From Death into Life by William Haslam

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But this could not be; for in the morning, as soon as he had decided to
stop the services, I sat down and wrote to a cousin of mine, in the
neighbourhood (and the letter had gone), to get me the parish church for
the next evening, and said, "I would come to her on a visit for a few
days, as my preaching in this place was brought to an end."

I spoke that evening, and announced that I would do so again on
Thursday. On the following day I went on this promised visit to another
part of the county, and was not long in the company of my cousin, before
I found out that she had been brought up in Evangelical doctrines, and
hated Puseyism; but that she had never been converted. In the evening,
we went to the Minster Church, the use of which she had obtained for me.
There, I preached from the words, "Behold, I stand at the door and
knock." (I did not know then, as I old now, that this is a text for
believers.) Accommodating it for my purpose, I made out that many people
assented to evangelical doctrines, without yielding to them: that is,
they heard the knocking, but did not open the door and receive the
Saviour; therefore, they remained unsaved; and if they died like that,
would be lost for ever!

When I first ascended the pulpit, which stood outside of a high chancel
screen, I looked towards the nave, and saw it filled with high pews,
which, as I thought, were for the most part empty; whereas, I could see
that the choir and chancel, which was brightly lighted, was full of
choir-men and boys, besides many people; so instead of turning my back
upon the many in the lighted chancel, and addressing myself to the
unseen few in the large dark nave, I turned round in the pulpit, and,
looking through the screen, I preached to those I could see. The people
in the nave, however, were most attentive to hear; and after the sermon
came up and asked me why I had turned my back on them, for they could
not hear all I said. Evidently they had heard something which had
interested them. Seeing so many were anxious, we invited those who
wished for further help, or instruction, to come home with us. Many did
so, and we held a kind of after-meeting, in which my cousin and several
others found peace.

I could not promise to stay there any longer, having settled to return
on Thursday to resume services in the church previously referred to.
Accordingly I went back to a neighbouring town, where my good vicar had
appointed to meet me. He did so, and, without delay, commenced telling
me, that he had had a long talk with some of his brother clergymen, and
had given his word that the services were positively to be discontinued
after that night; he also told me he had taken my place by the coach,
and that I was to start for Exeter the next morning, on my way home.
Then he went on to say that he found it would be dangerous to keep me
any longer, for he should have the whole neighbourhood up about it. In
his timidity, he would rather let the work stop, than be embroiled with
the neighbourhood!

The evening service was crowded, and the people were very disappointed
that I was not allowed to remain. However, I told them it could not be,
and that I must go--so took leave of them.

The next morning we rose early, and breakfasted at six o'clock, then
drove out to the turnpike road, to meet the coach at an appointed
corner, at seven. It arrived in due time, piled up high into the air
with passengers and luggage; but having an inside place secured for me,
we were not dismayed at the outside appearance. The coachman got off the
box, and, instead of opening the coach door as we expected, put some
money into my hand, and, with a grinning countenance, said, "There's
your money, sir. Sorry to say can't take you today; hain't got a crevice
of room anywhere. Good morning, sir." In a moment more he was up on his
box, with reins in hand. "Take you tomorrow, sir, same time. Good
morning." And off he went'. Imagine our surprise at being left on the
roadside in this unceremonious way. My good little vicar was most
indignant at being thus treated. "I'll make him pay for that," he said.
"I'll punish him--it's against the law." And then, as if a new thought
had suddenly come to him, he said, "Ah, I know what we will do! Jump
into the carriage again"; and putting my luggage in, he got up, and
drove me to the next town. He said, "We will take a post-chaise, and
make the coach people pay for it; that's it--that's what we will do."

I suggested that I did not think we could do that, having received the
money back.

"Ah, that's nothing," he said; "that's nothing. We will take a
post-chaise."

This scheme was prevented; for on arriving at the hotel, there was not a
carriage of any kind to be had. "Are you sure of that?" said the vicar
(as if all the world was in league with the coach proprietor). "Are you
quite sure?"

"You had better come and see for yourself," said the ostler, in a surly
tone.

We went into the yard, and found the coach houses quite empty.

"That's very remarkable," said the vicar; "but these people are
connected with that coach--it changes horses here. We will go to the
next inn."

There they did not let out carriages at all!

"Well now," said the vicar, "this is very remarkable," and was silent.

"Perhaps the Lord does not mean me to go today," I said meekly.

"It seems so, certainly. I must say it is very remarkable."

I suggested that I would stay at the inn till the next morning, as there
was no means of getting on. "Shall I do so?"

"Oh, no; certainly not--certainly not," said the kind man. "Not at
all--not at all. We will go back again."

"But," I said, "what will they think when they see me?"

Poor dear man, like many others he was dreadfully frightened at the
thought of "what will they think?" As if "they" did not go on thinking
whether one gives them occasion or not.

In due course, we arrived again in sight of the vicarage gate, and there
we saw the vicar's wife, with her hands up in astonishment. She
exclaimed, "What! are you come back?"

"Yes, we are indeed!" said the vicar, and he was going to tell her how
it was, but she was too impatient to listen, having, as she thought,
something more important to communicate. She said, "After you went away
this morning, the weather being so fine, I thought that I would go into
the village, and see some of the people who were at church last evening.
In passing by widow S.'s cottage, on my way to another, I saw her door
and window open, and heard her praying very earnestly, 'Lord, bring him
back! bring him back!' I thought she was praying about her husband, who
had recently died; and that I would go in and try to comfort her. So I
knelt down by her side, and repeated the words, 'I shall go to him, but
he shall not return to me,' when she turned round' and said, 'Oh, I
don't mean that!' and then, as if she grudged every breath which was
spent in other words, she went on repeating, 'Lord, bring him back!
Lord, bring him back!'

"'Who do you mean?' I said, 'what can you mean?'

"She went on, 'O Lord, I saw him go away. I saw them take him away.
Lord, bring him back! bring him back!'

"I again said, 'Who do you mean?'

"She took no heed, but went on, 'O Lord, when I opened the window I saw
him coming out of the vicarage gate. Lord, bring him back! do bring him
back!'

"At last I understood that she was praying for you to be brought back.
Then I said to her, 'Dear woman, do get from your knees, and let me talk
to you.' No, she would not get up.

"No, I can't get up. Lord, bring him back! bring him back!'

"It cannot be,' I said; 'he is on the coach by this time--a long way
off.' The woman became frantic at the thought. 'Oh, what shall I do?
what shall I do? Lord, bring him back!'

"Seeing that I could do nothing in the matter, I went to call on some
other people, and coming back found the widow still on her knees, urging
the same petition without stopping." "Well, that is remarkable,"
interposed the vicar. Without a moment's pause, I set off to show myself
to the widow.

"Now! there you are," she said; "the Lord has sent you back. I laid
awake best part of the night, thinking of some questions I wished to ask
you; and when I saw you go away like that, so early in the morning, it
gave me quite a turn. I thought I should be lost for ever!"

Her questions concerned her soul's condition. On my putting Christ and
His salvation before her for her acceptance, she found peace; and
afterwards became a good helper in the parish. There were some other
anxious ones she urged me to visit, which I did. On referring to my
letters, written at the time, I find a record of five persons who
professed to find peace that morning.

In the evening, we had a kind of service in the school-room, with as
many as we could get together, and spent a very happy time in prayer and
praise.

The next morning I started for home, which I reached late on Saturday
night, or rather early on Sunday morning, and appeared quite
unexpectedly among my people again. I gave them an account of the state
of things in the "shires." This, my first experience of "foreign
missions," was not encouraging.

Ever since my conversion, I had been over head and ears in conversion
work, and, as a loyal young convert, thought at that time there was
nothing else in the world to live, or work for! How surprised I was when
I found that this was not by any means the first thing in the minds of
my Evangelical brethren; and more so still when I saw that even
preaching for the salvation of souls was put aside altogether, if 'it
did not fit in with the stated service-day of the week, or public
opinion. If people came to church, or better still, to the communion
table, they were considered quite satisfactory enough, even though they
were dead in trespasses and sins. I did not, of course, expect anything
from my own neighbours, for I knew them of old; but from accredited
"standard bearers," I did expect something and got nothing.

While I was still feeling sore and disappointed, intending not to go out
on such errands any more, I found myself promised to another mission in
a most unexpected manner; but this did not happen to be out of Cornwall,
and therefore prospered better, as we shall see.

CHAPTER 20

A Stranger from London, 1853.

A lady in London, reading in the Cornish newspapers about our revivals,
became much interested, and having a strong desire to witness such a
movement personally, proposed a visit to her uncle in Truro, who had
sent her those papers. Being accepted, she came down a long way in those
days, when railway communication was not so complete as it is now.

This same lady was present at my church on Sunday morning; and
expressing a wish to attend the afternoon service, we gladly welcomed
her to the parsonage. In course of conversation, she spoke of churches
in London where the Gospel was preached in its fullness; and I naturally
asked her whether they had "after-meetings." She said, she did not know
what I meant. "Prayer meetings, for conversion work, I mean."

"What is that?" she inquired. "Is not conversion God's work?"

"Yes," I answered, "indeed it is; but so is the harvest yonder in the
corn-fields: it is all God's work, but men have to plough the ground and
sow the seed."

"Oh, is that what you call revival work? I have read of it; and, to tell
the truth, I have come all the way from London to see it."

She evidently had an idea that revivals were something like
thunder-storms, which come of themselves, no one knows how or why; or
something that is vented, like an occasional eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

I said, "Revivals--that is, the refreshening of believers and the
awakening of sinners--ought to take place wherever the Gospel is
preached in faith and power."

She could not understand it, and said, "It is not so in churches, is
it?"

"Yes," I replied, "in churches as well as in cottages, halls and chapels
too."

"I am sure Mr. ---- in London preaches a full Gospel, but I have never
heard of a revival there; indeed, I feel convinced they would not allow
it."

"Is he converted?" I asked.

She smiled at the question, and said, "I suppose he is."

"I mean, does he preach about the forgiveness of sins? and, more than
this, does he expect people to have forgiveness?"

She said she could not understand my Cornish way of talking--"They do
not speak like that in London."

"Your sins are pardoned," I said, by way of explanation, in order to get
her to comprehend my meaning from her own experience. "Your sins are
pardoned." She got very confused. "You know," I continued, "that it is a
happy day when Jesus takes our sins away." This only made matters worse.
She became greatly embarrassed. While we spoke of London and Gospel
preaching she was free enough; but the moment I made a personal
application of the subject, she was altogether bewildered.

At last, with a kind of forced effort, she said, "I have been a child of
God for eleven years."

"Thank God!" I said, much relieved; "that is what I mean. You have been
converted and pardoned for eleven years. It is all right, then. I did
not intend to perplex you, and am sorry I did not convey ray meaning in
a better manner."

But I could not smooth down her ruffled feathers so easily, and was glad
when the five minutes' bell began ringing to summon us to church. We got
ready, and went. It happened to be a children's service, and our subject
that afternoon was Joseph's reconciliation with his brethren. Three
questions, among others, were asked and dwelt upon.

First, "Was Joseph reconciled with his brethren while they were
self-convicted before him, and condemned themselves as verily guilty
concerning their brother?"--"No."

Second, "Was he reconciled when he feasted with them, and made
merry?"--"No."

Third, "When, then, was he reconciled?"--"When they surrendered
themselves, and all the eleven were prostrate at his feet, like the
eleven sheaves which bowed to Joseph's sheaf in the harvest field; then
he made himself known to them, and forgave them. It is not when a soul
is under condemnation, nor yet when it is happy, that it is saved; but
when it is actually, once for all, surrendered to Christ for salvation,
then it is He makes himself known to them, even as Joseph did to his
brethren."

The lady went away. I did not ascertain who she was, nor where she came
from; I was not much taken with her, nor was she with me. Hers was
evidently a kind of religion which I had not met with before, and did
not care to meet with again.

The next day I went for a few hours' rest and change to the sea-side at
Perran, but there was a burden of prayer on my soul. I could not thank
God for that unknown lady, but I could pray for mercy for her. The
impression on my mind was very clear: I felt that she was not saved. The
day following the burden was heavier still, and I was on my knees
praying for her for several hours in the day. In the evening I was quite
in distress. The next day I was most anxious for her, and could do
nothing but pray, even with tears. This lasted till the following day
(Thursday), when I happened to go into the drawing-room for something,
and there I observed a strange Bible lying on the table. I remembered
that I had seen that same book in the lady's hand on Sunday. I took it
up, and saw a name, and on making inquiry of the servants I found out
that she came in Mr. --'s carriage on Sunday.

This was enough. I wrote a note immediately, and sent the Bible, saying
that I was greatly burdened for her soul, and should much like to see
her. She sent me a kind letter in reply, appointing the following Monday
for my visit.

On that day I called, and found her very kind, and seemingly thankful
for the interest I expressed in her welfare. I said that she had nothing
really to thank me for, for I could not help myself; the burden had been
laid upon me. Then I asked her if she would tell me how she became a
child of God.

She did so readily, and told me that once she was in the world, and as
fond of dancing and pleasure as others with whom she associated; that in
the midst of her gaiety she was called to the death-bed of a cousin, who
was just such a lover of pleasure as herself. Her cousin said, "Oh,
Mary, give up the world for my sake. I am lost! Oh, Mary, give it up!"
Soon she died, poor girl, just awakened enough to see and feel herself
hopelessly lost--a dying worldling. No one was near to point her to the
Saviour, so she departed as she had liked to live, without salvation.
Mary wept at the remembrance of that solemn scene, and said she could
never forget it. "Well," I said, "and what did you do then?"

She answered firmly, "I knelt down then and there, by the side of the
bed where my poor cousin had just died, and I called God to witness that
I would give up the world. I did so; and have never had any inclination
to go back into its gaieties and pleasures since. I began from that time
to pray, and read my Bible, and go to church; and I love these things
now better than I did the things of the world before."

At the time of this change, she was led to a church where Evangelical
truth was preached simply and plainly; and thus became distinctly
enlightened as to the way of salvation. She fully assented and consented
to what she heard, and therefore became a very earnest disciple,
enthusiastic about the sovereignty of God and the doctrines of grace,
and all such matters. She understood the meaning of the Levitical types
and offerings; could speak of dispensational truth and prophecy; was
very zealous about missions to the heathen, and was also earnestly
devoted to many charitable works at home.

There was, however, one little suspicious thing in the midst of all this
manifest goodness. She had not much patience with elementary Gospel
sermons, or much interest in, or sympathy with, efforts made to bring in
perishing souls; she loved rather to be fed with high doctrines, and the
mysteries of grace with its deeper teachings. There are some men who
love to preach exclusively about these things, even before mixed
congregations, addressing them as if they were all real Christians.

It is surprising how many people there are just like Mary, who seem to
care more for doctrines than for Cod Himself--more for favourite truths
than for souls. A simple, elementary Gospel address, with some clear
illustrations, was just the very thing Mary wanted for her own soul's
good, more than anything; but, unfortunately, this was the thing against
which she was prejudiced, for she abhorred "anecdotal sermons."

After hearing her story, I said, "It is very interesting; but there is
one great deficiency in it. You have not told me anything' about Christ;
have you nothing to say about the blood of Jesus, and about your sins?
Have you had no real transaction with 'God about them?"

She said she "did not know what I meant."

"Did you never come as a sinner, and obtain the forgiveness of your sins?"

"No," she replied; "that is what I do not understand about your
teaching."

I showed her, as plainly as I could, that she had not told me about
conversion, but reformation. "You have only turned over a new leaf, and
kept your resolutions prayerfully and well for eleven years; but this is
not turning back the old leaves of your past life, and getting them
washed in the blood of the Lamb. 'He that covers his sins' in this way,
'can never prosper.' If a man owes a debt for which he is very sorry,
and determines that in future he will pay for everything he gets--this
will not pay his past debts."

She went on to justify herself, and said, "that she knew a great many
good Christian people, and that none of them had ever suspected her as I
did."

I endeavoured to assure her that I was dreadfully alarmed about her
condition, and was certain that if she died like that, there would be no
more hope for her salvation than for her cousin's. This seemed to rouse
her hostility, and I saw that I had lost influence. However, I could not
blame myself, for I had only said what I felt to be true. I returned
home and prayed for more wisdom. All that night I could not sleep, and
most of it was spent in pleading with God. I felt as if a restless bird
was flying about the room, and something was saying, "She will be lost
forever." I urged my petition again and again.

The next day I called, and found this lady quite broken down, and ready
to pray and listen to my teaching. I was most thankful, and greatly
relieved after the night's restlessness. I had much happiness in
pointing out the way of salvation as an experimental thing. She knew,
before I did, the doctrine of the A tenement, but she had had no
experience of its real efficacy. Now that her eyes were opened, she was
in right earnest to know the reality of sins forgiven. Soon she found
this, though not yet the joy of deliverance; she knew the peace and
shelter of the sprinkled blood (Exod. 12:13), but not yet the joy and
liberty of being on the rock on the other side of the Red Sea (Exod. 15:
2). I was sure that it would all come in due time, and therefore was
able to take comfort, and also to comfort her.

I saw a good deal of her at that time, and one day she told me that a
relation of hers, a clergyman, was coming to have it out with me for
saying that she was not converted before.

"Certainly," I replied, "I shall be happy to meet him, and hope you will
be in the room."

When the dreaded man arrived, we were introduced to one another.

"Well," he said, "you are a very different-looking than to what I
imagined. I have heard a deal about you. So you are a Puseyite turned
Evangelical, eh? I have often heard of people going the other way, but I
must say I have never met a man who had come in this direction." He then
asked about the results of my industry.

I told him what was the effect in my church and parish, and that the
same signs followed the preaching of the Gospel wherever I went. "I
wish," he said, "you would come and preach in my parish. You know a
great friend of mine at Veryam and have preached in his pulpit. Will you
do the same for me?"

"Oh, yes," I said, "certainly, with pleasure."

"Now, look at me, for I am a man of business: when will you come? Name
your day."

I looked at my pocket-book, and fixed upon a certain Monday.

Then he arranged that we should have a kind of missionary meeting, "In
the course of which," he said, "you can preach as much Gospel as you
like. If it goes well, we will have a lecture the next evening on 'Heart
Conversion,' and another the evening following, on something else." He
was "quite sure noone would come to hear a sermon only. It must be a
missionary meeting, or something of the kind, to bring the people out."

On the day appointed, the barn where we were assembled was well filled,
and seeing that the people were interested, the vicar gave out, "Mr
Haslam will lecture tomorrow evening on Heart Conversion."

The next evening, when we arrived, we found the barn quite full, and
numbers standing outside; besides, there were many more whom we passed
on the road. So it was determined that we should go into the church and
have a short service. The edifice was soon lighted, and filled, and
after a few collects and hymns (for they had a hymn-book in that
church), I went up into the pulpit, and preached upon the absolute
necessity of conversion--no salvation without it. As to "heart
conversion," what is conversion at all if the heart is not touched? Then
I treated my subject from another point of view. "Every converted person
here knows what heart conversion is; and if any one does not, it is
clear he is not converted. If he dies in that state, he wilt be lost for
ever!" I concluded the sermon with prayer; and while I was praying in
the pulpit, one after another of the people in the pews began to cry
aloud for mercy. My friend Mary likened it to a battle-field, and me to
a surgeon going from one wounded one to another to help them. At eleven
o'clock we closed the service, promising to hold another the next day.

On Wednesday morning Mary awoke from her sleep with a voice saying to
her, "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world."

"Then all my sins are gone. He has borne them. He 'Himself bore our sins
in His own body on the tree.'"

She was filled with joy unspeakable, and came to breakfast rejoicing.
The lady of the house was in tears, the servants were troubled, and the
vicar alternately glad and sorry, for he was not sure whether it was
excitement or the work of God, and did not know what to make of it.
However, in the evening he broke down in his reading-desk in the middle
of the sermon, and burst out, "Lord, save me!" In an instant the whole
congregation was up, and the people everywhere either crying for mercy,
or rejoicing. The power of the Lord was present to heal them, and many
souls were saved that night; and besides these, there were others who
were troubled.

Amongst this number was the young squire of the parish. He was
afterwards decidedly converted to God, and took great interest in the
work. When twitted on the bench by his brother magistrates about the
revival, he stood his ground manfully, and gave good testimony. He
continues to this day a bold champion for the truth as it is in Jesus.

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