my principal prayer was, ‘O God, create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me.’ I used to feel that I never could be saved, that it was impossible, for that nobody had such a heart as I had. I tried to make resolutions to serve God, but I found that, like the early cloud and the morning dew, they passed away. While under these convictions, I had two very narrow escapes from drowning. On one of these occasions I was bathing one morning unknown to my parents, in a deep part of the river Douglas, in Lancashire, when I sank, and I had all the horrors of death by drowning. I felt that I was going to hell. I was mercifully rescued by my cousin swimming to me, and drawing me to the bank. There, while I lay gasping for breath, I felt such love to God; my very soul seemed full of love and gratitude, and I thought I would love and serve him all my days; but this was, I believe, all nature, for I knew nothing of God in Christ; and when I recovered, all my love and joy evaporated like smoke, leaving not a trace behind. This I take to be like the stony-ground hearers; it had nothing to do with the pardon of sin: but my prayer continued to be, ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.’

“After this, I was ill for some months; and one day, my mother was reading aloud to me John 6. I took no notice of what she read until she came to verse 87: ‘All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ The latter part of the verse darted through my mind like a flash of lightning: ‘Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ I thought, Is it possible? What! Murderers, and thieves, and liars? But it kept coming again and again. When night came, I went to bed, and I kneeled down and pleaded it over with God. ‘What! Murderers, and thieves, and liars?’ And it kept coming, ‘In no wise cast out;’ and I pleaded again and again, ‘What! In no wise! What! The vilest?’ And then the Lord seemed to show it all to, me, and I had a view of Christ on the cross, as if I could actually see him hanging there, with the eyes of my mind, as clearly as if it was with my bodily eyes, and the word kept coming over and over: ‘Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out,’ and all my sins were instantaneously removed. They were all gone, all my sins swept away. I looked to see if there were any left. No; all swept away. I was as full of joy and gladness as I could be. In the morning, when I awoke, I thought it was a dream, I rubbed my eyes to see whether it was so. No; it was a reality. The same joy was there, and I hugged my pillow and the bed-clothes, feeling I had Christ in my arms. It was all things new. I was then not quite 14 years of age. I think I wanted one month to my birthday. I believe it was in January, 1826.”

I never could persuade my dear husband to continue this account. He was always too ill, or something prevented. Soon after this blessed deliverance, the great affliction of his loss of sight began. He had been very ill, and was, he believed, unskilfully treated, by excessive bleeding and the use of mercury. As he recovered his health, he gradually became blind, and this sore trial lasted for ten years. He was then only 15. Longing to read the word of God, but unable to do so, he used to carry a little Bible in his pocket, and get anybody who was willing to read a verse to him, and then go into the garden, and repeat it over and over again to himself. He did not hear the gospel preached, nor had he any Christian friends with whom he could hold communion; nor was he led into the blessed doctrines of grace until he was 21 years of age. It was, I have often heard him say, a most peculiar feeling that he had during these years, as if Christ died for him only, and nobody else, and such was his love to the Lord Jesus that he could hardly hear his name without the tears coming to his eyes, and he used to pray and beseech the Lord to take him to be with himself, like the poor man in the gospel. But the time was coming when a new life was to be opened before him.

Mr. Alfred Hewlett, a minister in the Church of England, came to preach in the town of Wigan for one Lord’s day. He went to hear him. The text was 1 Cor. 1:30. The whole plan of salvation, and all the doctrines of grace were opened up to him. It seemed like the pouring out of the Spirit upon him. He often said he never could describe the joy he felt that day; it was like a second conversion. These blessed truths he loved and maintained to the end of his life. He soon found out some of God’s poor people in the town, and met with them in a room. He became acquainted with the late Mr. Gadsby, of Manchester, Mr. Kershaw, of Rochdale, and the late Mr. M’Kenzie, of Preston. These were his early and much-loved friends in the ministry. He was baptized by Mr. Kershaw, at Rochdale.

When he was 25 years of age, the Lord opened his mouth to preach the gospel. He began to speak in a small room, with much fear and trembling, and distrust of himself; which feeling never altogether left him during the whole of his ministry, a period of exactly 30 years. I could say much on his exercises as to the ministry, which I have often witnessed; but I know how wearisome a lengthened account becomes.

He had only preached two Lord’s days in a chapel, when he was led by a mysterious link in Providence to go to London to consult an eminent oculist. He went for the satisfaction of another, having no expectation himself of receiving benefit to his sight. God had ordered otherwise. He remained in London six months, having six operations performed. No benefit followed until after the sixth operation, when he saw a flash of light, and in a few days he began to see the outline of the houses, and other distinct objects. In a few weeks he was able to read the smallest print. The first portion of Scripture that he read was Ps. 103, which I was privileged to hear. His sight always remained peculiar, having a difficulty in recognising individuals, though he could see to read both in the pulpit and at home; and this he was favoured to do to the last.

His ministry is so well known that I need say nothing more about it. He was for many years the beloved pastor of the Baptist Church at Godmanchester. He left, when his health failed, to the great regret of the people and his own deep sorrow. He was told that he could not live unless he removed to a drier atmosphere, and Brighton was recommended as his future residence.

Still it was not to be idle that he left his flock. So long as he possibly could, he did the work of an evangelist, travelling about and preaching even when obliged to use crutches. This he was at hist compelled to give up; and he then assisted his dear friend and brother in the Lord, Mr Wallinger, at the Pavilion Chapel. It was on the 9th of May last, that he was suddenly seized with violent palpitation of the heart. The two previous evenings he had been preaching at West Street and Pavilion Chapels, and it was thought that the exertion had been too much for him. He was quite calm and peaceful during the attack, which we hoped might pass off. We did not apprehend danger till the Saturday night, when he became much worse, and the next day all hope of his recovery was given up. He afterwards described his feelings when his good and faithful doctor intimated to him his danger. He said for a moment he felt startled, but that he had no fear or dismay. He inquired how long it was likely that he would live, and was told that unless a change took place it would not be many hours. He said that he very soon began to feel not only peace but joy at the prospect of his speedy departure. He felt like a person going a journey, and that he had nothing to do but to die. He could not have thought it possible that under such circumstances he could have felt as he did, that dying seemed nothing, that all the sting was taken away, that it was not only peace but joy unspeakable, that he felt as if he might be walking upon the waters, and the waves all under his feet, and he compared it to the sea of glass mentioned in Rev. 15. Many dear friends came to bid him farewell.

He gave directions for his funeral, and many other things he wished attended to. He gave me his watch, saying he had done with it for ever, and that he was quietly waiting for the summons, “Come up higher.”

At one o’clock on the Wednesday, both his medical attendants took leave of him, believing his end to be very near. Two hours afterwards he said he thought he could sleep. He slept for one hour and then awoke almost restored. The palpitation of his heart had ceased, his pulse had returned, and his countenance was quite changed.

I shall never forget my joy. His recovery was like life from the dead; but it was no joy to him. His distress was great. We did not see one smile on his face for two days. He very rapidly regained his strength, and in ten days was able to preach again at the Pavilion Chapel, on the Lord’s day evening. His text was Phil. 1:23.

It was a blessed testimony to the faithfulness of God to his people in death. It was really like a voice from one who had been almost through the river. It had been his own experience that Christ could and did make a dying bed feel “soft as downy pillows are”‘, and he declared it to others. Many, I know, felt the power of that discourse. My own feeling at the time was, that he was preaching his own funeral sermon.

After this, he preached only seven times. His last text was Luke 18:7, 8. He appeared to enjoy the subject, and was much favoured in speaking, but when he returned home, he told me he had thought whilst preaching that it would very likely be his last sermon. So it proved to be. The next Lord’s day he was unable to go out, and he hardly ever left his bed afterwards, a period of five months. Amidst the greatest sufferings, for it was rheumatic gout in its most painful form, from which, indeed, he had, been suffering for years, causing him to use crutches, as already mentioned, his patience was exemplary and his faith unshaken. He never was permitted to doubt for one moment his interest in Christ; and twice, when he appeared to be in the immediate prospect of death, his peace and joy were unbroken.

The many blessed things he said during those months of suffering would fill a volume; but I shall only mention a few of what I may call his dying sayings. They were exactly what fell from his lips at different times. Everything here recorded came spontaneously from him. I do not remember ever asking him about the state of his mind. I knew he was safe, ready to depart at any moment, and I had often heard him say he did not think it right to ask old believers, who had known and loved the Lord for years, if Christ were precious, and so on. “Precious,” he would sometimes say, “Why, he is everything, everything; our only hope and our all.” In visiting the sick and dying, he always acted on this himself.

Early one morning, when he thought death near, he said, *’Dying? Fall asleep in Jesus. For ever with the Lord. O! how peaceful is my soul, and all through the blood of the Lamb. I have almost done with prayer. The prayers of David, the son of Jesse, are ended. What love to us, but justice too. Yes, God is just. This is a sweet deathbed. My sweetest, dearest, kindest love to the Godmanchester friends. I leave them my dying blessing. Also my love to the friends at Leicester, London, and the Pavilion Chapel, and to all the friends in the different places where I have preached the Gospel. My love to all who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity and truth. God’s people are my friends. The time of my departure is at hand. Good-bye, dear love. I have not the least doubt of our knowing each other in glory. I never doubt it for a moment. O, no! and I shall watch for you, and long for your coming.” And many times he spoke of his dear old hearers who had gone before, and he believed they would welcome him in. He often said, “I have had confidence, but I did not expect joy; but it is joy unspeakable.”

A few days before he died, a little cloud came over him, not a doubt of his interest in Christ, but he was not enjoying this sensible presence, and the valley got gloomy. And once he said, “Surely the waters of Jordan are overwhelming’;” but added, “It is all right; I have not a doubt but it is all right; I have not the shadow of a doubt but when I depart I shall be with him, and that is where I long to be.”

Another time, he said, “I am beginning to feel the joy of deliverance. The Lord sends these trials to make us willing to part.” I said, “’Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'” He answered, “I have often felt that word sweet, ‘thou, enter thou’. God’s people are not all thrown in as a mass, but to each one entering heaven, it is said, separately, ‘Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’ What a wonderful thing the Lord should ever have loved me, me who am such a wretch. ‘Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'”

In the night, Ps. 23 was read to him. He said verse 4 was so sweet: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” ‘Christ is precious on a dying bed.’ And dying, clasp him in my arms, ‘The antidote of death. I once saw the Lord of life and glory on the cross, dying for me, and he seemed to look on me, and said, ‘Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'”

We said, “What shall we do when you are gone?” He answered, “‘Fear not! for I am with thee.’ It is the sweetest, the sweetest words I ever heard. Precious Jesus! Precious Jesus! Fall asleep in Jesus. My poor body will soon lie in the grave, till the resurrection morn, in the last long sleep; then awake, and, like the Lord Jesus, to have a glorious body. What a wonderful thought! O what a happy release it will be when I am gone! I wonder when it will be. The day, and the hour of the day, are all fixed by the Lord. I have nothing but the blood and righteousness of Christ to rest upon. All through the blood of the Lamb. This is always what I have preached, and it is now what I trust in. Nothing else but Christ.”

On the last Lord’s day, he kept repeating: “‘My love, my dove, my undefined.'” He said that word was so much on his mind.

In the afternoon he wished to have the account of the Pilgrims going over the river read to him from the second part of the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” He said it was “beautiful! Beautiful! Delicious, delicious!” That it would bear reading once a week. He had it read to him three times.

The letters of Christopher Love to his wife, written while awaiting his execution, were also read to him. Of these he was very fond, and had been so for many years, one letter being dated, “The day of my glorification.”

In the evening, the vision of Stephen was read to him. This was the last portion of Scripture which he heard. A drowsiness came over him, which continued for two days, though, when he spoke, he was quite sensible; but he could not keep awake more than a minute. So he slept on, till he sweetly fell asleep in Christ. Dec. 10th, 1867, aged 55.

Almost the last words he said were, “Not one drop of wrath.”

In concluding this short memorial of my departed husband, I desire to mention with gratitude to God the love and brotherly affection which subsisted between himself and Mr. Wallinger, during the seven painful, weary years that he passed at Brighton. They truly walked together as brethren, and sometimes, I know, enjoyed sweet seasons together in prayer for a blessing on their united labours. Between many of the hearers at the Pavilion Chapel and my husband there was also a strong bond of union, and they have kindly testified their love to his ministry, and respect for his memory, by paying all the expenses of Ms funeral.

To Dr. Moon he was greatly indebted during the last five years of his life. He was ever ready to come to his bedside, even at most unseasonable hours, and his advice was greatly blessed, at times, in alleviating his sufferings. In the wonderful ways of Providence, Dr. Bennie was also raised up for his comfort and help. This dear friend was not only another medical adviser (hastily sent for when Dr. Moon was absent), but a brother born for adversity. For seven months he visited him daily, coming night after night, after leaving his other patients, watching by his side, and comforting and soothing both body and mind. But for the extraordinary care, attention, and love of this dear friend, it is quite impossible that he could have been nursed without the help of strangers. He always spoke of it himself as being the hand of God, and felt that he could not bless God enough for this great and signal favour.

Truly it may be said that he lived a life of faith upon the Son of God, who loved him, and gave himself for him.

I am, Yours truly, for Christ’s sake,

Emma Brown

Dec. 31^st, 1867