From Death into Life by William Haslam

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In this place a revival began at once; and every day we had people
crying for mercy, very much in the way they did in Cornwall. Among
others, there came to the church on Sunday afternoon, a tall
Yorkshireman, in his working clothes. He stood under the gallery, in his
shirt sleeves, with a clay pipe sticking out of his waistcoat pocket,
and a little cap on his head. I fancy I can see him now, standing erect,
looking earnestly at me while I was preaching, with his hand on one of
the iron supports of the gallery. As the sermon proceeded he became
deeply interested, and step by step drew nearer to the pulpit. He seemed
to be altogether unconscious that he was not dressed for a Sunday
congregation, or that he was the object of any special notice. After the
sermon he knelt down in the aisle, and there he remained. I was called
out of the vestry to go to him, but could not get him to say a word. I
prayed by his side, and after some time he groaned out an "Amen," then
he got up, and went towards the door. I followed him, and saw that
instead of going along the path, he made across the graves in the
churchyard, to a particular one; and then he threw himself on the
ground, in vehement and convulsive emotion. He said something about
"Edward," but we could not distinguish what it was. The sexton said that
this was his son Edward's grave. Poor man! he was in great sorrow; but
he kept it all to himself. He then went home, and shut himself up in his
own room. His daughter could do nothing with him in his distress. We
called several times to see him in the course of the evening, but in
vain.

The next morning I called again, when his daughter told me that he had
gone out early, and had not returned to breakfast. She appeared to be in
a good deal of trouble, and said she had been to his mine to inquire for
him, but that he was not there. All day long we searched for him. Some
looked in the woods, half-expecting they might find his body on the
ground, or hanging from a tree; while others inquired in every
direction, with increasing anxiety, till the evening. Then, as we were
returning home in despair and disappointment, whom should we see in the
green lane between the vicarage and the church, but our friend. He was
looking into the shrubs as if watching something; and when we came up to
him, he turned to us with a radiant smile, and said, "The Lord is
'gude.'"

I said, "You are right, He is so."

"Yes, I am right, all right! thank God! Think of that! He saved me this
day!"

"Are you coming to church to-night?"

"Oh yes, certainly I will be there."

"But," I said, "have you been home yet?"

"Oh yes, sir, thank you; my girl knows all about me."

That man was so manifestly changed, and so filled with the Spirit, that
his old worldly companions were afraid of him. The publican of the inn
he used to frequent was particularly so, and said he was frightened to
be in the same room with him.

There was a great stir among the people in this place; for the fear of
the Lord had fallen on them, so that they were solemnized exceedingly,
and many were converted.

The vicar being somewhat timid, began to be afraid of what was going on;
and wrote to ask counsel of a clerical neighbour at C--, who answered
his letter by inviting him to come over, and bring me with him. He said
that he wanted me to preach in his church on the following Friday
evening, adding, "I have already given notice, and also read parts of
your letter in church. I am sure the people will come and hear this man;
I expect a large congregation. Be sure and bring him over; do not
disappoint me on any account!"

Accordingly, on the Friday we appeared there, and in the evening I
preached to a large and attentive assembly. Many were awakened, and some
remained behind to be spoken with; others, who were too shy to do so,
went home; and we heard the next morning that several had had no sleep
or rest all night. Three men, whom we saw in the morning, had found
peace. After this, we drove slowly back to G--, but a messenger had
arrived before us, and said that I must come back again with him, for
the bills were already out that I would preach on Sunday and following
days at C----. The vicar was most reluctant to let me go, but under
these circumstances, he at last consented; so I went back in the
carriage the messenger had brought for that purpose.

At the Sunday morning service, the manner and tone of the people, and
their eager attention, implied that something was going to happen. There
was a deeply solemn feeling in the church, both morning and evening,
which made it very easy to preach. In the course of my sermon, I know
not why, I was led to Speak about the endless misery of hell; and some
who were present said I asserted, "That there was a great clock in hell,
with a large dial, but no hands to mark the progress of time: it had a
pendulum which swung sullenly and slowly from side to side, continually
saying, 'Ever! never!' 'Ever! never!'" *

______________________

* Both Bridaine and Krummacher have expressed somewhat the same idea.
________________________

This seemed to make a profound sensation among the people: many stayed
to the after-meeting-they would not go away until they had been spoken
with. Among others, the churchwarden came to me in a very excited state,
and said, "What ever made you say, 'Now or never!--now or never!'?" He
was like one beside himself with emotion when he thought of the pendulum
which I had described. "Now or never!--now or never!" he kept on
repeating to himself, till at last he went away. He was far too excited
to talk of anything else, or to listen either.

Later on in the evening, we were sent for to come in all haste to his
house. There we found him in great trouble of mind, and afraid to go to
bed. After talking to him for a short time, he went on to say that he
had a strange thing to tell us--that that very morning he was lying in
bed (he thought he was quite awake), and looking at a little picture of
the crucifixion which was hanging over the fireplace. While doing so he
saw as plainly as possible some black figures of imps and devils walking
along the mantelpiece with a ladder, which they placed against the wall,
evidently for the purpose of removing this picture from its place. He
watched them intently, and noticed that they seemed much troubled and
perplexed as to how they were to accomplish their task: Some of the imps
put their shoulders to the under side of the frame, while others went up
the ladder; one, in particular, mounted to the top with great dexterity,
to get the cord off the nail, but without success. Enraged at this, they
made various other attempts, but all in vain, and at last they gave up
in despair, if not something worse; for by this time they appeared
furious, and dashed the ladder down to the ground, as if it were the
fault of it, and not of themselves. In rage and disappointment, they
passed off the scene.

Presently the bedroom door opened, as he thought, and who should present
himself but "Paul Pry" (that was the name he had given to a Dissenting
preacher in the village, who was a portly man, and always went about
with a thick umbrella under his arm)--the veritable Paul Pry, umbrella
and all, standing at the door. He said to his visitor, "What do you want
here?" The phantom pointed to the picture over the mantelpiece, and
said, in a quiet, confiding way, "Now or never! Do you hear, man? Now or
never!" The man was indignant at this untimely intrusion, and bade his
visitor begone; but, for all that, he still stood at the door, and said,
"Now or never!--now or never!" He got out of bed, and went towards the
door, but the figure disappeared, saying, "Now or never!--now or never!"

Then he got into bed again, and all was still for a little while, when
suddenly the door opened a second time, and the vicar appeared, just as
Paul Pry had done, and came towards the bed, as if with a friendly and
affectionate concern for his welfare, and said, "My dear fellow, be
persuaded it is 'now or never!'" Then, taking a seat at the corner of
the bed, with his back leaning against the post, he went on talking, and
saying, again and again, "Now or never!"

The poor churchwarden remonstrated in vain against being visited in this
manner, and thought it very hard; but the vicar sat there, and
persistently, said, "Now or never!" He became very angry, and bade him
go out of the room immediately; but the vicar said, "Now or never!"

"I will 'now' you," he said, "if you do not be off;" and so saying he
rose up in his bed; while the vicar glided to the door, repeating, "Now
or never!" and went away. The poor man, in great distress of mind,
turned to his wife, and asked her what could be the meaning of all this;
but she only cried, and said nothing.

Then, who should come next but Mr. F----, a quiet man of few words. He
had thoughts, no doubt, but kept them all to himself. He came gliding
into the room, as the vicar had done, sat on the same corner of the bed,
leant against the same post, and in 'the quietest way possible repeated
the same words, "Now or never!"

"Do you hear him?" said the poor distracted man to his wife--"do you
hear him?"

"Hear him? Hear what? No! nonsense! What does he say?"

"My dear, there! listen!"

"Now or never!" said the quiet man.

"There, did you not hear that?"

"No," she said, "I can hear nothing," and began to cry more copiously.
He got up, and said he would take the poker and punish every one of
them--that he would. The strange visitor made for the door, and, like
all the rest, said, as he disappeared, "Now or never!"

The poor churchwarden continued in a most distracted state, and during
the day met all his three visitors who had caused him so much
anxiety--"Paul Pry," the vicar, and the quiet gentleman, none of whom
looked at him or spoke to him as if anything had happened; but when he
heard me say over and over again in the pulpit, "Now or never!"
pointing, as it were, to the ghostly pendulum swinging there saying,
"Ever!--never!" and inquiring of the people "Do you see it? do you hear
it?" it seemed to bring matters to a climax. He said he turned and
looked at the wall to which I pointed, and almost expected to see that
solemn clock.

I did not wait to hear more, but kneeling down, I begged him to close
with the offer of salvation "now." "No," he said, with a sigh, "I am
afraid I have refused too long!"

"Don't say so! take it at once, 'now;' or perhaps it will be 'never'
with you. A man does not often get such a plain warning as you have had.
You had better take care what you are doing. 'Now!' why not 'now'?" He
did accept salvation, and yielding himself to God, received forgiveness
of his sins; and after that became a very different man.

He had, as may have been suspected from the above narrative, the
besetment of drink, before his conversion, and it remained a trouble to
him after. Conversion and forgiveness of sins do not put away present
bad habits. Such a master habit as this requires a direct dealing with.

Zaccheus was a man who had been led astray by the love of money; when he
was saved, he put his idol away from him at a stroke. This is the first
thing to be done; and if it is done in the power of one's first love, it
is a more easy task than afterwards. But it must be done with a firm and
whole heart; not "Lord, shall I give the half of my goods to feed the
poor?" but, "Lord. behold, the half of my goods I do give." "Behold,
Lord, I do give up the world here, now." "Behold, Lord, I do here, and
now, give up drink, anti will totally abstain from it henceforth." This
is the first step; and the next is not less important, and that is to
carry out the determination in the Lord's power, and not in our own. The
resolution and determination once made, must be given over to the Lord
to be kept by Him; not by our own effort and energy, but with perfect
distrust of self and in dependence upon Him to enable us to keep it.
Without this, there is no security whatever for anything more than
temporary success, too often succeeded by a sorrowful fall. The flesh is
too strong for us, and even if it were not so, the devil is; these two
together, besides the lax example of the world, are sure to overpower
the weak one. Young Christians need to put away at once the sin,
whatever it is, that "so easily besets" them, or they will be entangled
by it. There is no real and thorough deliverance, except by renouncing
sin, and self too, giving up and yielding to the Lord.

That soul was saved; but it was a miserable bondage of fear in which he
lived and died. He was brought home at last, like a wrecked ship into
harbour, who might have come in with a good freight, a happy welcome,
and an "abundant entrance."

The next day, Monday, we heard of other cases which were ordinary in
their character, and therefore need not be detailed; but in the evening
there was one which it will be instructive to mention.

It was that of a clergyman of private means who came to this parish as a
curate; but he had given up "taking duty," because, he said, "it was all
humbug reading prayers, and all that." He drove a tandem,' and smoked
all day instead; nevertheless, he was the object of much and earnest
prayer. He also happened to be at church the day I preached about the
clock; and declared likewise that I said there was a clock in hell. The
sermon had evidently made a great impression upon him. He came to church
again the next day, and heard something else that he was unable to
forget. After the service, as soon as I was free, he asked me to walk
with him, to which I assented, though I was feeling very tired. We
rambled on the beach, and talked about many things. I tried in vain to
bring up the subject of my discourse. When I spoke about it he was
silent; and when I was silent, he went off into other matters. He talked
about Jerusalem and the sands of the desert, and the partridges, which,
he said, were of the same colour as the sand. Was it from looking at
sand always that they became that colour? Do people become alike who
look much at one another? Is that why husbands and wives so often
resemble each other? and so on. These questions made an impression on
me, so that they always come up to my memory in connection with that
evening's walk. Certainly, the apostle says that, "Beholding the glory
of the Lord, we are changed into the same image from...glory to glory;"
therefore there may be something in my companion's idea. But, however
interesting the subject might be to consider. I was far too tired for
anything else but real soul-to-soil! work, and therefore proposed that
we should return home. We did so; and when my friend left me at the
vicarage door, he said abruptly, "Will you let me write to you?"

"Certainly," I replied. "I will write to-night; but do not trouble to
answer in person; send me a written reply. "I said I would. In a few
minutes after I received a short note, the purport of which was, "How
can I be saved?" It is a very simple question, yet one not so easily
answered to a person who already knew the scriptural answer. However, I
had a letter by me which Mr. Aitken had written to some one under
similar circumstances; so, taking that for a model, I wrote according to
promise, adapting and altering sentences to meet the present case. I
sent the note, with a message that I would call in the morning. I did
so, but found my friend was not at home. The landlady said, "Mr. F---
went out last night soon after he received a letter, and has not been
home since." She became alarmed when she heard that we had not seen him.
We too were taken by surprise, and did not know which way to go in
search of him, or what to do. Presently we met the clerk of the church,
who inquired if we had seen anything of Mr. F--; he had called the night
before for the keys of the church, and had not returned them; so he (the
clerk) could not get into the church to ring the bell or admit the
congregation.

This threw some light on the matter; so we went immediately to the
church, and with the vicar's keys entered by the vestry door. Looking
about in all directions, we found our friend on his knees in the nave,
where he had been all night. I went up to him; and, as he did not speak,
I asked if I might pray with him.

He said, "Yes."

"What shall I pray for?"

"I don't know."

"Shall I ask the Lord to come down from heaven again and die on the
cross for you?"

"No."

"Do you believe that He has done that?'

"Yes, I do."

"You do believe that He has died for you-for you?" I inquired, laying
the emphasis on you--"for you, as if you were the only person for whom
He died?"

"Yes; I believe He died for me."

"Do you thank Him for it?"

"No, I do not; I do not feel anything."

"That may be; but do you not think you ought to thank Him for what He
did for you?" He did not reply.

"How can you feel anything till you have it? Or how can He give you any
feelings till you thank Him for what He has already done for you? Make
some acknowledgment."

"Thank you," he replied; and without another word he rose from his knees
and went away. The bell was rung, the people assembled, and we had the
service; but he did not remain.

Again he disappeared for the whole day, until the evening, when he came
into the vestry, and said, "Will you let me read prayers this evening?"
To this the vicar gladly assented; so he put on the surplice for the
first time after several months, and went into church with us.

The fact of his reading prayers again, and more especially the manner in
which he did it, attracted attention. The earnest tone and meaning he
threw into the words of the prayers, and more particularly into the
psalm, penetrated much deeper. One lady knelt down and began to pray for
herself in the pew; others were riveted as by the power of the Spirit.
All through the sermon, I felt that the Lord was working among the
people, and at the close they were loth to go. Many more remained in the
after-meeting than we could speak to; manifest was the power of the
Spirit, and much good was done.

There was great joy in the little village that night, and for several
days following the Lord wrought among the people. Many lasting mementos
remain of this week's ministry, and of the weeks which followed.

Our reticent friend was changed indeed, and immediately gave up the
tandem and the pipes. I do not think he has ever smoked since; he has
had something better to do.

Smoking is an idle custom, and too often enslaves its votaries; and even
if it does not become a dominant habit, it certainly teaches no lesson
of self-denial. A Christian man needs not to seek relief in any such
way. It is said to be very soothing when a man is in any trouble or
anxiety; if so, in this respect it may be said to be next door to the
beer-barrel, or to the use of spirits. If one man may soothe his
feelings with this narcotic, another may stimulate them, when he is low
and cheerless, with alcohol. The Apostle James says, "Is any merry, let
him sing psalms." He does not say, Is any afflicted or low, let him
smoke and drink! No; "let him pray," and depend upon God. Many a lesson
which might be learned from God on our knees, is let slip altogether
because we think there is no ham in relieving ourselves by
self-indulgence. The flesh is a monster which is never appeased, much
less subdued, by gratification.

Our friend put away the smoking, and sold his pipes of various kinds,
which must have cost a considerable sum, for he realized eighty pounds
by them. With this amount, and some addition, he was able to put stained
glass windows into the already beautiful church in which he received his
blessing. This suitable thank-offering was a lasting memorial of his
gratitude, besides being an example to others, not only to give their
hearts to God, but also to give up their besetments, whatever they might
be, and in doing so be free for God's service.

This young man soon after was removed to a more arduous sphere, and
carried great blessing thither; as he did also when he went from thence
to a yet more influential and important place. Though now laid aside by
ill health, he sends tracts and writes letters to many, and so continues
to be, in the hand of the Lord, the means of winning souls; and in
addition to this, sets an example of a holy and godly life.

Another little incident I must notice here. While I was still working in
this place, I received a letter from home, telling me that they were all
well, and very happy in the country, but that they wanted me back again,
and thought I had been away quite long enough. Besides this, it was time
to be getting summer things, for which they would want at least ten
pounds. I had no money to send; and though I might have asked many kind
friends, I felt a difficulty about it. I do not think it was pride. I
had put myself and all my affairs into God's hands; and though I was not
ashamed to tell our circumstances to any one who asked me, I made it a
rule not to mention my troubles or wants to any but the Lord. I read the
cheerful parts of my letter at breakfast, and kept the other till I went
upstairs. There I spread the letter on the bed at which I knelt, and
read to the Lord the part that troubled me. I was praying about it, when
there came a knock at the door, and before I had time to say "Come in,"
my friend F--- entered. Seeing me on my knees, he apologized for
intruding, and in his shy way put a ten-pound note into my hand, saying,
"I am ashamed it is not more; but will you accept that?" With this, he
made for the door; but I detained him, in order to show him the part of
my letter I had not read in the morning. I said, "I was just reading it
to the Lord; and look, while I was still on my knees, He has sent you
with the answer. It is the exact sum I want, so do not apologize for it.
I thank God and thank you. I will send this off at once."

CHAPTER 29

Tregoney, 1855.

It was time now to be returning southward and homeward; which I did by
several stages, stopping to preach in various places on the way. At
length I reached the village in Cornwall, where my family were lodging
in the farmhouse I have already mentioned.

Here, the two clergymen were rather afraid of me, and avoided asking me
to preach in the church. They had both been converted (or, at least, so
they said) more than a year; but instead of working for God, they were
bent on Romanizing. One of them said that there was no salvation in the
Church of England; and the other showed me a sealed letter he had in his
desk, which, he said, he "dared not open." It was from a brother of his,
who went to Rome, and contained his reasons for so doing. "Ah," he said,
"if I open that letter, I feel sure that I shall have to go too." This
fascinating dread was upon him till he really did go, six months
afterwards. I tried to deter these men from the erroneous step they were
contemplating, by getting them into active work for the Lord. Sometimes
I preached in this church, but more often in the open air. I am sorry to
say my friends were but half-hearted in their cooperation, so that after
a few weeks I left, and went to the west.

On my way thither, a clergyman, who happened to be inside the coach,
gave me his card, and then came outside for the purpose of talking with
me. He asked me if I would take charge of his church and parish for six
weeks. I said I would, but could not go for a week or two. We agreed as
to time, and on the promised Saturday I arrived at the place.

I walked there from a neighbouring town, having several calls to make on
the way, and left my luggage to follow by the van. In the evening, about
eight o'clock, I went down to meet this conveyance, and tell the man
where to deliver my bag. I found a crowd of people in front of the inn
where the van stopped, and heard the driver say, in reply to some
question, "I've not got him, but I've got his bag."

"Where is he?" said a voice. "I don't know," one said, "but I saw a
queer little chap go into Mrs. M--'s house."

"That's the place," said the driver; "that's where I'm a-going to take
his bag. Come on, and let's see if he'll have it."

I went in and out among the crowd, as it was dark, asking questions, and
found out that they "would like to duck the fellow if they could catch
him;" they "did not want any such Revivalist chap as that amongst them,"
and so forth. They were greatly excited, and wondered which road he was
likely to come, for they would go to meet him. Some one asked, "what is
he like ?" One answered, "Oh, he is a rum-looking little fellow that
stoops. I should know him again anywhere." Hearing this, I held up my
head like a soldier, in order to look as large as possible, and waited
about till they dispersed.

Then I joined a young man, and, talking with him, ascertained what it
was all about. I passed the house where I was to lodge, for I saw that
the people were watching the door. I came back among them, and, pointing
to the door, said, "Is that where he stops?"

"Yes," one replied, "he is there. The man brought his bag and left it;
he is there, sure enough."

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