I went home greatly disturbed in my mind—altogether disappointed and disgusted with my work among these Cornish people. "It is no use; they never will be Churchmen!" I was as hopeless and miserable as I could be. I felt that my superior teaching and practice had failed, and that the inferior and, as I believed, unscriptural dogmas had prevailed. My favourite and most promising Churchman had fallen, and was happy in his fall; more than that, he was actually praying that I might fall too!

I felt very jealous for the Church, and therefore felt deeply the conversion of my gardener. Like the elder brother of the Prodigal Son, I was grieved, and even angry, because he was restored to favour and joy. The remonstrance of the father prevailed nothing to mollify his feelings; in like manner, nothing seemed to give me any rest in this crisis of my parochial work. I thought I would give up my parish and church, and go and work in some more congenial soil; or else that I would preach a set of sermons on the subject of schism, for perhaps I had not sufficiently taught my people the danger of this great sin!

Every parishioner I passed seemed to look at me as if he said, "So much for your teaching! You will never convince us!"

CHAPTER 7

Conversion, 1851.

This was a time of great disappointment and discouragement. Everything had turned out so different to the expectation I had formed and cherished on first coming to this place. I was then full of hope and intended to carry all before me with great success, and I thought I did; but, alas! there was a mistake somewhere, something was wrong.

In those days, when I was building my new church, and talking about the tower and spire we were going to erect, an elderly Christian lady who was sitting in her wheel-chair, calmly listening to our conversation, said, "Will you begin to build your spire from the top?"* It was a strange question, but she evidently meant something, and looked for an answer. I gave it, saying, "No, madam, not from the top, but from the foundation." She replied, "That is right—that is right," and went on with her knitting.

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* See Tract, "Building from the Top," by Rev. W. Haslam _____

This question was not asked in jest or in ignorance; it was like a riddle. What did she mean? In a few years this lady passed away, but her enigmatic words remained. No doubt she thought to herself that I was beginning at the wrong end, while I went on talking of the choir, organ, happy worship, and all the things that we were going to attempt in the new church; that I was aiming at sanctification, without justification; intending to teach people to be holy before they were saved and pardoned. This is exactly what I was doing. I had planted the boards of my tabernacle of worship, not in silver sockets (the silver of which had been paid for redemption), but in the sand of the wilderness. In other words, I was teaching people to worship God, who is a Spirit, not for love of Him who gave His Son to die for them, but in the fervour and enthusiasm of human nature. My superstructure was built on sand; and hence the continual disappointment, and that last discouraging overthrow. No wonder that my life was a failure, and my labours ineffectual, inasmuch as my efforts were not put forth in faith. My work was not done as a thank-offering, but rather as a meritorious effort to obtain favour from God.

Repentance towards God, however earnest and sincere, without faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ, is not complete or satisfying. There may be a change of mind and will, producing a change of actions, which are done in order to pacify conscience, and to obtain God's favour in return; but this is not enough. It is like preparing the Found without sowing seed, and then being disappointed that there is no harvest. A garden is not complete or successful unless the Found has been properly prepared, nor unless flourishing plants are growing in it.

Repentance with Faith, the two together, constitute the fullness of God's religion. We have to believe, not in the fact that we have given ourselves—we know this in our own consciousness—but in the fact that God, who is more willing to take than we to give, has accepted us. We rejoice and work, not as persons who have surrendered ourselves to God, but out of loving gratitude, as those who have been changed by Him to this end.

I will go on now to tell how I was brought at this critical period of my life to real faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ. This was done in a way I knew not, and moreover, in a way I little expected. I had promised a visit to Mr. Aitken, of Pendeen, to advise him about his church, which was then building; and now, in order to divert my thoughts, I made up my mind to go to him at once. Soon after my arrival, as we were seated comfortably by the fire, he asked me (as he very commonly did) how the parish prospered. He said, "I often take shame to myself when I think of all your work. But, my brother, are you satisfied?"

I said, "No, I am not satisfied."*

"Why not?"

"Because I am making a rope of sand, which looks very well till I pull, and then, when I expect it to hold, it gives way."

"What do you mean?"

"Why," I replied, "these Cornish people are ingrained schismatics."

I then told him of my gardener's conversion, and my great disappointment.

"Well," he said, "if I were taken ill, I certainly would not send for you. I am sure you could not do me any good, for you are not converted yourself."

"Not converted!" I exclaimed. "How can you tell?"

He said, quietly, "I am sure of it, or you would not have come here to complain of your gardener. If you had been converted, you would have remained at home to rejoice with him. It is very clear you are not converted!"

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* See Tract, "Are You Satisfied?" by Rev. W. Haslam. _____

I was vexed with him for saying that, and attempted to dispute the point; but he was calm and confident; while I, on the other hand, was uneasy, and trying to justify myself.

In the course of our conversation, he said, "You do not seem to know the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit." Here he had me, for I only knew of one thing, and he referred to two. However, we battled on till nearly two o'clock in the morning, and then he showed me to my bed-room. Pointing to the bed, he said (in a voice full of meaning), "Ah! a very holy man of God died there a short time since." This did not add to my comfort or induce sleep, for I was already much disturbed by the conversation we had had, and did not enjoy the idea of going to bed and sleeping where one had so lately died—even though he was a holy man. Resolving to sit up, I looked round the room, and seeing some books on the table, took up one, which happened to be Hare's "Mission of the Comforter." Almost the first page I glanced at told the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit. This I read and re-read till I understood its meaning.

The next morning as soon as breakfast was finished, I resumed the conversation of the previous night with the additional light I had gained on the subject. We had not talked long before Mr. Aitken said, "Ah, my brother, you have changed your ground since last night!"

I at once confessed that I had been reading Hare's book, which he did not know was in my room, nor even in the house. He was curious to see it.

He then challenged me on another point, and said, "Have you peace with God?" I answered, without hesitation, "Yes,"—-for, for eight years or more I had regarded God as my Friend. Mr. A. went on to ask me, "How did you get peace?" "Oh," I said, "I have it continually. I get it at the Daily Service, I get it through prayer and reading, and especially at the Holy Communion. I have made it a rule to carry my sins there every Sunday, and have often come away from that holy sacrament feeling as happy and free as a bird." My friend looked surprised, but did not dispute this part of my experience. He contented himself by asking me quietly, "And how long does your peace last?" This question made me think. I said, "I suppose, not a week, for I have to do the same thing every Sunday." He replied, "I thought so." Opening the Bible, he found the fourth chapter of St. John, and read, "'Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again.' The woman of Samaria drew water for herself at Jacob's well, and quenched her thirst; but she had to come again and again to the same well. She had no idea of getting water, except by drawing, any more than you have of getting peace excepting through the means you use. The Lord said to her, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water,' which would be 'a well of water springing up into everlasting life'" (John 4:10-14). My friend pointed out the difference between getting water by drawing from a well, and having a living well within you springing up.

I said, "I never heard of such a thing."

"I suppose not," he answered.

"Have you this living water?" I continued.

"Yes, thank God, I have had it for the last thirty years."

"How did you get it?"

"Look here," he said, pointing to the tenth verse: "You wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water." "Shall we ask Him?" I said.

He answered, "With all my heart;" and immediately pushing back his chair, knelt down at his round table, and I knelt on the opposite side. What he prayed for I do not know. I was completely overcome, and melted to tears. I sat down on the ground, sobbing, while he shouted aloud, praising God.

As soon as I could get up, I made for the door, and taking my hat, coat, and umbrella, said that "I was really afraid to stay any longer." With this I took my departure, leaving my carpet-bag behind. It was seven miles to Penzance, but in my excitement I walked and ran all the way, and arrived there before the coach, which was to have called for me, but brought my carpet-bag instead. In the meantime, while I was waiting for it, I saw a pamphlet, by Mr. Aitken, in a shop window, which I bought, and got into the train to return to Baldhu. My mind was in such a distracted state, that I sought relief in reading. I had not long been doing so, when I came to a paragraph in italics: "Then shall He say unto them, Depart from Me; I never knew you." The question arrested me, "What if He says that to you? Ah, that is not likely. But, what if He does? It cannot be. I have given up the world; I love God; I visit the sick; I have daily service and weekly communion. But, what if He does?—what if He does? I could not bear the thought; it seemed to overwhelm me."

As I read the pamphlet, I saw that the words were spoken to persons who were taken by surprise. So should I be. They were able to say, "We have eaten and drunk in Thy presence, and Thou has taught in our streets: in Thy name we have cast out devils, and done many wonderful works." Yet, with all this, He replied, "Depart from Me, I never knew you." I did not see how I could escape, if such men as these were to be rejected.

Conviction was laying hold upon me, and the circle was becoming narrower. The thought pressed heavily upon me, "What a dreadful thing, if I am wrong!" Added to this, I trembled to think of those I had misled. "Can it be true? Is it so?" I remembered some I had watched over most zealously, lest the Dissenters should come and pray with them. I had sent them out of the world resting upon a false hope, administering the sacrament to them for want of knowing any other way of bringing them into God's favour. I used to grieve over any parishioner who died without the last sacrament, and often wondered how it would fare with Dissenters!

My mind was in a revolution. I do not remember how I got home. I felt as if I were out on the dark, boundless ocean, without light, or oar, or rudder. I endured the greatest agony of mind for the souls I had misled, though I had done it ignorantly. "They are gone, and lost forever!" I justly deserved to go also. My distress seemed greater than I could bear. A tremendous storm of wind, rain and thunder, which was raining at the time, was quite in sympathy with my feelings. I could not rest. Looking at the graves of some of my faithful Churchmen, I wondered, "Is it really true that they are now cursing me for having misled them?"

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?"

"Yes, I do; and I am quite sure that if I had died in an unconverted state I should have gone there; and this compels me to believe, also, that what the Scripture says about it is true for every one."

"But what does the Scripture say?" he interposed. "It says that 'he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed' (John 3:18); and in another place, 'tie that believeth not shall be damned' (Mark 16:16). As surely as the believer is saved and goes to heaven, as surely the unbeliever is lost and must So to hell."

"Do you mean Gehenna, the place of torment?"

"Yes, I do."

"This is very dreadful."

"More dreadful still." I said, "must be the solemn reality; and therefore, instead of shrinking from the thought and putting it off, I rather let it stir and rouse me to warn unbelievers, so that I may, by any means, stop them on their dangerous path. I think this is the only true and faithful way of showing kindness; and that, on the other hand, it is the most selfish, heartless, and cruel unkindness to let sinners, whether they are religious, moral, reformed, or otherwise, to go on in an unconverted state, and perish."

"Do you believe, then," said my visitor, "in the fire of hell? Do you think it is a material fire?"

"I do not know; I do not wish to know anything about it. I suppose material fire, like every other material thing, is but a shadow of something real. Is it not a fire which shall burn the soul—a fire that never will be quenched—where the worm will never die?"

"Do you really believe all this?"

"Yes," I said, "and I have reason to do so." I remembered the anguish of soul I passed through when I was under conviction, and the terrible distress I felt for others whom I had misled. "When our blessed Lord was speaking to the Jews, and warning them against their unbelief and its fearful consequences, He did not allow any 'charitable hopes' to hinder Him from speaking the whole truth. He told them of Lazarus, who died, and went to Paradise, or Abraham's bosom; and of Dives, who died, and went to Hell, the place of torment" (Luke 16).

"But," he said, interrupting me, "that is only a parable, or figure of speech."

"Figure of speech!" I repeated. "Is it a figure of speech that the rich man fared sumptuously, that he died, that he was buried? Is not that literal? Why, then, is it a figure of speech that he lifted up his eyes in torment, and said, 'I am tormented in this flame'(Luke 16:24). My dear friend, be sure that there is an awful reality in that story—a most solemn reality in the fact of the impassable gulf. If here we do not believe in this gulf, we shall have to know of it hereafter. I never saw and felt," I continued, "as I do now, that every man is lost, even while on earth, until he is saved, and that if he dies in that unsaved state he will be lost for ever."

My unknown visitor remained silent for a little time, and I could see that he was in tears. At last he burst out and said, "I am sure you are right. I came to try you upon the three great "R's"—'Ruin,' 'Redemption,' and 'Regeneration,' and to see if you really meant what you preached. Now I feel more confirmed in the truth and reality of the Scriptures." I thought I had been contending with an unbeliever all along, but instead of this I found that he was a man who scarcely ventured to think out what he believed to its ultimate result—he believed God's Word, but, like too many, alas! held it loosely.

This gentleman had experienced the truth of the three "R's"—that is to say, he had been awakened to know himself to be lost and ruined by the fall, redeemed by the blood of Christ, and regenerated by the Holy Ghost. In other words, he had been converted, and he knew it.

I found out that at the time of his conversion he was a beneficed clergyman, and that, as such, not being responsible to any rector or vicar, he began to preach boldly the things he had seen. His changed preaching produced a manifest result, and the people were awakened, even startled, and it would appear he was startled too. Instead of thanking God and taking courage, he became alarmed at the disturbance amongst his congregation, and finding that his preaching made him very unpopular, he was weak enough to change his tone, and speak smooth things. Thus he made peace with his congregation, and gained their treacherous good will; but as a living soul he could not be satisfied with this state of things. He knew that he was not faithful to God or to his people; so being a man of competent means, he resigned his living, and retired into private life—"beloved and respected," as they said, for being a good and peaceable man.

At this distance of time I continue to thank God for his visit to me; it helped to fix the truth more firmly in my own soul, and to confirm me in the course in which I was working, and even contending, in the face of much opposition. I must say that I have had no reason to waver in my conviction, and still feel that I would not, for ten times that man's wealth, and twenty times the amount of good-will which he enjoyed (if he did enjoy it), stand in his place.

After long observation, I perceive that it is not the sword of the Word which offends congregations, for preachers are commended and promoted for declaring the whole truth, so long as it is judiciously put, and with "much discretion," so as not to wound the prejudices of the people. The majority of congregations rather like to see the sword drawn out to its full length and flashed with dexterity, and they do not always object to being hit with it, and even hit hard, so long as it is done with the flat of the sword; but they very quickly resent a touch with its edge, and more a thrust with its point. They admire sheet lightning, which is beautiful, as it is harmless; but forked lightning is something to be dreaded and avoided. For instance, a man may preach most eloquently and acceptably on the three "R's" if he does not apply the subject too pointedly, by telling the people, both in the pulpit and out of it, that they are now ruined and lost; and that, having been redeemed, they are responsible before God; and that, if they will not be regenerated by the Spirit, they will be damned. They do not object to your laying, "You hath He quickened," but to turn these same words into a personal question is too often considered impertinent; though, indeed, it is the sincerest kindness and truest Christian love.

"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners" (1 Tim. 1:15). He came, and is spiritually present now, everywhere, for this purpose. His real presence with power is particularly promised to the preacher of the Gospel (Matt. 28:20). The Lord Jesus is ever present to take especial interest in the result of preaching. How disappointing then must it be to Him, to find His servants so often spending their time and energies upon other objects, however great or good they may be! When they do preach the Gospel, it must grieve Him to see that their object is too often not the same as His; and when He does apply the Word by the power of the Spirit, it must also grieve Him to see that they are afraid of the result.

Gospel preaching should not be to entertain people, nor even to instruct them; but first to awaken them to see their danger, and to bring them from death into life, which is manifestly the Lord's chief desire.

This was the definite object of my work: I preached for and aimed at it; and nothing short of this could or would satisfy my longings. In the church, in the school-room, or in the cottages, we prayed that the Holy Spirit would bring conviction upon sinners, and then we sought to lead them to conversion with the clear ringing testimony, "You must be born again, or die to all eternity."

CHAPTER 10

The First Christmas, 1851-52.

The first Christmas-day, during the revival, was a wonderful time. The people had never realized before what this festival was, beyond regarding it as a season for domestic rejoicing. It surprised many to see that their past Christmases were a true representation of their past lives that they had cheered and tried to make themselves happy without Christ, leaving Him out of their consideration in His own world, as they had on His own birthday. What a Christless and hopeless life it had been! What a Christless religion! Now we praised the Lord together for His marvellous goodness to us, and desired that we might henceforth live unto Him, singing in heart and life, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards men."

When New Year's eve arrived we had a midnight gathering, and dedicated ourselves afresh to God's service. It was a blessed season, and several hundreds were there, who, together with myself, were the fruits of the revival during the previous two months. The new year opened upon us with fresh manifestations of divine power and larger blessings. I endeavoured to show the people that the Lord was called Jesus, not that He might save us from hell or death, but from our sins; and this while we lived on earth—that our heart and all our members being mortified from all carnal lusts, we might live to His glory; that Christ's religion was not intended for a death-bed, but for a happy and effectual Christian life—-a life showing forth the power of His grace.

After the Christmas holidays, our schoolmaster and his wife returned. They came back full of disdain and prejudice against the work, and even put themselves out of the way to go from house to house, in order to set the people against me and my preaching. They said that they could bring a hundred clergymen to prove that I was wrong; but their efforts had just the contrary effect to what they expected. It stirred the people to come more frequently to hear, and contend more zealously for what they knew to be right. The master was particularly set against "excitement" and noise. He said, "It was so very much more reverent to be still in prayer, and orderly in praise; it was not necessary to make such an unseemly uproar!" I had, however, discovered, long before this time, that the people who most objected to noise had nothing yet to make a noise about; and that when they had, they generally made as much or more noise than others.

If a house is seen to be on fire, people cannot hello making an outcry; which they do not, when they only read about it. Witnessing a danger stirs the heart; and when people's eyes are open to see souls in eternal danger, they cannot help being stirred up, and crying out. I am sometimes asked, "Is there not such a thing as a feeling which is too deep for expression?" It may be that at times people are so surprised and astonished at some sudden announcement of good or bad news, that they are stunned, and for a time unable to give vent to their joy or grief; but soon there is a reaction, and then expression is given. Generally speaking, these so-called "deep feelings" are only deep in the way of being low down in the vessel—that is to say, very shallow, and by no means sufficient to overflow.

We read that "the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice, and praise God with a loud voice, for all the mighty works that they had seen" (Luke 19:37). And we are told, over and over again, in the Psalms, to "praise God with a loud voice," and to "shout." When we lift up our voice, the Lord can stir our hearts; and surely the things of the Lord have more right, and ought to have more power, to stir and arouse the soul of man, than a boat-race, or a horserace, or a fictitious scene on the stage. I think people would be all the better for letting out their hearts in praise to God. It may lie it is trying and exciting to some, but perhaps they are the very ones who need such a stimulus, and this may be the best way of bringing it out.

Notwithstanding the schoolmaster's opposition, he still came to church, and was very attentive to the sermons, taking copious notes. One Sunday, when I had been preaching on the text, "Cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground?" he was heard to say, "Thank God, I am not cut done yet;" and then he proceeded for the first time to the after-meeting in the school-room.

When I entered I saw him low down on his knees, and said how happy I was to see him there. "Oh," he cried, "I fear there is no mercy—the sentence is surely gone forth against me, 'Cut him down! cut him down!'" And then the poor man howled aloud in his distress. The people prayed for him with shouts of thanksgiving, while he threw himself about in agony of mind, and made a great noise, which only drew still louder acclamations from the people. In the midst of this tremendous din he found peace, and rejoiced with the others in unmistakable accents, and as loud as the loudest. Evidently he was not ashamed or afraid of excitement and noise now.

While he was thus engaged I went round to his house to see his wife, and tell her the news. I found her sitting on the stairs in profound dismay, as if some dreadful calamity had happened. She was literally dumb with fear and astonishment. When she could speak, she said, "What will happen to him now? Will he die? What will become of us?" When I assured her that her husband was only just beginning to live, she said, "Must we be Dissenters now? Oh, what will become of us?" Her sister, who was staying with her, became very angry at hearing of the master's conversion. Finding that I could not do much with these two, I left them, and returned to the schoolroom, where the people were even more uproarious and happy than before; several others having also found pardon and peace.

The Sunday after, the master was seen moving out of church as quickly as he could; and when he reached the churchyard he was observed to run, and then leap over a wall, and next over a hedge into a field. They could not hear him, but he was shouting all the time as well as running. He afterwards said that the Prayer-book was full of meaning; it was like a new book to him; and that if he had stayed in church, he should have disturbed the whole congregation. He became a very earnest Christian, and took much pains and interest in the religious instruction of the children. There were several revivals in the school while he was there, and many of the children were converted. It was not long before he was able to rejoice over the conversion of his wife, and her sister also.

I had been anxious about my clerk for some time; he was a good man in his way, and most attentive to his work in and out of church; he was also a regular communicant, and exemplary in his life; but with all this, he was unconverted. I often warned him of his danger; and one day it came to my mind to tell him of the man who went in to the marriage supper without the wedding garment. I said, no doubt he thought himself as good as others, but when the King came in to see the guests, he was speechless; and because he was so, and had not on the wedding garment, the King commanded that he should be bound hand and foot, and put into outer darkness. Now, I continued, the King has often come in to see us, and we have rejoiced before Him; but you have never spoken to Him, or asked for mercy. It is a very hardening thing to hear so much as you do and remain unsaved; and a very deadening thing to come to the Lord's table as you do, going through the form without any real meaning. You receive the bread and wine in remembrance that Christ died for you, and yet you do not believe enough to thank Him. I was led to say, "I must forbid your coming to the Lord's table till you have given your heart to God. You know it is right to do it, and that you ought to be converted. I will not have you come here again till you are."

The man looked at me as if to see whether I meant it, and then appeared so sorrowful that I nearly relented. All through the service he was low and dejected, and went away at the time of the administration of the ordinance, and sat at the other end of the church. My heart ached for him, for I had never seen him so touched about anything. Afterwards, when he came into the vestry, I could see that he had been crying. "Ah, friend," I said, "it is bad to be left out from the Lord's table here; what will it be to be left out of heaven?"

In the evening he was more miserable than ever, and at the close of the service came into the school-room, where he broke down, and asked the people to pray for him, for he was a hard-hearted, miserable sinner. "Pray the Lord to melt my heart." We did so: and soon the poor broken-hearted man sobbed and cried aloud for mercy; and it was not long before, to our great joy, he found peace. He afterwards told us that he had been getting hardened by forms ever since he had been clerk, reading solemn words without any meaning, which at first he trembled at doing. He was right; it is good to hear the Gospel, good to attend the means of grace, good to assemble in the company of God's people; but to rest in the habit of doing these good things, without conversion, is most dangerous, and calculated to deaden the heart. He said that he felt it very much when 'master' was converted (meaning myself), and was also dreadfully condemned; for he had believed in the necessity of conversion all his life; and though he knew that I was unconverted, yet he never told me, but rather encouraged me to go on as I was. He said that he had had many sleepless nights about it; "but now, thank God" he added, "it is all right; my feet are on the Rock, my soul is saved. I can praise the Lord in the congregation."

The clerk's conversion did not stop with himself, for it was a call to some of the ringers; they were still outside and unsaved, though they knew, as well as he did, that they ought to be otherwise. One of these men began to attend the meetings regularly, but we could not get him to pray, or speak a word. I said to him one evening, "You will never have a sound from the bell till you move it or its tongue; in like manner, you must move your tongue, for you will have nothing until you speak, nor get an answer until you pray." Still he remained silent, and shut up to himself; till one night, as we were putting out the lights at ten o'clock, the meeting being over, I said to him as he stood by, "James, I wonder when you will ever give your heart to God?" He looked at me and said, "Now." "That is right," I replied; "thank God! let it be so." I at once stopped the extinguishing of the lights, and invited him to pray with me, but he took no heed. It was evident he had deliberately made up his mind what he would do, for he took off his coat, undid his neck-tie, turned back his shirt-sleeves, and then, setting a form about nine or ten feet long, square with the room, he knelt down and began to say, "Lord, have mercy upon me!" "Lord, have mercy upon me!" This he repeated with every returning breath, faster and louder as he went on, till at last he worked himself up into a condition of frenzy. He went on without cessation for two hours, and then stopped in an exhausted state, gasping for breath. I pointed him to the cross, and told him of God's mercy in giving His Son to die for sinners; but he was quite absent, and did not appear to hear me, or take the least notice. After a little rest, he commenced again praying as before, and got into terrible distress. What with his noise, and the energy he put forth, it was frightful to see the struggle. He cried, and beat the form till I thought his arms would be black and blue; then he took up the form and beat the floor with it, till I expected every moment it would come to pieces. The noise he made brought some of the neighbours out of their beds in a fright to see what was the matter.

At two o'clock in the morning, four hours after he began, he laid himself across the form, and begged with tears that the Lord would not cast him off. I told him that the Lord was actually waiting for him. At last he found peace, or felt something, and, springing up, he began to shout and praise God; and we all joined with him. When this was done, he put on his coat and neck-tie, and saying "Good night," went home. From this time he became a changed man, and an earnest and steadfast believer.

CHAPTER 11

Dreams and Visions, 1851-4.

During the revival, the outpouring of the Spirit of God was very manifest and unmistakable, and was seen in various ways. It was not, of course, by power or might of men, but by divine influence, that souls were awakened to see themselves in their true condition. The candle of the Lord was lighted, and there was a searching of and for immortal souls, as typified by our blessed Lord in the parable of the lost piece of silver.

We read that the woman with her lighted candle discovered her treasure; so the Divine Spirit, by awakening and searching hearts, found souls, though they had been buried under sins, worldliness, and neglect, and that for many years. It was astonishing to hear persons who had been dull and silent before, break out into full and free expression of spiritual truth; and their liberty and power in prayer were not less remarkable. It was truly an opening of eyes to see, and ears to hear, and hearts to understand—a raising of the dead to spiritual life and animation. It was as wonderful as the speaking of tongues on the day of Pentecost, with this difference—that those people spoke what they knew, in tongues they had not known; and these, in their own speech, declared things which they had never seen or known before.

We had another distinctive sign of Pentecost, which was, that while believers rejoiced with overflowing joy, and sinners were pricked to the heart, and cried out, "What must I do to be saved?" there were those who mocked, saying, "These men are mad, or drunk." But, as St. Peter testified long ago, these men, women, and children were not drunk, but under the influence and power of the Holy Ghost.

We had yet another sign. The prophet Joel predicted, "It shall come to pass that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions; and also upon the servants and upon the handmaids in those days will I pour out my Spirit" (Joel 2:28, 29). And I think my narrative would be very incomplete, and I should be holding back the truth, if I did not tell of some of the dreams and visions which continually happened at this time amongst us.

Every week, almost every day, we heard of some remarkable dream or striking vision. Such things may be called "superstitious" by incredulous people, but I merely state what actually took place without attempting to explain or account for it. My own feeling is that I would rather be among the superstitious than the incredulous; for I think that the former lose nothing by believing, and the latter gain nothing by their unbelief.

Among the people who are alive to spiritual realities these remarkable tokens are not suspected or doubted. To believe nothing but what you can understand or account for, is to believe nothing at all. Cornish people at that time—and they may still be the same—lived in a spiritual atmosphere, at least in their own county; so much so, that I have often heard them complain, when they returned from the "shires," of the dryness and deadness they felt there. I can certainly set my seal to this testimony, and declare that those of us who had visions in Cornwall have not had them in the same way out of that district.

I will give a few specimens, but only one of a kind, for it would fill the volume if I told all; the reader can judge if there was meaning or import in some of them or not.

At one time, when there was a depression or check in the congregation, and preaching was hard, praying formal, and singing flat, I invited the people to join with me in prayer, that the Lord would show us what was the hindrance in the way of the work. They prayed with one accord and without consulting one another, almost in the same words, whether in the school-room or in the cottages; the substance of their petition was, that we might know and put away the obstacle to spiritual blessing, whatever that obstacle might be.

One night I dreamt that I was in the church, feeling very desolate and forsaken; there were very few people there, but soon my eyes lighted on an ugly-looking stranger, who tried to evade me. He was a very disagreeable, sullen-looking man. When I spoke to him he gnashed his teeth, and as I approached he drew out a knife and held it out before me. I pursued him notwithstanding, when he backed towards the door and went out. I followed him through the churchyard till he was outside the lych-gate. As soon as he was gone, I saw a troop of happy people, all dressed in white, come in at the same gate, leaping and running like so many joyful children, and swinging their arms for gladness: they went into the church and began to sing. The dream was as vivid to me as a daylight scene.

I went out the next evening, intending to tell it at the school-room meeting; but before I began to do so, I observed that the people sang more freely than usual, and I also noticed that two men who prayed omitted to offer the usual request for hindrances to be removed. When I told my dream, a man arose and said, "I know all about that; there has been one among us whom we thought was a good man, but instead of this we have discovered that he was most immoral and deceitful, doing a deal of mischief, secretly undermining the faith of some, and misleading others; he has been detected, and is gone." Sure enough our old happy freedom returned, and there was liberty in preaching, praying and singing, and souls were saved.

Another time, when I was getting a little impatient with the people, I took a leaf out of my Scripture-reader's book, and preached a furious sermon about "damnation," representing God as pursuing the sinner to cut him down, if he did not repent there and then. I thought I had done it well, and went home rather satisfied with myself, supposing that I now knew how to make the congregation feel. The next morning, a yeoman called to me as I was passing her cottage, and said, "Master, what d'yer think? I dreamt last night that the devil was a-preaching in your pulpit, and that you were delighted at it!" A sudden fear fell upon me—so much so, that I returned to the church, and shutting the door, begged God's forgiveness; and thanking Him for this warning, asked that I might remember it, and never transgress again.

As my Scripture-reader continued to denounce wrath and vengeance, instead of preaching the Gospel, I parted with him.

Next, let me tell of a vision which refers to others. My sister came to me one morning, and said, "William, I had a vision last night of a young man in a tall hat, with a green-and-red carpet-bag in his hand. I saw him so plainly, that I should know him again anywhere. He was walking up the road when you met him, shook hands, and returned with him to the house. Then you and F—— brought him in at the glass door. On the hall table there stood a basket containing four beautiful and fragrant fruits. You took up the basket and offered it to the visitor, who, putting his hand upon one, said, 'Oh, thank you!' Then touching the three others in order, said, 'That is for mother, and that for sister, and that for —.' I could not hear who. You may smile," she continued, "but I heard that, and saw it all as plainly as I see you now."

I was accustomed to hear such things, and consequently thought no more about it, but went on to speak of other subjects. In the course of the afternoon, as I was going out, I met a relative coming along the road, and took him back with me to the house; there my wife came out to him, and we led him in through the glass door. When he had sat some time and had had some luncheon, my wife said, "I wonder whether this is the young man we heard about this morning? .... What young man?" asked our visitor, hastily; "What young man do you mean? .... I should not wonder if it is," I replied; "We will see presently." He seemed very suspicious, having heard before he came that some mysterious change had taken place in us, and so looked again and again to see if he could detect anything different.

"Come and see my sister," I said; to which he assented, and we went across to her house. As soon as we entered her room, she said, "How do you do? I saw you last night." "What do you mean ?" he replied, withdrawing his hand. "Why, I was on board the steamer last night." "That may be," she said, "but you are the gentleman I saw. Have you not a green-and-red carpet-bag? and did not William meet you on the road?" Poor young man! he looked dreadfully perplexed. "Never mind her," I said; "sit down and tell us about your journey."

After we had talked of this and other subjects, we return home. I then told him that we were converted and asked if he had given his heart to God. He said he had. Not being satisfied, I put the question in another form, and yet remained unsatisfied with his answer. "Do you doubt me?" he asked: "I will prove it to you." He then went up to his room for a little while, and returned with a paper in his hand, in which was a dedication of himself to God, duly signed and sealed. I had never seen an instrument of this kind before, and asked if he really believed in it? "Yes, certainly," he replied; "and I mean it, too."

"But," I said, "do you not see that faith does not consist in believing what you write, but in what God has written? The Word says that God is more willing to take than you are to give: you believe you have given; but do you believe that God has taken? He is far more ready to take your heart than you to give it; as surely as you have given, so surely He has taken. Cannot you see that?"

He replied, "I knew that there was something wrong about this, but I did not know what. Thank you! thank you!" Then thoughtfully folding up the paper, he went out of the room.

The bell was rung for dinner, but he did not appear; and then for tea, but he declined taking any. After we had gone to church, he found his way down and followed us there; and when the service was over he returned again to his room. I was detained at the schoolroom that night, and until two o'clock in the morning, praying and talking with anxious souls, and returned home very tired. Going up to bed I saw a light shining under my visitor's door, and hesitating there a few moments, I heard him pleading earnestly for mercy. I had a great mind to knock, but was afraid of disturbing him; so I prayed for him, and went to bed.

In the morning he came down smiling. "Thank God," he said, "it is all right now; I am saved." In his hand he held three letters—one to his mother, one to his sister, and the other to a cousin, in which he invited them earnestly to come to Jesus. Within the week all four were in our house, praising God for salvation.

As the vision indicated, we had nothing to do but hold the basket to him. He accepted it, and the fruit for himself and his relatives.

Amongst other people and characters I met with at this time was a good, respectable man, who had a remarkable dream. He came to me one day, after I had been speaking about Jacob's ladder, and said that my sermon had reminded him of his dream. I begged him to sit down and tell it to me. He said, "I dreamt that I and nineteen other young men were living in a beautiful house and place, where we had everything provided fer us, and were free to enjoy ourselves as much as we pleased. We all understood that the premises belonged to Satan and that we were his guests. As such, we were permitted to take our pleasure upon two conditions—one was, that we were not to pray; and the other that we were not to go away. We smiled at this, and said it was not likely we should do the former, for we were not the praying kind; and less likely that we should do the latter, for why should we be such fools as to forego or give up our enjoyments?"

I thought to myself, What a wonderful dream that is and how true to reality! What numbers of young men there are, and young women too, besides: many other people, who hold their worldly happiness on this tenure, and of course from the same master.

Well, to continue the story of the dream, he said, "In the course of time we all became heartily tired of the place and its pleasures, and longed to get away, but we could not. One of us made an attempt to do so, but he was captured and brought back, and made more of a slave than ever. At last, I and a few others agreed to pray at a stated time in different places, in the hope that if one was caught, yet the rest might escape. Upon a set day and time we began praying, each in his appointed place. I had fixed upon a dark corner in a large deserted room, where we had stowed away bales and bales of goods we did not care to open. Climbing over the top of these stores, I landed on the other side, and went to the spot I had chosen. I had not prayed long before I heard master coming, cracking his whip, and saying, 'I'll teach you to pray.' This made me tremble exceedingly, and pray all the harder; but hearing that he was very near and coming after me, I opened my eyes, and to my surprise there was a beautiful silver ladder before me. As quick as thought, I sprang with hands and feet upon it, and began to climb for dear life. 'Ha!' said master, 'I'll teach you to climb.' Then I felt the ladder shaking under me, and knew that he was coming up. I expected every moment to be seized and dragged back, so I climbed all the faster, and looked up to see how much farther I had to go. Oh, it was such a long way, and there was only a very small hole to get to at last. My heart began to fail me, so that I almost let go my hold, till I felt the master's sulphurous breath on the back of my neck, which made me rush forward more vehemently. At last I reached the top, and thrust my arm through the hole, then my head, and then my other arm; thus I got through altogether, leaving my old enemy blaspheming and cursing down below. It was a most beautiful place that I was now in, and angels were flying about, just as the birds do in this world. I saw the Lord Himself, and fell down before Him to give Him thanks. As I remained a long time prostrate. He said to me. 'What is thy petition?' I answered, 'Lord, grant that that hole may be made larger, for I have nineteen friends down there in the power of the cruel master.' The Lord smiled, and said, 'That hole is quite large enough.' So I awoke."

Where there is a will, there is always a way of some kind; and if worldlings are really tired of Satan's service, they can easily call upon God to deliver them, and He will most surely do so when He sees they are in earnest. This dream had the effect of spiritually awakening the man who had it, and of bringing him to the foot of the cross for mercy and salvation.

I noticed that in dreams and visions in Cornwall the Lord Jesus very often appears, and the devil also; these are real persons to the Cornish mind, and their power is respectively acknowledged.

During the summer, a young gentleman, whom we invited to our house in the hope of reaching his soul, came to stay with us; and this in spite of his avowed prejudice against us and our proceedings. I took this as a token of encouragement, for I was sure that the devil would have hindered his coming, unless the young man had been constrained by a higher power. He spent his time in riding about or smoking, and made great fun of our meetings and services, though I observed that he was very attentive to hear the sermon whenever he did come.

One week-day evening, while we were sitting in the drawing room, and little expecting it, he burst into tears and cried out, "I don't know what to do; I shall be lost for ever!" We immediately sprang up to his help, always delighted at such opportunities of working for the Lord. We knelt down to pray, and as we continued to do so, he fell into great distress, and even agony of soul; he literally writhed as if in excessive pain, too great for utterance, and looked as if he was fainting with the struggle. We called all the servants into the room to help in prayer, and while I was praying by the side of my young friend, and pointing him to Christ, one of the servants rose up and walked straight across the room, and, with a firm hand pushing me aside, said, "The Lord is here Himself." I rose instantly and moved out of the way, while she stood with her hands together, adoring.

She afterwards told us that she saw the Lord stoop down to the low chair where my young friend was kneeling, and putting His hand on his head, He said something, and then stood up. Immediately upon this she saw the verandah crowded with ugly-looking devils, all with their eyes fixed on the young man as he knelt. The Lord then waved His hand, and the ugly company vanished. At that instant the young man lifted up his head, and turning towards the side on which she had discerned the Lord as standing, said, "Lord, I thank Thee," and then fainted away.

When the vision was over, the servant came, with tears in her eyes, to ask pardon for so rudely pushing me aside, but said that while the Lord was there she could not help herself: "Oh, He is so beautiful, so grand!" The young man was soon restored to animation, and began to speak in a voice and tone very different to his former utterance. He was altogether a remarkable instance of a change of heart and life.

A careless, worldly man in my parish dreamt one night that he was in the market hall of a certain town. He was surprised to see, in a wall, a doorway, which he had never noticed before—so much so, that he went forward to examine it, and found that it really was a door, and that it opened to his touch. He went inside, and there he saw an impressive and strange scene. There were a number of men and women walking about, who appeared to be very woeful, end in great agony of pain. They were too distressed to speak, but he recognized most of them as persons who had been dead some time. They looked mournfully at him, as if sorry that he had come there, but did not speak. He was much alarmed, and made his way back to the door to escape, but was stopped by a stern, sullen-looking' porter, who said, in a sepulchral voice, "You cannot pass." He said, "I came in this way, and I want to go out." "You cannot," said the solemn voice. "Look, the door opens only one way; you may come in by it, but you cannot go out." It was so, and his heart sank within him as he looked at that mysterious portal. At last the porter relented, and as a special favour let him go forth for eight days. He was so glad at his release that he awoke.

When he told me the dream I warned him, and begged him to give his heart to God. "You may die," I said, "before the eighth day." He laughed at the idea, and said he was "not going to be frightened by a dream." "When I am converted," he continued, "I hope I shall be able to say that I was drawn by love and not driven by fear." "But what," I said, "if you have been neglecting and slighting God's love for a long time, and He is now moving you with fear to return to Him?" Nothing would do; he turned a deaf ear to every entreaty. When the eighth day arrived, being market day, he went to the hall as usual, and looked at the wall of which he had dreamed with particular interest, but seeing no door there, he exclaimed, "It's all right; now I will go and have a good dinner over it, with a bottle of wine!"

Whether he stopped at one bottle or not, I cannot tell; but late on Saturday night, as he was going home, he was thrown from his horse and killed. That was at the end of the eighth day.

Whether these dreams and visions were the cause or effect of the people's sensitive state, I do not know; but certainly they were very impressible, and even the cold and hardened amongst them were ready to hear about the mysteries of the unseen world. I attributed this to the spiritual atmosphere in which they were then living.

CHAPTER 12

Billy Bray, 1852.

After the events narrated in Chapter 10, and when all the people who dwelt on the hill on which the church was built were converted, there came upon the scene a very remarkable person, who had evidently been kept back for a purpose. This was none other than the veritable and well known "Billy Bray."* One morning, while we were sitting at breakfast, I heard some one walking about in the hall with a heavy step, saying, "Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!" On opening the door, I beheld a happy-looking little man, in a black Quaker-cut coat, which it was very evident had not been made for him, but for some much larger body. "Well, my friend," I said, "who are you?"

_____

* See "The King's Son; or, Life of Billy Bray," by F. W. Bourne. _____

"I am Billy Bray," he replied, looking steadily at me with his twinkling eyes; "and be you the parson?"

"Yes, I am."

"Thank the Lord! Converted, are ye?"

"Yes, thank God."

"And the missus inside" (pointing to the dining-room), "be she converted?"

"Yes, she is."

"Thank the dear Lord!" he said, moving forward.

I made way for him, and he came stepping into the room; then making a profound bow to the said "missus," he asked, "Be there any maidens (servants)?"

"Yes, there are three in the kitchen."

"Be they converted too?"

I was able to answer in the affirmative; and as I pointed towards the kitchen door when I mentioned it, he made off in that direction, and soon we heard them all shouting and praising God together. When we went in, there was Billy Bray, very joyful, singing,

"Canaan is a happy place; I am bound for the land of Canaan."

We then returned to the dining-room with our strange guest, when he suddenly caught me up in his arms and carried me around the room. I was so taken by surprise, that it was as much as I could do to keep myself in an upright position, till he had accomplished the circuit. Then he set me in my chair and rolling on the ground for joy, said that he "was as happy as he could live." When this performance was at an end, he rose up with a face that denoted the fact, for it was beaming all over. I invited him to take some breakfast with us, to which he assented with thanks. He chose bread and milk, for he said, "I am only a child."

I asked him to be seated, and gave him a chair; but he preferred walking about, and went on talking all the time. He told us that twenty years ago, as he was walking over this very hill on which my church and house were built (it was a barren old place then), the Lord said to him, "I will give thee all that dwell in this mountain." Immediately he fell down on his knees and thanked the Lord, and then ran to the nearest cottage. There he talked and prayed with the people, and was enabled to bring them to Christ; then he went to the next cottage, and got the same blessing; and then to a third, where he was equally successful. Then he told "Father" that there were only three "housen" in this mountain, and prayed that more might be built. That prayer remained with him, and he never ceased to make it for years. The neighbours, who heard his prayer from time to time, wondered why he should ask for "housen" to be built in such an "ungain" place.

At last, after sixteen years, he received a letter from his brother James, to say that they were hacking up the "croft" to plant trees, and that they were going to build a church on the hill. He was "fine and glad," and praised the Lord. Again he did so, when his brother wrote to say there was a vicarage to be built on the same hill, and a schoolroom also. He was almost beside himself with joy and thankfulness for all this.

In the year 1848, when the church was completed and opened, he came on a visit to Baldhu, and was greatly surprised to see what a change had taken place. There was a beautiful church, a parsonage, with a flourishing garden, and also a schoolroom, with a large plantation and fields round them. He was quite "'mazed," for he never thought that the old hill could be made so grand as that! However, when he went to the service in the church, his joy was over; he came out "checkfallen," and quite disappointed. He told "Father" that that was nothing but an "old Pusey" He had got there, and that he was no good. While he was praying that afternoon, "Father" gave him to understand that he had no business there yet, and that he had come too soon, and without permission. So he went back to his place at once, near Bodmin, and continued to pray for the hill.

After three years his brother James wrote again; 'and this time it was to tell him that the parson and all his family were converted, and that there was a great revival at the church. Now poor Billy was most eager to come and see this for himself, but he obtained no permission, though he asked and looked for it every day for more than three months.

At last, one wintry and frosty night in January, about half-past eleven o'clock, just as he was getting into bed, "Father" told him that he might go to Baldhu. He was so overjoyed, that he did not wait till the morning, but immediately "put up" his clothes again, "hitched in" the donkey, and set out in his slow-going little cart. He came along singing all the way, nearly thirty miles and arrived early in the morning. Having put up his donkey in my stable, he came into the house, and presented himself, as I have already stated, in the hall, praising God.

We were a long time over breakfast that morning, for the happy man went on from one thing to another, "telling of the Lord," as he called it, assuring us again and again that he was "fine and glad, and very happy"—indeed, he looked so. He said there was one thing more he must tell us; it was this—that he had a "preaching-house" (what we should now call a mission-room), which he had built years ago. He had often prayed there for "this old mountain," and now he should dearly love to see me in the pulpit of that place, and said that he would let me have it for my work. He went on to say that he had built it by prayer and faith, as "Father" sent him help, and that he and another man had built it with their own hands. One day he was short of money to buy timber to finish the roof; his mate said it would take two pounds' worth; so he asked the Lord for this sum, and wondered why the money did not come, for he felt sure that he was to have it. A farmer happened to look in the next morning, and Billy thought he had come with the money, but he merely asked them what they were doing, and then took his departure, without giving them help. All that day they waited in expectation, and went home in the evening without having done any work. The next morning the same farmer appeared again, and said, "What do you want two pounds for?" "Oh," said Billy, "you are come, are you? We want that money for the roof yonder." The farmer then went on to say, "Two days ago it came to my mind to give two pounds for the preaching house, but as I was coming down the hill on yesterday morning, something said to me, 'if you give one pound it will be handsome; then I thought I would give only half-a-sovereign; and then that I would give nothing. Why should I? But the Lord laid it on my mind last night that I must give you two pounds. There it is!"

"Thank the Lord!" said Billy, and proceeded immediately to get the required timber. In answer to prayer he also obtained "reed" for thatching the roof, and by the same means timber for the forms and seats.

It was all done in a humble manner, so that he did not dream of buying any pulpit; but one day, as he was passing along the road, he saw that they were going to have a sale at the "count-house" of an old mine. He went in, and the first thing which met his eye was a strong oak cupboard, with a cornice around the top. It struck him that it would make a grand pulpit, if only it was-strong enough: on examination, he found it all he could desire in this respect. He thought if he could take off the top and make a "plat" to stand upon, it would do "first-rate." He "told Father" so, and wondered how he could get it. He asked a stranger who was there, walking about, what he thought that old cupboard would go for? "Oh, for about five or six shillings," was the reply. And while Billy was pondering how to "rise" six shillings, the same man came up and said, "What do you want that cupboard for, Billy?" He did not care to tell him, for he was thinking and praying about it. The man said, "There are six shillings for you; buy it if you will." Billy took the money, thanking the Lord. and impatiently waited for the sale. No sooner was the cupboard put up, than he called out, "Here, maister, here's six shillin's for un," and he put the money down on the table. "Six shillings bid," said the auctioneer—"six shillings—thank you; seven shillings; any more for that good old cupboard? Seven shillings. Going—going—gone!" And it was knocked down to another man.

Poor Billy was much disappointed and perplexed at this, and could not understand it at all. He looked about for the man who had given him the six shillings, but in vain—he was not there. The auctioneer told him to take up his money out of the way. He complied, but did not know what to do with it. He went over a hedge into a field by himself, and told "Father" about it; but it was all clear—"Father" was not angry about anything. He remained there an hour, and then went homewards.

As he was going along, much troubled in his mind as to this experience (for he still felt so sure he was to have that cupboard for a pulpit), he came upon a cart standing outside a public-house with the very cupboard upon it, and some men were measuring it with a foot rule. As he came up, he heard them say, "It is too large to go in at the door, or the window either." The publican who had bought it said, "I wish I had not bid for the old thing at all; it is too good to 'scat' up for firewood." At that instant it came to Billy's mind to say, "Here, I'll give you six shillings for un." "Very well," said the man, taking the money; "you can have him." Then Billy began to praise the Lord, and went on to say, "'Father' as good as told me that I was to have that cupboard, and He knew I could not carry him home on my back, so He found a horse and cart for me. Bless the Lord!" Promising to bring it back very soon, he led the horse down the hill, and put the old cupboard into the preaching-house. "There it is!" he exclaimed, "and a fine pulpit he does make, sure enough! Now," said Billy, "I want to see thee in it. When will you come?" I could not fix for that day, or the next, trot made arrangements to conduct a series of services the next week, and promised to have them in that place.