Another little incident I must notice here. While I was still working in this place, I received a letter from home, telling me that they were all well, and very happy in the country, but that they wanted me back again, and thought I had been away quite long enough. Besides this, it was time to be getting summer things, for which they would want at least ten pounds. I had no money to send; and though I might have asked many kind friends, I felt a difficulty about it. I do not think it was pride. I had put myself and all my affairs into God's hands; and though I was not ashamed to tell our circumstances to any one who asked me, I made it a rule not to mention my troubles or wants to any but the Lord. I read the cheerful parts of my letter at breakfast, and kept the other till I went upstairs. There I spread the letter on the bed at which I knelt, and read to the Lord the part that troubled me. I was praying about it, when there came a knock at the door, and before I had time to say "Come in," my friend F—- entered. Seeing me on my knees, he apologized for intruding, and in his shy way put a ten-pound note into my hand, saying, "I am ashamed it is not more; but will you accept that?" With this, he made for the door; but I detained him, in order to show him the part of my letter I had not read in the morning. I said, "I was just reading it to the Lord; and look, while I was still on my knees, He has sent you with the answer. It is the exact sum I want, so do not apologize for it. I thank God and thank you. I will send this off at once."
CHAPTER 29
Tregoney, 1855.
It was time now to be returning southward and homeward; which I did by several stages, stopping to preach in various places on the way. At length I reached the village in Cornwall, where my family were lodging in the farmhouse I have already mentioned.
Here, the two clergymen were rather afraid of me, and avoided asking me to preach in the church. They had both been converted (or, at least, so they said) more than a year; but instead of working for God, they were bent on Romanizing. One of them said that there was no salvation in the Church of England; and the other showed me a sealed letter he had in his desk, which, he said, he "dared not open." It was from a brother of his, who went to Rome, and contained his reasons for so doing. "Ah," he said, "if I open that letter, I feel sure that I shall have to go too." This fascinating dread was upon him till he really did go, six months afterwards. I tried to deter these men from the erroneous step they were contemplating, by getting them into active work for the Lord. Sometimes I preached in this church, but more often in the open air. I am sorry to say my friends were but half-hearted in their cooperation, so that after a few weeks I left, and went to the west.
On my way thither, a clergyman, who happened to be inside the coach, gave me his card, and then came outside for the purpose of talking with me. He asked me if I would take charge of his church and parish for six weeks. I said I would, but could not go for a week or two. We agreed as to time, and on the promised Saturday I arrived at the place.
I walked there from a neighbouring town, having several calls to make on the way, and left my luggage to follow by the van. In the evening, about eight o'clock, I went down to meet this conveyance, and tell the man where to deliver my bag. I found a crowd of people in front of the inn where the van stopped, and heard the driver say, in reply to some question, "I've not got him, but I've got his bag."
"Where is he?" said a voice. "I don't know," one said, "but I saw a queer little chap go into Mrs. M—'s house."
"That's the place," said the driver; "that's where I'm a-going to take his bag. Come on, and let's see if he'll have it."
I went in and out among the crowd, as it was dark, asking questions, and found out that they "would like to duck the fellow if they could catch him;" they "did not want any such Revivalist chap as that amongst them," and so forth. They were greatly excited, and wondered which road he was likely to come, for they would go to meet him. Some one asked, "what is he like ?" One answered, "Oh, he is a rum-looking little fellow that stoops. I should know him again anywhere." Hearing this, I held up my head like a soldier, in order to look as large as possible, and waited about till they dispersed.
Then I joined a young man, and, talking with him, ascertained what it was all about. I passed the house where I was to lodge, for I saw that the people were watching the door. I came back among them, and, pointing to the door, said, "Is that where he stops?"
"Yes," one replied, "he is there. The man brought his bag and left it; he is there, sure enough."
I said, "Let us go in and see him; come along—come!"
So saying, I made for the door and knocked, beckoning to the others to follow me; but they would not do so. As soon as the door was opened I went in, and the landlady speedily closed it after me, saying, "I am glad you are come. How did you manage to get here? I have sent word to the constable to look out for you, and he is still watching somewhere."
"Why," I asked, "what is it all about? What is the matter?"
"Why, some of the lads here say, that if they could catch you, they would give you a good ducking in the pond."
"Indeed!" I said. "Then I don't think I will give them that pleasure tonight." So, sitting down by the fire, I made myself comfortable, and after supper went to bed.
In the morning, while at breakfast, I saw a number of men playing in the open space in front of the house. Some were tossing pence, some playing at ball and other games, while many were standing about smoking, with their hands in their pockets.
"There, that's the way they spend their Sundays in this place," said the landlady.
After watching them from the window for a little time, I put on my hat and went out, and told them "it was time to go home and get ready for church; that would be far better," I said, "than playing like this on Sunday. It is a disgrace to men like you—married men, too, with families! It would be bad enough if you were a parcel of boys. I am quite ashamed of you!"
They slunk away one by one, and I walked down the street to look about me, and to see the school-room where there was no school; but I intended to have a prayer-meeting there in the evening, after the service. I put up a notice to this effect, and then came back to my lodgings, till it was near church-time, when I set out, arrayed in my gown and bands, for the sacred edifice.
On the way there I observed stones flying past me in every direction; but I walked on, till at last I was struck on the cheek with a patch of muddy clay which was thrown at me. There was a universal shout of laughter when the men and boys saw that I had been hit. I put my hand to the place, and found that the pat of clay was sticking to my cheek, so I pressed it there, hoping, by the help of my whiskers, that it would remain. I said to the crowd, who were laughing at me, "That was not a bad shot. Now, if you come to church you shall see it there; I will keep it on as long as I can." So saying, I walked on amidst the jeers of the people.
When I arrived at the vestry, the clerk was in great trouble when he knew what had happened. He said, "Do let me wash the mud off, sir."
"Oh, no," I replied, "I mean to show that all day, if I can."
During the morning service, at which there were about fifty present, I succeeded in keeping on my mud-patch, and returned to dinner with the same.
In the afternoon I said that I would have a service for children, as there was no Sunday school, to which about twenty came. Before addressing them, seeing that they were intently looking at the patch on my cheek, I told them how it came there, and that I intended to keep it on all through the evening service.
This news spread all over the whole place, and the consequence was that such numbers of people came out of curiosity, that the church was filled to over-flowing. I preached without any reference to what had taken place, and succeeded in gaining the attention of the people; so that after the service I said I would have a prayer-meeting in the schoolroom. We had the place crammed, and not a few found peace. I announced that I would preach again the next evening.
A revival soon broke out in that place, and the crowds who came to the meetings were so great, that we had as many people outside the large school-room as there were in.
At the end of the six weeks the new vicar returned, and I was able to hand over the parish to him, with a full church, three Bible-classes, and a large Sunday-school. This I did, thanking God for the measure of success and blessing He had given to my efforts in that populous and wicked place.
After I had left I received a letter from some of the parishioners, asking me what I should like to have as a testimonial of their gratitude and regard; hat they had had a penny collection amongst themselves, which amounted to several pounds, and now they were waiting to know what I should like!
I wrote to tell them that nothing would please me better than a service of plate for communion with the sick. They bought this, and had a suitable inscription engraved, and then placed it under a glass shade in the Town Hall, on a certain day for inspection. Hundreds of people came to see the result of their penny contribution. After this public exhibition, the communion service was sent to me with a letter, written by a leading man in the place, saying, "I was one of the instigators of the opposition to your work here; but the very first evening you spoke in the school-room I was outside listening,' and was shot through the window. The word hit my heart like a hammer, without breaking a pane of glass. Scores and scores of people will bless God to all eternity that you ever came amongst us."
The revival in this proverbially wicked place, created such a stir that the newspapers took it up, and thought for once that I "was in the right place, and doing a good work!" The member for the borough sent me twenty-five pounds, "begging my acceptance of the trifle." Who asked him, or why he sent it, I do not know; but the Lord knew that we needed help. More than this, the vicar of the adjoining parish, who used to be very friendly with me in my unconverted days, but who had declared his opposition pretty freely since that time, sent me a letter one Sunday morning by private hand, to be delivered to me personally. This I duly received, but expecting that it was one of his usual letters, and knowing that I had visited some persons in his parish who were anxious, I thought I would not open it until Monday, and so placed it on the mantelpiece. A friend who happened to come in, noticing it there, said, "I see you have a letter from the Prebendary; I dare say he is angry with you."
"I suppose he is," I said; "but it will keep till tomorrow; and I do not care to be troubled with his thoughts to-day."
"Oh, do let me open it," said my visitor; "I shall not be here to-morrow, and I should like to hear what he has to say."
With my consent he opened it and read, "Dear old Haslam, you have done more good in that part of my parish where you are working, in a few weeks, than I have done for years. I enclose you a cheque for the amount of tithes coming from there. The Lord bless you more and more! Pray for me!"
It was a cheque for thirty-seven pounds. The next morning I went over to see my old friend newly-found, and to thank him in person for his generous gift. Poor man, I found him very low and depressed, and quite ready and willing that I should talk and pray with him. I sincerely hope that he became changed before I left the neighbourhood, but I never heard that he declared himself.
By this time, while I was still in Tregoney, Mr. Aitken had found his way to the village where my family were lodging, and he was preaching at the church with his usual power and effect. Night after night souls were awakened and saved. The vicar's wife was in a towering rage of opposition. Poor woman! she declared that she "would rather go to Rome than be converted ;" and to Rome she went, but remained as worldly as ever.
It matters very little whether unconverted people join the Church of Rome or not; they are sure to be lost for ever if they die in their unconverted state: for nothing avails for eternal salvation but faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.
CHAPTER 30
Secessions, 1856.
After mission which Mr. Aitken had held, people came out so decidedly, that the vicar and curate, who had all along kept aloof, doubting, fell back into a kind of revulsion, and began to read and lend Romish books. Eventually, they themselves decided to join the Church of Rome. Whether they were ever really converted or not, I cannot tell. I thought and hoped they were, but they seldom stood out on the Lord's side. They certainly had light, and may have had some experience. At any rate, they chose such a harlot as the Church of Rome for the object of their love, instead of Christ Himself.
I loved the curate. He was the man who had the unopened letter in his desk,* of which he harboured such a dread. Sad to say, he ended by falling away at last. Poor man! he went over to Rome, and never held up his head any more. Evidently disappointed, and ashamed to come back, he lingered on for some months, and then died.
____________________
* See page 256. _________________
Not long after his secession, we accidentally met in a quiet lane, in another part of the county, where I was walking for meditation. Perhaps he was led there for the same purpose. Meeting so unexpectedly, there was no opportunity to evade one another. I felt a trembling come over me at seeing him, and he was none the less moved. We held each other's hands in silence, till at last I said, "How are you? I love you still."
"I cannot stand it!" he said; and snatching his hand out of mine, he ran away.
I never saw him again, but mourned for him till he died. I cannot help thinking that he is safe, and that he died in a faith more scriptural than that of the Church of Rome.
Why do men secede; and break their own hearts, and the hearts of those who love them? Rome seems to cast a kind of spell upon the conscience, fascinating its victims much as the gaze of the serpent is said to hold a bird, till it falls into its power; or as a light attracts a moth, till it flies into it, to its own destruction. Such seceders mourn and dread the step; pray about it, think and think, till they are bewildered and harassed; and then, in a fit of desperation, go off to some Romish priest to be received. A man who had an honourable position, a work and responsibility, suddenly becomes a nonentity, barely welcomed, and certainly suspected.
Romish people compass sea and land to make proselytes; and after they have gained them, they are afraid of them, for their respective antecedents are so different, that it is impossible for them to think together. They get the submission of a poor deluded pervert, but he gets nothing in return from them but a fictitious salvation. They gain him; but he was lost the kind regard and sympathy of friends he had before, and with it all that once was dear to him; and he voluntarily forfeits all this upon the bare self-assertion of a system which claims his implicit obedience. The poor pervert is required to give over his will, his conscience, and his deepest feelings to the keeping of his so-called "priest" or to the Church, and is expected to go away unburdened and at peace. Some there are, it is true, who actually declare that they have peace by this means; but what peace it is, and of what kind, I know not.
Supposing that I was in debt and anxiety, and a man who had no money, but plenty of assurance and brass, came to me and sympathized in my trouble, saying, "Do not fear—-trust me; I will bear your burden, and pay off your debt"—if the manner of the man was sufficiently assuring, it would lift up the cloud of anxiety and distress; but, for all that, the penniless man would net, and could not, pay my debt. I might fancy he had done so or would do so; and then, when it was too late, the debt, with accumulated interest, would fall on me, to my over-whelming ruin, even though I had been ever so free from anxiety before. So it is with these deluded ones, who go to the priest instead of to Christ, and take his absolution instead of Christ's forgiveness.
Any one who carefully reads the Word of God may see that the Church of Rome has no such priesthood as she claims, nor power to forgive sins, as she professes to do. The whole supposition is based on a misunderstanding of the text, "Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and whosesoever sins ye retain, they are retained" (John 20:23).
The disciples (some of them not apostles) who received this commission or privilege, never understood that they were by these words (men and women together) empowered to be absolving priests. Even the very apostles never knew that they had any such power; and it is certain they never exercised it. They were perfectly innocent of being priests after the Romish type, and never dreamed of offering a propitiatory sacrifice. They simply believed that Christ had completed the work of propitiation once for all; and that there is now no more sacrifice for sin—that Christ only can forgive sins. Therefore in the words of St. John we are told, that "if any man sin (apostles and people alike), we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and He is the propitiation for our sins" (1 John 2:1, 2).
The apostles and early Christians never understood that the power of the keys meant the exercise of mere priestly authority, neither was the doctrine known for several centuries after their time; therefore we may be sure that the peace which perverts have, if it professes to come from that source, is a delusion. No true remission or peace is, or can be given, but by direct and personal transaction with Christ Himself.
I am perfectly convinced that the Epistles to the Romans and the Galatians are the answer to all the pretences of the Church of Rome, and that a man who will not read and follow them deserves to be misled. God is perfectly justified and clear on this point.
During that winter six of my friends joined the Church of Rome. One I have already told about, who died, I am sure, from grief and disappointment.* Another became bigoted, and with a sullen, dogged pertinacity, set himself to work for Rome, looking very miserable all the time, although he used once to be happy in the Lord's work. The others, without exception, went back into the world, and made no secret of their conformity with it, its ways, and fashions.
______________________
* See page 263. ________________________
This was a time of trouble in more respects than one. These secessions to Rome brought great discredit upon the work, and especially on the effort to promote Catholic truth, and higher Church life. I found my own refuge and comfort was in working for God, and therefore went out on mission work whenever and wherever I could.
Early in the spring of this year I went on a mission to Worcestershire, and there the Lord vouchsafed a great blessing, which has more or less continued to this day; though I grieve to say the present vicar has no sympathy with it. The work is still carried on in an Iron Room, out of church hours, by people who continue to go to church.
The vicar of that time asked me to go and visit a farmer's wife, who was under deep conviction, and wished to see me. I did so, and as we approached the door (which was open) the first thing we heard was this individual saying, in a very high-pitched: voice, "Confound…"
Seeing us, she suddenly stopped. "Go on with your text," said the vicar, quietly, "'Confounded be all they that serve graven images;' is that what you mean?"
"No," she replied; "come in, I am so wretched that I don't know what to do with myself; it has made me cross. Do come in and pray with me."
We at once consented; and on pointing her to Jesus, she found peace. Not content with praising God alone, she opened her house for a meeting for the people in the neighbourhood. This being situated on the confines of the parish, brought us into collision with the rector of the next parish. He was most indignant at our coming (as he said), "to entice his people away."
I tried my best to conciliate this gentleman, but nothing would do, particularly when he heard that I was thinking of settling down in the district. This plan was however frustrated in an unexpected manner, and I was not permitted to remain there.
One day, when I was praying about the matter, a letter was put into my hand from a lady who had been asking the Lord for nearly six months that I might be appointed to her late husband's church. She had applied to Lord Palmerston, who was the patron, and though she had received no answer, yet she had continued to pray.
At last there came a courteous letter from his: lordship, apologizing for having delayed his reply, adding that he "had mislaid the application of her, nominee; if she would oblige him with the name and address of this person, the appointment should be made out immediately." She gave my name and address, and sent his letter on to me. I immediately wrote to his lordship, saying that I had not applied for the living, nor did I want it; but, for all that, I received by return post the nomination; and actually, it was to go back to the diocese of Exeter! I did not think the Bishop would institute me, as I had committed a great many irregularities since his lordship had taken off my harness. But he did.
Somehow I was unwilling to go to this living, but was put into it in spite of myself. Here I had a good house, garden, and church, provided for me, with so much a year. I wondered whether God was tired of me! He had provided for me and my family during the past year wondrously, and I began to like "living by faith," and trusting in Him only. I have great doubts whether this appointment was altogether in accordance with God's will. Anyway, I had very little success or liberty in preaching, and could not settle down to work with any energy.
In the beginning of the summer, as usual, I had my attack of hay fever, which completely incapacitated me, in this place of much grass. If I went to a town or the sea-side, it was well; but the moment I returned to the country I was ill again. Altogether, it was a dull and distressing time; but God was preparing me for a special work.
CHAPTER 31
Hayle, 1857-58.
While meditating upon my present position, and wondering what I was to do next, I received an invitation to take charge of a district in another part of the county, near the sea, which suited my health. Here there was a large population, which gave scope for energetic action; and, moreover, the people were careless and Godless, and, as such, were not preoccupied with other systems. So I thought it was the very place in which I could begin to preach, and go on to prove the power of the Gospel.
With the invitation, I received an exaggerated account of the wickedness of the people, and was told that the thinking part of them leant towards infidelity, and that some of them were actually banded together in an infidel club. All this, however, did not deter me from going, but rather stirred me up so much the more to try my lance against this gigantic foe. I had learned before now to regard all difficulties in my work as the Lord's, and not mine; and that, though they might be greater than I could surmount, they were not too great for Him.
There were two large iron factories here, besides shipping. Many of the people employed were drawn from other parts of England, and were what the Cornish call "foreigners." They had no love for chapel services, or revivals, and no sympathy with Cornish views and customs; so not having a church to go to, they were left pretty much to themselves.
With this attractive sphere before me, I gave up my living and work in the country, and accepted the curacy at l. 120 a year, with a house rent-free. My rector was a dry Churchman, who had no sympathy with me; but he seemed glad to get any one to come and work amongst such a rough, and in some respects unmanageable, set. He had bought a chapel from the Primitive Methodists for Divine service, and had erected schools for upwards of three hundred children. These he offered me as my ground of operation, promising, with a written guarantee, that if I succeeded, he would build me a church, and endow it with all the tithes of that portion of the parish.
Here was a field of labour which required much prayer and tact, as well as energetic action. In accordance with Scriptural teaching, "I determined to know nothing but Jesus Christ and Him crucified." I made up my mind that I would not begin by having temperance addresses for drunkards, or lectures on the Evidences of Christianity for the infidel, but simply with preaching the Gospel.
One thing that simplified my work very much was the fact, that the people were spiritually dead. I used to tell them, that in this free country every man is accounted innocent till he is proved to be guilty, but that in the Bible every man is guilty before God till he is pardoned, and dead till he is brought to life. In one sense it does not matter very much whether a man is an infidel, a drunkard, or anything else, if he is dead in trespasses and sins.
It is of very little consequence in what coloured raiment a corpse is shrouded; it remains a corpse still.
Taking this position positively, I avoided much religious controversy, to the disappointment of many eager disputants, who longed to ventilate their views. 'I told them plainly, that whether they were, right or wrong, my business was with the salvation: of souls, and my one desire was to rescue the lost: by bringing' them to Christ.
Hitherto I had been to places where the Lord had previously prepared the hearts of the people, and therefore it had been my joy to see a revival spring up, as if spontaneously; that is, without the ordinary preparation by the people of the place. These extraordinary manifestations of God's power and love; and they showed me what He could and do. Now that I was somewhat more intelligent on the subject, He sent me forth to prepare and work for similar results.
Hayle was to all appearances a very barren soil, and the people I had to labour amongst were greater and mightier than myself. They already had possession of the ground, and were perfectly content with their own way. Moreover, they did not desire any change, and were ready even to resist and oppose every effort which was designed to ameliorate their condition, or to change their lives. In this undertaking I knew and understood that without prayer and dependence upon God to work in me and by me, my mission would be altogether unavailing, I therefore looked about, and found some Christians who consented to unite in pleading for an outpouring of the Holy Spirit. We agreed to pray in private, and also met together frequently during the week for united prayer. Finding that many of the petitions offered were vague and diffuse, I endeavoured to set before those assembled a definite object of prayer. I told them that the work was not ours but the Lord's, and that He was willing and ready to accomplish it, but that He must be inquired of concerning the work of His hands. Also, in order that our prayers should be intelligent and united, I put before them the fact, that the people we had to work amongst were lost; not that they would be lost by-and-by if they died in their sins; but that they were actually lost now. It is true that many were quite ignorant of the way of salvation, and were also unconscious of the power of the enemy who held them captive; and besides, they loved their captivity too well; but all this would be overcome in a moment, when they were once enlightened by the Spirit (in answer to prayer) to see and feel themselves lost. No one could be more ignorant than the jailor at Philippi, but as soon as he was awakened he cried out, "What must I do to be saved?" (Acts 16:30).
I showed them that the work we had to do was clearly set forth in Scripture (Acts 26:18), and that the order in which it was to be done was also made manifest. We must not begin with giving instruction as if the people were merely ignorant; but rather by awakening or opening their eyes to see that they were in a lost and ruined condition. Then they would appreciate being turned "from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins" (Acts 26:18). I strove earnestly to show them that until people had received forgiveness of sins, our work was not complete. We made this our definite aim, and prayed about it with clear expectation. Under the shadow and influence of this prayer, I began to preach to the people; not to believe, but to awake and see their lost condition; that is, to repent, that they might believe the Gospel.
At first there were very few people in my congregation, but by degrees more came, and listened attentively to the Word. After preaching for four or five Sundays, I asked the people during my sermon, what in the world they were made of; for I was surprised at them! They came and listened to God's truth, and yet did not yield themselves to Him. "Are you wood, or leather, or stone? What are your hearts made of, that God's love cannot touch or His Word break them?" I then invited the anxious to remain for an after-meeting, when I said that I would converse with them more familiarly; but they every one went away.
I returned to the vestry,' feeling somewhat dejected, but still hoping for better days. As I opened the door to go home, two men ran away like frightened boys, but it was too dark for me to distinguish who they were.
That next morning it came to my mind that I must go round to the people and ask them what they were thinking about? I had done so from the pulpit; now I would go from house to house and do the same. I went first to the school, and finding that several children were absent, I took their names and determined to go after them, in the hope of reaching their parents.
The first house I called at was a mistake, and yet it was not. I knocked at the door, and said, "Does Mrs. W— live here?"
The woman who opened it said, "No, she lives next door."
I apologized for disturbing her, and was going away, when she said, "Will you not come in for a few minutes?" I assented, and going in, took a seat. Then I asked her name, and whether she went to church.
She replied, "To be sure I do. Don't you see me there every Sunday?"
"Then," I said, "did you hear my question last evening."
"Yes," she said, "but I was afraid, and ashamed to stay behind. But I do wish to be saved; I have been wretched for more than a week."
It was very easy to lead to the Saviour of sinners one whose heart was so prepared. She soon found peace, and became one of my most useful and steadiest helpers.
Her neighbour next door, was by no means so ready to receive the truth, and I had to supply another argument altogether. Eventually, she also found peace in believing; though not for some weeks.
From this house, I visited several others, and in all of them had serious dealing with individuals about their 'souls' salvation. Then I set off to see a man I had often observed in church; having noticed the anxious look with which he always regarded me during the sermon. I found him at home, and, on entering his house, he said, at once, "I know what you are come for. Wait a little, sir, please to sit down;" and before I had time to say a word, he went upstairs. In a few minutes he returned, with a shilling in his hand. "There," he said, "there it is; that is my contribution for the Indian Mutiny Fund."
I thanked him for his offering, and promised that it should be given to the treasurer. "But," I added, "to tell the truth, I have not come about that, but to see you. I want to speak to you about your soul."
He sat down, looking, as I thought, most unhappy. Then he said,—"Last night my mate and I made up our minds to speak to you in the vestry; but, just as we were coming to the door, you opened it, and we ran away."
"Yes," I said, "I heard you."
"Well, after that, we came home, and prayed the Lord to send you to us: and here you are!"
"Thank God for the answer to prayer. Now then, what can I do for you?"
He told me that he was born of respectable parents in Germany; but that, for his bad ways and bad habits, they had sent him to this country to work for his bread; that he had taken the pledge several times, and broken it again and again, though he had prayed and done all he could think of; but it was to no propose.
"If you had stayed last night," I said, "I might have helped you. How did you come to break your pledge?"
"Oh," he said, "it came to my mind that when I signed, I was only thinking of beer and spirits, not wine; so I took some, and it flew to my head; and soon I was as bad as ever."
"Now," I said, "you have renounced wine and all; have you?"
"Yes, I have."
"Well then, will you give your heart to God also?"
In course of conversation it came out, that this man's first impressions were effected some years before, by a dream, or vision of Christ on the cross. He was passing by, but, somehow, turned to look at it; when, to his surprise, he saw that the eyes of the figure were looking at him. As he approached, the figure appeared to be standing on the ground, and beckoning, when a sudden fear came over him; he stopped, and the vision faded away. Ever since that time, he had felt that Jesus was the Friend he needed; and that nothing less would satisfy him.
Unfortunately, too many, like this man, stop at a critical point of their history; and, often, the crisis is not prolonged for them, as it was for him.
A long time ago there was a sinner arrested by a similar vision. He says, in a hymn which he wrote, giving a description of it:—
"I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agony and blood,
Who fixed His languid eyes on me
As near the cross I stood."
He continues,
"My conscience felt and owned its guilt;" and when he did so, he received a second look, which spoke forgiveness to him, as distinctly as the first look brought him under conviction.
I charged this man to make his surrender, and to own or acknowledge himself the sinner for whom Jesus died. On doing so, he obtained forgiveness and peace, and has since, by grace, been enabled to live a happy, consistent, and devoted life, and has been a blessing to many souls. No sooner had he found the Saviour, than immediately he began to plead for and with his friend James. I know not what passed between them; but that same evening he brought him to me with a heart prepared to receive Christ. We had only to point him to Jesus, and encourage him to thank God, when he realized the truth in his own experience.
So that Monday I rejoiced over five people brought to the Lord; and then the work began in real earnest. Every week after that, remarkable conversions took place, besides many ordinary ones. Some of these, including the one just mentioned, are described at length in tracts, and are also published in a volume entitled "Building from the Top, and other Stories;" but, notwithstanding this, a brief allusion to them in this narrative may not be out of place, being so particularly connected with the work here.
A woman called me into her cottage one morning as I was passing by, and told me of her son, a steady young man, though still unconverted, for whom she had prayed continually ever since his birth. She said, when he was a very little child, she heard him one night sobbing and praying in his room—"O Lord, save me up for a good boy!" She thought this was in answer to her supplication; but as he grew up he became thoughtless and careless, like too many others of his age.
"Some five or six months ago," she said, "he had a dream or vision, and saw you so plainly that he pointed you out to me, among other clergymen, and said, 'Mother, that man is to be our minister one I saw him a little time ago, in a dream, as plainly as I see him now; I know that is the man.' We did not know who you were then, or where you came from, and never saw you again till you came lately to this parish to be our minister.
"Last night," continued the mother, "after he returned from church, my William was very unhappy and restless; and in the night I heard him crying and praying aloud for mercy, in great distress. He told me this morning, when I asked him about it, that he dreamt that the last day was come, and that the world was on fire: and he began immediately to try to pray, but could not; yet he went on trying till he heard some one laugh out at him, and say, 'Ho! ho! my boy, you are too late!—ho! ho!—too late! I have got you now—-you are too late!' This frightened him so much that he woke up, and getting out of bed, began on his knees to pray in earnest for the Lord to have mercy on his soul."
Being much interested in the young man, I begged her to send him to me in the evening. She did so; and when he arrived I frankly told him what I had heard about him, and particularly about his distress and prayer the night before.
"Your mother has prayed for you for years; and when you were a little boy you prayed the Lord to save you: last night, again, you were constrained to cry for mercy. These are all tokens of God's good intentions and purposes towards you. Can you trust Him?" As he hesitated (for so many like to feel something before they make the venture of faith), I continued, "These tokens are better than feelings, for they are facts and sure signs by which you may know that the Lord is calling you."
We may well understand that it was not long before the Lord, who had so marvellously opened his eyes to see his sins, enabled him by the same Spirit to see Jesus as His Saviour, and to rejoice in the forgiveness of his sins. Then I asked him to sit down again, for I was curious to hear about the dream or vision which he had had some months before he ever saw me.
"William," I said, "did you ever see me before I came to this parish?"
"Yes," he replied, "I saw you once in a vision, more than six months ago!"
"Do you mind telling me about it?"
After a little hesitation, he answered, "I often dream things. One night I dreamt that I was walking on a wild barren common; there were many bare places where people had cut turf, and there were prickly furze-bushes about. I knew there were some did open mine-shafts there, for people sometimes fell into them at night; but I was walking along without thinking of danger, and was not afraid, though it was dark, and I was alone. I don't know how long I went on like this, but next I found I was walking with you. I could see you very plainly, just as if it had not been dark, and you were talking about Jesus and His love to sinners. I liked your words very much, and was so taken up with them that I do not know when it became light; for now I could see the rough common, and a path, and we were walking in it. Going along this path, we came to a wall, and I could not go any further; but you walked on as if there were no wall. Presently you stopped, and, turning to me, said, 'Why don't you come on?'
"I answered, 'I cannot.'"
"Why not?"
"Because there is a wall here."
"No," you said, "there is no wall—it is an open door."
"I was surprised at you saying that, for I feel the wall and see it."
"What would you do if there was no wall? Do that. It is not a wall, but a door," you said; "walk forward!"
"When I ventured forward I found your were true. It was, indeed, an open way, leading into a beautiful garden. I was very happy, and said, 'Whose garden is this?'
"You answered, 'It is the Lord's, and you are to dress it and work in it."
"Then I saw the Lord Himself. He came forward, and bidding me welcome, said that you should teach me for three years. Then I awoke."
From this extraordinary narration I gathered three things for myself.
First, that God intended me to come to this place.
Secondly, that I was to labour here for three years.
Thirdly, that I was to teach the people not to wait for feelings, but to
act upon the Word of God.
This last intimation was so clearly signified by William's dream, that it came upon me with striking force. I had been speaking on this very subject more than once, and had ventured so far as to say that I thought this delusion about waiting for feelings was from the devil, to hinder the work of God in the soul. It certainly did hinder us, very much; and, moreover, it was most distressing to see people, who were manifestly impressed under the power of a present God, waiting for Him; because they did not feel some token, which they had set their minds upon. Day by day souls were being given in the Church, and also in the cottage meetings; so that I could not help seeing that the Lord had begun to use me again. Some came to the meetings who had been awakened under the ordinary preaching of the Gospel; some because others brought them; and some out of curiosity. One of the latter cases I will mention.
A married woman, N. R—, heard people talking of the work which was going on. It seemed to her to be such a strange thing in connection with a Church minister, that she came to a cottage meeting to judge for herself, without the remotest idea of being converted. God's ways are not as ours; while she was listening, the word reached her with power, so that she was convicted and converted, and came out of that cottage a rejoicing believer, lost in wonder, love and praise. She was indeed strikingly and manifestly changed, and did not hide it. It was such a joy and surprise to her that she could not help telling every one. Out of the abundance of her heart her lips spoke to tell of the loving kindness of the Lord.
CHAPTER 32
Bible Readings, 1858-59.
The church (so-called) in which I now ministered had been built by persons who intended to accommodate the largest number of people for the smallest amount of money. It was scantily built, and almost square, with galleries on three sides. On the remaining one there used to be a pulpit, conspicuously placed in the middle of the wall. This important portion of the edifice was now removed to one side, to make room for a Communion table, the seats in front being arranged chancel-wise, facing one another, for the choir. This was quite a damper to my ecclesiastical tastes; besides being ugly in the extreme.
I tried by putting ornamental scrolls over the windows, and by staining the glass in them, to make some improvement. I also painted a diaper pattern round the side walls; and upon the high blank wall behind the Communion table exercised all the skill I possessed, but fear it was somewhat in vain, though I laboured hard. The designs looked very well on paper, but when displayed on the wall gave no satisfaction; so one after another they disappeared, till my dissolving views, as they were called, ended in a large floriated cross of gold, with a monogram inter-twined in it, on a dark background.
When once, however, the Lord began to bless the Word, and souls were awakened, despite all anti-ecclesiastical appearances, my heart was drawn towards the ugly place, and I loved it greatly. I could never have believed that my former tastes and tendencies could have been so completely changed as they were.
In those days it was a strange thing to hold an after-meeting in a church; it was never done, even by the few who had such meetings. Therefore, I took the anxious ones and others to my own house for the inquiry meeting, after the evening service. Having taken up the carpet in the drawing-room, we fitted it up with chairs and forms to accommodate ninety people, while half as many more occupied the hall, and often numbers stood outside the windows. In this house it pleased God to give us very many souls, who were brought in week by week for several months. I believe every room in that house, like the rooms at Baldhu Parsonage, was consecrated as the birth-place of one or more of God's children.
The number of those who attended the after-meeting became so great, that we found it necessary to go to the large schoolroom. This place will also be remembered in eternity, and many a soul will say of it, "I was born there!"
One night, when I returned home from a distant meeting, I was called to see a person in Feat distress of soul. As I went down the street at eleven o'clock, I was surprised to see lights in almost all the houses, and what was more, to hear voices in urgent and importunate prayer, as also the voice of thanks-giving. The whole street was alive, and indeed there was a most "joyful noise" on every side. I was praying or rejoicing in one house or another all through the night, which was one never to be forgotten.
A glorious work of salvation was going on without the extravagant noise and excitement we used to have in former years. I was exceedingly thankful for this also, and began next to consider what was to be done with these new converts. Besides inviting them to the church services, for which they needed no pressing, I urged them to read their Bibles at home, bidding them to mark any passages where they wished for explanation, that I might have something good and profitable to speak about when I visited them. Then I invited them to Bible-classes; instead of to experience meetings, which Cornish people rely upon so much. On these occasions I endeavoured to instruct the people from God's Word, and put Christ before them as the object of faith, hope, and love. After prayer I encouraged them to ask questions, which made these gatherings interesting and also instructive on the very points upon which they required information.
I found that these Bible-classes were a great blessing to those who attended them, but more than all, perhaps, to myself; watering other souls with the water of life I was more abundantly watered. The questions of the people drew my attention to distinctions and differences I had not noticed before, and helped to take off the coloured glasses through which I had hitherto read the Word.
I observed that the third, sixth, and twentieth chapters of St. John's Gospel had been held and interpreted by me in a way that I now saw to be altogether wrong. I had taken the first of these as bearing on Baptism, the second on the Holy Communion, and the third on Priestly Absolution.
I pondered much over these chapters, and marvelled how they could have been so diverted from their original and obvious meaning; and, more wonderful still, that countless millions in Christendom had so received them for many generations. It was a bold thing, and seemingly presumptuous to suppose that I was right and all Christendom wrong; but I soon found that mine was no new discovery, and that if millions who followed traditions without comparing them with the Bible, thought on one side, there were also millions who did read their Bibles, and thought on the other.
It was perfectly clear, moreover, that one obvious motive or policy had dictated the false application of the three chapters. It will be observed that priest rule is established in them; for, according to this teaching, no one can enter the kingdom of God 'without priestly operation in baptism; no one abide or be fed in it without the same in Holy Communion; nor any one receive absolution from sin, and final release from hell to heaven, apart from sacerdotal action.
On the other hand, I saw spiritual men, as sure as they were of their own existence that their new birth took place, not at baptism, but at their conversion. Therefore they were convinced that the third chapter of St. John, in which our Lord's conversation with Nicodemus is recorded, refers to that spiritual change which takes place at conversion, and not to baptism, which was not even instituted for two or three years afterwards (Matt. 28:19).
Again, as to the sixth chapter. A spiritual man knows that he feeds continually on the body and blood of Christ, it is the "Bread which came down from heaven" for him. The Lord said, "He that eateth Me, even he shall live by Me" (John 6:57). They know how they received spiritual life, and also how it is continually maintained; therefore they could not allow themselves to be carried away with such a palpable fiction as transubstantiation, or any other doctrine kindred to it. The sixth chapter does not refer to the Lord's supper, but the Lord's Supper refers to the reality which is mentioned in it.
Lastly, as to the twentieth chapter of St. John, on the authority of which it is supposed and asserted that Christ left power with His Church and priests to forgive sins. Of this we may say, He has not delegated any such powers at all. When He gave commissions to His disciples (not exclusively to the apostles), He said, "Lo, I am with you." Our power is not imparted to us from Him, but is in Him. We have no power at all, but in Him, and no grace but 'that which is in Christ Jesus (2 Tim. 2:1). It is His presence, His real, promised presence by the Holy Ghost, which is spiritual power; and this is given directly to individuals by God Himself, and is not transmitted through other channels.
The Lord Jesus, on His resurrection day, said to His disciples, in the upper room—and, be it remembered, that all the eleven were not there (and some women may have been)—"Peace be unto you. Receive ye the Holy Ghost: Whose soever sins ye remit, 'they are remitted unto them; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained" (John 20:23).
Is it possible or reasonable to suppose that our Lord intended by these words to constitute all that assembly absolving priests? The apostles and early Christians (both men and women) never thought so, either before or even after the day of Pentecost, when they were taught and led by the Holy Ghost. The apostles did not exercise any so-called priestly functions; they all preached the Gospel, and as ministers and witnesses, declared, through Jesus Christ, the forgiveness of sins. Their testimony was then, as such testimony will ever be, the savour of life or the savour of death. It was thus they remitted and retained sins; and yet not they, but God by them.
While I was thus ruminating, a book came into my hands which interested me greatly. This I read and re-read, and made an abstract of it. It was the "Life of Adelaide Newton." What struck me in it so much was, to find that this lady was able to hold spiritual communion with God by means of a Bible only. Is it possible, I thought, to have such close communion with God, apart from the Church and her ministrations? I do not hesitate to say that this was the means, under God, of stripping off some remains of my grave-clothes, and enabling me to walk in spiritual liberty, instead of legal and sacramental bond age.
Human reasoning would say, "What, then, is the use of ministry and sacraments? Let us dispense with them, and be independent of them altogether." This is no better than saying that we will continue in sin that grace may abound; and the same answer which the apostle gives will do for this also: "God forbid!"
It does not follow, because some people make too much of ministry and sacraments, making them absolutely necessary to salvation, that we should, on the other hand, disregard them. There is another and happier alternative, and that is, to realize they were made for us, not we for them; therefore we should not be subject to them, but rather they should be subject to us, and be used by us, not in order to obtain God's grace and salvation, but to show that we have already done so. In our obedience to God's ordinances, we acknowledge our allegiance to Him, and our submission to His will.
For fear that my people should go off, as too many do, into disregard of the "means of grace," because sacramental people make too much of them, I began a class for exposition and explanation of the Prayer-book. I commenced by showing them that the Church of England is the Lord's candlestick in this country, not the candle, and certainly not the light, but the candlestick which the Lord set up here, possibly even as 'early as the days of the apostles, to show the true light, which is Christ. And though, Romish corruptions supervened, it pleased God, at; the time of the Reformation, to raise up men to deliver us from them, and to restore true Bible teaching.
Thus I endeavoured to show them, that the system of the Church of England was one which should commend itself to their regard, as quite agreeable to Scripture; and if it is not carried out according to its intention, that is not the fault of the system, but rather of those who administer it. Next, as to worship.
The object of our assembling in the house of God is not, I said, so much to hear sermons, or get instruction, as in Bible, or other classes, but rather "to render thanks for the great benefits we have received at God's hands, to set forth His most worthy praise, to hear His most holy word, and to ask those things which are requisite and necessary as well for the body as the soul." That worship is devotion towards God; it consists more in giving than in getting. Some of the people were greatly interested when I pointed out to them, that the order of our Service was exactly the same as the order of theft spiritual experience, in conviction, conversion, and Christian life.
For example, the Morning Service begins with a sentence such as, "To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgivenesses, though we have rebelled against Him;" then comes the exhortation, which moves us to surrender ourselves; then the confession, which is the act of surrender. Immediately after this is declared the absolution and forgiveness of sins, "to all who truly repent, and unfeignedly believe the Gospel."
Then comes the Lord's Prayer, which leads us, at once, into the place of children, accepted in the Beloved: then follow acts of thanksgiving":—
"Open Thou my lips, and my mouth shall show forth Thy praise."
"Oh, come let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation."
These, and such-like explanations, helped to enlist the interest of the people; and when, as before, they only used to endure the prayers, while waiting for the sermon, now they engaged in them intelligently, and even with more delight than in extempore prayer.
As to the Communion Service I bade them notice that it begins with the Lord's Prayer, in which we draw near to our Father, not as sinners, but as His children; asking for a clean heart and for grace to live according to His will; then, we approach the table, unworthy, indeed, to take even the crumbs under it, but trusting in His mercy. We do not go there to offer a sacrifice of Christ's body, but of our own as a thanksgiving to God, offering and presenting ourselves—spirit, soul, and body—a living sacrifice to His service.
Every week we took some subject from the Prayer-book, noticing the special seasons in their order, such as Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Ascension, and Whitsuntide, each with their respective teaching.
I was now happy in my work; but it did not, of course, go on as sweetly as the theory sets it forth. We made, however, as straight a course as we could, under contending winds and currents. The intelligent part of my congregation, however interested they were in the work outside the church and the worship within, nevertheless, had their misgivings and doubts which they did not hide. They said, "This teaching seems all true and scriptural; but what will become of us if you go away, and another man comes who thinks otherwise? We have no security as in the chapels, that conversion work will go on, and living souls be fed and encouraged. Very few churches have such a work as the Lord is doing here!"
This, indeed, was the sad part of working in the Church of England then. Even still, there is much discouragement on this head; and too many living souls, who would not willingly go, are driven away from their own Church, to seek teaching in other communions; but they cannot take their children and servants to witness priestly ceremonials, or to hear sacramental, as opposed to spiritual teaching; neither can they conscientiously give countenance to these things, by going themselves.
However, I endeavoured to pacify the people by begging them to be thankful for present privileges, and to trust God to lead them for the future.
It is an awful thing to see and know that people come for bread, and get a stone; for fish, and they get a serpent; and for an egg, they are offered a scorpion (Luke 11:11, 12). Exceedingly trying it is to be frowned upon by clerical brethren in the presence of Dissenters, who, to say the least, do know the difference between life and death. In one church we have the service elaborately rendered, and the sermon is nothing; in another the sermon is everything, and the service most slovenly; and, too often, souls remain unawakened, and perishing on all sides.
CHAPTER 33
The Work Continued, 1859.
While I was at Hayle, I had so much to do among the people, and so many meetings, that I seldom had leisure to go out for preaching elsewhere; nor do I remember that I had many invitations to do so. Occasionally I went to preach at Penzance, where a good work was steadily progressing at St. Paul's Church; but otherwise. I seldom left my pulpit.
Everything was now going on in a way which satisfied me, after all my tossings to and fro. I was surrounded with a happy people, who were living and working for the Lord. All the week they were busy, and also on the watch for souls. On Sunday they came regularly to church, with an intelligent idea of worship, and joined heartily in the services of the day. At eight o'clock in the morning they assembled in large numbers for the Holy Communion; then we had the usual morning and evening services in the church, concluding with a prayer meeting. In the afternoon we had something else. There was the Sunday school for some of our workers; tract distribution for others: many went out to preach in the villages; and others went with me either to the sands, the common, or on board some ship, for an evangelistic service. The day of rest was not one of inactivity, but of useful and happy occupation for the Lord. Many a former Sabbath-breaker, now changed and rejoicing in God, was amongst us, delighting in the Christian privilege of working for the Master. It was a day that many of them looked forward to and spent with intense delight; and on Monday evening we met to tell what we had seen and heard of the Lord's goodness to ourselves and others.
Whenever the good ship "Cornwall" was in harbour, it was expected there would be a preaching on "board of her," under the well-known Bethel flag. The mate of this vessel had been a terribly wicked man, and a most daring blasphemer. It pleased God to convert his soul in a remarkable manner; and now nothing would do but he must work for God.
One Sunday, when he was at Cardiff, he heard that a vessel which had left that port on the previous Friday morning had gone down with all hands. He was greatly grieved about this; for one of the seamen of the vessel was in former times a friend and companion of his. He had prayed for his soul, but hitherto without any success, and this added to his grief. To his amazement, he saw his friend standing on the quay. "Hallo!" he said, "I am glad to see you. How is it you are here? Have you heard that your vessel has gone down with all hands?"
"Has she, indeed!" he exclaimed, bursting out into tears; "then it is all my fault, for I let her go short-handed. After we set sail I had words with the captain, so he dismissed me, and I came back in the pilot boat. It is all my fault!"
"This is the third time, then, that the Lord has given you your life," said Sam.
"You had better call on Him to have mercy on your soul." So saying, he fell on his knees, and began to pray for him. His companion soon followed, crying aloud for mercy. Though a crowd of people quickly assembled and stood round, he took no heed, but continued his supplication until he obtained mercy, and could praise God.
Seeing that some of the by-standers were looking anxious, Sam invited them on board his ship and had a meeting, at which he told them how the Lord had saved his soul. Having received much encouragement that day, he determined, if possible, that he would get a Bethel flag, and hold services whenever and wherever he could.
On his arrival at Hayle from Cardiff, he went at once to see the wife of the owner of the ship, knowing that she took a great interest in the welfare of sailors. He told her his plans, and made his request for a Bethel flag, which this lady kindly and generously gave him permission to get.
On obtaining it, Sam came and asked me if I would preach at the first hoisting of it. This I consented to do, and on the following Sunday afternoon we had a large concourse of people on board, and also on the quay alongside. I gave out the hymn:—
"O God of Bethel, by whose hand
Thy people still are fed."
While I was giving it out, Sam ran his flag up to the masthead in the shape of a ball. So it remained while we were singing; and during the prayer which followed; and when I gave out my text (Gen. 28:19), "He called the name of that place Bethel," Sam pulled the halyard, and the flag, some eighteen or twenty feet long, 'flew out in all its grandeur. Before the sermon was finished, some of the people began to cry for mercy, and dear Sam was in an ecstasy of delight, and rejoiced aloud. 'Thus his flag was inaugurated with blessing from on high, and "Many is the time since," said 3am, "when souls have been blessed under it, both at Cardiff and at Hayle."
I have said nothing about the infidels I had to work amongst when I first came to this place. Some of them raged and opposed themselves against us for a time, but one by one the ringleaders of this party were brought to God, and eventually their club dwindled away. The history concerning some I have already published in tracts; but there is one case I feel I must insert here, for besides being a remarkable history, there is much teaching in it.
It is the story of a man who professed to be an infidel, and used to speak very freely of things which he said he did not believe. For instance, he boasted that he did not believe in God or the Bible, Christ or devil, heaven or hell; though I must say he seemed to believe in himself very considerably. It was very difficult to deal with a man who took his stand upon nothing but negatives. He was well known among his neighbours, dreaded by some and quite a mystery to others. He was continually to be seen about with a gun, especially on Sundays, when he was not ashamed to be thus desecrating God's holy day; on the contrary, he rather prided himself on not "shifting" his working-day clothes, when other people were dressed in their best.
It was sad to see a man of such intelligence and capacity defying public respect and opinion, and trampling upon every sense of right and propriety. There is generally a reason, if we can only discover it, why people outrage public opinion, and break out of the stream and path of their fellow-men.
One Sunday evening, however, after a day spent as usual, in idling about and shooting little birds, our friend John was observed by a woman standing outside a church, under the window nearest to the pulpit. He stood there, listening very attentively to the sermon, till it was over; and then, before the congregation could come out, he made off stealthily and hastily, to escape observation. But passing near the woman who had been watching him, she heard him say, with a look of distress on his countenance, "It's no use—the devil's sure to have me! It doesn't matter!"
This woman told me on Monday morning what she had seen and heard; so I determined to go at once and see the man. It was not his dinner-time yet; but I thought I would have a little conversation with his wife before he came home. To my surprise, however, I found him there. "What, not working today, John?" I said. "What's the matter?"
"I ain't very well," he answered. "I got no sleep last night; but I mean to work in the afternoon, for all that," he continued, with an air of determination and defiance.
"What's the matter? Have you got anything on your mind?" I inquired.
"Mind?" he repeated, as if in contempt at the thought. "There is not much that ever troubles my mind." He then went on to give me a long account of his bodily ailments.
"But do you never think about your soul, John?" I asked; "never think about another world and eternity?"
"Soul and eternity! I don't believe in either the one or the other of them!"
"Not believe you have a soul! Come, John, I am sure you know better than that." And I went on to speak of the joys of heaven and the bitter torments of hell; of the love of God, who willeth not the death of the sinner, but rather that he should turn and live; and then I proceeded to tell him of the atonement which Jesus Christ finished on the cross, and that now there is pardon for the vilest sinner through the efficacy of the blood which has been shed once for all.
"You know, John," I continued, "that I do not care to argue about these things. There is mercy for you, if you will have it. We can bring water to the horses, but we cannot make them drink. My business is to put the way of pardon and salvation plainly before you; and after that, if you reject it, it will be your own fault if you perish. Do you know how to get forgiveness of sins?"
He seemed very uneasy all the time I was speaking; and at length, after a pause, he looked me in the face with a hardened expression, and said, "There's no pardon for me—I know it."
"That cannot be," I said; "I do not believe it."
"No," he continued, "there's no pardon for me. I have known that for fourteen years." I inwardly resolved to get this dreadful secret from him, which was driving him to such evident desperation. A few days afterwards an opportunity occurred, and I pressed upon him for his own sake to tell me, or some one else, what had happened fourteen years ago; and what special communication he had had with another world.
"Oh," he said, "I never told anybody; but I would as soon tell you as any one else. I had a dream once—-do you ever have dreams? I have many things told me in dreams." Then he was silent; but I was more curious than ever now, and begged him to tell me what had happened. At last he began, "I dreamt that I was walking along a broad smooth road, where everything was most lovely; the weather was fine, and the scenery grand; there were beautiful gardens, churches, chapels, theatres, houses, and indeed everything you could think of. The people all seemed to be delighting in it, and as though they were out for a holiday. Some were walking, some singing, some dancing, and in one way or the other they all appeared to be enjoying themselves beyond bounds. Seeing a workman in a field close by, I called to him, and asked 'Where does this road lead to?' He answered, 'To hell, straight on; you cannot miss!' 'Hell!' I was surprised; 'Hell,' I said to myself, 'this is very different to what I thought. Is the way to hell as pleasant as this? and are people so unconcerned about it?' I was amazed; but though the man told me this pleasant road led to hell, I did not stop; I went on and on, seemingly as pleased as others were. However, it did not continue like this long, for soon I came to a rough part, all up and down, where the atmosphere was thick and sulphury, and it was almost dark. I did not like it, and wished very much to get out of the place, but I could not.
"Seeing some people in the distance, I went near to ask them the way out. They were busy with long rakes raking cinders about on the dry ground, and would not answer my urgent inquiries. As I approached them I saw that they did not look like 'humans,' and that every now and then fire appeared from under ground, over which they raked cinders to keep it out of sight. They were so absorbed in their work that they did not heed my question, though I pleaded more and more earnestly. At last, I observed that one of them ceased from his strange work, and looked at me; whereupon I addressed myself to him, begging him to show me the way out of the place." John added, "If I ever prayed in my life I prayed then; but he shook his head as if he pitied me, and said mournfully, 'The way you came in,' I replied, 'I cannot find it'; then again he shook his head as if to say, 'You never will.' I was obliged to rise from my knees, for the ground was so hot, and in my despair I ran I know not whither. As I passed along in haste, I came to cracks in the ground full of fire; I stepped over them one after another, and ran on till I came to such a large chasm, that I could not jump over it. I turned and went in another direction, leaping and running, in a state of terror, till at last I came upon a sheet of glowing fire, into which I fell. Then I awoke. For fourteen years this has followed me; there is no hope for me!"
By this time he became very much excited and agitated: seizing his cap he ran out of the house, leaving his wife and myself in mute astonishment at his strange tale.
I went home pondering over the meaning of this dream, and was struck at the amount of truth in it. I thought—How fair are the promises of the world to begin with, and how delusive and disappointing they are at the end! Of course, Satan, the god of this world, will make the way to hell as bright and pleasing as he possibly can; and if people take outward circumstances and pleasing prospects for indications of safety, they wilfully lay themselves open to this deadly delusion. What a number there are who know, or might know, that they are on the road to hell; that they cannot miss; and yet they go on! And then how many people there are who rake cinders; that is, when thoughts of death, or judgment, or hell, obtrude themselves, how readily they cover them over with hopes of escape, or some good intentions to be better, before it is too late! How often parents do the same for their children, for they cannot bear to think of their being lost forever; so they hope that somehow they will be changed before they die! How often preachers rake cinders also, by addressing their hearers as if they were all safe, and only wanted a little teaching now and then; and it may be a little warning occasionally! They cannot bear to tell them plainly that they are lost now, and may be lost for ever, if they do not repent and believe the Gospel; they would rather "be persuaded better things of them, and things which accompany salvation," though they know for certain that there are many unsaved ones in their congregation. They entertain them with good hearty services and pleasing sermons, and then let them go on their way to the solemn end, perfectly unconscious of any danger.