We sang heartily, and after prayer, I felt a little more at home than I had done on the previous evening'; but it was not up to Cornwall yet! In my address I had liberty and power to hold the people, and we had some conversions that evening, and the following one also. My mason friend was greatly cheered and revived, and from this time began reaching himself, carrying on meetings in various cottages and farm places.

From there I went on into Dorsetshire, and arrived at the vicarage to which I was going, rather late on Saturday night, very tired; so much so, that I was glad to go to bed as soon as possible. On Sunday morning I went to church and preached to a large congregation, the words which God gave me. On coming out, the vicar's wife said, "If I had sat up all night telling you about the people, you could not have preached more appropriately; indeed, I am sure that some of them will think that I told you what to say."

It was so, for this same lady was charged with telling me to put before some of the congregation things which her husband dared not! In the evening the church was crammed to excess, and the people were most attentive and eager. Some of them could scarcely restrain their feelings, so powerfully did the Word come home to them. At the conclusion of the service, I announced that I had come there to preach every night for the week, and would visit them during the day. Accordingly in the morning I called at several cottages, in one of which King George the Third used to attend a prayer-meeting with the country people.

In the afternoon I went to the convict prison at Portland. It was sad to look upon the prisoners clanking about in their chains, many of whom were employed in making a road to the sea. I could not help saying to the chaplain, who was walking with me, "What a picture is that! It is exactly how Satan employs unbelievers to make their own road to hell. As such, they are condemned already, because they do not believe in Christ; and for the same reason, their sins not being pardoned, they are bound in chains."

"Well," said the chaplain drily, "that seems all clear and scriptural. Would you like to speak to them?"

"Yes," I said, "I should."

He then made a sign to the warder, who commanded that the convicts should give attention, and the order was at once obeyed.

Standing on the bank, I spoke to them as they were assembled before me; but instead of telling them of the devil and chains, as the chaplain expected, I spoke of God's love to sinners, and said that "chastisement and sorrows were not sent in anger, but in kindness. God is angry when the wicked are allowed to go on unpunished; but when punished in this world, it is not for expiation of sin (for only the blood of Jesus can do that), but for the purpose of awakening and humbling the transgressor, that he may with contrite heart return to the Lord, who alone is able to deliver us from sin and from Satan's power. 'It is good,' said the Psalmist, 'that I have been afflicted: before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.'"

Many of the men were so affected, that they sobbed aloud, and I could scarcely refrain from doing the same thing myself. After this I prayed that the word spoken might be blessed to those who had heard it, and then took my leave. It was not easy to dismiss this sad scene from my mind, nor have I ever lost the impression it made upon me.

We had a very good time that evening in the church, and there was much power and blessing. At the close of the service, I gave out that I would preach again the following evening, and having no opportunity for an after-meeting, the word preached was left with prayer for a blessing on it.

The next morning there came an unexpected, as well as a most abrupt, opposition to the work; and no wonder, for it was not likely that Satan would permit it to go on smoothly. A vicar from the neighbourhood, who had formerly been a military man, and had still the commanding manner of such, presented himself, and tried to terrify my good and kind friend, the vicar. He told him that he had heard a great deal about me; that I was just like Starkie,* and preached the same doctrines; and that he was deputed by other clergymen to come and ask that my preaching be stopped. Then he went on to say that I was nothing less than a Jesuit in disguise; and turning; to me, he said, "Sir, you know you are!" I replied, begging his pardon, "I can assure you I am not. You must be altogether misinformed." But he said, again turning round, and sternly looking at me, "You know I am not mistaken or misinformed; your countenance betrays you!" I smiled at this, not knowing how my countenance looked. He was quite satisfied with himself, and rather more so because he thought he had succeeded in extracting a promise from the vicar that the services in question should be stopped.

_____

* A clergyman who had associated himself with H. J. Prince and some others, and founded the "Agapemone" at Spaxton, near Bridgewater. _____

This officer-clergyman then went away, saying that he was quite convinced in his mind that I was a Jesuit, and nothing should ever dissuade him; this interview had confirmed his thoughts on the subject. My dear good friend was so afraid of that loud, overbearing man, that he consented to give up the services after that night.

Presently another clergyman, evidently in concert with the former, called on the same errand. His more gentle manner and plausible words had greater effect, so that the vicar more than half decided to have no service, even on that evening.

Before he had fully made up his mind, it so happened that there came on a tremendous thunderstorm, accompanied with hail and vivid flashes of lightning. This was considered by him quite providential, and an indication that God wished the services stopped. When the sexton came over to the vicarage, a little before the service time, the vicar said, "Don't ring the bell for church tonight; it is of no use: no one can possibly come out this weather!"

"Why, sir," said the sexton, "the church have been crammed full this half-hour. It's no use ringing the bell, sure, for we ain't got no room for no more people."

"Now, that is remarkable," said the vicar. "I do think, after all, the Lord would have us go on. What do you think?" he said, turning to me.

I replied, "Without doubt I think so. I cannot suppose that the Lord would send such men, in such a tone, to stop His work."

"Well, then," said the vicar, "we will go on till the end of the week."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There they did not let out carriages at all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 20

A Stranger from London, 1853.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he converted?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 21

Golant Mission, 1854.

It is a good plan to strike while the iron is hot;' and as the people at Colant were in an interested and receptive state, I put off other things which had been appointed, and made arrangements to return to the battle-field as soon as possible. My people were much excited to hear what I was able to tell them of my three days' visit, and they wished me "God speed" for my next venture, praying most heartily for great blessing.

Accordingly, on the following Monday I went back to Colant, and found the place (an unusually quiet country village), together with the whole neighbourhood round, including two or three small towns all astir. As a rule, in order to insure success in a mission, there needs preparation, visitation, and prayer; and I have observed that when there has been no preparation in the way of public announcements of services, the people have not come out, and the mission has been a failure. Where there has been a regular system of visitation, without prayer, the congregations have been abundant, but the services have been dry and hard; but in places where preparation and visitation have been made with much prayer, there has ever been a most unmistakable blessing. So much for human agencies, which are necessary to us, though God is not bound to them.

There had been no preparation for the mission I am about to tell of, no visitation, nor any special prayer; and yet it pleased the Lord to give in this little village such an outpouring of His Spirit and demonstration of His Power as is rarely known. There was a great running together of the people, notwithstanding the difficulties of access to the church. Some had to come several miles from the towns by road, some by sea, and others across a tidal river where mud abounded; and after landing, they had to climb a steep hill. None of these things, however, deterred or discouraged them; they came, and they would come, in spite of everything which was urged at other times as an excuse for staying away, even on dark nights. It was the day of the Lord's power, and He made them willing; so much so, that in some places work was suspended, and people came even three times a day.

On the Monday evening, when I arrived, I found that the church would scarcely hold the people who bad gathered to hear the Word of God. It was a time of much blessing, and we remained there hard at work till eleven o'clock, when, having four miles to go in order to get home, I closed the service, offering to meet any anxious souls there at half-past ten the next morning. This I did, and was surprised to find a number of persons waiting, even at this early hour.

There were too many to speak to individually, so I addressed them collectively, giving the ordinary instruction to seeking souls. In the afternoon we had a still larger number, and in the evening a crowded congregation; in this way the work continued, with three services a day throughout the week, accompanied with remarkable conversions every day. Among the number of those who attended was a surgeon, his wife and brother, and the wife of a respectable yeoman. These, together with several more from the village on the other side of the river, were converted to God. Their rector was amazed to see them so changed, and wondered by what process this was accomplished. He attended an afternoon service, and was astonished to see so many people present on a week-day. Afterwards introducing himself, he asked me very politely, "What is the secret of all this?" He stud, "I have heard you preach, and certainly do not agree with most part of what you said, nor do I see anything either in your manner or matter which can account for this effect and work amongst the people. I must say, I cannot ask you to my pulpit, but I should much like a talk with you. Will you come over to luncheon with me?"

I liked the candour and gentlemanly bearing of the man, and wished to go, but could not fix a time while I was so much occupied; so I promised I would write, and offer him a visit when I had more leisure.

In addition to the three services in church, we had another in the morning at seven o'clock, in the town where I slept. There we gathered the anxious ones who had been at the church the night before, and had come away early on account of the distance. The little town was all in a commotion, and the vicar in this place was beginning to get furious about my holding this meeting in his parish; his daughter, in particular, went about warning the people against attending it. Some young men hired a four-oared boat to come to the evening service, intending to disturb the congregation. They arrived in good time, but, for all that, they were too late to get a seat. One young man, the ringleader of the party, instead of causing a disturbance, stood still and listened most attentively. I preached that evening from the words, "And the door was shut," referring to the ark, and the awful desolation and doom of those who were shut out. All the time I was preaching, I could see this same man standing before the pulpit, with his elbow leaning on the end of a high pew. He maintained this position throughout the service, and at the end of the sermon was still there, rigid and stiff, looking at the pulpit as if in a trance. He would not move or speak; there he stood, till we feared he had gone out of his mind. His companions were awed and took him away as well as they could, but did not embark on their return journey till after midnight, and then the tide was against them.

Soon after they had started, the wind rose, and there came on a great storm; the thunder was loud, and the flashes of lightning awful. The wind became so strong and violent, that, in spite of all their efforts, the boat was stranded; they managed, however, to get out and pull it out of the water, and took refuge for a time under overhanging rocks on the shore. The young man continued as one stunned, and said nothing. There they remained till between four and five o'clock in the morning, when the storm abated, and they were able to set out again. At last they succeeded in reaching home.

While these unfortunate young men were battling with the elements, we went home by land and had a night's rest, though it was but a short one. I rose and went to my meeting at seven o'clock, and on arriving found the room quite full, there being only one chair unoccupied. As I stood to 'speak, this seat remained vacant, so I beckoned a young man who was standing at the door to come and take it. He looked worn and sad, and I thought I recognized in him the same young man I had noticed the previous night, and who, I was told, was the ringleader of the party who came in the boat with the purpose of disturbing the meeting. He sat down, sighing heavily several times.

Almost directly a man came forward and whispered to me, "You have a wolf near you—take care!"

"All, right," I said, "he is tame enough now; there is no more bite in him."

"Yes, yes," said the young man, overhearing us, "no more wolf. O God, change me to a lamb!"

Poor fellow! he was in great trouble all day, and fainted away several times before he found peace, which he did very dearly. He came to the evening meeting, shouting "Hallelujah!" and stirred us all greatly. Several others of the same party were also converted.

The news of this made some of the town's people furious; and, being the fifth of November, they consoled themselves by making a straw effigy to represent me. They put on it a sheet in place of a surplice, with a paper mitre on its head, and, setting it on a donkey, carried it through the town, accompanied by a crowd of men and boys, who shouted at the top of their voices, "Here goes the Puseyite revivalist! Here goes the Puseyite revivalist! Hurrah! Hurrah!" In this complimentary sport the curate and one of the churchwardens took part.

That same night this churchwarden (who, I should say, had been one of the boating party two nights before) had a dream. He dreamt that his house was full of people, just like the church he had been in; all the rooms, the staircase, and even his own bedroom, were filled with people standing. There was a tremendous storm of wind and rain; the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed. In the midst of this a voice said to him, "This is all about you, you sinner!" He awoke up out of his sleep in a terrible fright, and began to cry to the Lord to have mercy on his soul.

I was sent for before five o'clock in the morning to come and see him, for his friends said that they thought he would go out of his mind. Instead of this, he came to his right mind, for the Lord heard and answered his prayer, and brought him from darkness into light, and from the power of sin and Satan unto God. He went with me to the early morning meeting; there we had the two chief leaders of the riotous party in a changed condition, for which we heartily thanked God.

Their friend, the curate, was very excited and angry about this, and did not quite know who to blame. He said that he would write to the Bishop and tell him what was going on; and I believe he did not fail to carry out his intention. As there were many who, from various causes, were unable to go four miles to an evening service, I managed to secure the Town Hall for a course of lectures on the "Pilgrim's Progress." The curate came to the first, and, after hearing the lecture, stood up to speak, and gave went to his feelings by saying a great many very angry things. The people were so indignant, that I could scarcely restrain them from laying hands on him to turn him out.

Some of the old forms and seats in the Town Hall (which was not accustomed to be so crowded) broke down with the weight of people. The vicar's daughter suggested that most likely they should hear next that "the forms and seats were converted, for she had been told already that they were broken down." This little straw will show which way the wind blew in that quarter, and what was the drift of this lady's mind.

My friend with whom I was staying was evidently much perplexed, and found himself let in for far more than he had calculated when he invited me. He certainly would never have asked me had he foreseen such an upset as there was everywhere, especially in the town in which he lived, and the country parish of which he was vicar.

At last he made up his mind to take me with him to consult a clerical neighbour, upon whose judgment he greatly relied. On our way a sudden thought of misgiving came over him; he all at once turned to me and said. "I say, my friend, I'll be done with you altogether if you say Mr. —— is not converted!"

"Then," I replied, "you may be sure I will not say it."

"But suppose you think so?"

"Well, I must confess I think so already, and not without good reason (at least, to my mind), for he has taken no interest whatever in this remarkable work of God, nor has he shown the least sympathy in the spiritual welfare of many of his parishioners, who have received blessing at the meetings. His High Church neighbour, who does not profess to be converted, could not help coming over to ask about it, while your friend has never been near, nor even sent to make inquiry. Besides this, one of his own people told me that he was much put out, and very angry with you for asking me."

"Ah," said my friend, "we are not all revivalists like you, remember."

"Well," I said, "let me hope you are a deal better than I am."

He seemed very uneasy at taking me on after this conversation; but as he had written to say we were coming, he thought we must go forward. In order to ease his mind, I made an agreement with him that during luncheon I would tell about the conversion of one of Mr. —'s parishioners, and said, "While I do so, you watch his face. If he is at all interested, I will conclude that I am wrong, and that he is converted; but if he is not, I will leave you to judge for yourself. I must say, I cannot understand a converted man not interested in the conversion of others, even if it does nothing more than remind him of his own."

My friend agreed to this, and seemed somewhat relieved in his mind.

On our arrival, Mr. — received us courteously, and asked after the family—indeed, about everything he could think of but the work.

My friend, after a little pause, said, "Have you not heard of the revival?"

"Revival!" he said, calmly. "What is that?"

"The special services in my church."

"What services?"

This evidently was enough. He went out of the room to try and hurry the luncheon. My friend looked very thoughtful, and said nothing, but was clearly beginning to suspect that the judgment I had formed was not far wrong.

In course of the luncheon I told my story, but not without being interrupted over and over again by the host's attentions, and importunities to "take more vegetables." "Have you any salt? .... Will you take some bread? .... Will you not take a glass of wine?" It was quite evident he wished the story at an end.

My friend said, "That is one of your parishioners he is talking about."

"I suspected so," he replied. "All I can say is, that if Mr. Haslam had only known that man as long as I have, he would never speak of him as he does. This is not the first profession he has made. He has been reformed and changed several times before this, and has always become worse afterwards."

"That is just the very thing Haslam says," said my friend—"that some reformations are all flesh, and not the work of God; and, as such, can never stand. I believe the man to be converted by God this time."

"We will see—we will see," said our host, quietly helping himself to a glass of wine. "For my own part, I don't believe in these things."

My friend and I exchanged looks. I was silent, but he continued, "I am bound to say that I was never converted before, nor yet my wife, my daughter, or my sister."

"What!" said the vicar, starting, "you mean your sister Mary? Well, that is enough! I don't wish to hear another word about your conversions after that! I can only say that if I were half as good as Mrs. S—-, I should be well satisfied."

"Well, now," replied my friend, "do come over and see her, and hear what she has to say about it herself."

"No, thank you," he replied; "I have no desire to interfere in such matters."

There the conversation stopped, leaving a wall of separation between the two clerical brothers, who had together professed to be Evangelical, and cordially hated sacramental religion. They had also professed to believe in salvation by faith only; but for all this they never urged upon their people to perform any acts of faith—they only expected them to receive the doctrine. I found that such people opposed me and my work a great deal more than even High Church men.

My friend and I returned home, and he told his wife and sister the result of our visit. They said that they were not surprised, for they had made up their minds on the subject, and were quite sure that Mr. — had no personal experience, though he was so intelligent about the doctrine of salvation by faith.

The work, in the meantime, went on and spread. Some of the people came over from Mr. —'s parish to ask me to come and preach to them in a large sail-loft, which they had prepared for the purpose. My friend would not consent to my going, and I was obliged to give them a refusal. The next day they sent again, not to ask me to preach, but if I would just come over to visit a sick man who was anxious about his soul. My friend hesitated at this also. I said, "Why do you object to my going to see the poor fellow? You took me to the vicarage to talk to the vicar himself; surely you can let me go and do the same thing to one of his parishioners."

"No," he said, "I cannot; that is quite a different thing."

Seeing that he was unwilling, and that it would displease him, I gave it up, and went to the messengers and said, "I cannot go."

They were not satisfied, and asked "if the ladies would please to go;" meaning my late dear wife and Mrs. S. (Mary), whom they had seen working in the after-meetings.

My friend did not see any objection to the ladies going, and the men seemed better pleased than if I had gone. They visited the sick man the next day, and after that were asked "just to come and speak to a few people up here" that was, in the adjoining sail-loft. On entering the place, to their astonishment, they saw about three hundred people sitting quietly waiting.

"What is this?" asked my wife.

The man said, "I only asked a few, but all those people are come. Do give them just a word." She had never yet ventured on addressing a large company like that, and Mary was shocked at the idea; but still, they were afraid to refuse; so they mounted the carpenter's bench, which was placed there with two chairs on it; and after a hymn and prayer, Mrs. H. gave an address, which Mary told me afterwards "was far better than anything I ever preached." They had an after-meeting, and some conversions, and promised to come over again. Thus the work spread to another part, and I had to go there also.

Poor Mr. — was very excited about this, and said that he "thought it most ungentlemanly." I dare say it was, and that I was somewhat uncouth; but I never stop to consider prejudices and fancies when the Lord's work is in the way.

It was a widespread and remarkable awakening, and one not without much opposition and jealousy. I happened to say from the pulpit, that at one time before I knew the truth I used to be quite a popular man: people liked me, and clergymen let me preach in their pulpits; but now that I had something to tell for the good of souls, they seemed to agree to keep me out. Very few were so bold as the vicar of this parish, who had not only invited me, but stood by me also.

A neighbouring clergyman, who was an important man—a prebendary, and what not—wrote to the vicar to ask if it was true that I had said in the pulpit that my clerical brethren scouted me, and would not let me preach for them.

The vicar very wisely handed the indignant prebendary's letter over to me to answer, which I did. In my reply, I took the opportunity to put in some Gospel teaching, which was supposed to be very irrelevant matter, and counted evasive. I did not deny that I had said something to the effect of which he complained, but I pleaded in extenuation that I was justified in doing so. He was more enraged by my letter than by the report he had heard, and threatened to publish the correspondence. This he did, with a letter to his parishioners, in which he warned them against revivals in general, and me in particular. He told them that I was "infatuated;" that I had "usurped the judgment seat of Christ;" that I was "the accuser of the brethren;" that I "acted the devil's part now, and was to be his companion hereafter." I thought of giving more choice extracts from this publication, but on second thoughts I consider it better to pass it over.

CHAPTER 22

The High Church Rector, 1854

Let bygones be bygones. I am thankful to say times are changed, but the letter referred to in the last chapter, though expressing the sentiments of one man, yet showed the feeling of many others. I do not complain of it, for I must say I rather like the outspoken opposition of the natural heart; it is far better, and much less trying, than smiling indifference or hollow assent.

The work which began in this part went on and spread. The refusal of the clergy to take it up sent it to the chapels, where it was continued for miles round. For this reason I was charged then, and have been since, with encouraging Dissent, but the accusation sits very lightly on me, for I know what I would rather have. Nothing would please me so well as to have the clergy converted, and taking up the work; but if they will not, then I would rather that the Dissenters had the benefit, than that it should die out and be lost. Dissent makes division, but it is necessary for vitality, under present circumstances, and counteracts the great evil of spiritual death. The light of God ought to be in the Church of England, for it is the Lord's candlestick in this land; but when the truth is not represented, and the Church is dark, it is a mercy that God has been pleased to raise up witnesses for Himself in other bodies.

The Calvinist, with a needless bitterness, holds up God's sovereignty, as if man's will were not free; the Arminian is equally energetic for man's responsibility, as if God were not sovereign; and the Quaker is a witness for the work of the Spirit. These, and several others, each maintain their particular doctrine. They are raised up to show respectively their own portion of the light, because the Church, which has in her formularies all these great truths, is remiss in her duty. The full blaze of light which ought to be emitted from her to all sides, is shed upon her in detail from others; and her members are too often lighted from without, and not from within.

In many parishes there was no light, and no life or testimony in the Church; and had it not been for the chapels, men and women might have perished in ignorance and error.

Imperfect and erroneous as is some of the Gospel which is preached in chapels and rooms, there was more vitality in it, and also more saving power, than in the refined and critical teaching which emanated from many of the accredited and accepted preachers of the land. Where the Church was rising up into energetic action, in too many cases it had a sectarian, and not a catholic object—that is to say, it was aiming to make Churchmen and communicants, or members of guilds, instead of proclaiming the Gospel for the salvation of souls.

The sovereignty of God, the responsibility of man, and the work of the Holy Ghost, were frequently altogether overlooked, although this is the true catholic teaching. In this I comprehend not only the bringing of souls from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive the forgiveness of sins, but also that believers might go on to have "an inheritance among them that are sanctified by faith in Christ Jesus." Churchism, with its sacramentalism, is as sectarian as any form of Dissent, Romanism included; for it falls short of God's object, as declared in the Word.

When the work at Golant church abated, I had more time for looking about; so I proffered a visit to the High Church rector, who had asked me to come over and tell him the secret of my success. He readily fixed upon a day, so I went over to luncheon; after which we began to talk. The curate, who was present, and who had heard some ranters shouting and screaming in the "shires," kept on every now and then putting in a word of caution to restrain the rector from admitting too much; for little by little he was yielding to me. I spoke of letting down the nets for a draught, and catching men, not to smother and kill them in some Church system, or by some erroneous teaching, but to keep them alive. "This," I said, "is the meaning of the word in the original;" and we looked it out in the Greek. It was very interesting. We then talked over the difference between the Church system and that of the Bible. The one, I said, makes apostolic succession and the sacraments the channel of salvation; the other the Word of God, as applied by the Holy Ghost.

We had a great battle on this point, two against one; but having the Word of God on my side, I stood by my experience. I had myself been on the other side, and was then ten times more zealous and earnest than these two were. I said, "I used to preach salvation by Church and sacraments once, but I was not saved that way. I used also to teach that the new birth was by Baptism; but I was not born again when I was baptized. Were you? Are you quite sure that, with all your faith in Baptismal Regeneration, you are born again of the Spirit? Are you satisfied that you are now saved because you are in the Church?"

They were dumb. So I went on to say, "I have no party or sectarian object in my work; my only desire is to bring souls to Christ Himself for salvation. I used, as a priest, to think I was mediator between Christ and the sinner, and that I had received by delegation some power for this purpose; but now that I have been over the ground experimentally, I would as soon blaspheme God in your presence, as dare to absolve a sinner, or come between Christ and him. My orders are to bring them from the power of Satan to God, and to Christ crucified, for forgiveness of sins."

At this point the rector brought out a printed sermon by Dr. Pusey, on Justification by Faith, which he had been carefully reading. I asked him to read it to me. The first few pages contained statements of the doctrine in New Testament words, with a fair exposition of them; but when the author same to his own thoughts about the subject, he said that Baptism was the cause of justification. Here I challenged the statement, and said, "Have you any references there—any 'stars' or 'daggers' to that?" "Yes," he answered, "references to the Fathers." I replied, that "the Fathers were not inspired, There is no such thing as 'Justification by Baptism' in the Scriptures; it is by faith only, as you will see in the fifth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans."

"Yes," he said, "that is just what Dr. Pusey means—Faith, as shown in Baptism."

"Then," I said, "according to that, in your Baptism you were justified by Faith; and as a consequence you have peace with God, and have access into grace, and rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. You will see that St. Paul connects this experience with what he calls Justification by Faith. Evidently he did not expect so much from Baptism as you do, or for a certainty he would have baptized every one he could reach; but, instead of this, he thanked God that he had only baptized a few persons whom he named (1 Cor. 1: 14-17). He had gone about for three years, teaching the Ephesian Christians, even with tears, and he called them to witness, not that he had administered the sacraments, and done priestly work among them, but that he had ceased not to teach, and to preach, 'repentance toward God and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ'" (Acts 20:21).

My two High Church friends were not convinced, though they could not answer me. It was a question in their minds who was right, Dr. Pusey, or this "Fanatical Revivalist."

"Come," I said, "there is your man-servant outside in the garden; he was converted two weeks ago; and though he cannot read, I feel sure he knows more about this than the author of that learned sermon. Let us call him in and read a few pages."

We did, and told him to sit down while we read a little while.

The rector began, and, as he went on, Sam's face lit up with joy, until the rector came to the sacramental passages; than any one could see Sam's interest was gone. He became very restless, and at last interrupting, said, respectfully, "If you please, sir, is there much more of that?"

"Why, Sam," said his master, "don't you like it?"

"No, sir," he said; "that man ain't converted at all!"

"Well, that is strange," said the rector; "I saw his interest went off just at the very point where you took exception to the sermon. You and Sam under stand something that I do not know." Thus our sermon-reading concluded, and, besides this, my witness had given his testimony.

I had stayed already two hours longer than I intended, and was tired of talking. The rector asked me to remain, and dine with him, and promised that he would send me to church in the evening in time for the service. I agreed to this; so he kindly took me upstairs to wash and rest. Coming into the room with me, he shut the door, and said in confidence,

"I know you are right; my mother taught me all this when I was young!"

"Then," I said, "we had better kneel down and pray about it."

We did so. In his prayer he entreated very earnestly that the scales might fall from his eyes, and that these truths which he loved when he was young might be brought to him again.

He was only praying for truth, and not for pardon and salvation; so I pointed this out to him.

"Yes—yes," he said; "Lord, save me! Lord, save me! Pardon me!"

I believe he found peace before he came down; but it is more difficult to pronounce in the case of educated, than in that of uneducated people. In the latter, the transition from darkness to light and life is often very manifest; whereas in the case of the educated, the effect is not so clear.

However, he came down to dinner, and it was not long before he roused the anger and contempt of his wife and curate, by saying, "I am converted." They tried hard to laugh him out of it, and asked him which of the chapels he would join? They suggested he had better be a Bryanite; Mr. Haslam is king of the Bryanires; and so on!

I was happy to hear all this, and could not help telling them so: first, because the rector was counted worthy of such taunts; and, secondly, because their natural enmity was raised. I said that I hoped they would both be converted also, and that very soon.

When I was leaving for my service, the rector, in bidding me good-bye, said, that he "was sorry he could not go with me; but would I come and preach in his pulpit on Sunday?" I promised that I would.

On the way, Sam, who was driving me to church, became much excited, and seemed beside himself for joy. Putting up his arms all of a sudden, with reins and whip in either hand, in the act of praising God, he frightened the horse, so that it ran away at full speed.

"Oh, never mind—-never mind!" he said, "don't be frightened! No doubt the old devil 'ud like to upset both on us; but I am sure the dear Lord will take care of us, don't fear."

Certainly there was need, for the horse went headlong down a long narrow hill, and if anything else had been on the road, we must have come into disastrous collision. We were, however, carried safely down, and reached the church in good time.

Sam's joy, I need scarcely say, was all about the master's conversion, and the fact that I was to preach in their church on Sunday—two circumstances he did not fail to announce to every one he met.

He put up his horse, and stayed for the service. In the after-meeting, when he prayed, he sent up his prayer with a thanksgiving for these two things, which set the congregation praising God also.

Thus the revival, which began on one side of the river, passed over to the other, and brought out people from another town, and also villages beyond. There was a great awakening in that part of the country. The curate found peace on the Sunday, and many more; but not the rector's wife. She continued her opposition most vigorously.

The wisdom of the serpent is seen in capturing the wife first; but still I am sure in this case that the serpent's wisdom was outwisdomed, for her persecution made her husband pray and work all the more earnestly.

People in these days did not regard "missions" so complacently as they do now. The very idea of preaching night after night, not for some Missionary Society, or for collections, but simply for the conversion of souls and the salvation of sinners, seemed to cast a slur upon ordinary preachers, as if they did not aim at such a thing; and upon people generally, as if we meant to imply that they needed it. Most certainly they did.

I believe ordinary preachers in the churches of that neighbourhood did not expect conversions; and most of the people were unconverted. I could not help telling them so, which only roused their wrath so much the more.

From this place I returned home; for my prolonged absence, I found, was likely to bring me into trouble. Other clergymen might go away for months, travelling or salmon fishing; but if I was absent for a few weeks, I was supposed to be neglecting my parish. On my return, I had much to tell, and did not expect to be invited out again in a hurry; for very few clergymen would willingly desire to be drawn into such a whirlwind of storm and trouble, as my visits usually involved.

CHAPTER 23

A Mission in Staffordshire, 1854.

THE work at Baldhu, which had been going on almost incessantly for three years, was now beginning to flag; that is to say, there was not that ardent and eager attendance at the services and meetings, to which we had been accustomed in the revival time. We had had occasional lulls like this before, but they did not last more than a few weeks; and then the "swallows" returned, and the bright hot summer of work came again with its loud songs and pleasant fruits. This dullness was continuing longer than usual; the crowded congregations were falling off; strangers did not come from a distance; the people at home were not so lively. However, the classes were continued, as also the services at the church, and the number of communicants did not decrease. Still any one could see that the revival was over. It was rather discouraging to me, and a cause of triumph to some outsiders; but we were occasionally cheered by work amongst visitors, and with sick-bed cases.

The majority of the people were complacently waiting for another tide of revival; this was their custom, but it sat very uneasily upon me. I did not like it, nor agree to it; but at that time I knew not what else to do, but wait as others did. I said that we looked like vessels which had come so far up the river with the tide; and now that it had turned we were stranded and fast in the mud. Sometimes I changed the figure to one not so ignoble, and likened ourselves to the stately vessels anchored in Falmouth harbour, which were there because the wind was contrary. We were wind-bound too, and dependent on circumstances; but my idea of true religion was that we ought not to be like this. I rather took for our type the great steamers which are propelled by powerful engines, and come in and go out, and proceed on their voyage without regard to wind or tide. We ought to be constrained I said, from within by the love of God and thus be enabled to show the power of grace by riding over all obstacles and triumphing in the midst of discouragements. "He giveth songs in the night." Any bird can sing in the sunshine.

The self-restraint and self-control I had exercised in my churchy days, and which I supposed was derived from sacraments, I found wanting in my new work. We required something with authority, such as church and priest supply. I could not, however, conscientiously go back to that legal system, nor did I think there was any need, for I was sure there was something somewhere, to be had, which should and would supply our want, if I could but discover it. It appeared to me that my people, without this, were subject to impulse, and consequently in bondage to their feelings.

In this time of lull I found that the steadfastness of some was shaken; but I had known others, who had gone further back than these, return at a revival time with new vigour. In this way, some of the Cornish people professed to be converted scores of times. While ruminating on these things and praying over them, I was surprised by receiving a letter pressing me very much to come at once and preach in a parish in Staffordshire, near Birmingham. Mr. Aitken had been on a mission in the north, and on his return had stopped a night at this place, and preached one of his alarming and awakening sermons. The effect was so great that the people, together with their clergyman (a curate in sole charge) were in much trouble and anxiety about their souls; there was a gloom hanging over them, as if they had been sentenced to some dreadful doom, and did not know what to do, or how to avert it.

It is a good thing to wound, but it should be with the object of making whole; it is a blessed thing to show sinners their lost condition, but only for the purpose of getting them to lay hold of the great salvation which is provided for such.

In his perplexity the curate went to see the Bishop (Lonsdale) of Lichfield. When his lordship had ascertained the cause of the trouble, he took up a pamphlet which was lying on the table, and said, "If you cannot get Mr. Aitken back, send for this gentleman, and pay his expenses." "This gentleman," meant the author of the pamphlet, which his lordship held in his hand, namely, myself; "his name and address are here." said the Bishop; "take the book and read it carefully; he seems to have both knowledge and experience in such matters."

I was written to forthwith, and the letter urged me to "come at once." In compliance, I started off that night, and reaching the place on Saturday afternoon, opened a mission the same evening without further notice. On Sunday I preached three times, and went to the school-room for the after-meeting. There we had a scene which, for noise and confusion was quite Cornish. Men and women cried aloud for mercy, while some believers who were there shouted for joy. The curate in charge was completely bewildered, but felt he could do nothing; and seeing, as he remarked, that I appeared to understand it and know what I was about, he thought he had better remain still, till the noisy meeting was over. That same night, before he retired, he gave his heart to God.

The work went on in this place with the force as of an explosion; just as if hungry desires had been pent up a long time, and now they had vent and opportunity to be satisfied. The church was crowded: every day, even in the week; and we were kept in the schoolroom night after night till twelve and one o'clock.

The town was a dark, smoky, sulphury place, and the air filled with exhalations and iron filings from the various works. It was a dreadful atmosphere, and everything was black and dirty; the red fires from the furnaces around glared all night long and presented an awful appearance. To come from the pure air and beautiful scenery of Cornwall into such a place as this, was most trying and uncomfortable; but the reward was great. The work was deeply interesting, and scores of men and women of all classes, besides five clergymen, professed to be converted that week.

The devil did not leave us alone; he was very angry, and raised up a great opposition. The rector of the old church, who used to be most benevolent and smiling, suddenly changed, and made it his business to call on the curate in charge of the church, to tell him that he was quite sure that his friend the vicar (who was away at the time in ill health) would never have sanctioned this excitement. The curate said that the Bishop had bid him invite Mr. Haslam, and that he had done so, not knowing anything further about me or my work. The rector went off to write to the Bishop forthwith, and in the meantime ordered bills to be posted all over the town, warning people against "the Cornish fanaticism at St. James's," which, of course, had the effect of drawing out a greater concourse of people.

What with excessive work and bad air, by Friday evening I was quite exhausted. I came out of the pulpit to the vestry, and remembering that Cornish miners, in order to recover themselves after climbing ladders, often found it necessary to lie down flat on the ground, I thought I would try the same plan for a few moments while the people were going out to the schoolroom. I did so; and while I was in this position a clergyman came in and asked me if I was ill. "No," I said, "I am only resting for a short time."

"Very well," he said, "rest on; but listen to me. The Bishop has sent me here to see and hear you, and this is my report to his lordship." Opening out a paper he held in his hand, he read: "St. James's crammed to excess with a most orderly and devotional congregation; their attention to the sermon marked and riveted; sermon from St. Luke xv, verse 2, 'This Man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.' The exposition of chapter most vivid and instructive; never heard better, or so good; the application fervent and pointed; altogether, most edifying service."

"There, that is my report, so you need not be afraid of anything you hear. I will tell the Bishop all about it. Thank you very much for what I have heard. God bless you. Good-night!"

"Oh," I said, springing up from the ground, "do not go yet! the best part is to come. You have only seen me let down the nets; come now and see them pulled up." "What is that?" he said, "Where am I to come?" "To the schoolroom," I replied, divesting myself of my gown and bands, and putting on my coat with all haste. "Come with me!"

He seemed a little afraid, and asked many questions. When we reached the place we could scarcely get in, and the noise certainly was tremendous.

"What is all this confusion about?" he asked. "I think I had better not go in to-night."

"Oh, come in, come in!" I said; "do not fear." But somehow he slipped off in the dark, and I did not see him again. When I entered, almost the first thing I noticed was the two curates of the parish church, taking notes. However, I did not heed them, or ask to see what they had written; for I would always rather have real work, though with a noise, than orderly, respectable stillness, and spiritual death.

On Saturday I rested, but was very unwell all day, and did not know how I should be able to work on Sunday. When the morning arrived, my strength and voice were gone; it was impossible to preach. The people met together and had a prayer meeting before the service, asking the Lord to restore me. The curate was so much cheered, that he came to me and said, "If you only get up and try, we feel sure you will be able to preach." I got up, but had to go to bed again, for I was very ill.

Just before eleven o'clock a visitor arrived, a very queer-looking little man, in a black suit of Quaker cut, and a college cap without a tassel, with the corners of the square board rounded off. Standing by my bed-side in this costume, he said that he was a convert of Mr. Aitken's, and had come all the way from Birmingham to hear me. "Moreover," he said, "I am a herbal doctor. Please let me feel your pulse."

He did so, and looking grave, sounded my lungs, put his ear to my chest and then asked, "What is the matter with your left lung?"

I replied, "I don't know. Three doctors told me, more than fourteen years ago, that it was all gone." "Well," he said, "you stay quietly in bed till I come again at half-past eleven."

When he returned, he bade me get up and dress, and then gave me a cupful of something very hot with cayenne, at the same time telling me that I should be quite strong enough to preach by twelve o'clock.

So I was. I preached that morning, and again in the afternoon; after that I went to bed till six o'clock, when I took another dose, and in the strength of it preached a long, loud sermon to a crowded congregation; after which I attended the after-meeting, and was there till twelve o'clock at night. I then set off to the station, accompanied by at least two hundred people, and left by the one o'clock train for Birmingham, to the house of my new friend the herbal doctor. He nursed me like a mother, and let me go on my way home to Cornwall the next day.

I never heard any more of the rector of the parish, or of the Bishop, but was frequently cheered by letters saying that the work thus begun was going on week after week in the same place. Some years after, when I was passing, I stopped there for a few days, and gave them "a lift," as they called it; and I then saw with half a glance that they had become practised workers—that both clergymen and people were fitted to missionize the whole country side.

One's great object in this mission work is not only to save souls, but to encourage believers to do their part; that so the effect of a mission may be continued and extended. God has a twofold blessing for us. He says "I will bless thee and make thee a blessing;" and it is well to remember that the benefits we receive are not so much to be kept for self, as to be imparted and transmitted to others, even as they were transmitted to us.



CHAPTER 24

Sanctification.

Then I returned from the far-off mission in Staffordshire, whether from over fatigue or other causes, I was much depressed in mind as well as body, and quite out of heart with the Church of England. It is true I found the converted people in Staffordshire were not so leavened with Dissent as in Cornwall, and that there was some attachment to the Church; but still I could see that Churchmen there, as elsewhere, distrusted spirituality, and preferred to work on their own ecclesiastical or sacramental lines; they chose to draw water to quench their thirst, rather than to ask, and receive (directly from Christ) the living water.

If a bishop accidentally invited me, of if a clergyman cordially did so, they were marked exceptions. I felt myself to be obnoxious to the majority of my clerical brethren who professed to represent the Church; but somehow, I was convinced that, as a converted clergyman, I represented the Church of England more truly than they, and that the principles of the Reformation were the principles I was working upon. This was trial from outside, which, however trying to flesh and blood, is by no means so bad as misgiving from within.

I was discouraged also about the work in which I had been engaged; for there was evidently an imperfection about it. I observed that some people over whom I rejoiced as converted, went back to their former worldliness, which perplexed and troubled me more than I can describe. I knew from my own experience that conversion was necessary to salvation and a new life; but when people professed to be saved, and did not live a new life, I was sure there was something wrong. My dear friend, Mr. Aitken, said, "My brother, this work is the Lord's; you must go to Him and ask what is wrong. Lie on your face before Him till He shows you His will about the matter!"

This I did; for, shutting myself up in the church, I cried to the Lord till I felt that an answer would come in due time. Soon after, I was led to preach from the text, "Through this Man is preached unto you the forgiveness of sins; and by Him all that believe are justified from all things" (Acts 13:38, 39). This opened my eyes to see that the proclamation was twofold-that through Christ Jesus, pardon was offered to any and every sinner as such, and moreover, that by the same Christ Jesus, every believer—that is, every one who had received the forgiveness of his sins—was justified from all things.

Those who know how old familiar texts flash upon the mind with new meaning, will understand my surprise. God was speaking to me in answer to my inquiry. I had been preaching forgiveness and salvation through the blood-shedding and death of Christ; and confining myself to this, as if salvation were all. I now saw that I had not preached about Justification to believers, as fully as I had dwelt on the subject of pardon to sinners; indeed, that I had preached to believers the same Gospel which I preached to them before they were converted; that is, that Christ died for their sins, but not the "yea rather, that is risen again." No wonder they did not stand, if their standing-place before God their Father was not simply and plainly put before them. Believers having been brought from death unto life, from the cross to the resurrection-side of Christ's grave, should be led to the Throne of Grace, where Christ sits at the right hand of God, making intercession for them. Once enlightened on the subject, it was easy to see that this truth was set forth all through the Bible.

For instance, when the prodigal son received pardon, immediately his father called the servants and said unto them, "Bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet." Here, besides pardon, is standing—union—strength; and over and beyond these, the feast of rejoicing.

When the children of Israel were brought out of Egypt, it was not that they should escape from bondage only, but that they should be led, and even carried, by God through the wilderness. Moses illustrated this in a simple yet comprehensive figure, when he wrote, "As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings: so the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him" (Deut. 32:11, 12).

The thousands who perished in the wilderness were persons of whom it may be said that they professed to come up out of Egypt, and did so in act; but God, who looks upon the heart, saw that they were still lingering in that place; for when they were in trouble, they said, "Would God that we had died in the land of Egypt! or would God we had died in the wilderness! Let us make a captain, and let us return into Egypt" (Num. 14:2-4).

This is one secret of the "going back" which I have noticed. People came out as converted, whose hearts were still entangled in the things of this world, or in some besetments with which they were fettered. Those who are really converted should come out, as Caleb and Joshua did. They left Egypt behind them altogether, and finally, in their trials and troubles in the wilderness, they looked for deliverance, not in going back, but in going forward, assured that if lions were before, there were dragons behind.

Another lesson which we may learn from these two, is, that they compared difficulties and giants, not with themselves, but with the Lord. It was true that they were not able to conquer their enemies or take their cities, but, as they said, "the Lord is able to give us the victory." In this I saw how Joshua trusted God, also how God wrought a great deliverance.

I urged the people to consider that we were not created and redeemed to be saved, but saved to glorify God in our lives; but I grieve to say, this teaching did not meet with the acceptance I hoped for. I wondered at their slowness of heart to believe in the "risen" Christ, and was sure that this was reason enough for their instability; and I felt that there would be nothing else while they continued to receive only a part of the Gospel instead of the whole.

One thing leads to another. While I was thus making discoveries, my attention was drawn to a hymn which spoke of "Jordan's stream," and "death's cold flood," as if they were the same thing. Now, I had always regarded Jordan as death; but the question in my mind was—What is all that fighting and conquering in the land of Canaan, if Canaan represents heaven? I observed, moreover, that the Israelites were on the defensive in the wilderness, and on the aggressive on the other side of Jordan; that they were led by the cloud on the one, and by a living Person on the other; that they were daily sustained with manna, as children, on the one side, and ate the old corn of the land, as men of Israel, on the other, besides sowing and reaping for themselves. These striking' marks of contrast excited much inquiry, and not obtaining, with sufficient definiteness, the satisfaction I sought, I went to the Lord about this, as before. I confessed my shortcomings, and the defectiveness of my teaching, and pleaded earnestly, "Lord, what wouldst Thou have me to do? What I know not, teach Thou me!"

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

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

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

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

I replied, "Do I know it now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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