From Death into Life Part 17

Afterwards introducing himself, he asked me very politely, "What is the secret of all this?" He stud, "I have heard you preach, and certainly do not agree with most part of what you said, nor do I see anything either in your manner or matter which can account for this effect and work amongst the people. I must say, I cannot ask you to my pulpit, but I should much like a talk with you. Will you come over to luncheon with me?"

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

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

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

While these unfortunate young men were battling with the elements, we went home by land and had a night's rest, though it was but a short one.

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

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

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

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

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

Several others of the same party were also converted.

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

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

I was sent for before five o'clock in the morning to come and see him, for his friends said that they thought he would go out of his mind.

Instead of this, he came to his right mind, for the Lord heard and answered his prayer, and brought him from darkness into light, and from the power of sin and Satan unto G.o.d. He went with me to the early morning meeting; there we had the two chief leaders of the riotous party in a changed condition, for which we heartily thanked G.o.d.

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

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

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

At last he made up his mind to take me with him to consult a clerical neighbour, upon whose judgment he greatly relied. On our way a sudden thought of misgiving came over him; he all at once turned to me and said. "I say, my friend, I'll be done with you altogether if you say Mr.

---- is not converted!"

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

"But suppose you think so?"

"Well, I must confess I think so already, and not without good reason (at least, to my mind), for he has taken no interest whatever in this remarkable work of G.o.d, nor has he shown the least sympathy in the spiritual welfare of many of his parishioners, who have received blessing at the meetings. His High Church neighbour, who does not profess to be converted, could not help coming over to ask about it, while your friend has never been near, nor even sent to make inquiry.

Besides this, one of his own people told me that he was much put out, and very angry with you for asking me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The special services in my church."

"What services?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The work, in the meantime, went on and spread. Some of the people came over from Mr. --'s parish to ask me to come and preach to them in a large sail-loft, which they had prepared for the purpose. My friend would not consent to my going, and I was obliged to give them a refusal.

The next day they sent again, not to ask me to preach, but if I would just come over to visit a sick man who was anxious about his soul. My friend hesitated at this also. I said, "Why do you object to my going to see the poor fellow? You took me to the vicarage to talk to the vicar himself; surely you can let me go and do the same thing to one of his parishioners."

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

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

They were not satisfied, and asked "if the ladies would please to go;"

meaning my late dear wife and Mrs. S. (Mary), whom they had seen working in the after-meetings.

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

"What is this?" asked my wife.

The man said, "I only asked a few, but all those people are come. Do give them just a word." She had never yet ventured on addressing a large company like that, and Mary was shocked at the idea; but still, they were afraid to refuse; so they mounted the carpenter's bench, which was placed there with two chairs on it; and after a hymn and prayer, Mrs. H.