The First Christmas, 1851-52.
The first Christmas-day, during the revival, was a wonderful time. The
people had never realized before what this festival was, beyond
regarding it as a season for domestic rejoicing. It surprised many to
see that their past Christmases were a true representation of their past
lives that they had cheered and tried to make themselves happy without
Christ, leaving Him out of their consideration in His own world, as they
had on His own birthday. What a Christless and hopeless life it had
been! What a Christless religion! Now we praised the Lord together for
His marvellous goodness to us, and desired that we might henceforth live
unto Him, singing in heart and life, "Glory to God in the highest, and
on earth peace, good-will towards men."
When New Year's eve arrived we had a midnight gathering, and dedicated
ourselves afresh to God's service. It was a blessed season, and several
hundreds were there, who, together with myself, were the fruits of the
revival during the previous two months. The new year opened upon us with
fresh manifestations of divine power and larger blessings. I endeavoured
to show the people that the Lord was called Jesus, not that He might
save us from hell or death, but from our sins; and this while we lived
on earth--that our heart and all our members being mortified from all
carnal lusts, we might live to His glory; that Christ's religion was not
intended for a death-bed, but for a happy and effectual Christian
life---a life showing forth the power of His grace.
After the Christmas holidays, our schoolmaster and his wife returned.
They came back full of disdain and prejudice against the work, and even
put themselves out of the way to go from house to house, in order to set
the people against me and my preaching. They said that they could bring
a hundred clergymen to prove that I was wrong; but their efforts had
just the contrary effect to what they expected. It stirred the people to
come more frequently to hear, and contend more zealously for what they
knew to be right. The master was particularly set against "excitement"
and noise. He said, "It was so very much more reverent to be still in
prayer, and orderly in praise; it was not necessary to make such an
unseemly uproar!" I had, however, discovered, long before this time,
that the people who most objected to noise had nothing yet to make a
noise about; and that when they had, they generally made as much or more
noise than others.
If a house is seen to be on fire, people cannot hello making an outcry;
which they do not, when they only read about it. Witnessing a danger
stirs the heart; and when people's eyes are open to see souls in eternal
danger, they cannot help being stirred up, and crying out. I am
sometimes asked, "Is there not such a thing as a feeling which is too
deep for expression?" It may be that at times people are so surprised
and astonished at some sudden announcement of good or bad news, that
they are stunned, and for a time unable to give vent to their joy or
grief; but soon there is a reaction, and then expression is given.
Generally speaking, these so-called "deep feelings" are only deep in the
way of being low down in the vessel--that is to say, very shallow, and
by no means sufficient to overflow.
We read that "the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice, and
praise God with a loud voice, for all the mighty works that they had
seen" (Luke 19:37). And we are told, over and over again, in the Psalms,
to "praise God with a loud voice," and to "shout." When we lift up our
voice, the Lord can stir our hearts; and surely the things of the Lord
have more right, and ought to have more power, to stir and arouse the
soul of man, than a boat-race, or a horserace, or a fictitious scene on
the stage. I think people would be all the better for letting out their
hearts in praise to God. It may lie it is trying and exciting to some,
but perhaps they are the very ones who need such a stimulus, and this
may be the best way of bringing it out.
Notwithstanding the schoolmaster's opposition, he still came to church,
and was very attentive to the sermons, taking copious notes. One Sunday,
when I had been preaching on the text, "Cut it down; why cumbereth it
the ground?" he was heard to say, "Thank God, I am not cut done yet;"
and then he proceeded for the first time to the after-meeting in the
school-room.
When I entered I saw him low down on his knees, and said how happy I was
to see him there. "Oh," he cried, "I fear there is no mercy--the
sentence is surely gone forth against me, 'Cut him down! cut him down!'"
And then the poor man howled aloud in his distress. The people prayed
for him with shouts of thanksgiving, while he threw himself about in
agony of mind, and made a great noise, which only drew still louder
acclamations from the people. In the midst of this tremendous din he
found peace, and rejoiced with the others in unmistakable accents, and
as loud as the loudest. Evidently he was not ashamed or afraid of
excitement and noise now.
While he was thus engaged I went round to his house to see his wife, and
tell her the news. I found her sitting on the stairs in profound dismay,
as if some dreadful calamity had happened. She was literally dumb with
fear and astonishment. When she could speak, she said, "What will happen
to him now? Will he die? What will become of us?" When I assured her
that her husband was only just beginning to live, she said, "Must we be
Dissenters now? Oh, what will become of us?" Her sister, who was staying
with her, became very angry at hearing of the master's conversion.
Finding that I could not do much with these two, I left them, and
returned to the schoolroom, where the people were even more uproarious
and happy than before; several others having also found pardon and
peace.
The Sunday after, the master was seen moving out of church as quickly as
he could; and when he reached the churchyard he was observed to run, and
then leap over a wall, and next over a hedge into a field. They could
not hear him, but he was shouting all the time as well as running. He
afterwards said that the Prayer-book was full of meaning; it was like a
new book to him; and that if he had stayed in church, he should have
disturbed the whole congregation. He became a very earnest Christian,
and took much pains and interest in the religious instruction of the
children. There were several revivals in the school while he was there,
and many of the children were converted. It was not long before he was
able to rejoice over the conversion of his wife, and her sister also.
I had been anxious about my clerk for some time; he was a good man in
his way, and most attentive to his work in and out of church; he was
also a regular communicant, and exemplary in his life; but with all
this, he was unconverted. I often warned him of his danger; and one day
it came to my mind to tell him of the man who went in to the marriage
supper without the wedding garment. I said, no doubt he thought himself
as good as others, but when the King came in to see the guests, he was
speechless; and because he was so, and had not on the wedding garment,
the King commanded that he should be bound hand and foot, and put into
outer darkness. Now, I continued, the King has often come in to see us,
and we have rejoiced before Him; but you have never spoken to Him, or
asked for mercy. It is a very hardening thing to hear so much as you do
and remain unsaved; and a very deadening thing to come to the Lord's
table as you do, going through the form without any real meaning. You
receive the bread and wine in remembrance that Christ died for you, and
yet you do not believe enough to thank Him. I was led to say, "I must
forbid your coming to the Lord's table till you have given your heart to
God. You know it is right to do it, and that you ought to be converted.
I will not have you come here again till you are."
The man looked at me as if to see whether I meant it, and then appeared
so sorrowful that I nearly relented. All through the service he was low
and dejected, and went away at the time of the administration of the
ordinance, and sat at the other end of the church. My heart ached for
him, for I had never seen him so touched about anything. Afterwards,
when he came into the vestry, I could see that he had been crying. "Ah,
friend," I said, "it is bad to be left out from the Lord's table here;
what will it be to be left out of heaven?"
In the evening he was more miserable than ever, and at the close of the
service came into the school-room, where he broke down, and asked the
people to pray for him, for he was a hard-hearted, miserable sinner.
"Pray the Lord to melt my heart." We did so: and soon the poor
broken-hearted man sobbed and cried aloud for mercy; and it was not long
before, to our great joy, he found peace. He afterwards told us that he
had been getting hardened by forms ever since he had been clerk, reading
solemn words without any meaning, which at first he trembled at doing.
He was right; it is good to hear the Gospel, good to attend the means of
grace, good to assemble in the company of God's people; but to rest in
the habit of doing these good things, without conversion, is most
dangerous, and calculated to deaden the heart. He said that he felt it
very much when 'master' was converted (meaning myself), and was also
dreadfully condemned; for he had believed in the necessity of conversion
all his life; and though he knew that I was unconverted, yet he never
told me, but rather encouraged me to go on as I was. He said that he had
had many sleepless nights about it; "but now, thank God" he added, "it
is all right; my feet are on the Rock, my soul is saved. I can praise
the Lord in the congregation."
The clerk's conversion did not stop with himself, for it was a call to
some of the ringers; they were still outside and unsaved, though they
knew, as well as he did, that they ought to be otherwise. One of these
men began to attend the meetings regularly, but we could not get him to
pray, or speak a word. I said to him one evening, "You will never have a
sound from the bell till you move it or its tongue; in like manner, you
must move your tongue, for you will have nothing until you speak, nor
get an answer until you pray." Still he remained silent, and shut up to
himself; till one night, as we were putting out the lights at ten
o'clock, the meeting being over, I said to him as he stood by, "James, I
wonder when you will ever give your heart to God?" He looked at me and
said, "Now." "That is right," I replied; "thank God! let it be so." I at
once stopped the extinguishing of the lights, and invited him to pray
with me, but he took no heed. It was evident he had deliberately made up
his mind what he would do, for he took off his coat, undid his neck-tie,
turned back his shirt-sleeves, and then, setting a form about nine or
ten feet long, square with the room, he knelt down and began to say,
"Lord, have mercy upon me!" "Lord, have mercy upon me!" This he repeated
with every returning breath, faster and louder as he went on, till at
last he worked himself up into a condition of frenzy. He went on without
cessation for two hours, and then stopped in an exhausted state, gasping
for breath. I pointed him to the cross, and told him of God's mercy in
giving His Son to die for sinners; but he was quite absent, and did not
appear to hear me, or take the least notice. After a little rest, he
commenced again praying as before, and got into terrible distress. What
with his noise, and the energy he put forth, it was frightful to see the
struggle. He cried, and beat the form till I thought his arms would be
black and blue; then he took up the form and beat the floor with it,
till I expected every moment it would come to pieces. The noise he made
brought some of the neighbours out of their beds in a fright to see what
was the matter.
At two o'clock in the morning, four hours after he began, he laid
himself across the form, and begged with tears that the Lord would not
cast him off. I told him that the Lord was actually waiting for him. At
last he found peace, or felt something, and, springing up, he began to
shout and praise God; and we all joined with him. When this was done, he
put on his coat and neck-tie, and saying "Good night," went home. From
this time he became a changed man, and an earnest and steadfast
believer.