From Death into Life by William Haslam

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Thursday. Friday, and Saturday passed by, each day and night more dark
and despairing than the preceding one. On the Sunday, I was so ill that
I was quite unfit to take the service. Mr. Aitken had said to me, "If I
were you, I would shut the church, and say to the congregation, 'I will
not preach again till I am converted. Pray for me!'" Shall I do this?

The sun was shining brightly, and before I could make up my mind to put
off the service, the bells struck out a merry peal, and sent their
summons far away over the hills. Now the thought came to me that I would
go to church and read the morning prayers and after that dismiss the
people. There was no preparation for the Holy Communion that day, and I
had deputed the clerk to select the hymns, for I was far too ill to
attend to anything myself. The psalms and hymns were especially
applicable to my case, and seemed to help me, so that I thought I would
go on and read the ante-communion service, and then dismiss the people.
And while I was reading the Gospel, I thought, well, I will just say a
few words in explanation of this, and then I will dismiss them. So I
went up into the pulpit and gave out my text. I took it from the gospel
of the day--"What think ye of Christ?" (Matt. 22:42).

As I went on to explain the passage, I saw that the Pharisees and
scribes did not know that Christ was the Son of God, or that He was come
to save them. They were looking for a king, the son of David, to reign
over them as they were. Something was telling me, all the time, "You are
no better than the Pharisees yourself-you do not believe that He is the
Son of God, and that He is come to save you, any more than they did." I
do not remember all I said, but I felt a wonderful light and joy coming
into my soul, and I was beginning to see what the Pharisees did not.
Whether it was something in my words, or my manner, or my look, I know
not; but all of a sudden a local preacher, who happened to be in the
congregation, stood up, and putting up his arms, shouted out in a
Cornish manner, "The parson is converted! The parson is converted!
Hallelujah!" and in another moment his voice was lost in the shouts and
praises of three or four hundred of the congregation. Instead of
rebuking this extraordinary "brawling," as I should have done in a
former time, I joined in the outburst of praise; and to make it more
orderly, I gave out the Doxology--"Praise God, from whom all blessings
flow"--and the people sang it with heart and voice, over and over again.
My Churchmen were dismayed, and many of them fled precipitately from the
place. Still the voice of praise went on, and was swelled by numbers of
passers-by, who came into the church, greatly surprised to hear and see
what was going on.

When this subsided, I found at least twenty people crying for mercy,
whose voices had not been heard in the excitement and noise of
thanksgiving. They all professed to find peace and joy in believing.
Amongst this number there were three from my own house; and we returned
home praising God.

The news spread in all directions that "the parson was converted," and
that by his own sermon, in his own pulpit to. The church would not hold
the crowds who came in the evening. I cannot exactly remember what I
preached about on that occasion; but one thing I said was, "that if I
had died last week I should have been lost for ever." I felt it was
true. So clear and vivid was the conviction through which I had passed,
and so distinct was the light into which the Lord had brought me, that I
knew and was sure that He had "brought me up out of an horrible pit, out
of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a Rock, and put a new song into
my mouth" (Ps. 40). He had "quickened" me, who was before "dead in
trespasses and sins," (Eph. 2:1).

I felt sure, as I said, that if I had died last week I should have been
lost for ever. This was a startling and an alarming word to many of my
earnest people, who said, "What then will become of us?" I replied, "You
will be lost for a certainty if you do not give your hearts to God."

At the end of this great and eventful day of my life--my spiritual
birthday, on which I passed from death to life by being "born from
above"--I could scarcely sleep for joy. I awoke early the next morning,
with the impression on my mind that I must get up and go to a village a
mile off to tell James B---- of my conversion. He was a good and holy
man, who had often spoken to me about my soul; and had been praying for
three years or more on my behalf.

I had scarcely gone half-way before I met him coming towards me: he
seemed as much surprised to see me as I was to meet him. He looked at me
in a strange way, and then, leaning his back against a stone fence, he
said, "Are you converted?"

"Why do you ask me?" I replied. "I am just on my way to your house, to
tell you the good news--that I have found peace. My soul is saved."

The dear man said, "Thank God!" and it came from the very depths of his
heart. Shedding tears of joy, he went on to say, 'This night I woke up
thinking of you; you were so strongly in my mind, that I got up and
began to pray for you; but I could not 'get hold;' I wrestled and cried
aloud, but it was all of no avail; I begged the Lord not to give you up;
but it seemed I could not pray. After trying for more than two hours, it
came to my mind that perhaps you were converted. This thought made me so
happy, that I began to praise the Lord; and then I had liberty, and
shouted so loud that it roused up the whole house, and they came rushing
into my room to know what ever was the matter with me. 'I am praising
God,' I said; 'praising God--the parson is converted!--I feel sure he
is. Glory be to God! Glory be to God!' They said, 'You must be dreaming;
you had better lie down again, and be quiet.' But it was of no use, I
could not sleep; and so soon as the light began to break, I dressed
myself, and have come out to see whether it is true,"

"Yes," I said, "it is true; the Lord has saved my soul; I am happy!" I
thanked him then and there for all the help he had been, and for the
patience he had so long exercised towards me. We spent a happy time
together, thanking and praising God, and then he returned home to tell
his friends and neighbours the news.

After breakfast a visitor arrived, who was on an errand of quite another
kind. The report had by this time spread far and wide, that I was
converted in my own pulpit, and by means of my own sermon; also, that I
had said, "If I had died last week, I should have been lost for ever!"
My friend having heard this, immediately mounted his horse and rode over
to see me about it. He at once put the question, "Did you say, last
night, in your pulpit, that you were saved; and that if you had died
last week you would have been lost for ever?" I answered, "Yes, indeed,
I did; and I meant it." He looked quite bewildered, and stood for a long
time arguing with me; then taking a chair he sat down, and began to
sympathize and pity me, saying how grieved he was, for he could see
madness in my eyes. He tried to divert my thoughts, and begged that I
would go out for a ride with him. Seeing that he made no impression by
his various arguments, and that he could not prevail upon me to recall
my words, he ordered his horse; but before mounting he said, "I cannot
agree with you, and will oppose you as hard as I can."

"Very well," I replied; "but let us shake hands over it: there is no
need that we should be angry with one another."

Then mounting, he started off, and had not gone more than a few yards,
when, suddenly pulling up, he turned, and placing his hand on the back
of his horse, called out, "Haslam, God stop the man who is wrong!" I
answered, "Amen," and off he trotted.

On the Friday following he broke a blood-vessel in his throat or chest,
and has never preached since. His life was in danger for Several weeks,
though in course of time he recovered, but I have heard that he has
never been able to speak above a whisper. God has most undoubtedly
stopped him; while He has permitted me to preach for the last
nine-and-twenty years, on the average more than six hundred times a
year.

From that time I began to preach the Gospel, and was not ashamed to
declare everywhere what the Lord had done for my soul. Thus from
personal experience I have been enabled to proclaim the Word, both as a
"witness" and a "minister."

I, who before that time used to be so weak, that I could not preach for
more than fifteen or twenty minutes for three consecutive Sundays
without breaking down, was now able to do so each day, often more than
once, and three times every Sunday.

CHAPTER 8

The Revival, 1851-54.

In the providence of God, my conversion was the beginning of a great
revival work in my parish, which continued without much interruption for
nearly three years. At some periods during that time there was a greater
power of the divine presence, and consequently more manifest results,
than at others; but all along there were conversions of sinners or
restoration of backsliders every week--indeed, almost every day.

I was carried along with the torrent of the work, far over and beyond
several barriers of prejudice which had been in my mind. For instance, I
made a resolution that if I ever had a work of God in my parish, it
should be according to rule, and that the people should not be excited
into making a noise, as if God were deaf or afar off; also, that I would
prevent their throwing themselves into extraordinary states of mind and
body, as though it were necessary that they should do so in order to
obtain a blessing. I intended to have everything in most beautiful and
exemplary order, and that all should be done as quietly and with as much
precision as the working of a machine. No shouting of praises, no loud
praying, no hearty responding; and, above all, no extravagant crying for
mercy, such as I had witnessed in Mr. Aitken's parish.

But notwithstanding my prudence and judicious resolutions, "the wind
blew as it listed; we heard the sound thereof, but could not tell whence
it came, or whither it went" (John 3: 8). In spite of all my prejudices,
souls were quickened and born of the Spirit. I was filled with
rejoicing, and my heart overflowed with joy to see something doing for
the Lord.

Anything is better than the stillness of death, however aesthetic and
beautiful, however reverential and devout a mere outward ceremonial may
appear. Imposing pageants and religious displays may excite enthusiastic
religiosity or devotionism; but they do not, and never can, promote
spiritual vitality. Far from this, they draw the heart and mind into a
channel of human religion, where it can sometimes over-flow to its own
satisfaction; but they never bring a sinner to see himself lost, or,
unworthy by nature to be a worshipper, and consequently, as such,
utterly unfit to take any part in religious ceremonies.

On the Monday after my conversion we had our first week-day revival
service in the church, which was filled to excess. In the sermon, I told
them once more that God had "brought me up out of an horrible pit, out
of the miry clay, and set my feet upon the Rock, and... put a new song
in my mouth" (Ps. 40:2-3). I had not spoken long, when some one in the
congregation gave a shriek, and then began to cry aloud for mercy. This
was quickly followed by cries from another and another, until preaching
was altogether hopeless. We then commenced praying for those who were in
distress, and some experienced men who were present dealt with the
anxious.

I cannot tell how many people cried for mercy, or how many found peace
that night; but there was great rejoicing. I, who was still in my
grave-clothes, though out of the grave, was sorely offended at people
praying and praising God so heartily and so loudly in the church. I
thought that if this was to become a regular thing, it would be akin to
"brawling," and quite out of order. Practising singing and rehearsing
anthems in the church, I did not think much about; but somehow, for
people to cry out in distress of soul, and to praise God out of the
abundance of their hearts, was too much for me. I was sadly perplexed!

At the close of the service, I told the people I would have a short one
again the next evening, in the church, and that after that we would go
into the schoolroom for the prayer-meeting. Thus ended the second day of
my spiritual life.

On Tuesday evening we assembled in the church, and then went to the
schoolroom for the after-meeting. There the people had full liberty to
sing, praise, and shout too, if they desired, to their hearts' content,
and truly many availed themselves of the opportunity. In Cornwall, at
the time I speak of (now twenty-nine years ago), Cornish folk did not
think much of a meeting unless it was an exciting and noisy one.

In this schoolroom, evening by evening, the Lord wrought a great work,
and showed forth His power in saving many souls. I have seldom read of
any remarkable manifestations in revivals the counterpart of which I did
not witness in that room; and I saw some things there which I have never
heard of as taking place anywhere else. I was by this time not afraid of
a little, or even much noise, so long as the power of the Lord's
presence was evident. The shouts of the people did not hinder me, of
their loud praying, or their hearty responses.

There were some subjects on which it was impossible to venture without
eliciting vehement demonstrations. A friend of mine, who had come from
some distance on a visit, went with me on one occasion to an afternoon
Bible class. I asked him to address the people, and in a quiet way he
proceeded to talk about heaven. As he described the city of gold, with
its pearly gates, its walls of jasper, its foundations of sapphire and
precious stones, and to tell them that "the city had no need of the sun,
neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of God did lighten
it, and the Lamb is the light thereof" (Rev. 21:2-3), I began to feel
somewhat uneasy, and feared that he was venturing on tender ground, when
all at once there was heard a shriek of joy, and in a moment almost the
whole class was in an ecstasy of praise. My friend was greatly dismayed,
and also frightened at the noise, and seizing his hat, he made hastily
for the door. "Stop! stop!" I said; "you must stand fire better than
that." I quietly gave out a hymn, and asked some of them to help me
sing, and then we knelt down to pray. I prayed in a low voice, and soon
all was still again, excepting the responsive "Amens," and the gaspings
of those who had been thus excited.

It may be asked, why did I permit such things? I lived amongst a people
who were accustomed to outward demonstrations; and by descending to them
in their ways I was enabled to lead many of them to higher things, and
to teach them to rest not so much on their feelings, as on the facts and
truth revealed in the Word of God. But theorize as we would, it was just
a question, in many cases, of no work, or of decided manifestation. We
could not help people being stricken down, neither could they help it
themselves; often the most unlikely persons were overcome and became
excited, and persons naturally quiet and retiring proved the most noisy
and demonstrative. However, it was our joy to see permanent results
afterwards, which more than reconciled us for any amount of
inconvenience we had felt at the time.

When the power of God is manifestly present, the persons who hear the
noise, as well as those who make it, are both under the same influence,
and are in sympathy with one another. An outsider, who does not
understand it, and is not in sympathy, might complain, and be greatly
scandalized. For my own part, I was intensely happy in those meetings,
and had become so accustomed to the loud "Amens," that I found it very
dull to preach when there was no response. Prayer meetings which were
carried on in a quiet and formal manner seemed to me cold and heartless.
"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great
waters; these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep"
(Ps. 107:23, 24). Some spiritual mariners never venture out of a calm
millpond, and rejoice in very quiet proceedings; they do not look like
rejoicing at all. They resemble the people who are going through a
formal duty, and, "like a painted ship upon a painted ocean," they are
never tossed. Most undeniable it is that many trying things happen in
the excitement of a storm.

I was hardened against criticism, and only wished that my criticizing
friends could show me a more effectual way of working, and a way in
which God's glory might be advanced, without giving offence.

The very remembrance of these times warms my heart as I write; and
though I do not know whether I am still young enough to enter into such
things in the same way, yet I am sure that the manifest presence of the
Lord, under any circumstances, would still stir and rejoice my spirit.
My friend Mr. Aitken used to rise above it all most majestically, and
shout as loud as the loudest. It was grand to see his great soul at full
liberty rejoicing in the Lord. He was quite at home in the noisiest and
stormiest meetings, and no doubt he thought me a promising disciple, and
a very happy one, too.

Oh, what tremendous scenes we witnessed whenever Mr. Aitken came to
preach at Baldhu. The church, which was built to hold six hundred, used
to have as many as fifteen hundred packed into it. Not only were the
wide passages crowded, and the chancel filled, even up to the communion
table, but there were two rows of occupants in every pew. The Feat man
was king over their souls, for at times he seemed as if he was endued
with power whereby he could make them shout for joy, or howl for misery,
or cry aloud for mercy. He was by far the most effective preacher I ever
heard, or ever expect to hear. Souls were awakened by scores whenever he
preached, and sometimes the meetings continued far into the night, and
occasionally even to the daylight of the next morning.

To the cool, dispassionate outside observers and the newspaper
reporters, all this vehement stir was very extravagant and
incomprehensible, and no doubt they thought it was done for excitement;
certainly they gave us credit for that, and a great deal more. They did
not esteem us better than themselves and consequently we had the full
benefit of their sarcasm and invective.

Cornish revivals were things by themselves. I have read of such stirring
movements occurring occasionally in different places elsewhere, but in
Cornwall they were frequent. Every year, in one part or another, a
revival would spring up, during which believers were refreshed and
sinners awakened. It is sometimes suggested that there is a great deal
of the flesh in these things--more of this than of the Spirit. I am sure
this is a mistake, for I am quite satisfied that neither Cornish nor any
other people could produce revivals without the power of the Spirit, for
they would never be without them if they could raise them at pleasure.
But, as a fact, it is well known that revivals begin and continue for a
time, and that they cease as mysteriously as they began.

Sometimes I have known the children of the school commence crying for no
ostensible reason; when a few words about the love of God in giving His
Son, or the love of Christ in laying down His life, would prove enough
to kindle a flame, and they would begin to cry aloud for mercy
forthwith. I have seen a whole school of more than a hundred children
like this at the same time. An awakening of such a character was
generally a token of the beginning of a work of God, which would last in
power for four or five weeks, if not more; then the quiet, ordinary work
would go on as before. Sometimes, for no accountable reason, we saw the
church thronged with a multitude of people from various parts, having no
connection with one another, all equally surprised to see each other;
and the regular congregation more surprised still to see the unexpected
rush of strangers. After a time or two we began to know the cause, and
understood that the coming together of the people was by the Spirit of
the Lord, and so we prepared accordingly, expecting a revival to follow.

On these occasions it was very easy to preach, or pray, or sing; we had
only to say, "Stay here, or go to the schoolroom;" "Stand and sing;" or,
"Kneel and pray;" and it was done at once: such was the power of the
Spirit in melting the hears of the people into entire submission for the
time.

CHAPTER 9

The Visitor, 1851.

In the midst of these things, we had a scene quite characteristic of
Cornwall, which was the funeral of my late gardener and friend, John
Gill. This man's conversion, it will be remembered, was the event by
which it pleased God to bring my religious state to a crisis. After my
sudden exit from John's cottage, which I have already described, he
continued to pray for me, as he said he would, until the following
Sunday, when he heard of my conversion. Then he praised God, and that
with amazing power of mind and body for a dying man. Day by day, as his
life was prolonged, he was eager to hear of the progress of the work.

At last the day of his departure arrived, and he was quite content and
happy to go. A large concourse of people assembled at the funeral,
dressed in their Sunday best. They gathered by hundreds in front of
John's cottage, several hours before the time fixed for the service.
During this interval they sang hymns, which were given out two lines at
a time. Then they set out for the church, singing as they went along.

In the West it is not the custom to carry the coffin on the shoulders,
but by hand, which office is performed by friends, who continually
relieve one another, that all may take part in this last mark of respect
to the deceased. At length, they arrived at the "lych" gate, and setting
the coffin upon the lych stone (a heavy slab of granite, put there for
the purpose), they sang their final hymn. At the conclusion of this, I
came out with my clerk to receive the funeral party and to conduct them
into the church. After the service I was about to give an address, when
I was told that there were more people outside than within the church.
In order, therefore, not to disappoint them, we came to the grave-side
in the churchyard, and from thence I addressed a great concourse of
people.

I told them of dear John's conversion, and of my disappointment and
distress on account of it; then of my own conversion, and John's
unbounded joy; taking the opportunity to enforce the absolute necessity
of this spiritual change, and the certain damnation of those who die
without it.

This funeral caused a solemn feeling, and as the people lingered about,
we re-entered the church, and further improved the occasion. Then we
went to the schoolroom for a prayer-meeting, and many souls were added
to the number of the saved.

Among the strangers present was a gentleman who had come all the way
from Plymouth, in order to witness for himself the wonderful work, of
which he had read an account in the newspaper. After attending several
of our services, he came up to speak to me, and said that he had seen an
account of "the fall of a High Churchman into Dissent," which was
regarded as a very extraordinary thing, for at that time some Dissenters
were becoming High Churchmen, or what used to be called then
"Puseyites." Having seen me, and heard for himself of my conversion, and
my adherence to the Church, he was satisfied, and asked me to spare time
for a little conversation with him.

He came to my house the next morning, and commenced by asking, "Do you
really think you would have been lost for ever, if you had died before
you were converted?" This he said looking me full in the face, as if to
see whether I flinched from my position. I answered, "Most certainly;
without a doubt."

"Remember," he said, calmly, "you have been baptized and confirmed; you
are a communicant, and have been ordained; do you really think that all
this goes for nothing?"

"Most assuredly, all these things are good in their place, and fully
avail for their respective purposes, but they have nothing whatever to
do with a sinner's salvation."

"Do you mean to say," he continued, "that the Church is not the very ark
of salvation?"

"I used to think so," I replied, "and to say that 'there was no Church
without a Bishop, and no salvation out of the Church;' but now I am sure
that I was mistaken. The outward Church is a fold for protecting the
sheep; but the Church is not the Shepherd who seeks and finds the lost
sheep."

"Well," he said, "but think of all the good men you condemn if you take
that position so absolutely."

Seeing that I hesitated, he went on to say that he "knew many very good
men, in and out of the Church of England, who did not think much of
conversion, or believe in the necessity of it."

"I am very sorry for them," I replied; "but I cannot go back from the
position into which, I thank God, He has brought me. It is burned into
me that, except a man is converted, he will and must be lost for ever."
"Come, come, my young friend," he said, shifting his chair, and then
sitting down to another onslaught, "do you mean to say that a man will
go to hell if he is not converted, as you call it?"

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