Golant Mission, 1854.
It is a good plan to strike while the iron is hot;' and as the people at
Colant were in an interested and receptive state, I put off other things
which had been appointed, and made arrangements to return to the
battle-field as soon as possible. My people were much excited to hear
what I was able to tell them of my three days' visit, and they wished me
"God speed" for my next venture, praying most heartily for great
blessing.
Accordingly, on the following Monday I went back to Colant, and found
the place (an unusually quiet country village), together with the whole
neighbourhood round, including two or three small towns all astir. As a
rule, in order to insure success in a mission, there needs preparation,
visitation, and prayer; and I have observed that when there has been no
preparation in the way of public announcements of services, the people
have not come out, and the mission has been a failure. Where there has
been a regular system of visitation, without prayer, the congregations
have been abundant, but the services have been dry and hard; but in
places where preparation and visitation have been made with much prayer,
there has ever been a most unmistakable blessing. So much for human
agencies, which are necessary to us, though God is not bound to them.
There had been no preparation for the mission I am about to tell of, no
visitation, nor any special prayer; and yet it pleased the Lord to give
in this little village such an outpouring of His Spirit and
demonstration of His Power as is rarely known. There was a great running
together of the people, notwithstanding the difficulties of access to
the church. Some had to come several miles from the towns by road, some
by sea, and others across a tidal river where mud abounded; and after
landing, they had to climb a steep hill. None of these things, however,
deterred or discouraged them; they came, and they would come, in spite
of everything which was urged at other times as an excuse for staying
away, even on dark nights. It was the day of the Lord's power, and He
made them willing; so much so, that in some places work was suspended,
and people came even three times a day.
On the Monday evening, when I arrived, I found that the church would
scarcely hold the people who bad gathered to hear the Word of God. It
was a time of much blessing, and we remained there hard at work till
eleven o'clock, when, having four miles to go in order to get home, I
closed the service, offering to meet any anxious souls there at
half-past ten the next morning. This I did, and was surprised to find a
number of persons waiting, even at this early hour.
There were too many to speak to individually, so I addressed them
collectively, giving the ordinary instruction to seeking souls. In the
afternoon we had a still larger number, and in the evening a crowded
congregation; in this way the work continued, with three services a day
throughout the week, accompanied with remarkable conversions every day.
Among the number of those who attended was a surgeon, his wife and
brother, and the wife of a respectable yeoman. These, together with
several more from the village on the other side of the river, were
converted to God. Their rector was amazed to see them so changed, and
wondered by what process this was accomplished. He attended an afternoon
service, and was astonished to see so many people present on a week-day.
Afterwards introducing himself, he asked me very politely, "What is the
secret of all this?" He stud, "I have heard you preach, and certainly do
not agree with most part of what you said, nor do I see anything either
in your manner or matter which can account for this effect and work
amongst the people. I must say, I cannot ask you to my pulpit, but I
should much like a talk with you. Will you come over to luncheon with
me?"
I liked the candour and gentlemanly bearing of the man, and wished to
go, but could not fix a time while I was so much occupied; so I promised
I would write, and offer him a visit when I had more leisure.
In addition to the three services in church, we had another in the
morning at seven o'clock, in the town where I slept. There we gathered
the anxious ones who had been at the church the night before, and had
come away early on account of the distance. The little town was all in a
commotion, and the vicar in this place was beginning to get furious
about my holding this meeting in his parish; his daughter, in
particular, went about warning the people against attending it. Some
young men hired a four-oared boat to come to the evening service,
intending to disturb the congregation. They arrived in good time, but,
for all that, they were too late to get a seat. One young man, the
ringleader of the party, instead of causing a disturbance, stood still
and listened most attentively. I preached that evening from the words,
"And the door was shut," referring to the ark, and the awful desolation
and doom of those who were shut out. All the time I was preaching, I
could see this same man standing before the pulpit, with his elbow
leaning on the end of a high pew. He maintained this position throughout
the service, and at the end of the sermon was still there, rigid and
stiff, looking at the pulpit as if in a trance. He would not move or
speak; there he stood, till we feared he had gone out of his mind. His
companions were awed and took him away as well as they could, but did
not embark on their return journey till after midnight, and then the
tide was against them.
Soon after they had started, the wind rose, and there came on a great
storm; the thunder was loud, and the flashes of lightning awful. The
wind became so strong and violent, that, in spite of all their efforts,
the boat was stranded; they managed, however, to get out and pull it out
of the water, and took refuge for a time under overhanging rocks on the
shore. The young man continued as one stunned, and said nothing. There
they remained till between four and five o'clock in the morning, when
the storm abated, and they were able to set out again. At last they
succeeded in reaching home.
While these unfortunate young men were battling with the elements, we
went home by land and had a night's rest, though it was but a short one.
I rose and went to my meeting at seven o'clock, and on arriving found
the room quite full, there being only one chair unoccupied. As I stood
to 'speak, this seat remained vacant, so I beckoned a young man who was
standing at the door to come and take it. He looked worn and sad, and I
thought I recognized in him the same young man I had noticed the
previous night, and who, I was told, was the ringleader of the party who
came in the boat with the purpose of disturbing the meeting. He sat
down, sighing heavily several times.
Almost directly a man came forward and whispered to me, "You have a wolf
near you--take care!"
"All, right," I said, "he is tame enough now; there is no more bite in
him."
"Yes, yes," said the young man, overhearing us, "no more wolf. O God,
change me to a lamb!"
Poor fellow! he was in great trouble all day, and fainted away several
times before he found peace, which he did very dearly. He came to the
evening meeting, shouting "Hallelujah!" and stirred us all greatly.
Several others of the same party were also converted.
The news of this made some of the town's people furious; and, being the
fifth of November, they consoled themselves by making a straw effigy to
represent me. They put on it a sheet in place of a surplice, with a
paper mitre on its head, and, setting it on a donkey, carried it through
the town, accompanied by a crowd of men and boys, who shouted at the top
of their voices, "Here goes the Puseyite revivalist! Here goes the
Puseyite revivalist! Hurrah! Hurrah!" In this complimentary sport the
curate and one of the churchwardens took part.
That same night this churchwarden (who, I should say, had been one of
the boating party two nights before) had a dream. He dreamt that his
house was full of people, just like the church he had been in; all the
rooms, the staircase, and even his own bedroom, were filled with people
standing. There was a tremendous storm of wind and rain; the thunder
rolled, and the lightning flashed. In the midst of this a voice said to
him, "This is all about you, you sinner!" He awoke up out of his sleep
in a terrible fright, and began to cry to the Lord to have mercy on his
soul.
I was sent for before five o'clock in the morning to come and see him,
for his friends said that they thought he would go out of his mind.
Instead of this, he came to his right mind, for the Lord heard and
answered his prayer, and brought him from darkness into light, and from
the power of sin and Satan unto God. He went with me to the early
morning meeting; there we had the two chief leaders of the riotous party
in a changed condition, for which we heartily thanked God.
Their friend, the curate, was very excited and angry about this, and did
not quite know who to blame. He said that he would write to the Bishop
and tell him what was going on; and I believe he did not fail to carry
out his intention. As there were many who, from various causes, were
unable to go four miles to an evening service, I managed to secure the
Town Hall for a course of lectures on the "Pilgrim's Progress." The
curate came to the first, and, after hearing the lecture, stood up to
speak, and gave went to his feelings by saying a great many very angry
things. The people were so indignant, that I could scarcely restrain
them from laying hands on him to turn him out.
Some of the old forms and seats in the Town Hall (which was not
accustomed to be so crowded) broke down with the weight of people. The
vicar's daughter suggested that most likely they should hear next that
"the forms and seats were converted, for she had been told already that
they were broken down." This little straw will show which way the wind
blew in that quarter, and what was the drift of this lady's mind.
My friend with whom I was staying was evidently much perplexed, and
found himself let in for far more than he had calculated when he invited
me. He certainly would never have asked me had he foreseen such an upset
as there was everywhere, especially in the town in which he lived, and
the country parish of which he was vicar.
At last he made up his mind to take me with him to consult a clerical
neighbour, upon whose judgment he greatly relied. On our way a sudden
thought of misgiving came over him; he all at once turned to me and
said. "I say, my friend, I'll be done with you altogether if you say Mr.
---- is not converted!"
"Then," I replied, "you may be sure I will not say it."
"But suppose you think so?"
"Well, I must confess I think so already, and not without good reason
(at least, to my mind), for he has taken no interest whatever in this
remarkable work of God, nor has he shown the least sympathy in the
spiritual welfare of many of his parishioners, who have received
blessing at the meetings. His High Church neighbour, who does not
profess to be converted, could not help coming over to ask about it,
while your friend has never been near, nor even sent to make inquiry.
Besides this, one of his own people told me that he was much put out,
and very angry with you for asking me."
"Ah," said my friend, "we are not all revivalists like you, remember."
"Well," I said, "let me hope you are a deal better than I am."
He seemed very uneasy at taking me on after this conversation; but as he
had written to say we were coming, he thought we must go forward. In
order to ease his mind, I made an agreement with him that during
luncheon I would tell about the conversion of one of Mr. --'s
parishioners, and said, "While I do so, you watch his face. If he is at
all interested, I will conclude that I am wrong, and that he is
converted; but if he is not, I will leave you to judge for yourself. I
must say, I cannot understand a converted man not interested in the
conversion of others, even if it does nothing more than remind him of
his own."
My friend agreed to this, and seemed somewhat relieved in his mind.
On our arrival, Mr. -- received us courteously, and asked after the
family--indeed, about everything he could think of but the work.
My friend, after a little pause, said, "Have you not heard of the
revival?"
"Revival!" he said, calmly. "What is that?"
"The special services in my church."
"What services?"
This evidently was enough. He went out of the room to try and hurry the
luncheon. My friend looked very thoughtful, and said nothing, but was
clearly beginning to suspect that the judgment I had formed was not far
wrong.
In course of the luncheon I told my story, but not without being
interrupted over and over again by the host's attentions, and
importunities to "take more vegetables." "Have you any salt? .... Will
you take some bread? .... Will you not take a glass of wine?" It was
quite evident he wished the story at an end.
My friend said, "That is one of your parishioners he is talking about."
"I suspected so," he replied. "All I can say is, that if Mr. Haslam had
only known that man as long as I have, he would never speak of him as he
does. This is not the first profession he has made. He has been reformed
and changed several times before this, and has always become worse
afterwards."
"That is just the very thing Haslam says," said my friend--"that some
reformations are all flesh, and not the work of God; and, as such, can
never stand. I believe the man to be converted by God this time."
"We will see--we will see," said our host, quietly helping himself to a
glass of wine. "For my own part, I don't believe in these things."
My friend and I exchanged looks. I was silent, but he continued, "I am
bound to say that I was never converted before, nor yet my wife, my
daughter, or my sister."
"What!" said the vicar, starting, "you mean your sister Mary? Well, that
is enough! I don't wish to hear another word about your conversions
after that! I can only say that if I were half as good as Mrs. S---, I
should be well satisfied."
"Well, now," replied my friend, "do come over and see her, and hear what
she has to say about it herself."
"No, thank you," he replied; "I have no desire to interfere in such
matters."
There the conversation stopped, leaving a wall of separation between the
two clerical brothers, who had together professed to be Evangelical, and
cordially hated sacramental religion. They had also professed to believe
in salvation by faith only; but for all this they never urged upon their
people to perform any acts of faith--they only expected them to receive
the doctrine. I found that such people opposed me and my work a great
deal more than even High Church men.
My friend and I returned home, and he told his wife and sister the
result of our visit. They said that they were not surprised, for they
had made up their minds on the subject, and were quite sure that Mr. --
had no personal experience, though he was so intelligent about the
doctrine of salvation by faith.
The work, in the meantime, went on and spread. Some of the people came
over from Mr. --'s parish to ask me to come and preach to them in a
large sail-loft, which they had prepared for the purpose. My friend
would not consent to my going, and I was obliged to give them a refusal.
The next day they sent again, not to ask me to preach, but if I would
just come over to visit a sick man who was anxious about his soul. My
friend hesitated at this also. I said, "Why do you object to my going to
see the poor fellow? You took me to the vicarage to talk to the vicar
himself; surely you can let me go and do the same thing to one of his
parishioners."
"No," he said, "I cannot; that is quite a different thing."
Seeing that he was unwilling, and that it would displease him, I gave it
up, and went to the messengers and said, "I cannot go."
They were not satisfied, and asked "if the ladies would please to go;"
meaning my late dear wife and Mrs. S. (Mary), whom they had seen working
in the after-meetings.
My friend did not see any objection to the ladies going, and the men
seemed better pleased than if I had gone. They visited the sick man the
next day, and after that were asked "just to come and speak to a few
people up here" that was, in the adjoining sail-loft. On entering the
place, to their astonishment, they saw about three hundred people
sitting quietly waiting.
"What is this?" asked my wife.
The man said, "I only asked a few, but all those people are come. Do
give them just a word." She had never yet ventured on addressing a large
company like that, and Mary was shocked at the idea; but still, they
were afraid to refuse; so they mounted the carpenter's bench, which was
placed there with two chairs on it; and after a hymn and prayer, Mrs. H.
gave an address, which Mary told me afterwards "was far better than
anything I ever preached." They had an after-meeting, and some
conversions, and promised to come over again. Thus the work spread to
another part, and I had to go there also.
Poor Mr. -- was very excited about this, and said that he "thought it
most ungentlemanly." I dare say it was, and that I was somewhat uncouth;
but I never stop to consider prejudices and fancies when the Lord's work
is in the way.
It was a widespread and remarkable awakening, and one not without much
opposition and jealousy. I happened to say from the pulpit, that at one
time before I knew the truth I used to be quite a popular man: people
liked me, and clergymen let me preach in their pulpits; but now that I
had something to tell for the good of souls, they seemed to agree to
keep me out. Very few were so bold as the vicar of this parish, who had
not only invited me, but stood by me also.
A neighbouring clergyman, who was an important man--a prebendary, and
what not--wrote to the vicar to ask if it was true that I had said in
the pulpit that my clerical brethren scouted me, and would not let me
preach for them.
The vicar very wisely handed the indignant prebendary's letter over to
me to answer, which I did. In my reply, I took the opportunity to put in
some Gospel teaching, which was supposed to be very irrelevant matter,
and counted evasive. I did not deny that I had said something to the
effect of which he complained, but I pleaded in extenuation that I was
justified in doing so. He was more enraged by my letter than by the
report he had heard, and threatened to publish the correspondence. This
he did, with a letter to his parishioners, in which he warned them
against revivals in general, and me in particular. He told them that I
was "infatuated;" that I had "usurped the judgment seat of Christ;" that
I was "the accuser of the brethren;" that I "acted the devil's part now,
and was to be his companion hereafter." I thought of giving more choice
extracts from this publication, but on second thoughts I consider it
better to pass it over.