I went again and again to see how they were going on; but the people were too absorbed to heed my presence; and those who were then seeking mercy were strangers to me, and had not been present at the service on the previous Saturday.
CHAPTER 15
Drawing-Room Meetings, 1852-53.
From that time I did not confine myself so much to my own church, but frequently went out to preach in other places, as opportunities occurred; and these were, for the most part, brought about by remarkable and unsought-for incidents.
One Sunday a lady and gentleman came to my church from one of the neighbouring towns; they were professors of religion, and members of some Dissenting body. My sermon that evening was upon wheat and chaff—the former was to be gathered into the garner, the latter burned with fire unquenchable. I said that we were all either one or the other—to be gathered or burned. They went away very angry, and complained one to another of my want of charity; they also remarked that I took good care to let the people know that I was not amongst the chaff which was to be burned. The arrows of the Lord had evidently found them, and had pierced the joints in their harness. They could not sleep all night for anger and distress. In the morning the gentleman rose early, and before breakfast had his horse out, and galloped over eight miles to see me. He came with the intention of finding fault, but instead of this he burst into tears, and told me that he was the greatest of sinners.
He was in sore distress, which increased all the more as he gave vent to his feelings. I could not help rejoicing, and told him that God had wounded him, but that He only wounds to heal, and kills to make alive.
"Ah," he said, "that is the first thought of comfort I have had; it is like balm to my soul."
We knelt down and prayed; then I had the privilege of leading him to
Christ, and we praised God together.
I gave him some breakfast, and after that rode back with him to see his wife, whom he had left in the morning in great trouble of mind. We found her up, and rejoicing. It was most touching to witness the mutual surprise and joy of these two loving ones, when they discovered that they were now united in the Lord.
She told us, that after her husband's departure she was in such terrible trouble that she got up to pray, and that while she was on her knees she saw a vision on the bed-cover. Before her was printed, in large visible letters, "Thy sins be forgiven thee;" she could scarcely believe her eyes, but with her own finger she traced the letters, and was sure they were there. Taking them as a message from Christ, she rose and thanked Him, and now felt quite sure she was saved. I could not help telling her not to believe in her eyes or her visions, but in Jesus, and the fact that He had died for her. Having thanked God together, they next began to think of their servants; so we sent for them, and both master and mistress told them what the Lord had done for their souls; and while we were praying, they all three cried aloud for mercy, and found peace.
This was the commencement of a good work in that town by drawing-room meetings, and many were gathered to the Lord. Amongst the number was the mayor of the town, who in his turn wished to have a meeting at his house. As soon as I was able to fix the day, he invited his friends, but on finding that so many more desired to come than he could accommodate, he announced that the meeting would be held at the Town Hall. Great interest was excited, and it was soon evident that even this building would not be large enough, so it ended in the Temperance Hall being selected. The vicar hearing about it, wrote to protest, and asked me to call on him before I went to the place of meeting. He said it was bad enough for me to come to his parish to private houses, but to come to a public room, and that a large one, was quite out of the question.
I endeavoured to show him that the lecture or address I had come to give was not an official or ministerial act; but he would not see that. I also suggested that there was no law against it. He, begging my pardon, said "The 'Conventicle Act' had not been repealed yet, and that no one could lawfully hold a meeting of more than twenty persons."
"But surely," I replied, "that is virtually repealed by the 'Toleration Act.' A clergyman ought not to be in greater bondage in England than a layman, or more restricted. Anybody else can come and preach the Gospel in your parish, and you cannot hinder it. Do not hinder me. It will do you no harm."
He said, "I cannot conscientiously allow it. It is against the Canons."
"Which Canon is it against?" I asked.
He took down a book and showed it me, but casting my eyes on the one before, and another which followed, I found that we neither of us observed the one or the other. Why, then, be so zealous about this? "Besides," I said, "you are not responsible; you have not asked me, nor have I asked your consent. Your conscience need not be troubled about the matter."
"But," he said, impatiently, "I am determined that you shall not preach in this parish. I will inform the Bishop."
I replied, that "the Bishop had not any jurisdiction in this case; there is no law on the subject. The Conventicle Act only refers to worship, not to service or preaching."
He said, that he "could see no difference whatever between worship and service."
"But," I said, "I am sure the Bishop knows, and will acknowledge, the great difference between these two."
Then, changing his tone, he said, "Now, come, there's a good fellow, don't preach at the Town Hall."
"My dear man," I answered, "I am not a 'good fellow' at all I cannot give it up."
"Then," he said, "at least please to defer your address for a week, till we can get the Bishop's decision."
He asked so kindly and earnestly, and made such a point of it, that I consented to wait for the Bishop's answer, and defer the preaching for a week. He was very pleased, and said that I was indeed a 'good fellow', but the praise I got from him barely satisfied my conscience, and I was ashamed to meet my friends. I had not gone far before my courage failed; so, going back, I said that "I must withdraw my consent to defer the meeting. I will take the consequences and responsibilities, and go on."
"No, no." cried the vicar, "I will arrange for the Postponement of your meeting. Look here, I have written out a notice for the crier; he shall go round the town at once, and tell the people that the meeting is unavoidably deferred for a week."
I was very reluctantly persuaded to yield, and then went to my friend and told him what I had done. He was very much vexed with me, and said, "Then we must go at once and tell the mayor before he hears the crier." We did so, and found that this personage was disappointed too, and advised me to go away out of sight of the people. Accordingly, my friend and I went to a house which commanded a good view of the town and principal streets, from whence we could see the people assembling and dispersing. A large gang of them stood opposite my friend's house, and asked if I would not preach to them in the open air; and when they ascertained that the vicar had hindered the preaching, they were much exasperated.
In the evening I went back to my own parish, and had the usual service, which I found very refreshing after so much bickering about technicalities.
The Bishop's letter arrived in due time. In it his lordship said, that he "always had entertained a great esteem for me and my obedience to authority, and highly commended me for postponing or giving up my service at the above town." As he did not say a single word of prohibition, I immediately wrote to the mayor to expect me on the following Tuesday, "For the Bishop had not forbidden me," and I also wrote to the vicar to the same effect. Large bills, with large letters on them, announced that "the Rev. William Haslam will positively preach in the Temperance Hall at three o'clock on Tuesday next."
The churchwardens of the parish were requested to attend the meeting, and protest, on behalf of the vicar, and also to present the archdeacon's monition. They stood beside me all the time, and after the service was concluded they showed me the archidiaconal instrument, with a great seal appended to it. They said that they "dared not stop that preaching," and so they took their monition back.
This gave rise to a long correspondence in the newspapers, some taking part on my side, and some against me. Thus the question was ventilated, and finally concluded, by a letter from some one, who said, "The Bishop of Exeter is one of the greatest ecclesiastical lawyers we have, and if he cannot stop Mr. Haslam, the question is settled; for be sure his lordship has all the will to stop this preaching, and would do so if he had the power."
From that time I never hesitated to preach the Gospel in any parish or diocese where I was invited. So few of the clergy asked me, that I was obliged to go out in spite of them, or, at any rate, without asking their consent, and in consequence of this, I am afraid I became obnoxious to many of my clerical brethren. Since then things are much changed. The Earl of Shaftesbury has succeeded in getting an Act passed through both Houses of Parliament, to settle the question about such services. Now any clergyman may preach in Exeter Hall, or any other public non-ecclesiastical building, without consulting the vicar of the parish. Besides this, a general disposition has arisen amongst the clergy, from one end of the land to the other, to have "missions," so that there is no need to work independently of clergymen, but with them, and very cheering it is to be thus employed. It was not pleasant to witness the scowl and the frown, nor to get the cold shoulder. Thank God, times are changed now; but I must needs tell of some of the scenes I was in, and the opposition I had to encounter, during the years that are gone by.
CHAPTER 16
Opposition, 1853.
I have been telling hitherto of blessing and prosperity in the Lord's work. Many more cases might have been mentioned, and many other things of not less moment and interest; but enough has been said, I hope, to show the character of the work, and give some idea of the amount of blessing which attended it. But it must not be supposed that the offence of the cross had ceased, or that the enmity of the carnal mind was never stirred; indeed, I always doubt the reality of a work which moves on without opposition. On the day of Pentecost, when the Holy Ghost was first given, while believers were rejoicing, and sinners were pricked to the heart, and some mocked, there arose the opposition of others, who resisted the influence of the Spirit; and being "cut to the heart," they gnashed with their teeth, and went forward in furious contention against the Lord's work. So it was with us.
The opposition ran very high, but I do not think it was of malice or hatred, but rather "righteous indignation." The instigators of it were serious and earnest persons, who verily thought they were doing right. They tried first to save me from what they considered was my infatuation; and failing that, did all they could to save others from my bad influence. "I bear them record, that they had a zeal for God, but not according to knowledge." It was just such a zeal as I had before I was converted; therefore my heart's desire was drawn out towards them, and I made continual efforts to win them.
One dear friend of old time said he felt "so hurt" because I was changed, and often wondered why "God did not strike me dead for all the harm I had done to the Church." Another said that he "should not be surprised if the very ground opened and swallowed me up for my fraternizing with schismatics. The sin of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram was nothing to mine." At the Clerical Meeting, which I attended notwithstanding all this stir against me, I was beset on every side with something more than loving reproaches; for evidently my old friends were very much grieved, and could not forgive me for what they considered the betrayal of Church principles.
A special meeting or synod of the clergy was convened by the Rural Dean, to take into consideration among other things, my defection, and to decide what public notice should be taken on the subject of this great scandal. I also attended this meeting, and found my brethren in a very angry and excited state. One after another got up and made grievous charges against me, about the proceedings in my church and parish. The burden of their distress, however, seemed to be noise and excitement.
They said that "There was brawling in my church, and howling in my schoolroom, women fainting and men shouting in a most fanatical manner. They had not witnessed these scenes themselves, but they were credibly informed of them. Moreover, they asserted, on good authority, that I preached a very different doctrine to that which was authorized by the Church. I had declared that there was no salvation by the Church and Sacraments, but by simple faith in Christ; that any man—it did not matter what his previous life had been—if he only came to my preaching, and did as I told him, would be saved." These, and many other such charges, were made and supported by shouts of "Hear! hear!" and cries of "Shame!" The Rural Dean said he was glad Mr. Haslam was present to answer for himself; he had observed that I had sat very quietly to hear others; and he now hoped that a patient hearing would be given to me.
I rose, and said I was very thankful to be there, and to have this opportunity of testifying before them all that the Lord had converted my soul!
There was a little interruption here, but after a time I was permitted to go on. I said that before I was converted, I was even more zealous than any of them against this change, and greatly prejudiced against it. I actually flogged a big boy in my school for going to a chapel and professing to be converted; this I did before all the children, and he promised that he would "never be converted any more." I could, therefore, well understand their present feelings, and said that I was not angry with them, but rather prayed that they might, in their turn, be enabled to see these things as I now saw them, and be saved as I was.
Upon this, there arose a great disturbance. The Rural Dean gave me credit for candour, and said he thought I meant well, but that I implied too much against my brethren; however, he had said before, and would repeat it, that I had listened quietly' to what others had said, and that now I was entitled to a patient hearing a little longer.
But this could not be, for I was stopped at every Fresh statement I made, and had so many questions put to me, that I begged for only one at a time. I was enabled to stand my ground calmly, and endeavoured to answer the charges in order as they were brought out. To all appearances, I had to stand quite alone in that tumultuous party. We had met at twelve o'clock, and after four hours were still in the heat of conflict.
At last, to conclude this extraordinary meeting, one of the Clergy rose and said that he felt it was his painful yet necessary duty to propose that "a vote of censure be passed on Mr. Haslam." It was not seconded, and so fell to the ground. Whereupon, another rose '"to record a protest against revival meetings, as contrary to the usage of the Church." This also failed; and as no one else had anything to say, the conclave of divines broke up. What they would have said or done, if I had not attended to be torn to pieces by them, I know not; all I can say is, that they separated without eating me up. Some of them came to me afterwards and seemed pleased that I had stood my ground so good-naturedly, and thought that I had had a great badgering.
The opposition did not stop there—sermons were preached in several of the neighbouring churches, and people earnestly warned against attending certain services, and told not to countenance them by their presence. The newspapers also took up the matter, and public report was not behind in its usual exaggeration.
I give here an extract from a Letter I thought it necessary to write at this time, on "RELIGIOUS EXCITEMENT":
"My Dear Sir,—I have been seriously considering, for some time, the necessity of making a public statement respecting the work of God in this place; with a view partly of drawing attention to an all-important, though very neglected subject; and partly with a view of giving some definite and authoritative form to the various and varied reports which are in circulation. It is vain to pretend to know nothing about them, and it is equally vain to suppose that reports about our proceedings are likely to lose less by repetition, than those on other subjects of less moment.
"I embrace, therefore, the opportunity which your Sermon on RELIGIOUS
EXCITEMENT offers, to make a statement.
"I do remonstrate against your publishing to the world a sermon avowedly against 'proceedings connected with a neighbouring church;' and that instead of encouragement, counsel, and cooperation in what I know is the work of God, I receive this public rebuke. I make this remonstrance the more earnestly, because several of the opinions you have expressed, are not, as I believe, consistent with the teaching of our Church; and lastly, I venture to be the remonstrant, because I am the person, and mine the church, which are the objects of your animadversions.
"You hold deservedly a high position among us in respect of rank and esteem for your piety and learning; but at the hazard of incurring the imputation of arrogance, I cannot, I must not, and I will not be unfaithful to the light in which I walk, by the grace of God; and therefore I do simply and plainly protest, in the first place, against the supposition that Excitement is a means which I am using, or an end I have in view; secondly, against the supposition that conversion is a gradual work, which is to be worked out by Sacraments and Means of Grace; and thirdly, against a teaching which supposes and actually declares that a Person may believe, may be pardoned, may be cleansed from sin, yet not know it."
"In the sense in which you censure Religious Excitement, namely, as a means to 'force, as it were, the Spirit of the Lord,' and 'for the purpose of strongly working on the animal feelings, etc.,' it may be justly censurable. Those who make excitement the end and object of their endeavours in a religious movement, must soon find the emptiness of it; they throw dust into their own eyes, and will ever verify your words that 'excitement lifts up for a moment and then lets fall again,' and that 'like dram-drinking, it leaves those that indulge in it weaker than before.'
"Those who really are engaged in the work of God, and especially conversion work, must meet with 'excitement.' It is impossible for a sinner, under connection of sin, to remain in a calm imperturbable state: or when the despairing sinner comes to a knowledge of that Saviour who made Atonement for him, to help being excited with joy. Noble or peasant, gentle or uneducated, I am sure there will be excitement, and overflowing joy and gladness.
"A man who never felt himself a lost sinner, and never knew his need of the Saviour, may reason gravely of the impropriety of 'excitement,' and the man who has never experienced the liberty of deliverance from the 'horrible pit, and the mire and clay,' may seem to be wise on the subject of Christian joy; but he knows it not. The outburst of joy in the newly born child of God, is as undiscriminating as the joyous mirth of children. But it becomes more subdued as the child grows on to 'the conquering young man,' and more chastened still when the 'young man' attains to that state which St. John terms 'father.' This I have no doubt is the kind of Christian joy you expect to see, and without which you are not satisfied.* But, dear friend, remember the perfect Temple was not built in one, but three days.
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* "I write unto you, little children, because your sins are forgiven you for His name's sake. I write unto you, fathers, because ye have known Him that is from the beginning. I write unto you, young men, because ye have overcome the Wicked One."—1 John 2:12, 13. ________________________________________
"We are at foundation work; and you rebuke us for an unfinished temple! Your rebuke is not undeserved in one sense: we ought to have attained to great advancements, and to have begun long ago; but God has had patience with us. In this beginning' there seems to be confusion to superficial observers, and there must be 'excitement;' but this, as I said, is not the end in view, or the means we use. It is not long since I could reason a against 'excitement,' and thought as many do now, that in connection With religion it is irreverent, and unbecoming.
"Oh, what a snare is this unfeeling 'propriety!' It is really a dislike of being aroused from sleep; a fearful hugging of oneself into apathetic security, and lying down in the arms of the Wicked One for a fatal slumber. Oh that I could 'excite' such persons! that I could arouse them! that by any means I could awaken these souls from the sleep of death! I would glory in the censure and rejoice in the blame. Would that I could reach your heart and the hearts of many of my other brethren; that we might unite together and raise a louder call! There should be a more excited blast, as from a trumpet, to stir the masses of those who come duly and regularly 'to hear us every Sunday,' a louder, stronger, and more urgent and thrilling cry, Repent! Repent! We want more fearless plain speaking, more personal appeal. It is not refined to preach of the grave and death, judgment and hell,—it is 'ranting:' but nevertheless let us 'rant;' let us be faithful; let us tell the sinner that he must die; and that he will die in his sins and perish for ever, except he repent and be converted that his sins may be blotted out. Let us tell him that he 'is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the Name of the only-begotten Son of God' (John 3:18): that 'the wrath of God abideth on him' (verse 35). Instead of arguments against 'excitement,' let us have a united cry against sin and frivolity wherever it is. There is excitement against 'excitement' now; let there be excitement, if you will, against indifference, and neglect of religion."
Many of the proceedings in our parish were, I confess, more tumultuous than I could justify, more noisy and exciting than I thought needful; but I could not control the people. If they had been educated to ideas of propriety and self-control, the impulse of Divine power, which really then filled them, might have found expression in a more quiet and orderly manner. To hinder their rejoicings therefore, though they were considered so obnoxious, would have been to withstand the Spirit of God. As the people had not been taught better, I could not interfere with them; I would rather bear the obloquy of men.
For instance, one day, by way of change, I had a meeting for the Bible Society, and invited some of the clergy who sympathized with its object. They attended, and others came out of curiosity "to see these revival people." We had a large gathering, and everything began smoothly. 'My Scripture-reader, who was naturally a most excitable and noisy man, tried to do his best before the clergy; he spoke of the sweet words which they had heard from the reverend speakers; it was charming, he said, to hear of a good cause supported in such "mellifluous accents," and so forth. He got a little wild towards the end, but on the whole he was to be praised for his kind efforts to give a quiet tone to the meeting'. By this time, our friend "Billy Bray" had appeared on the scene, and gave us chapter and verse from one end of the Bible to the other, on the subject of "dancing for joy." He propounded his theory, that if a man did not praise God, he would not rise in the resurrection; if he only praised God with his mouth, he would rise like those things carved on the tombstones, with swelling cheeks and wings; if he clapped his hands (suiting his actions to the words) he would have a pair of hands as well at the resurrection; and if he danced with his feet, he would rise complete. He hoped to rise like that, to sing, to clap his hands, dance, and jump too. The worst of jumping in this world, he said, was that he had to come down again, but even in heaven he supposed the higher he danced and jumped, the higher he would be; walking in heaven, to his mind, was praising God, one foot said "Glory," and the other "Hallelujah."
Under Billy's original theories the people were warming up, and becoming a little responsive, and "Billy" himself was getting excited. In reference to some remarks which had been made by a previous speaker about Samson, he said that he felt as happy and strong as Samson; then suddenly he put his arms round me, as I was standing gesticulating and making signs to the people to be still, and taking me up as he had done once before, he carried me down the schoolroom, crying out, "Here go the postes! Glory! hallelujah!" It was useless to resist, for he held me with an iron grasp; so I remained still, hoping at every step that he would put me down. I suppose he imagined himself to be Samson carrying off the gates of Gaza. 'The people got what they called "happy," and shouted and praised God most vociferously. I gave out a hymn, but the joy of the Cornish people could not be restrained within the bounds of a tune, or form of words. Some of them became very excited and unmanageable; only those who have witnessed such scenes can understand what I mean. The power of God was great, though the demonstrations were very human. My visitors trembled with fear, and made their escape as precipitately as they possibly could. To those who are not in the power of the Spirit such rejoicings are unintelligible; lookers-on are stumbled or offended because they only see and feel the human manifestation, and not the Divine power; they are like people who get all the smoke, and none of the warmth of the fire.
I made up my mind for the worst, for we had a reporter there, and some others who were only too ready to make the most of such a scene. Nevertheless I would rather have the same thing over and over again, than have the most stately and orderly ceremonials conjoined with spiritual death. These things, with all their proprieties, are very chilling to living souls, and all the more hurtful because dead souls are satisfied by them instead of being disturbed.
Dear Mr. Aitken was very angry with us, when he heard the things which were reported; and, like a good spiritual father, he came over to teach us better. He preached one of his own strong sermons, on the difference between emotion and principle, and after beating us down very hard, his dear heart relented, and he tried to cheer and lift us up. This last is always an easy thing to do in Cornwall. The people soon responded to his efforts, and began to praise God; and then he took fire, and praised too. Mutually exciting and being excited, his powerful voice could be heard above the din of hundreds of shouting voices. The dear man was happy in his soul, and so was I, and we did not care a halfpenny for the outside world, newspapers, or anything else.
We had obloquy with opposition; and even to my personal friends I could not give satisfactory explanations of these things. One suggested that I should read a paper at the next Clerical Meeting, and give a statement in exposition of my views and practices. This I consented to do, and Mr. Aitken kindly helped me to write it. On the appointed day I undertook to read it, on condition that no one interrupted me till I had finished. It was a hard task for them to sit still, but they managed to do so; and at the end, burst out upon me in a volley of censure and disapprobation. I was obliged to tell them that they were not converted, and therefore could not understand these things.
I wrote a pamphlet to show that the Church of England's teaching was based on conversion, and not on baptism; and that the Reformation was to the Church of England what Conversion was to the individual reformers. Taking my own change as an illustration, I said, that I used to rest on Baptism and the Church, and that now I was standing on the Rock, Christ Jesus. Once I worked for life, and now I worked from life; that is, because I possessed it. I declared that this was the characteristic difference between the Church of England as it is, and as it was when connected with the Church of Rome. This pamphlet would not satisfy them. I then wrote and published a letter to the Archdeacon, in which, in my young zeal, I charged the clergy with being unconverted, and doing the devil's work of hindering the salvation of souls, and that they seemed to stand on their parish boundaries and say, "This is my parish, and you shall not come here to disturb the sleep of death which now reigns." This poured no oil upon the waters.
I then wrote another pamphlet upon which I spent much time, thought, and prayer. I took the manuscript and read it to Mr. Aitken. He walked up and down in his large room, while I was reading, and ejaculated, as only he could, "Bless God! Glory be to God!" When I finished, I said, "Shall I print it?"
He said, "It is worth printing, but it will do no good. It is like a little doggie barking at a dead elephant. We shall never convert the. Church as a body: we must try and get at individuals. I am quite convinced we shall not succeed unless we work in this, way."
CHAPTER 17
Individual Cases, 1853.
An Archbishop of Canterbury, in old times, contrasted public preaching with personal dealing in this way: When we preach, it is like dashing water from a bucket upon so many vessels which are arranged before us-some drops fall into one, and some into another, while others remain empty; but when we speak to individuals, it is like pouring water into the neck of a vessel.
I gave up writing and printing pamphlets, and went on as quietly as I could with my own work, looking out for individual cases as they presented themselves in the providence of God. In this way, without fermenting controversy or keeping up public excitement, I was able more effectually to impart my meaning, than by printed statements, which I found were misunderstood or distorted; and what is more, I was able to apply the truth with an individual "Have you?" It would take more space than I can afford to tell of the souls which were gained in this way. I will give here only a few instances, which are interesting, and which will sustain the thread of my narrative. The first was in the case of one who began an argument on Baptismal Grace. I asked him what it was. "I know what converting or saving' grace is; but what is this?" He did not say more, than that in Baptism he was made a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.
"But," I asked, "suppose you have not repented and believed, what then?" Receiving no answer, I continued, "Then, nothing; but the responsibility and the name."
A few days afterwards he came to me, saying that I had made him quite miserable, and asked me whether I meant to deny the necessity of baptism. I said, "Certainly not, but the condition of faith and repentance must be fulfilled. Whatever Baptismal Regeneration may be, Spiritual Regeneration is the work of the Spirit in those who believe in Christ Jesus." After a long talk and prayer, he appeared to understand that a conscious change should be wrought in him, and a spiritual faculty imparted, by which he could "see the kingdom of God." He remained for the evening service and meeting in the schoolroom and was much impressed with what he witnessed. Instead of going away, he stayed with me till after midnight, when he found peace with God (as he said) in the church where we had been praying. Then he ordered his horse and rode home; but before he set out, he exacted a promise from me that I would not mention his conversion to any one. I consented to this, on the condition that he announce the change which had been wrought in him, from his pulpit on the following Sunday.
A few days afterwards my friend came to me in a great rage, and charged me with announcing his conversion all over the town. I told him that I was not sure enough of it myself to say anything about it, and that I had not spoken to a single person on the subject. Still he seemed to doubt me, for he said his brother had been with him, and had told him that it was known all over the town that he had been to Baldhu, and that he was converted. Upon inquiry, I found out that my servant, who sat up till after mid-night to get his horse, had overheard our conversation, and was the offending party.
I am always afraid of persons who are ashamed to acknowledge their conversion. My friend, I am sorry to say, made no announcement, but went on preaching as if he had always been the same, and consequently never came out to be of any use or help in the work. His testimony was indistinct also, and without any power. He became a very popular preacher afterwards, which was his great ambition, for he cared more for a large congregation than for Wining Souls.
Soon after this, I fell across another of my old friends in the street. He tried to avoid me, but I went up and shook hands with him. At first he would not look at me, and said he was afraid of me because I had changed my views. I assured him that I had not changed anything, but that I had myself been changed. As he was listening, I went on to tell him that I had long tried to make myself good enough for God's acceptance, but finding that Christ would not receive reformed characters, I came to Him as a poor lost sinner, and He saved me. Seeing that he continued attentive, I was proceeding to make my meaning plainer, when he turned round, and looking sternly at me, said, "If I understand you, I am to cry for mercy as 'a common sinner.'"
"Yes," I replied, being very pleased to find that he had understood me so well.
"Then." he said, "I will do no such thing." With this, he turned away and departed. When he saw that I was following him, he said, "I desire you will not speak to me any more. I do not agree with you."
One morning, a short time after, I was praying and meditating in the church, when it came to my mind forcibly that I must go to this man's parish. I rose from my knees forthwith, saying to myself that I would go; but immediately the thought came to me, "This suggestion is not from God, for He must know that my horse has lost two shoes, and could not go all that distance." However, I returned home, and went to the stable to inquire, when, to my surprise, I found that my man had taken the horse out very early in the morning, and had got him properly shod. "He is all right for a long journey, master," he said, "if you want to go."
"Well," I said, "put on the saddle, and be ready in half-an-hour." I went in to prepare, and started in due time. On the way I was thinking what I would say, and how I would begin the conversation, for as yet I did not know the particular message I was to take.
When I arrived at my friend's gate, I saw the marks of his horse's feet, as if he had just gone out. However, I rode up to the front door, and rang the bell. His wife appeared, and said that her husband had gone out, and would not be back before six o'clock; she added, "You look disappointed"; and so I was, for I thought the Lord had sent me with some message to him. The lady kindly asked me to put up my horse, saying, "Perhaps he may return sooner; you had better rest a little." I thanked her, and doing so, went in.
As soon as we were seated, the lady said, "I have been wishing to see you for a long time; we have started more than once to visit you, when my husband's courage has failed him, and we have returned. He says that he loves you still; but, somehow, he is very much afraid of you."
Then she went on to tell me that when they were removing from their late parish to where they now were, having sent all their furniture on, they were driving in their own carriage; and that coming along ever a bleak and desolate moor, the horse took fright at something, they knew not what, and ran away. Because it could not get along fast enough from its imaginary object of fear, it began to kick, and breaking the carriage in pieces, made its escape, leaving her and her husband on the ground. He was not much hurt, and soon rose, and came to help her. She was severely bruised, and her leg was broken besides. He managed to drag her gently to the side of the road, where there was a little bank, and, colleting some of the broken pieces of the carriage, he placed them round her for protection, and hurried off in order to get assistance. He had to go two miles and was absent nearly three hours. During that time she suffered great pain, but it came to her mind all at once that her sins were pardoned; she was exceedingly happy, and could not help thanking and praising God. In this state her husband found her when he returned, and on hearing her talk, became very unhappy, because he thought that besides her leg, her head was broken too; and that she was going out of her mind. She assured him over and over again that she was wonderfully well, and really happy; but he could not bear to hear her talk like that, and said that he should go mad also, if she did not stop.
During the six weeks she was laid up, he continually brought doctors and clergymen to talk her out of her delusion as he thought it, but without avail. Her happiness continued for several months, and then gradually died away. She asked me, "Can you tell me the meaning of this?" I was deeply interested with her experience, and told her that I had read of a similar one only a few days before. My heart now began to cheer up, for I saw why I had been sent to this place. I at once pointed her to passages of Scripture, where we are told that we have forgiveness of sins through the blood of Jesus, and I put Christ crucified before her as the object of faith. I told her, that as certainly as the blood Jesus had been shed, there was mercy and forgiveness for her. I said, "I believe it, and have forgiveness: and you may have it too; not because you feel happy, but because Jesus died." She did believe, and we rejoiced together.
She exclaimed, "Oh that the Lord would change my husband's heart, and bring you here for a revival!"
"Very well," I said, "let us ask Him," and we did so. I then rode home raising God.
Before leaving, I promised to come again on the following Wednesday. I kept my word, and had an interview with her husband; but it was not encouraging. He said he could not agree to ask for mercy as a sinner, because he had been baptized. Some months afterwards his manservant came to me on horseback at three o'clock in the morning, to say that his master was very bad, and would I come as soon as possible and see him. I asked, "What is the matter?" "Oh, bless the Lord," said the man, "it'll all about his soul! ….That is right" I replied, thanking God; "I will go with you at once," and immediately I saddled my horse, and rode back with him.
I found my friend was under deep conviction, and in the greatest misery; he now thought that he was a most "uncommon sinner," and that there was no mercy for him, there could not be any! After a time he acknowledged the power of God to forgive sin, and declared that he believed in Christ, and I was led to say "he that believeth hath everlasting life." Upon this text he found peace, and we all praised God together.
The Sunday following, he asked the congregation to thank God with him for having saved his soul; and in his sermon told them something of his experience. Subsequently his church became the centre of a work of God, as Mr. Aitken's church and mine were in our respective neighbourhoods.
The power of the Lord overshadowed the place, and there was as usual a simultaneous melting of hearts all over the parish, and a running together of the people to hear the Word, and what is better to obey it. Then followed a true Cornish revival with full manifestations, and Mr. Aitken came to preach. The fire was burning and shining before; but when this mighty man stirred it, it rose to a tremendous height. The excitement of the parson and people was intense, and hundreds of souls were added to the Church, who had been brought from the death of sin into the life of righteousness which all the previous preaching on Baptism and the Lord's Supper had failed to produce.
CHAPTER 18
A Visit to Veryan, 1853.
Next, I will tell of a clergyman who was altogether different to the others I have mentioned. He was one to whom I was much attached, although we were diametrically opposed to one another, especially in my Puseyite days. He was Evangelical; I was High Church; consequently, we fell out more or less, at every meeting, though we never really quarrelled. After my conversion I made sure this friend would sympathize with me; but I found to my disappointment he was in reality more opposed now than before, because I had become, as he called it, "a dissenter." He would scarcely speak to me, and said, he was not so sure of my conversion as I was, that he would give me seven years to prove it, and then pronounce.
I said, "You are an old bachelor, and know nothing about the treatment of babies; we do not put our babies out on the lawn for seven days before we decide whether they are born or not!"
He could not resist joining in the laugh against his inexperience in this respect, although he was not over-pleased. With all his head-knowledge of Gospel truth, he had not seen anything of the work of the Spirit, and moreover, like too many others, could not distinguish between death and grave-clothes. Because I announced some sacramental views after my conversion, he fancied that I must be dead still; whereas these were only the grave-clothes in which I used to be wrapped. We shall speak more of this hereafter.
One day, he came to me and said, "I have been thinking for some time that I should like to come to your church one Sunday, and see your work."
I agreed to this with thanks, as the first sign of sympathy I had found in him, and said, "Shall I go and take your services in exchange?"
"Oh no, certainly not; I wish you to be present in your own church. I will preach in the morning; and in the evening I will be there to see and hear you." We soon fixed upon the day. He came to dinner with us the previous Saturday, but before he would sit down he must needs go into the Church, and adjust the height of the pulpit, and see that all other things were to his taste. He asked me if I would remove the candlesticks from the communion table, and let him preach in a black gown. These were all matters of indifference to me now, so I readily acceded to his wishes. Having completed his arrangements, we spent a very pleasant evening together, talking over the work in the place, and then went to the weekly prayer-meeting; but he took no part. On Sunday morning the service was conducted at his request, in the usual manner, excepting that he stood away in the eastern corner of the north side of the table, "scrootching" away like a Papist, as the people described it. They had been accustomed to see me stand at the western or outside corner of the north side. He was much amused at this criticism.
Then he went into the vestry, having asked for an interlude on the organ before the last verse of the Psalms (for we sang the metrical version in those days), and while this was being played he came sailing out again, and swept up the steps into the pulpit. He gave us an excellent sermon—preached, as the Cornish people say, "to a form," that is with a manuscript before him; though he did not look at it much. He showed it to me afterwards; it certainly was a curious thing, done in cyphers and hieroglyphics of his own; again and again there appeared a figure with two horns and a tail; this, he told me, stood for Satan; there were also many other striking signs. He preached with far more animation than was his wont, and towards the end of his sermon seemed to forget his manuscript altogether, and leaned over the front of the pulpit, gesticulating with his hands, and looking at the people. They got very excited, and followed every sentence with some response, till he became excited also. When he came down from the pulpit, he said that he had never preached with such help before; he had quite enjoyed his own sermon, and that now he thought he understood the secret of what I called being "converted."
He came in the afternoon to the catechising of the children, and expressed himself very pleased with their behaviour, and readiness in answering questions. In the evening, he sat in a part of the church where he could see the congregation, and the preacher, and so make his desired observations. The service was, perhaps, a little more animated than usual, and the sermon may have been the same. After this was over, he went with me into the school-room, where he heard the people pray, and also thank God for the morning sermon. Several souls were brought in that evening.
About ten o'clock at night we returned home, when my friend declared he had never known a day like this in all his ministry, and never heard of such things as he had seen. "Your congregation," he said, "is like the waves of the sea, and mine like a glassy mill-pond. Now I must have you come and preach in my church. I wonder what the effect will be."
I agreed, and we fixed upon the second Sunday, as he wanted a week to announce my coming.
I was quite eager for the time, and when Saturday arrived, I set off, intending to stay for several days. On Sunday morning the church was filled from end to end, the people being on the tip-toe of expectation. Many anxious ones remained after the sermon to be spoken with, about their souls. The church was scarcely cleared, before the men came to ring the bells for the afternoon service. This time, the passages, chancel, pulpit-stairs, and every available corner were crowded, and the congregation certainly did not look like a "mill-pond," but more like "the waves of the sea."
At the close of this service, the people begged for another in the evening. The vicar said, "Oh, that is impossible, for I dine at six o'clock."
"But," I involuntarily added, "do not mind the dinner; I can come, if you like."
He gave me such a look! I continued, "I have had dinner enough for to-day. I can take the service alone, if you are agreeable."
"But we have no lamps for the church. It cannot be."
I was silenced now, and gave up the point; when the churchwarden came forward and said he would be responsible for lighting the church.
The vicar at last consented, on condition that he was allowed to have his dinner in peace. As the time approached, however, he put off that important meal, and joined me in a cup of tea, after which we went together to the third service.
This time it was as much as we could do to get it, and when we did succeed a most striking sight presented itself. The whole church was lighted from the pews. Some of the wealthier people had lamps, but the others had candles, one, two, or more in their respective compartments. From the pulpit it looked more like a market scene than a church congregation. I had liberty in preaching, and the people were greatly moved, some of them greatly agitated-indeed, so much so, that the vicar thought he would not have another service in the church, and accordingly announced that the Monday evening meeting would be held in a building which he named, in a village about two miles off. This was a large barn-like structure, where they cured fish in the season, but at other times it was unoccupied.
The next day happened to be very wet, and, added to this, in the evening it began to blow as well. Notwithstanding this inclemency, when we arrived at the "fish-cellar," as it was called, we found it crammed with people, the women and children occupying the ground, and sitting there on straw, which had been provided for the occasion, the men and boys were sitting on the cross-beams of the roof. The heat in the place was stifling beyond all description, for besides being densely crowded below and above, the wooden shutters were shut, on account of the wind and rain, the people's wet clothes were steaming, and there was a strong smell of stale fish. At first we felt as if it would be impossible to bear it, but after a little time we became used to the disagreeables, and had other things to think about.
I gave out a hymn, and after a short prayer commenced the address, speaking as loud as I could, that all the congregation might hear me. During the sermon, the responses were most vociferous and hearty, and the attention very encouraging. After speaking for about thirty minutes, I observed a tall, fine-looking fisherman, in large high boots, who had come in late. He was standing in the little vacant space before the table, on which were placed two candles and a glass of water. I saw, as the address went on, that though he was very quiet, his breast was heaving with emotion, as if something was passing in his mind. All at once, without a moment's notice, he fell on the ground, and bellowed out a loud prayer for "God's mercy—I want God's mercy!" Besides upsetting the table—candles, water, and all—which went down with a great crash, he fell on one or two women, who screamed, in their fright and consternation, as only women can.
If this had been a preconcerted signal, it could not have been more effectual, for there was instantly a simultaneous as well as an universal outcry. The whole place was filled with a confused din of voices; some were praying, some singing, some shouting, and others exhorting, and that at the top of their voices, in order to be heard. In the midst of this I began to sing a hymn, hoping to restore order, and many joined me; but it only added more sound to the uproar.
The good vicar was overwhelmed with fear and dismay, as well he might be, at this tumultuous scene. It was bad enough to stand and look at the waves of the sea; but when they rose and broke, as it were, on the shore where he was standing, and surrounded him, it was altogether too much. He made for the door, and, waiting there, beckoned me to him. When I came he suddenly opened it, and drew me out, saying, "There will be no peace till you are out of this place." The extreme change from the hot cellar into the cold and pitiless wind and rain was so great, that we fled precipitately to the cottage which stood opposite. Happily, the door was on the latch, and we went in. I felt about in the dark for a chair, but not finding one, sat on the table, listening to the noise and din of the meeting.
The vicar vainly thought that the tumult would subside as soon as I was gone, for he said that I "made as much noise, if not more, than any of them!" He went back into the storm to get my hat and coat, and also the inevitable umbrella, without which no one can get on in Cornwall. He was a long time absent, during which a man with heavy boots came into the dark cottage where I was sitting, and tumbling down on a seat somewhere, heaved a heavy sigh. He evidently did not suspect that any one was there. After sighing and groaning several times, he said to himself, "What shall I do?—what shall I do? The man is right, sure enough; he is right, I'm sure on it—that he is."
I disguised my voice, and asked, "What man?"
"Oh," he said, "are you there, neighbour? Couldn't yer get in? Why, I mean the man what's been speaking inside."
"What did he say?"
"Why, said he, 'the devil's no fool!' and of course he ain't. He has hooks in all his baits, and I have swallowed lots o' them. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
Then I heard him shuffling to his knees, groaning and praying. I sat still on the table, saying, "Amen! amen!" every now and then, to his prayer, till he became terribly in earnest, and at last got into a which the Cornish call "wrastling in prayer." In this condition he was quite past heeding any one's presence. I helped and guided him to the Crucified and then he found peace, and began to praise. On coming to himself, he recognized my voice. "You are the very man," he cried, and putting great heavy arms round my neck, he nearly strangled me! The vicar (who I did not know was in the room), here interposed, and got my release.
"Here you are," he said, "at it again, and they are getting worse and worse in the barn—what ever is to be done? We cannot go home through this rain, and the carriage will not be here for at least an hour. What am I to do?"
I said, "Let us go then to the barn for a short time, just to see how they are getting on."
After some hesitation, he went in with me, and found the people praying and rejoicing; but, as I expected, far too much absorbed to observe our presence.
After a time, some of the lads noticed me and cried out lustily, "The parson is here! The parson is here!" and in a moment we were surrounded by a number of happy people, who were so demonstrative that they made the poor vicar tremble (as he told me afterwards) with a strange fear.
They said, "You will come again to-morrow?"
"Certainly," I replied.
"Oh, no," rejoined the vicar; "on no account. One night of this work is quite enough—more than enough."
I was very loth to give up; but a man said, "Never mind, we will carry it on. This revival will not stop for a week or fortnight, for certain."
This was terrifying news for the vicar, who turned, and looking at me with astonishment, said, reproachfully, "How did you do it?"
I replied, "This is not my work. I did not begin it, neither can I stop it; nor would I, even if I could. I dare not. I have known persons brought under heavy judgment for hindering a revival. Take my advice, and do not hinder this. Let these men go on; they know what they are about."
Soon the carriage came, and we returned to the vicarage; but the dear man was much put out, and evidently very sorry that he had asked me to come and disturb his mill-pond. Indeed, he said as much; so I concluded my visit the next morning.
Going through the village, I heard that the meeting on the previous evening was continued until two o'clock in the morning, and that it was announced there would be one in the chapel that evening. As the Church refused the blessing, there were others who were happy to receive it.
I returned home sooner than I was expected, and told my people, at the evening meeting, the things I had seen and heard; and they "glorified God."
CHAPTER 19
A Mission in the "Shires." 1853.
At the time of which I am writing, twenty-six or twenty-seven years ago, special services for preaching were not called by the name of "Missions." I think that word has been derived from some Roman Catholic perverts, who made aggressive efforts in London, which they called "Catholic Missions." From them it has been adopted by some who love to copy Rome and Romish phrases. Strange infatuation, by which these Romanizers in vain court a Church which despises them, and gives them neither place nor quarter! However, the word is now well understood, and its meaning is plainer than any definitions of mine could make it.
My first journey to "foreign parts" (as the Cornish call it) was to a town in Devonshire, where I stopped three or four days. The day I arrived I preached in the church, because it was the regular evening service; special services were not then known, unless it was for some Missionary Society, or other such advocacy. The idea of preaching to awaken souls, was considered very strange and fanatical. The church I preached in had high pews, which prevented my seeing the occupants. I was told that it was full, and certainly there were faces visible here and there; but the whole congregation was so still, that the dropping of the proverbial "pin" might have been heard. It was all very chilling and dead, no "Amens!" or "Glory!" as in Cornwall; indeed, the stillness had such an effect upon me, that I found it difficult to get on. After making two or three hard appeals, and meeting with nothing but silence for a response, I concluded, and came away much disappointed and disheartened. However, the next morning, the vicar showed me some beads, leathers, and flowers which had been left in the pews of the church. So I found that the shots had hit somewhere, or something.
Walking through the town in the course of the day, a tall mason, with a large whitewash brush in his hand, came running after me (not to whitewash me) but to ask the question, which he did most eagerly, "Are you the man that preached last night?"
I said, "Yes, I am."
"Oh," he replied, "will you preach tonight?"
I answered him somewhat doubtfully, "I suppose not," for the vicar did not know what excuse there could be for my preaching a second time.
He continued, "Will you come to my house and preach this evening? I have a good large room at your service, and can promise you a congregation."
I assented; so we fixed the time, and made all other necessary arrangements. On coming down in the evening, I found my mason friend had invited his neighbours, and finding more had promised to come than his room would hold, he had opened the folding doors between two rooms upstairs, taken down three large bedsteads, and having borrowed forms and chairs, he was able to accommodate seventy people. As many as this came, and more, for men and women stood on the stairs and landing besides.
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!'