From Death into Life by William Haslam

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Then I was brought into the deepest distress and perplexity of soul, to
think that after my experience of conversion, and all I had done for the
conversion of others, I was still such a vile, self-condemned sinner. I
even began to think that I had never been converted; it appeared to me
that my whole life was nothing but intense selfishness; that I availed
myself of the blood of Christ for my salvation and happiness, and led
others to do the same, rejoicing with them in thus making use of God for
the purpose of getting quit of hell and gaining heaven. It was a clear
case of making God serve me, instead of my serving Him. Many other
things came to my mind, by which I knew there was an immense gap between
my experience and the Word of God. I can see it all now; but at the time
it was very dark and grievous.

When I had been under conviction before, at the time of my conversion,
it was, as it were, with my eyes shut; but now they were open: then I
saw my sins, and the penalty which was due to them; now I saw my
unrighteousness, and the corruption of my nature. I felt as if I were
two persons, and that there was a law in my members warring against the
law of my mind, the flesh contending against the Spirit. "O wretched man
that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" For a
whole week I was in great distress of mind, especially during the last
three days.

On Sunday morning, as I was going to the early Communion, my soul was
set at liberty. I felt as if a great cloud was lifted up; the light
shone into my soul; and I had deliverance. I was exceedingly happy in
the knowledge that the risen Christ Himself was my help---that He who
had hidden His presence in a pillar of cloud and fire, now was Himself
present in person, my omnipotent Friend and leader!

This was quite a new experience, and one I had not known before. I
thought that I had not even heard or read of it, and therefore began to
suspect whether it was a temptation. I determined to be wise, and not
commit myself too soon, so made up my mind that I would not refer to it
in the pulpit. But at the close of the service a stranger came into the
vestry to thank me for my sermon; and when we were alone he put the
question to me, "How long have you known Sanctification?"

I replied, "Do I know it now?"

"Yes," he said, "you preached it experimentally this morning; and I
shall be very much surprised if you have not some inquiries on the
subject before the day is out."

I felt reproved before this stranger's steady gaze, and confessed that I
had received the blessing that very morning; but thinking that it might
be a temptation, I had determined to say nothing about it.

He said, "That was a temptation from the devil, sure enough, to hinder
you; for the Lord spoke on this subject through your sermon as dearly as
ever I have heard. Do not be afraid, but go on and tell others."

So in the evening I preached on Sanctification, and we had an
after-meeting in the schoolroom. Many believers stayed behind to ask
questions upon the subject of my sermon. I do not remember how I replied
to them; but imperfect as my statements must have been, it nevertheless
led others to desire to enter into the experience of this same blessing.

The following morning, I happened to take up a tract by John Fletcher,
of Madeley, in which I read, that at a breakfast party on the occasion
of a wedding, to which he was invited, just in the middle of idle and
frivolous conversation which was going on, he was constrained to rise up
and say, "I have three times had an experience of joy and liberty, which
I believe to be Sanctification, and it has passed away; now that it has
returned again, I take this opportunity to testify." The company were
all struck with amazement; the power of God was present; and the festive
gathering was turned into a meeting for prayer and praise. I took
warning from this tract never to withhold my testimony on this subject.

Soon after this, I was holding an afternoon Bible class in another part
of the parish; we were going through St. Luke's gospel, and had come to
the fifth chapter; I said with reference to the miraculous draught of
fishes, that the fish had been swimming about in their native element in
all quietness and freedom, till they came in contact with a net, and it
came in contact with thorn. Observe, I said, three things: 1. They are
caught in the net. 2. They are drawn out of their native element. 3.
They are laid in the boat at the feet of Christ. So it is, where people
are caught in' the Gospel net--this is conviction; they are drawn out of
the state in which they were--this is conversion; but they are not yet
in the state in which they should be, this is why it is so hard to hold
them: they ought to be drawn to Christ Himself, for this is the ultimate
object of catching souls; the one thing needful is to be brought to the
feet of Christ.

I intentionally abstained from using the word "Sanctification," though I
was endeavouring to typify the experience of it, and to contrast it with
conversion. As I went on speaking, a woman in the small assemble put up
her hands and began to shout and praise God, "That is Sanctification!"
she cried; "I have it! I know it! Praise the Lord!" There was a great
stir the class; some cried, and some asked questions. One woman, who was
more advanced in general knowledge and experience than most of the
others declared, that she did not believe in Sanctification, for she had
known so many who professed to have it, and had lost it. "Lost what?" I
said, "you cannot lose an experience; the joy of it may depart, and
certainly does where people rest on their feelings instead of the fact,
on the effect, instead of the cause." She confused the sanctification of
the believer, with the effect it produced on him. The Spirit which works
sanctification in our souls can keep us in it, if we continue to look to
Him, instead of looking at His work, I said to her, what I have said
ever since to all who are inclined to argue on the subject: Believers
too often dispute about Sanctification, in the same manner as the
unconverted do on the subject of Justification. It is not worth while
for those who know, to contend with those who only think. I told her to
go home and pray about it and ask the Lord if He had anything more to
give, to let her have it.

She was sullen, and hard to persuade; but after a little more
conversation and prayer, she consented to lay aside her prejudice and do
as I had told her. She did so, and came again the next morning to see
me. Fortunately, I was not in my house, but shut up, as my custom was in
the church for meditation and prayer. She followed me thither, but being
engaged with my Master, I answered no knocks or taps, whether at the
doors or windows; even on this occasion I did not respond, although I
heard some one walking round and round the church and knocking
impatiently for admittance. When I came out, I heard that Hannah--had
called and wished very much to see me; for she wanted (to use her own
expression) "to hug the dear head of him, if she could catch him." She
was happy beyond expression, for she had had a dream; and what is more
she said that she had entered into the "second blessing."

In her dream she saw a well of water as clear as crystal; it was
beautiful, and the clean pebbles at the bottom quite glistened with
brightness, so that she could count them. "There, there," she said,
"What does any one want clearer and cleaner than that?" As she looked
into this clear well, my voice said to her, "Throw a pebble into it,"
when she did so; in an instant the water became thick and dirty. "Ah,"
said my voice again, "The water of grace is always clear as crystal, but
the well in which it is--that is your heart is most unclean. The Lord
can give you a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within you" (Ps.
51:10). She woke up from her sleep, and immediately began to pray,
asking the Lord for a clean heart, until she obtained it.

Some may say, "But what did she obtain?" This question is seldom if ever
asked by persons who know the experience of this blessing; but to those
who do not, it is very difficult to convey an idea of what it is by
definitions. Let it be enough to understand that there is something
desirable to be had, which may be obtained by doing as the woman did.
"As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man" (Prov.
27:19). Those who know it, understand one another and rejoice together.
There is no such mutual sympathy and joy as that which brethren have who
are partakers of this higher blessing.

After this, Hannah became a restful, peaceful soul; and many others,
with her, found that quiet confidence which can only belong to those who
can and do trust a risen and living Christ.

It was quite a new era in the work, and called out fresh energies; but
like every new thing, it absorbed too much attention, to the exclusion
of the simple Gospel for the unsaved. "Christ died for our sins," is
only part of the Gospel, though a very important part. "Christ rose
again the third day according to the Scriptures" (1 Cor. 15:3, 4), is
also a part, which should not be omitted in its due time and place.
These two important truths, I am sure, are needful for scriptural work,
and they should both be systematically preached.

CHAPTER 25

The Removal, 1855.

When I was on the eve of leaving Perranzabuloe, and before I knew that I
was to go, I felt there was a gulf between the people and myself.
Whatever else they held they were quite ignorant of ecclesiastical
antiquities, Church history, and Catholic truth; what is more, they were
unwilling to learn about such matters.

Now I began to feel that another gulf was opening between my present
people and myself. It was not as before, about ecclesiastical things;
but on another score altogether. I wanted them to believe in a living
Saviour: they were trying to content themselves with salvation instead.
I wanted them to trust the Giver: they preferred to rejoice in the gift.
I longed to lead them on to trust Christ as the object of faith, and
from this to go on to devote themselves to His service, for very love of
Him--to be loosed from the present world, by the hope of the Lord's
coming. I could not get the people to receive this teaching, though it
was God's truth, and could be verified by the Word.

I confess that this threefold truth was not so satisfying to my own soul
as I expected it would be. I remembered that I had not learned it from
men or books, but experimentally, by God's teaching, in answer to
prayer. I could not imagine what was wanting, and did not discover, for
several years after, that the mere knowledge of a truth by itself, even
though it is about Christ, cannot deliver. It is not the truth of Christ
that delivers, but the Christ of the truth. In itself, it is but an
instrument in the hand of the Spirit; and our expectation should be not
from it, but from the Divine Person, whose it is.

I have found that the power is Christ Himself; that where He is really
the object of faith, He keeps the believer in peace; and that if there
is no peace, it is only because there is a deficiency of trust: that He,
as the object of love, constrains us to work for His Father's glory; and
that He, as the object of hope, can and does separate us from the world
and its entanglements, by drawing our affections to things above and
beyond the present. Not having discovered this simple yet important
truth, I was restless; and from God's Word came down to read the words'
and thoughts of men. I fell in with the "Life of Madame Guyon." Here I
found much sympathy, but somehow not that peace I was looking for. Then
I read the writings of the Port Royal school, the Jansenists, Butler's
"Lives of the Saints," and other such books. These diverted my mind,
employed and interested it; but I cannot say they satisfied me. I was
craving for something which I had not found yet, and had to wait three
years or more before I did so.

About this time I was invited to go to a parish in Plymouth, to a church
where sacramental teaching was the rule. The incumbent was evidently as
much dissatisfied with the state of his congregation as I was with mine.
He wanted something new, and I thought I did likewise. Accordingly I
went and preached in his pulpit, and the word spoken produced a marked
sensation. My sermon brought to the vicar's mind many truths he had
heard and loved in early days, and for this reason he urged me to stay
and preach again. Then, to my surprise. He invited me to leave Cornwall
and come to Plymouth. in order to take a district in his parish, that I
might help him occasionally in his church. This was altogether such an
unsought-for thing, and so unexpected, that I took time to consider. The
next day I told him that I could not entertain his proposition, and that
for three reasons:--

1. I said, "I am sure that the Bishop would not consent."
2. "I have a debt laid on me by my patron for nearly 3,000 l.,
which I spent in building the church for him."
3. "I am responsible for a debt of 300 l. as security."

He still urged it, and said he would go and see the Bishop, and speak
with him on the subject. In his zeal he set off that very morning. The
Bishop at first said flatly, "No;" and then, upon further inquiry,
recalled the word, and said, "You may try it if you will." He returned
in the evening with this information, which surprised me greatly. But
what made me wonder still more, was the receipt of two letters the next
morning by the same post--one from London and the other from Paris,
releasing me from the responsibility of the two debts; and this without
any request on my part. The three difficulties, which were like
mountains before me only three days before, were now removed. I did not
know what to say, and therefore determined, in all haste, to go home and
consider the step.

When I had related these astonishing circumstances to my dear wife, we
agreed to go together to consult with Mr. Aitken. On arriving I said to
him, "You must please to sit still and hear all before you speak." Then
I told him of the invitation to go to Plymouth, the result of the
preaching, the unexpected proposal to remove thither, the Bishop's
answer, and the remission of the 3,300 l.

"Now," I continued, "what do you say?"

"You must go, my brother," he replied; "for you will never make
Catholics of the Cornish people: the Methodist mind is far too deeply
rooted in them."

Our friend's decision was firm; and so there remained nothing for us to
do but to follow it. The novelty of the proposition, and the surprising
circumstances connected with it were exciting, and took away our
thoughts for the time from the place which was to be left. When the
decision was given and accepted, then Baldhu seemed to lift up its
voice, and urge its claims. Certainly it was a strong tie which bound us
to this place; but nevertheless, on our return home, I wrote to the
Bishop, and' proposed to resign my present incumbency, in order that I
might take a district in Plymouth. He replied in due course, that he
would accept my resignation. After I was thus pledged, my wife's mind
veered from her consent to go; and Mr. Aitken changed his tone also, and
said that the text had come to him, "Cast thyself down," and that I was
tempting God. Yet all the steps I had taken had been in prayer, and had
been taken very reluctantly, for I was much attached to Baldhu.

For nearly three months I was torn with distractions; sometimes hope
lifted up the mist from the horizon, and then let it down again. I did
not know what to do; the work at home had come to a stand; but there was
one thing, my successor was not yet appointed, nor had I signed my
resignation; therefore every now and then the thought came over me, that
I would stay. Then a letter came from Plymouth, urging me to come away
at once, "for the iron was hot for striking." Sometimes people came in
and said, "You had better go;" then others would come in and say, "You
will do no good if you do go." It was desolating, as well as distracting
beyond description.

I had a family of six children and three servants; it was a great
expense to move there; and yet, if God was calling, it was quite as easy
for Him to move eleven people as one; and I had ten claims upon Him. At
last, suspense was over; my successor was appointed, and the day fixed
for our going. I signed my resignation, having to pay four pounds ten
shillings for it; then, suspense was changed into unmitigated sorrow.

I had designed and built that church and house, and had seen them rise;
had made the garden, and had had many happy and wonderful days in this
place. I found it had taken a deep root in my heart, and therefore it
was like tearing one up altogether to go away. But it was done now, and
the friends who had advised me not to resign, seemed to have their
triumph; and those who advised to go, were discouraged and grieved at my
sorrowful state. My dear wife cheered up when she saw me down, and rose
to the occasion; she began to pack up as if delighted at going, and went
about everything most cheerfully.

I told the people that I could not bear a leave-taking, but there would
be a service in the church, and Holy Communion, at seven o'clock on the
morning we were to leave. Many came, but the majority could not sum up
the courage to do so. I put my resignation on the offertory plate, and
gave it to God with many tears. A kind neighbour came to officiate for
me, so that I did not take any part in the service, being exceedingly
dejected and overwhelmed with sorrow. It was chiefly for fear, lest I
was doing that which God would not have me do, and taking my family out
from a comfortable home, I knew not whither, or to what discomforts.

One thing I certainly saw plainly enough, that my affections were too
deeply rooted in earthly things. I had no idea till then, that that
place of my own creation had taken such a hold upon me. It was well to
be loose from that, and free for my Master's service.

After breakfast we left the old place; many people stood weeping by the
roadsides; some ventured to speak, and others only thrust their hands
into the carriage windows for a hearty grasp, without saying a word. It
was indeed a sorrowful day, the remembrance of which even now makes my
heart sink, though it is more than twenty-five years since.

In the evening we arrived at the house of some friends, who had kindly
invited us to break our journey, and remain the night with them; and in
the morning we proceeded on our way to Plymouth. When we reached the
house, we found our furniture unpacked, and distributed in the various
rooms, and the table spread ready for us to take some refreshment. The
word "Welcome" was done in flowers over the door, besides many other
demonstrations of kindness; but I am afraid we were all too sorrowful at
the time to show our appreciation of, or to enjoy them.

We never settled in that house, and did not care to unpack anything more
than necessary, or hang up the pictures or texts.

My work did not prosper here, for I found I was unequally yoked with
strangers, and accordingly felt dry and wretched. I sent my resignation
of Baldhu to Bishop Phillpotts, and with it my nomination and other
necessary papers, saying that I would wait on his lordship for
institution on a certain day.

At the appointed time I went to him, when to my great surprise, he very
calmly said he could not appoint me to that district. I could not
understand this, for as I had told him, I had only resigned
conditionally, and reminded him that I had asked his permission to
resign, for the purpose of taking this district.

"How can I consciously appoint or license you to anything in my
diocese?" he said, looking me full in the face, and then in his
courteous way he laid his commands on me to stay to luncheon, saying he
would be obliged "if I would do him this honour;" he bade me walk in the
garden, as he was busy, and would be occupied till luncheon.

I felt that I needed a little quiet and fresh air to get over this
climax of my troubles--out of one living, and not into another; and that
with a wife, six children, and three servants, with very little to live
on. Here was a state of things! I had plenty to occupy my thoughts and
prayers. I feared and mourned, above everything, lest God should be
angry with me. "Oh, if I could only know this is the will of God, then I
should not care a fig for all the bishops on the bench, and would not
ask one of them for anything!"

I was soon roused from my reverie, by the presence of Miss C. P., the
Bishop's daughter, who had come out at her father's request to show me
the garden and the view. I had known this lady slightly for several
years, and so she was not altogether a stranger to me, or I to her. She
talked so cheerfully and pleasantly, that it came to my mind, "Perhaps
after all, the Bishop is only trying me. He will not appoint me to this
bare district, because he has something better with which he means to
surprise me." This sanguine thought cheered me up greatly. At luncheon
he was as kind and happy as if he had neither done anything
dishonourable, or had any intention of doing so; so that I felt quite
sure something good was coming. I began to wonder at intervals, "What
part of the diocese I was to be sent to?--Where is there a vacancy?" and
so on.

The Bishop was as friendly to me as he used to be in other days. After
the repast, he summoned me to his study again. "Now," I thought, "I
shall hear where I am to go;" but instead of this, he said that he was
"much engaged, and must take leave of me."

I was more than astonished at this, and said, "I can scarcely believe
that you refuse to appoint me!"

"I do then, most positively."

"But I have a copy of my letter to your lordship, and your answer."

"Then you may urge your claim by law, if you please."

"No, indeed, my lord, I do not think I will do that." And then, after a
short pause, I said, "You have done for me what I could not dare do for
myself, though I have often been tempted to do it."

"And pray, what is that?" he inquired.

"To give up parochial ministration, that I may be free to preach
wherever I am led."

"Could you do that?"

"I could not do it conscientiously myself; but now that you have
stripped me of harness, I will put on no more."

The Bishop made his bow, and I made mine; and that was the end of our
interview. In my unconverted days I used to be an ardent and
enthusiastic admirer of this man; his charges, his speeches, and
especially his withering, sarcastic letters to Lord John Russell and
others, who came under his tremendous lash, to my mind made him a great
hero. His straight forward manner also commanded my respect, for,
generally speaking, I had found bishops very smooth and two-sided, or
rather both-sided; but in his ease there was no mistake.

It used to be a proud time for me when this Bishop came into Cornwall,
and I was permitted to accompany him, and to act as his chaplain at the
consecration of a church or burial ground, or to attend him when he went
to a Confirmation. Sometimes I had the happy privilege of rowing him in
a boat on the sea. He seemed to take such an affectionate and
intelligent interest in my parish and my church work. He asked various
questions about my neighbours, just as if he lived among them and knew
all their circumstances. He struck me as a wonderful man, and I was his
champion upon all occasions in my unconverted days. Notwithstanding
this, he was too honest to his own views to favour me after my
conversion.

On my return home without a license, I had but a poor account to give,
and the future prospect looked very gloomy.

CHAPTER 26

Plymouth, 1855.

I occasionally preached in the parish church, and went to the daily
Communion and the daily service. My spare time I occupied (it was like
going back to brick-making in Egypt) in painting the church. I laboured
for hours and hours to try and make this great chalk-pit of a place look
somewhat ecclesiastical. All round the church I painted a diaper
pattern, surmounted with a border, which went over the doors and under
the windows. Then on the bare wall at the end I painted a life-sized
figure of our Lord, as a Shepherd leading His sheep, taken from
Overbeck's picture. This, together with a few other pictures of Christ,
warmed up the building very well. Then for the chancel I had a most
elaborate design.

First, there was a beautiful gilded pattern over the very lofty chancel
arch, which I managed to reach by means of a ladder. Professional people
need scaffolding and platforms, which I dispensed with, and accomplished
the whole space in less time than it would take to put up all their
needful erections. Inside the chancel I had twelve niches, with
tabernacle work above them, for the twelve apostles; and these were all
duly represented after a true mediaeval pattern.

The local newspaper made great fun of these paintings; and the reporter
would have it, that "these lively saints looked very conscious of being
put up there, and that they were constantly 'craning' their necks to
look at one another--as if they would inquire, 'I say, how do you like
being there?'" My favourite figure, St. John, upon which I bestowed
extra pains, the provoking man would have it, was St. Mary Magdalene,
leering at the apostle next to her, or at the one opposite--it did not
seem quite clear to him which; but her head was down on one side in a
bewitching attitude.

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