When I was a Child
Gleanings in Spurgeon's “Early Years”

I remember well, in my early days, seeing upon my grandmother's mantel-shelf an apple contained in a phial. This was a great wonder to me, and I tried to investigate it. My question was, “How came the apple to get inside so small a bottle?” The apple was quite as big and round as the phial; by what means was it placed within it? Though it was treason to touch the treasures on the mantel-piece, I took down the bottle and convinced my youthful mind that the apple never passed through its neck, and by means of an attempt to unscrew the bottom, I became equally certain that the apple did not enter from below. I held to the notion that by some occult means the bottle had been made in two pieces, and afterwards united in so careful a manner that no trace of the join remained. I was hardly satisfied with the theory, but as no philosopher was at hand to suggest any other hypothesis, I let the matter rest. One day, the next summer, I chanced to see upon a bough, another phial–the first cousin of my old friend–within which was growing a little apple which had been passed through the neck of the bottle while it was extremely small. The grand secret was out. I did not cry “Eureka! Eureka!” but I might have done so if I had then been versed in the Greek tongue.

This discovery of my juvenile days shall serve for an illustration at the present moment. Let us get the apples into the bottles while they are little …

When I was a very small boy, I was allowed to read the Scriptures at family prayer. Once upon a time, when reading the passage in Revelation which mentions the bottomless pit, I paused, and said, “Grandpa, what can this mean?” The answer was kind, but unsatisfactory, “Pooh, pooh, child, go on.” The child, however intended to have an explanation, and therefore elected the same passage morning after morning, and always halted at the same verse to repeat this enquiry, hoping that by repetition the good old gentleman would reply. The process was successful, for it is by no means the most edifying thing to hear the Mother of Harlots, and the beast with seven heads, every morning in the week, Sunday included, with no sort of alteration either of Psalm or Gospel; the venerable patriarch of the household therefore capitulated at discretion, with, “Well, dear, what is it that puzzles you?”

Now, “the child” had often seen baskets with very frail bottoms, which, in course of wear, became bottomless, and allowed the fruit placed therein to fall to the ground; here then was the puzzle–if the pit aforesaid had no bottom, where would all these people fall who dropped out at its other end?–A puzzle which rather startled the propriety of family worship, and had to be laid aside for explanation at some more convenient season. I can remember the horror of my mind when my dear grandfather told me what his idea of “the bottomless pit” was. There is a deep pit, and the soul is falling down–Oh, how fast it is falling! There! The last ray of light at the top has disappeared, and it falls on–on–on, and so it goes on falling–on–on–on for a thousand years! “Is it not getting near the bottom yet? No, you are no nearer the bottom yet; it is the bottomless pit. It is on–on–on, and so the soul goes falling perpetually into a deeper depth still, falling forever into “the bottomless pit”–on–on–on–into the pit that has no bottom! Woe, without termination, without hope of its coming to a conclusion!

When we used to go to school, we would draw houses, and horses, and trees on our slates, and I remember how we used to write, “House” under the house, and “Horse” under the horse, for some persons might have thought that the horse was a house. So, there are some people who need to wear a label round their necks to show that they are Christians at all, or else we might mistake them for sinners, their actions are so like those of the ungodly.

They prayer-meetings during the week were always kept up, but at certain seasons of the year grandfather and a few old ladies were all that could be relied upon. It occurred to me in riper years to ask my venerated relative how the singing was maintained. “Why, grandfather,” said I, “we always sang, and yet you don't know any tunes, and certainly the old ladies didn't.” “Why, child,” said he, “there's one common metre tune which is all, 'Hum Ha, Hum Ha,' and I could manage that very well.” “But what if it happened to be a Long or Short metre hymn?” “Why, then, I either put in some Hum Ha's or else I left some out; but we managed to praise the Lord.”

The Stambourne style of singing led me into trouble when I returned to my home. The notion had somehow entered my little head that the last line of the hymn must always be repeated, and grandfather had instilled into me as a safe rule that I must never be afraid to do what I believed to be right. So, when I went to the chapel where my parents attended, I repeated the last line whether the congregation did so or not. It required a great deal of punishment to convince me that a little boy must do what his parents think to be right; and though my grandfather made a mistake in that particular instance, I have always been grateful to him for teaching me to act according to my belief whatever the consequences might be.

As a child, when asked what I was going to be, I usually said that I was going to be a huntsman. A find profession truly! Many young men have the same idea of being parsons as I had of being a huntsman–a mere childish notion that would like the coat and the horn-blowing; the honour, the respect, the ease–and, they are probably even fools enough to think–the riches of the ministry. The fascination of the preacher's office is very great to weak minds, and hence, I earnestly caution all young men not to mistake whim for inspiration, and a childish preference for a call of the Holy Spirit.

I once learnt a lesson, while thus fox-hunting, which has been very useful to me as a preacher of the gospel. Ever since the day I was sent to shop with a basket, and purchased a pound of tea, a quarter of a pound of mustard, and three pounds of rice, and on my way home saw a pack of hounds and felt it necessary to follow them over the hedge and ditch (as I always did when I was a boy), and found, when I reached home, that all the goods were amalgamated–tea, mustard, rice–into one awful mess, I have understood the necessity of packing up my subjects in good stout parcels, bound round with the thread of my discourse; and this makes me keep to firstly, secondly, and thirdly, however unfashionable that method may now be.

Then came a mother's prayer, and some of the words of that prayer we shall never forget, even when our hair is grey. I remember, on one occasion, her praying thus: “Now, Lord, if my children go on in their sins, it will not be from ignorance that they perish, and my soul must bear a swift witness against them at the day of judgment if they lay not hold of Christ.” That thought of a mother's bearing swift witness against me, pierced my conscience, and stirred my heart.