The Removal, 1855.
When I was on the eve of leaving Perranzabuloe, and before I knew that I
was to go, I felt there was a gulf between the people and myself.
Whatever else they held they were quite ignorant of ecclesiastical
antiquities, Church history, and Catholic truth; what is more, they were
unwilling to learn about such matters.
Now I began to feel that another gulf was opening between my present
people and myself. It was not as before, about ecclesiastical things;
but on another score altogether. I wanted them to believe in a living
Saviour: they were trying to content themselves with salvation instead.
I wanted them to trust the Giver: they preferred to rejoice in the gift.
I longed to lead them on to trust Christ as the object of faith, and
from this to go on to devote themselves to His service, for very love of
Him--to be loosed from the present world, by the hope of the Lord's
coming. I could not get the people to receive this teaching, though it
was God's truth, and could be verified by the Word.
I confess that this threefold truth was not so satisfying to my own soul
as I expected it would be. I remembered that I had not learned it from
men or books, but experimentally, by God's teaching, in answer to
prayer. I could not imagine what was wanting, and did not discover, for
several years after, that the mere knowledge of a truth by itself, even
though it is about Christ, cannot deliver. It is not the truth of Christ
that delivers, but the Christ of the truth. In itself, it is but an
instrument in the hand of the Spirit; and our expectation should be not
from it, but from the Divine Person, whose it is.
I have found that the power is Christ Himself; that where He is really
the object of faith, He keeps the believer in peace; and that if there
is no peace, it is only because there is a deficiency of trust: that He,
as the object of love, constrains us to work for His Father's glory; and
that He, as the object of hope, can and does separate us from the world
and its entanglements, by drawing our affections to things above and
beyond the present. Not having discovered this simple yet important
truth, I was restless; and from God's Word came down to read the words'
and thoughts of men. I fell in with the "Life of Madame Guyon." Here I
found much sympathy, but somehow not that peace I was looking for. Then
I read the writings of the Port Royal school, the Jansenists, Butler's
"Lives of the Saints," and other such books. These diverted my mind,
employed and interested it; but I cannot say they satisfied me. I was
craving for something which I had not found yet, and had to wait three
years or more before I did so.
About this time I was invited to go to a parish in Plymouth, to a church
where sacramental teaching was the rule. The incumbent was evidently as
much dissatisfied with the state of his congregation as I was with mine.
He wanted something new, and I thought I did likewise. Accordingly I
went and preached in his pulpit, and the word spoken produced a marked
sensation. My sermon brought to the vicar's mind many truths he had
heard and loved in early days, and for this reason he urged me to stay
and preach again. Then, to my surprise. He invited me to leave Cornwall
and come to Plymouth. in order to take a district in his parish, that I
might help him occasionally in his church. This was altogether such an
unsought-for thing, and so unexpected, that I took time to consider. The
next day I told him that I could not entertain his proposition, and that
for three reasons:--
1. I said, "I am sure that the Bishop would not consent."
2. "I have a debt laid on me by my patron for nearly 3,000 l.,
which I spent in building the church for him."
3. "I am responsible for a debt of 300 l. as security."
He still urged it, and said he would go and see the Bishop, and speak
with him on the subject. In his zeal he set off that very morning. The
Bishop at first said flatly, "No;" and then, upon further inquiry,
recalled the word, and said, "You may try it if you will." He returned
in the evening with this information, which surprised me greatly. But
what made me wonder still more, was the receipt of two letters the next
morning by the same post--one from London and the other from Paris,
releasing me from the responsibility of the two debts; and this without
any request on my part. The three difficulties, which were like
mountains before me only three days before, were now removed. I did not
know what to say, and therefore determined, in all haste, to go home and
consider the step.
When I had related these astonishing circumstances to my dear wife, we
agreed to go together to consult with Mr. Aitken. On arriving I said to
him, "You must please to sit still and hear all before you speak." Then
I told him of the invitation to go to Plymouth, the result of the
preaching, the unexpected proposal to remove thither, the Bishop's
answer, and the remission of the 3,300 l.
"Now," I continued, "what do you say?"
"You must go, my brother," he replied; "for you will never make
Catholics of the Cornish people: the Methodist mind is far too deeply
rooted in them."
Our friend's decision was firm; and so there remained nothing for us to
do but to follow it. The novelty of the proposition, and the surprising
circumstances connected with it were exciting, and took away our
thoughts for the time from the place which was to be left. When the
decision was given and accepted, then Baldhu seemed to lift up its
voice, and urge its claims. Certainly it was a strong tie which bound us
to this place; but nevertheless, on our return home, I wrote to the
Bishop, and' proposed to resign my present incumbency, in order that I
might take a district in Plymouth. He replied in due course, that he
would accept my resignation. After I was thus pledged, my wife's mind
veered from her consent to go; and Mr. Aitken changed his tone also, and
said that the text had come to him, "Cast thyself down," and that I was
tempting God. Yet all the steps I had taken had been in prayer, and had
been taken very reluctantly, for I was much attached to Baldhu.
For nearly three months I was torn with distractions; sometimes hope
lifted up the mist from the horizon, and then let it down again. I did
not know what to do; the work at home had come to a stand; but there was
one thing, my successor was not yet appointed, nor had I signed my
resignation; therefore every now and then the thought came over me, that
I would stay. Then a letter came from Plymouth, urging me to come away
at once, "for the iron was hot for striking." Sometimes people came in
and said, "You had better go;" then others would come in and say, "You
will do no good if you do go." It was desolating, as well as distracting
beyond description.
I had a family of six children and three servants; it was a great
expense to move there; and yet, if God was calling, it was quite as easy
for Him to move eleven people as one; and I had ten claims upon Him. At
last, suspense was over; my successor was appointed, and the day fixed
for our going. I signed my resignation, having to pay four pounds ten
shillings for it; then, suspense was changed into unmitigated sorrow.
I had designed and built that church and house, and had seen them rise;
had made the garden, and had had many happy and wonderful days in this
place. I found it had taken a deep root in my heart, and therefore it
was like tearing one up altogether to go away. But it was done now, and
the friends who had advised me not to resign, seemed to have their
triumph; and those who advised to go, were discouraged and grieved at my
sorrowful state. My dear wife cheered up when she saw me down, and rose
to the occasion; she began to pack up as if delighted at going, and went
about everything most cheerfully.
I told the people that I could not bear a leave-taking, but there would
be a service in the church, and Holy Communion, at seven o'clock on the
morning we were to leave. Many came, but the majority could not sum up
the courage to do so. I put my resignation on the offertory plate, and
gave it to God with many tears. A kind neighbour came to officiate for
me, so that I did not take any part in the service, being exceedingly
dejected and overwhelmed with sorrow. It was chiefly for fear, lest I
was doing that which God would not have me do, and taking my family out
from a comfortable home, I knew not whither, or to what discomforts.
One thing I certainly saw plainly enough, that my affections were too
deeply rooted in earthly things. I had no idea till then, that that
place of my own creation had taken such a hold upon me. It was well to
be loose from that, and free for my Master's service.
After breakfast we left the old place; many people stood weeping by the
roadsides; some ventured to speak, and others only thrust their hands
into the carriage windows for a hearty grasp, without saying a word. It
was indeed a sorrowful day, the remembrance of which even now makes my
heart sink, though it is more than twenty-five years since.
In the evening we arrived at the house of some friends, who had kindly
invited us to break our journey, and remain the night with them; and in
the morning we proceeded on our way to Plymouth. When we reached the
house, we found our furniture unpacked, and distributed in the various
rooms, and the table spread ready for us to take some refreshment. The
word "Welcome" was done in flowers over the door, besides many other
demonstrations of kindness; but I am afraid we were all too sorrowful at
the time to show our appreciation of, or to enjoy them.
We never settled in that house, and did not care to unpack anything more
than necessary, or hang up the pictures or texts.
My work did not prosper here, for I found I was unequally yoked with
strangers, and accordingly felt dry and wretched. I sent my resignation
of Baldhu to Bishop Phillpotts, and with it my nomination and other
necessary papers, saying that I would wait on his lordship for
institution on a certain day.
At the appointed time I went to him, when to my great surprise, he very
calmly said he could not appoint me to that district. I could not
understand this, for as I had told him, I had only resigned
conditionally, and reminded him that I had asked his permission to
resign, for the purpose of taking this district.
"How can I consciously appoint or license you to anything in my
diocese?" he said, looking me full in the face, and then in his
courteous way he laid his commands on me to stay to luncheon, saying he
would be obliged "if I would do him this honour;" he bade me walk in the
garden, as he was busy, and would be occupied till luncheon.
I felt that I needed a little quiet and fresh air to get over this
climax of my troubles--out of one living, and not into another; and that
with a wife, six children, and three servants, with very little to live
on. Here was a state of things! I had plenty to occupy my thoughts and
prayers. I feared and mourned, above everything, lest God should be
angry with me. "Oh, if I could only know this is the will of God, then I
should not care a fig for all the bishops on the bench, and would not
ask one of them for anything!"
I was soon roused from my reverie, by the presence of Miss C. P., the
Bishop's daughter, who had come out at her father's request to show me
the garden and the view. I had known this lady slightly for several
years, and so she was not altogether a stranger to me, or I to her. She
talked so cheerfully and pleasantly, that it came to my mind, "Perhaps
after all, the Bishop is only trying me. He will not appoint me to this
bare district, because he has something better with which he means to
surprise me." This sanguine thought cheered me up greatly. At luncheon
he was as kind and happy as if he had neither done anything
dishonourable, or had any intention of doing so; so that I felt quite
sure something good was coming. I began to wonder at intervals, "What
part of the diocese I was to be sent to?--Where is there a vacancy?" and
so on.
The Bishop was as friendly to me as he used to be in other days. After
the repast, he summoned me to his study again. "Now," I thought, "I
shall hear where I am to go;" but instead of this, he said that he was
"much engaged, and must take leave of me."
I was more than astonished at this, and said, "I can scarcely believe
that you refuse to appoint me!"
"I do then, most positively."
"But I have a copy of my letter to your lordship, and your answer."
"Then you may urge your claim by law, if you please."
"No, indeed, my lord, I do not think I will do that." And then, after a
short pause, I said, "You have done for me what I could not dare do for
myself, though I have often been tempted to do it."
"And pray, what is that?" he inquired.
"To give up parochial ministration, that I may be free to preach
wherever I am led."
"Could you do that?"
"I could not do it conscientiously myself; but now that you have
stripped me of harness, I will put on no more."
The Bishop made his bow, and I made mine; and that was the end of our
interview. In my unconverted days I used to be an ardent and
enthusiastic admirer of this man; his charges, his speeches, and
especially his withering, sarcastic letters to Lord John Russell and
others, who came under his tremendous lash, to my mind made him a great
hero. His straight forward manner also commanded my respect, for,
generally speaking, I had found bishops very smooth and two-sided, or
rather both-sided; but in his ease there was no mistake.
It used to be a proud time for me when this Bishop came into Cornwall,
and I was permitted to accompany him, and to act as his chaplain at the
consecration of a church or burial ground, or to attend him when he went
to a Confirmation. Sometimes I had the happy privilege of rowing him in
a boat on the sea. He seemed to take such an affectionate and
intelligent interest in my parish and my church work. He asked various
questions about my neighbours, just as if he lived among them and knew
all their circumstances. He struck me as a wonderful man, and I was his
champion upon all occasions in my unconverted days. Notwithstanding
this, he was too honest to his own views to favour me after my
conversion.
On my return home without a license, I had but a poor account to give,
and the future prospect looked very gloomy.