From Death into Life by William Haslam

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I found my friend was under deep conviction, and in the greatest misery;
he now thought that he was a most "uncommon sinner," and that there was
no mercy for him, there could not be any! After a time he acknowledged
the power of God to forgive sin, and declared that he believed in
Christ, and I was led to say "he that believeth hath everlasting life."
Upon this text he found peace, and we all praised God together.

The Sunday following, he asked the congregation to thank God with him
for having saved his soul; and in his sermon told them something of his
experience. Subsequently his church became the centre of a work of God,
as Mr. Aitken's church and mine were in our respective neighbourhoods.

The power of the Lord overshadowed the place, and there was as usual a
simultaneous melting of hearts all over the parish, and a running
together of the people to hear the Word, and what is better to obey it.
Then followed a true Cornish revival with full manifestations, and Mr.
Aitken came to preach. The fire was burning and shining before; but when
this mighty man stirred it, it rose to a tremendous height. The
excitement of the parson and people was intense, and hundreds of souls
were added to the Church, who had been brought from the death of sin
into the life of righteousness which all the previous preaching on
Baptism and the Lord's Supper had failed to produce.

CHAPTER 18

A Visit to Veryan, 1853.

Next, I will tell of a clergyman who was altogether different to the
others I have mentioned. He was one to whom I was much attached,
although we were diametrically opposed to one another, especially in my
Puseyite days. He was Evangelical; I was High Church; consequently, we
fell out more or less, at every meeting, though we never really
quarrelled. After my conversion I made sure this friend would sympathize
with me; but I found to my disappointment he was in reality more opposed
now than before, because I had become, as he called it, "a dissenter."
He would scarcely speak to me, and said, he was not so sure of my
conversion as I was, that he would give me seven years to prove it, and
then pronounce.

I said, "You are an old bachelor, and know nothing about the treatment
of babies; we do not put our babies out on the lawn for seven days
before we decide whether they are born or not!"

He could not resist joining in the laugh against his inexperience in
this respect, although he was not over-pleased. With all his
head-knowledge of Gospel truth, he had not seen anything of the work of
the Spirit, and moreover, like too many others, could not distinguish
between death and grave-clothes. Because I announced some sacramental
views after my conversion, he fancied that I must be dead still; whereas
these were only the grave-clothes in which I used to be wrapped. We
shall speak more of this hereafter.

One day, he came to me and said, "I have been thinking for some time
that I should like to come to your church one Sunday, and see your
work."

I agreed to this with thanks, as the first sign of sympathy I had found
in him, and said, "Shall I go and take your services in exchange?"

"Oh no, certainly not; I wish you to be present in your own church. I
will preach in the morning; and in the evening I will be there to see
and hear you." We soon fixed upon the day. He came to dinner with us the
previous Saturday, but before he would sit down he must needs go into
the Church, and adjust the height of the pulpit, and see that all other
things were to his taste. He asked me if I would remove the candlesticks
from the communion table, and let him preach in a black gown. These were
all matters of indifference to me now, so I readily acceded to his
wishes. Having completed his arrangements, we spent a very pleasant
evening together, talking over the work in the place, and then went to
the weekly prayer-meeting; but he took no part. On Sunday morning the
service was conducted at his request, in the usual manner, excepting
that he stood away in the eastern corner of the north side of the table,
"scrootching" away like a Papist, as the people described it. They had
been accustomed to see me stand at the western or outside corner of the
north side. He was much amused at this criticism.

Then he went into the vestry, having asked for an interlude on the organ
before the last verse of the Psalms (for we sang the metrical version in
those days), and while this was being played he came sailing out again,
and swept up the steps into the pulpit. He gave us an excellent
sermon--preached, as the Cornish people say, "to a form," that is with a
manuscript before him; though he did not look at it much. He showed it
to me afterwards; it certainly was a curious thing, done in cyphers and
hieroglyphics of his own; again and again there appeared a figure with
two horns and a tail; this, he told me, stood for Satan; there were also
many other striking signs. He preached with far more animation than was
his wont, and towards the end of his sermon seemed to forget his
manuscript altogether, and leaned over the front of the pulpit,
gesticulating with his hands, and looking at the people. They got very
excited, and followed every sentence with some response, till he became
excited also. When he came down from the pulpit, he said that he had
never preached with such help before; he had quite enjoyed his own
sermon, and that now he thought he understood the secret of what I
called being "converted."

He came in the afternoon to the catechising of the children, and
expressed himself very pleased with their behaviour, and readiness in
answering questions. In the evening, he sat in a part of the church
where he could see the congregation, and the preacher, and so make his
desired observations. The service was, perhaps, a little more animated
than usual, and the sermon may have been the same. After this was over,
he went with me into the school-room, where he heard the people pray,
and also thank God for the morning sermon. Several souls were brought in
that evening.

About ten o'clock at night we returned home, when my friend declared he
had never known a day like this in all his ministry, and never heard of
such things as he had seen. "Your congregation," he said, "is like the
waves of the sea, and mine like a glassy mill-pond. Now I must have you
come and preach in my church. I wonder what the effect will be."

I agreed, and we fixed upon the second Sunday, as he wanted a week to
announce my coming.

I was quite eager for the time, and when Saturday arrived, I set off,
intending to stay for several days. On Sunday morning the church was
filled from end to end, the people being on the tip-toe of expectation.
Many anxious ones remained after the sermon to be spoken with, about
their souls. The church was scarcely cleared, before the men came to
ring the bells for the afternoon service. This time, the passages,
chancel, pulpit-stairs, and every available corner were crowded, and the
congregation certainly did not look like a "mill-pond," but more like
"the waves of the sea."

At the close of this service, the people begged for another in the
evening. The vicar said, "Oh, that is impossible, for I dine at six
o'clock."

"But," I involuntarily added, "do not mind the dinner; I can come, if
you like."

He gave me such a look! I continued, "I have had dinner enough for
to-day. I can take the service alone, if you are agreeable."

"But we have no lamps for the church. It cannot be."

I was silenced now, and gave up the point; when the churchwarden came
forward and said he would be responsible for lighting the church.

The vicar at last consented, on condition that he was allowed to have
his dinner in peace. As the time approached, however, he put off that
important meal, and joined me in a cup of tea, after which we went
together to the third service.

This time it was as much as we could do to get it, and when we did
succeed a most striking sight presented itself. The whole church was
lighted from the pews. Some of the wealthier people had lamps, but the
others had candles, one, two, or more in their respective compartments.
From the pulpit it looked more like a market scene than a church
congregation. I had liberty in preaching, and the people were greatly
moved, some of them greatly agitated-indeed, so much so, that the vicar
thought he would not have another service in the church, and accordingly
announced that the Monday evening meeting would be held in a building
which he named, in a village about two miles off. This was a large
barn-like structure, where they cured fish in the season, but at other
times it was unoccupied.

The next day happened to be very wet, and, added to this, in the evening
it began to blow as well. Notwithstanding this inclemency, when we
arrived at the "fish-cellar," as it was called, we found it crammed with
people, the women and children occupying the ground, and sitting there
on straw, which had been provided for the occasion, the men and boys
were sitting on the cross-beams of the roof. The heat in the place was
stifling beyond all description, for besides being densely crowded below
and above, the wooden shutters were shut, on account of the wind and
rain, the people's wet clothes were steaming, and there was a strong
smell of stale fish. At first we felt as if it would be impossible to
bear it, but after a little time we became used to the disagreeables,
and had other things to think about.

I gave out a hymn, and after a short prayer commenced the address,
speaking as loud as I could, that all the congregation might hear me.
During the sermon, the responses were most vociferous and hearty, and
the attention very encouraging. After speaking for about thirty minutes,
I observed a tall, fine-looking fisherman, in large high boots, who had
come in late. He was standing in the little vacant space before the
table, on which were placed two candles and a glass of water. I saw, as
the address went on, that though he was very quiet, his breast was
heaving with emotion, as if something was passing in his mind. All at
once, without a moment's notice, he fell on the ground, and bellowed out
a loud prayer for "God's mercy--I want God's mercy!" Besides upsetting
the table--candles, water, and all--which went down with a great crash,
he fell on one or two women, who screamed, in their fright and
consternation, as only women can.

If this had been a preconcerted signal, it could not have been more
effectual, for there was instantly a simultaneous as well as an
universal outcry. The whole place was filled with a confused din of
voices; some were praying, some singing, some shouting, and others
exhorting, and that at the top of their voices, in order to be heard. In
the midst of this I began to sing a hymn, hoping to restore order, and
many joined me; but it only added more sound to the uproar.

The good vicar was overwhelmed with fear and dismay, as well he might
be, at this tumultuous scene. It was bad enough to stand and look at the
waves of the sea; but when they rose and broke, as it were, on the shore
where he was standing, and surrounded him, it was altogether too much.
He made for the door, and, waiting there, beckoned me to him. When I
came he suddenly opened it, and drew me out, saying, "There will be no
peace till you are out of this place." The extreme change from the hot
cellar into the cold and pitiless wind and rain was so great, that we
fled precipitately to the cottage which stood opposite. Happily, the
door was on the latch, and we went in. I felt about in the dark for a
chair, but not finding one, sat on the table, listening to the noise and
din of the meeting.

The vicar vainly thought that the tumult would subside as soon as I was
gone, for he said that I "made as much noise, if not more, than any of
them!" He went back into the storm to get my hat and coat, and also the
inevitable umbrella, without which no one can get on in Cornwall. He was
a long time absent, during which a man with heavy boots came into the
dark cottage where I was sitting, and tumbling down on a seat somewhere,
heaved a heavy sigh. He evidently did not suspect that any one was
there. After sighing and groaning several times, he said to himself,
"What shall I do?--what shall I do? The man is right, sure enough; he is
right, I'm sure on it--that he is."

I disguised my voice, and asked, "What man?"

"Oh," he said, "are you there, neighbour? Couldn't yer get in? Why, I
mean the man what's been speaking inside."

"What did he say?"

"Why, said he, 'the devil's no fool!' and of course he ain't. He has
hooks in all his baits, and I have swallowed lots o' them. Oh, what
shall I do? What shall I do?"

Then I heard him shuffling to his knees, groaning and praying. I sat
still on the table, saying, "Amen! amen!" every now and then, to his
prayer, till he became terribly in earnest, and at last got into a which
the Cornish call "wrastling in prayer." In this condition he was quite
past heeding any one's presence. I helped and guided him to the
Crucified and then he found peace, and began to praise. On coming to
himself, he recognized my voice. "You are the very man," he cried, and
putting great heavy arms round my neck, he nearly strangled me! The
vicar (who I did not know was in the room), here interposed, and got my
release.

"Here you are," he said, "at it again, and they are getting worse and
worse in the barn--what ever is to be done? We cannot go home through
this rain, and the carriage will not be here for at least an hour. What
am I to do?"

I said, "Let us go then to the barn for a short time, just to see how
they are getting on."

After some hesitation, he went in with me, and found the people praying
and rejoicing; but, as I expected, far too much absorbed to observe our
presence.

After a time, some of the lads noticed me and cried out lustily, "The
parson is here! The parson is here!" and in a moment we were surrounded
by a number of happy people, who were so demonstrative that they made
the poor vicar tremble (as he told me afterwards) with a strange fear.

They said, "You will come again to-morrow?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Oh, no," rejoined the vicar; "on no account. One night of this work is
quite enough--more than enough."

I was very loth to give up; but a man said, "Never mind, we will carry
it on. This revival will not stop for a week or fortnight, for certain."

This was terrifying news for the vicar, who turned, and looking at me
with astonishment, said, reproachfully, "How did you do it?"

I replied, "This is not my work. I did not begin it, neither can I stop
it; nor would I, even if I could. I dare not. I have known persons
brought under heavy judgment for hindering a revival. Take my advice,
and do not hinder this. Let these men go on; they know what they are
about."

Soon the carriage came, and we returned to the vicarage; but the dear
man was much put out, and evidently very sorry that he had asked me to
come and disturb his mill-pond. Indeed, he said as much; so I concluded
my visit the next morning.

Going through the village, I heard that the meeting on the previous
evening was continued until two o'clock in the morning, and that it was
announced there would be one in the chapel that evening. As the Church
refused the blessing, there were others who were happy to receive it.

I returned home sooner than I was expected, and told my people, at the
evening meeting, the things I had seen and heard; and they "glorified
God."

CHAPTER 19

A Mission in the "Shires." 1853.

At the time of which I am writing, twenty-six or twenty-seven years ago,
special services for preaching were not called by the name of
"Missions." I think that word has been derived from some Roman Catholic
perverts, who made aggressive efforts in London, which they called
"Catholic Missions." From them it has been adopted by some who love to
copy Rome and Romish phrases. Strange infatuation, by which these
Romanizers in vain court a Church which despises them, and gives them
neither place nor quarter! However, the word is now well understood, and
its meaning is plainer than any definitions of mine could make it.

My first journey to "foreign parts" (as the Cornish call it) was to a
town in Devonshire, where I stopped three or four days. The day I
arrived I preached in the church, because it was the regular evening
service; special services were not then known, unless it was for some
Missionary Society, or other such advocacy. The idea of preaching to
awaken souls, was considered very strange and fanatical. The church I
preached in had high pews, which prevented my seeing the occupants. I
was told that it was full, and certainly there were faces visible here
and there; but the whole congregation was so still, that the dropping of
the proverbial "pin" might have been heard. It was all very chilling and
dead, no "Amens!" or "Glory!" as in Cornwall; indeed, the stillness had
such an effect upon me, that I found it difficult to get on. After
making two or three hard appeals, and meeting with nothing but silence
for a response, I concluded, and came away much disappointed and
disheartened. However, the next morning, the vicar showed me some beads,
leathers, and flowers which had been left in the pews of the church. So
I found that the shots had hit somewhere, or something.

Walking through the town in the course of the day, a tall mason, with a
large whitewash brush in his hand, came running after me (not to
whitewash me) but to ask the question, which he did most eagerly, "Are
you the man that preached last night?"

I said, "Yes, I am."

"Oh," he replied, "will you preach tonight?"

I answered him somewhat doubtfully, "I suppose not," for the vicar did
not know what excuse there could be for my preaching a second time.

He continued, "Will you come to my house and preach this evening? I have
a good large room at your service, and can promise you a congregation."

I assented; so we fixed the time, and made all other necessary
arrangements. On coming down in the evening, I found my mason friend had
invited his neighbours, and finding more had promised to come than his
room would hold, he had opened the folding doors between two rooms
upstairs, taken down three large bedsteads, and having borrowed forms
and chairs, he was able to accommodate seventy people. As many as this
came, and more, for men and women stood on the stairs and landing
besides.

We sang heartily, and after prayer, I felt a little more at home than I
had done on the previous evening'; but it was not up to Cornwall yet! In
my address I had liberty and power to hold the people, and we had some
conversions that evening, and the following one also. My mason friend
was greatly cheered and revived, and from this time began reaching
himself, carrying on meetings in various cottages and farm places.

From there I went on into Dorsetshire, and arrived at the vicarage to
which I was going, rather late on Saturday night, very tired; so much
so, that I was glad to go to bed as soon as possible. On Sunday morning
I went to church and preached to a large congregation, the words which
God gave me. On coming out, the vicar's wife said, "If I had sat up all
night telling you about the people, you could not have preached more
appropriately; indeed, I am sure that some of them will think that I
told you what to say."

It was so, for this same lady was charged with telling me to put before
some of the congregation things which her husband dared not! In the
evening the church was crammed to excess, and the people were most
attentive and eager. Some of them could scarcely restrain their
feelings, so powerfully did the Word come home to them. At the
conclusion of the service, I announced that I had come there to preach
every night for the week, and would visit them during the day.
Accordingly in the morning I called at several cottages, in one of which
King George the Third used to attend a prayer-meeting with the country
people.

In the afternoon I went to the convict prison at Portland. It was sad to
look upon the prisoners clanking about in their chains, many of whom
were employed in making a road to the sea. I could not help saying to
the chaplain, who was walking with me, "What a picture is that! It is
exactly how Satan employs unbelievers to make their own road to hell. As
such, they are condemned already, because they do not believe in Christ;
and for the same reason, their sins not being pardoned, they are bound
in chains."

"Well," said the chaplain drily, "that seems all clear and scriptural.
Would you like to speak to them?"

"Yes," I said, "I should."

He then made a sign to the warder, who commanded that the convicts
should give attention, and the order was at once obeyed.

Standing on the bank, I spoke to them as they were assembled before me;
but instead of telling them of the devil and chains, as the chaplain
expected, I spoke of God's love to sinners, and said that "chastisement
and sorrows were not sent in anger, but in kindness. God is angry when
the wicked are allowed to go on unpunished; but when punished in this
world, it is not for expiation of sin (for only the blood of Jesus can
do that), but for the purpose of awakening and humbling the
transgressor, that he may with contrite heart return to the Lord, who
alone is able to deliver us from sin and from Satan's power. 'It is
good,' said the Psalmist, 'that I have been afflicted: before I was
afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.'"

Many of the men were so affected, that they sobbed aloud, and I could
scarcely refrain from doing the same thing myself. After this I prayed
that the word spoken might be blessed to those who had heard it, and
then took my leave. It was not easy to dismiss this sad scene from my
mind, nor have I ever lost the impression it made upon me.

We had a very good time that evening in the church, and there was much
power and blessing. At the close of the service, I gave out that I would
preach again the following evening, and having no opportunity for an
after-meeting, the word preached was left with prayer for a blessing on
it.

The next morning there came an unexpected, as well as a most abrupt,
opposition to the work; and no wonder, for it was not likely that Satan
would permit it to go on smoothly. A vicar from the neighbourhood, who
had formerly been a military man, and had still the commanding manner of
such, presented himself, and tried to terrify my good and kind friend,
the vicar. He told him that he had heard a great deal about me; that I
was just like Starkie,* and preached the same doctrines; and that he was
deputed by other clergymen to come and ask that my preaching be stopped.
Then he went on to say that I was nothing less than a Jesuit in
disguise; and turning; to me, he said, "Sir, you know you are!" I
replied, begging his pardon, "I can assure you I am not. You must be
altogether misinformed." But he said, again turning round, and sternly
looking at me, "You know I am not mistaken or misinformed; your
countenance betrays you!" I smiled at this, not knowing how my
countenance looked. He was quite satisfied with himself, and rather more
so because he thought he had succeeded in extracting a promise from the
vicar that the services in question should be stopped.

__________________________

* A clergyman who had associated himself with H. J. Prince and some
others, and founded the "Agapemone" at Spaxton, near Bridgewater.
_________________________

This officer-clergyman then went away, saying that he was quite
convinced in his mind that I was a Jesuit, and nothing should ever
dissuade him; this interview had confirmed his thoughts on the subject.
My dear good friend was so afraid of that loud, overbearing man, that he
consented to give up the services after that night.

Presently another clergyman, evidently in concert with the former,
called on the same errand. His more gentle manner and plausible words
had greater effect, so that the vicar more than half decided to have no
service, even on that evening.

Before he had fully made up his mind, it so happened that there came on
a tremendous thunderstorm, accompanied with hail and vivid flashes of
lightning. This was considered by him quite providential, and an
indication that God wished the services stopped. When the sexton came
over to the vicarage, a little before the service time, the vicar said,
"Don't ring the bell for church tonight; it is of no use: no one can
possibly come out this weather!"

"Why, sir," said the sexton, "the church have been crammed full this
half-hour. It's no use ringing the bell, sure, for we ain't got no room
for no more people."

"Now, that is remarkable," said the vicar. "I do think, after all, the
Lord would have us go on. What do you think?" he said, turning to me.

I replied, "Without doubt I think so. I cannot suppose that the Lord
would send such men, in such a tone, to stop His work."

"Well, then," said the vicar, "we will go on till the end of the week."

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