CHAPTER IV.

_THE MINISTRY IN ANGLESEA_ (_CONTINUED_).

Christmas Evans as a Bishop over many Churches—As a Moderator in Public

Meetings—Chapel-building and all its Difficulties to Christmas

Evans—Extensive Travelling for Chapel-debts—Especially in South Wales—The

Cildwrn Cottage again—A Mysterious Life of Poverty but of

Hospitality—Catherine’s Troubles—Story of a Hat—Wayfaring—Insatiability

for Sermons in the Welsh—The Scenery of a Great Sermon—The Demoniac of

Gadara—A Remarkable Illustration of the Varied Method of the Preacher—A

Series of Illustrations of his Power of Allegoric Painting—The Four

Methods of Preaching—The Seeking of the Young Child—Satan walking in Dry

Places—Christmas Evans in Another Light—Lengthy Letter to a Young

Minister—Contributions to Magazines—To be accursed from Christ—Dark Days

of Persecution—Threatened with Law for a Chapel Debt—Darker Days—Loss of

his Wife—Other Troubles—Determines to leave Anglesea.

The few glimpses we are able to obtain of the life and ministry in

Anglesea, assure us of the supreme influence obtained by Christmas Evans,

as was natural, over all the Churches of his order throughout that

region. And in a small way, in a circle far removed from the noise of

ideas, and the crowds and agitations of the great world, incessant

activity was imposed upon him,—so many Societies under his care, so many

meeting-houses to be erected, and funds to be procured for their

erection, so many cases of Church discipline, so many co-pastors

appointed, and set apart to work with him—who, however, were men mostly

in business, had their own domestic affairs to manage, and for all the

help they could give, needed helping and guidance; who had to receive

instructions from him as to what they were to do, and whither they were

to go,—so that, in fact, he was here, in Anglesea, a pastor of pastors, a

bishop, if ever any pastor deserved that designation; an overseer of many

Churches, and of many ministers. And hence, as a matter of course, in

all ministerial meetings, and other smaller gatherings, he was usually at

once not merely the nominal president, but the presiding spirit.

Rhys Stephen suggests a good many ludicrous aspects to the monthly

meetings, and other such gatherings; indeed, they were of a very

primitive description, and illustrative of what we should call a very

rude, and unconventional state of society. Order was maintained,

apparently, very much after the patriarchal or patristic fashion. All

the preachers he called by their Christian names, and he would certainly

have wondered what stranger happened to be in the place had any one

addressed him as Mr. Evans; “Christmas Evans,” before his face and behind

his back, was the name by which he was known not only throughout all

Anglesea, but, by-and-by, throughout the entire Principality.

Affectionate familiarity sometimes pays the penalty in diminished

reverence, and in a subtraction from the respect due to a higher gift or

superior position. Christmas appears to have been equal to this dilemma,

and to have sustained with great natural dignity the post of Moderator,

without surrendering his claim upon the affection of his colleagues. In

such a meeting, some humble brother would rise to speak a second time,

and, perhaps, not very pointedly, to the question; then the Moderator in

the pulpit, gathering up his brows, would suddenly cut across the speaker

with, “William, my boy, you have spoken before: have done with it;” or,

“Richard, _bach_, you have forgotten the question before the meeting:

hold your tongue.”

On one occasion, a minister from South Wales, although a native of

Anglesea, happening to be present, and rising evidently with the

intention of speaking, Christmas, who suffered no intrusion from the

south into their northern organizations, instantly nipped the flowers of

oratory by crying out, “Sit down, David, sit down.”

Such instances as these must seem very strange, even _outré_, to our

temper, taste, and ideas of public meetings; but they furnish a very

distinct idea of time, place, and circumstances, and give a not

altogether unbeautiful picture of a state of society when, if politeness

and culture had not attained their present eminence, there was a good

deal of light and sweetness, however offensive it might seem to our

intellectual Rimmels and Edisons.

Perhaps in every truly great and apostolic preacher, the preaching power,

although before men the most conspicuous, is really the smallest part of

the preacher’s labour, and presents the fewest claims for homage and

honour. We have very little, and know very little, of the Apostle Paul’s

sermons and great orations, mighty as they unquestionably were; he lives

to us most in his letters, in his life, and its many martyrdoms. Ah, we

fancy, if Christmas Evans had but to preach, to stay at home and minister

to his one congregation, what a serene and quiet life it would have been,

and how happy in the humble obscurity of his Cildwrn cottage!

But all his life in Anglesea seems to have been worried with

chapel-debts. Chapels rose,—it was necessary that they should rise;

people in scattered villages thronged to hear the Word; many hundreds

appear to have crowded into Church fellowship, chapels had to be

multiplied and enlarged; but, so far as we are able to read his

biography, Christmas appears to have been the only person on whom was

laid the burden of paying for them. Certainly he had no money: his

wealth was in his eloquence, and his fame; and the island of Anglesea

appears to have been by no means indisposed to lay these under

contribution. A chapel had to be raised, and Christmas Evans was the

name upon which the money was very cheerfully lent for its erection; but

by-and-by the interest pressed, or the debt had to be paid: what could be

done then? He must go forth into the south, and beg from richer

Churches, and from brethren who, with none of his gifts of genius or of

holiness, occupied the higher places in the sanctuary.

Our heart is very much melted while we read of all the toils he

accomplished in this way. Where were his sermons composed? Not so much

in his lowly cottage home as in the long, lonely, toilsome travels on his

horse through wild and unfrequented regions, where, throughout the long

day’s journey, he perhaps, sometimes, never met a traveller on the

solitary road. For many years, it is said, he went twice from his

northern bishopric to the south, once to the great Association, wherever

that might be, and where, of course, he was expected as the chief and

most attractive star, but once also with some chapel case, a journey

which always had to be undertaken in the winter, and which was always a

painful journey. Let us think of him with affection as we see him

wending on, he and his friendly horse, through wild snows, and rains, and

bleak storms of mountain wind.

Scarcely do we need to say he had a highly nervous temperament. The dear

man had a very capricious appetite, but who ever thought of that? He was

thrown upon himself; but the testimony is that he was a man utterly

regardless of his own health, ridiculously inattentive to his dress, and

to all his travelling arrangements. These journeys with his chapel case

would usually take some six weeks, or two months. It was no dainty tour

in a railway train, with first-class travelling expenses paid for the

best carriage, or the best hotel.

A man who was something like Christmas Evans, though still at an infinite

remove from him in the grandeur of his genius, a great preacher, William

Dawson—Billy Dawson, as he is still familiarly called—used to say, that

in the course of his ministry he found himself in places where he was

sometimes treated like a bishop, and sometimes like an apostle; sometimes

a great man would receive, and make a great dinner for him, and invite

celebrities to meet him, and give him the best entertainment, the best

room in a large, well-furnished house, where a warm fire shed a glow over

the apartment, and where he slept on a bed of down,—and this was what he

called being entertained like a bishop; but in other places he would be

received in a very humble home, coarse fare on the table, a mug of ale, a

piece of oatmeal cake, perhaps a slice of meat, a poor, unfurnished

chamber, a coarse bed, a cold room,—and this was what he called being

entertained like an apostle.

We may be very sure that the apostolic entertainment was that which

usually awaited Christmas Evans at the close of his long day’s journey.

Not to be looked upon with contempt either,—hearty and free; and,

perhaps, the conversation in the intervals between the puff of the pipe

was what we should rather relish, than the more timorous and equable flow

of speech in the finer mansion. This is certain, however, that the

entertainment of Christmas Evans, in most of his excursions, would be of

the coarsest kind.

And this was far from the worst of his afflictions; there were, in that

day, persons of an order of character, unknown to our happier, more

Christian, and enlightened times,—pert and conceited brethren, unworthy

to unloose the latchet of the great man’s shoes, but who fancied

themselves far above him, from their leading a town life, and being

pastors over wealthier Churches. Well, they have gone, and we are not

writing their lives, for they never had a life to write, only they were

often annoying flies which teased the poor traveller on his way. On most

of these he took his revenge, by fastening upon them some _sobriquet_,

which he fetched out of that imaginative store-house of his,—from the

closets of compound epithet; these often stuck like a burr to the coat of

the character, and proved to be perhaps the best passport to its owner’s

notoriety through the Principality. Further than this, we need not

suppose they troubled the great man much; uncomplainingly he went on, for

he loved his Master, and he loved his work. He only remembered that a

certain sum must be found by such a day to pay off a certain portion of a

chapel-debt; he had to meet the emergency, and he could only meet it by

obtaining help from his brethren.

In this way he travelled from North to South Wales forty times; he

preached always once every day in the week, and twice on the Lord’s Day.

Of course, the congregations everywhere welcomed him; the collections

usually would be but very small; ministers and officers, more usually, as

far as was possible, somewhat resented these calls, as too frequent and

irregular. He preached one of his own glorious sermons, and then—does it

not seem shocking to us to know, that he usually stood at the door, as it

were, hat in hand, to receive such contributions as the friends might

give to him? And he did this for many years, until, at last, his

frequent indisposition, in consequence of this severity of service,

compelled him to ask some friend to take his place at the door; but in

doing this he always apologised for his delegation of service to another,

lest it should seem that he had treated with inattention and disrespect

those who had contributed to him of their love and kindness.

And so a number of the Welsh Baptist chapels, in Anglesea and North

Wales, rose. There was frequently a loud outcry among the ministers of

the south, that he came too often; and certainly it was only the

marvellous attractions of the preacher which saved him from the indignity

of a refusal. His reply was always ready: “What can I do? the people

crowd to hear us; it is our duty to accommodate them as well as we can;

all we have we give; to you much is given, you can give much; it is more

blessed to give than receive,” etc., etc. Then sometimes came more

plaintive words; and so he won his way into the pulpit, and, once there,

it was not difficult to win his way to the people’s hearts. It was what

we suppose may be called the age of chapel cases. How many of our

chapels in England have been erected by the humiliating travels of poor

ministers?

Christmas Evans was saved from one greater indignity yet, the

encountering the proud rich man, insolent, haughty, and arrogant. It is

not a beautiful chapter in the history of voluntaryism. In the course of

these excursions, he usually succeeded in accomplishing the purpose for

which he set forth; probably the contributions were generally very small;

but then, on many occasions, the preacher had so succeeded in putting

himself on good terms with all his hearers that most of them gave

something.

It is said that on one occasion not a single person passed by without

contributing something: surely a most unusual circumstance, but it was

the result of a manœuvre. It was in an obscure district, just then

especially remarkable for sheep-stealing; indeed, it was quite notorious.

The preacher was aware of this circumstance, and, when he stood up in the

immense crowd to urge the people to liberality, he spoke of this crime of

the neighbourhood; he supposed that amidst that large multitude it was

impossible but that some of those sheep-stealers would be present: he

addressed them solemnly, and implored them, if present, not to give

anything to the collection about to be made. It was indeed a feat rather

worthy of Rowland Hill than illustrative of Christmas Evans, but so it

was; those who had no money upon them borrowed from those who had, and it

is said that, upon that occasion, not a single person permitted himself

to pass out without a contribution.

The good man, however, often felt that a burden was laid upon him, which

scarcely belonged to the work to which he regarded himself as especially

set apart. Perhaps he might have paraphrased the words of the Apostle,

and said, “The Lord sent me not to attend to the affairs of your

chapel-debts, but to preach the gospel.” There is not only pathos, but

truth in the following words; he says, “I humbly think that no

missionaries in India, or any other country, have had to bear such a

burden as I have borne, because of chapel-debts, and _they_ have not had

besides to provide for their own support, as I have had to do through all

my life in Anglesea; London committees have cared for _them_, while I,

for many years, received but seventeen pounds per annum for all my

services. The other preachers were young, and inexperienced, and the

members threw all the responsibility upon me, as children do upon a

father; my anxiety often moved me in the depths of the night to cry out

unto God to preserve His cause from shame. God’s promises to sustain His

cause in the world greatly comforted me. I would search for the Divine

promises to this effect, and plead them in prayer, until I felt as

confident as if every farthing had been paid. I laboured hard to

institute weekly penny offerings, but was not very successful; and after

every effort there remained large sums unpaid in connection with some of

the chapels which had been built without my consent.”

Poor Christmas! As we read of him he excites our wonder.

“Passing rich with forty pounds a year.”

looks like positive wealth as compared with the emoluments of our poor

preacher; and yet the record is that he was given to hospitality, and he

contributed his sovereign, and half-sovereign, not only occasionally, but

annually, where his richer neighbours satisfied their consciences with

far inferior bequests. How did the man do it? He had not married a rich

wife, and he did not, as many of his brethren, eke out his income by some

farm, or secular pursuit; a very common, and a very necessary thing to

do, we should say, in Wales.

But, no doubt, Catherine had much to do with his unburdened life of

domestic quiet; perhaps,—it does not appear, but it seems probable—she

had some little money of her own; she had what to her husband was

incomparably more valuable, a clear practical mind, rich in faith, but a

calm, quiet, household faith. Lonely indeed her life must often have

been in the solitary cottage, into which, assuredly, nothing in the shape

of a luxury ever intruded itself. It has been called, by a Welshman, a

curious anomaly in Welsh life, the insatiable appetite for sermons, and

the singular, even marvellous, disregard for the temporal comforts of the

preacher. Christmas, it seems to us, was able to bear much very

unrepiningly, but sometimes his righteous soul was vexed. Upon one

occasion, when, after preaching from home, he not only received less for

his expenses than he naturally expected, but even less than an ordinary

itinerant fee, an old dame remarked to him, “Well, Christmas, _bach_, you

have given us a wonderful sermon, and I hope you will be paid at the

resurrection,” “Yes, yes, _shan fach_,” said the preacher, “no doubt of

that, but what am I to do till I get there? And there’s the old white

mare that carries me, what will she do? for her there will be no

resurrection.”

Decidedly the Welsh of that day seemed to think that it was essential to

the preservation of the purity of the Gospel that their ministers should

be kept low. Mr. D. M. Evans, in his Life of Christmas Evans, gives us

the anecdote of a worthy and popular minister of this time, who was in

the receipt of exactly twenty pounds a year; he received an invitation

from another Church, offering him three pounds ten a month. This

miserable lover of filthy lucre, like another Demas, was tempted by the

dazzling offer, and intimated his serious intention of accepting “the

call.” There was a great commotion in the neighbourhood, where the poor

man was exceedingly beloved; many of his people remonstrated with him on

the sad exhibition he was giving of a guilty love of money; and, after

much consideration, the leading deacon was appointed as a deputation to

wait upon him, and to inform him, that rather than suffer the loss of his

removal on account of money considerations, they had agreed to advance

his salary to twenty guineas, or twenty-one pounds! Overcome by such an

expression of his people’s attachment, says Mr. Evans, he repented of his

incontinent love of money, and stayed.

A strange part-glimpse all this seems to give of Welsh clerical life, not

calculated either to kindle, or to keep in a minister’s mind, the

essential sense of self-respect. The brothers of La Trappe, St. Francis

and his preaching friars, do not seem to us a more humiliated tribe than

Christmas and his itinerating “little _brethren_ of the poor.” We

suppose that sometimes a farmer would send a cheese, and another a few

pounds of butter, and another a flitch of bacon; and, perhaps,

occasionally, in the course of his travels,—we do not know of any such

instances, we only suppose it possible, and probable,—some rich man,

after an eloquent sermon, would graciously patronize the illustrious

preacher, by pressing a real golden sovereign into the apostle’s hand.

One wonders how clothes were provided. William Huntingdon’s “Bank of

Faith” seems to us, in comparison with that of Christmas Evans, like the

faith of a man who wakes every morning to the sense of the possession of

a million sterling at his banker’s,—in comparison with _his_ faith, who

rises sensible that, from day to day, he has to live as on the assurance,

and confidence of a child.

Certainly, Wales did not contain at that time a more unselfish, and

divinely thoughtless creature than this Christmas Evans; and then he had

no children. A man without children, without a child, can afford to be

more careless and indifferent to the world’s gold and gear. The coat, no

doubt, often got very shabby, and the mothers of Israel in Anglesea, let

us hope, sometimes gathered together, and thought of pleasant surprises

in the way of improving the personal appearance of their pastor; but

indeed the man was ridiculous in his disregard to all the circumstances

of dress and adornment. Once, when he was about to set forth on a

preaching tour, Catherine had found her mind greatly exercised concerning

her husband’s hat, and, with some difficulty, she had succeeded in

equipping that noble head of his with a new one. But upon the journey

there came a time when his horse needed to drink; at last he came to a

clear, and pleasant pond, or brook, but he was at a loss for a pail; now

what was to be done? Happy thought, equal to any of those of Mr.

Barnand! he took the hat from off his head, and filled it with water for

poor old Lemon. When he returned home, Catherine was amazed at the

deterioration of the headgear, and he related to her the story. A man

like this would not be likely to be greatly troubled by any defections in

personal adornment.

Wordsworth has chanted, in well-remembered lines, the name and fame of

him, whom he designates, for his life of probity, purity, and

poverty,—united in the pastoral office, in his mountain chapel in

Westmoreland,—Wonderful Robert Walker. Far be it from us to attempt to

detract from the well-won honours of the holy Westmoreland pastor; but,

assuredly, as we think of Christmas Evans, he too seems to us even far

more wonderful; for there was laid upon him, not merely the thought for

his own pulpit and his own family, but the care of all the Churches in

his neighbourhood.

And so the end is, that during these years we have to follow him through

mountain villages, in which the silence and desolation greet him, like

that he might have found in old Castile, or La Mancha,—through spots

where ruined old castles and monasteries were turned into barns, and hay

and straw stowed away within walls, once devoted either to gorgeous

festivity or idolatry,—through wild and beautiful scenes; narrow glen and

ravine, down which mountain torrents roared and foamed,—through wild

mountain gorges, far, in his day, from the noise and traffic of

towns,—although in such spots Mr. Borrow found the dark hills strangely

ablaze with furnaces, seeming to that strange traveller, so he said,

queerly enough, “like a Sabbath in hell, and devils proceeding to

afternoon worship,”—past simple, and unadorned, and spireless churches,

hallowed by the prayers of many generations; and through churchyards in

which rests the dust of the venerable dead. We can see him coming to the

lonely Methodist chapel, rising like a Shiloh, bearing the ark, like a

lighthouse among the high hills—strolling into a solitary cottage as he

passes, and finding some ancient woman, in her comfortable kitchen, over

her Welsh Bible, and concordance, neither an unpleasant nor an unusual

sight;—never happier, we will be bold to say, than when, keeping his own

company, he traverses and travels these lone and solitary roads and

mountain by-paths, not only through the long day, but far into the night,

sometimes by the bright clear moonlight, among the mountains, and

sometimes through the “villain mists,” their large sheets rolling up the

mountain sides bushes and trees seen indistinctly like goblins and elves,

till—

“In every hollow dingle stood,

Of wry-mouth fiends a wrathful brood.”

So we think of him pressing on his way; no doubt often drenched to the

skin, although uninjured in body; sometimes through scenes novel and

grand, where the mountain looks sad with some ruin on its brow, as

beneath Cader Idris (the chair or throne of Idris), where the meditative

wanderer might conceive he saw some old king, unfortunate and melancholy,

but a king still, with the look of a king, and the ancestral crown on his

forehead.

We may be sure he came where corpse-candles glittered, unquenched by

nineteenth-century ideas, along the road; for those travelling times were

much nearer to the days of Twm ór Nant, who, when he kept turnpike, was

constantly troubled by hearses, and mourning coaches, and funeral

processions on foot passing through his gate. Through lonely places and

alder swamps, where nothing would be heard but the murmuring of waters,

and the wind rushing down the gullies,—sometimes falling in with a pious

and sympathetic traveller, a lonely creature, “Sorry to say, Good-bye,

thank you for your conversation; I haven’t heard such a treat of talk for

many a weary day.” Often, passing through scenes where the sweet voice

of village bells mingled with the low rush of the river; and sometimes

where the rocks rolled back the echoes like a pack of dogs sweeping down

the hills. “Hark to the dogs!” exclaimed a companion to Mr. Borrow once.

“This pass is called _Nant yr ieuanc gwn_, the pass of the young dogs;

because, when one shouts, it answers with a noise resembling the crying

of hounds.”

What honour was paid to the name and memory of the earnest-hearted and

intrepid Felix Neff, the pastor of the Higher Alps; but does not the

reader, familiar with the life of that holy man, perceive much

resemblance in the work, the endurance, and the scenery of the toil, to

that of Christmas Evans? May he not be called the pastor of our English

Engadine?

All such lives have their grand compensations; doubtless this man had

his, and _great_ compensations too; perhaps, among the minor ones, we may

mention his ardent reception at the great Association gatherings. At

these his name created great expectations; there he met crowds of

brethren and friends, from the remote parts of the Principality, by whom

he was at once honoured and loved. We may conceive such an occasion; the

“one-eyed man of Anglesea” has now been for many years at the very height

of his popularity; his name is now the greatest in his denomination; this

will be one of his great occasions, and his coming has been expected for

many weeks. No expectation hanging upon the appearance of Jenny Lind, or

Christine Nielson, or Sims Reeves, on some great musical festivity, can

reach, in our imagination, the expectations of these poor, simple

villagers as they think of the delight they will experience in listening

to their wonderful and well-loved prophet.

So, along all the roads, there presses an untiring crowd, showing that

something unusual is going on somewhere. The roads are all picturesque

and lively with all sorts of people, on foot, on horseback, in old farm

carts, and even in carriages; all wending their way to the largest and

most central chapel of the neighbourhood. It is the chief service. It

is a Sabbath evening; the congregation is wedged together in the spacious

house of God; it becomes almost insupportable, but the Welsh like it.

The service has not commenced, and a cry is already raised that it had

better be held in an adjoining field; but it is said this would be

inconvenient. The doors, the windows, are all thrown open; and so the

time goes on, and the hour for the commencement of the service arrives.

All eyes are strained as the door opens beneath the pulpit, and the

minister of the congregation comes in, and makes his way, as well as he

can, for himself and his friend, the great preacher—there he is! that

tall, commanding figure,—that is he, the “one-eyed man of Anglesea.”

A murmur of joy, whisperings of glad congratulation, which almost want to

burst into acclamations, pass over the multitude. And the service

commences with prayer, singing, reading a chapter, and a short sermon,—a

very short one, only twenty minutes. There are crowds of preachers

sitting beneath the pulpit, but they, and all, have come to hear the

mighty minstrel—and the moment is here. A few more verses of a hymn,

during which there is no little commotion, in order that there may be

none by-and-bye, those who have been long standing changing places with

those who had been sitting. There, he is up! he is before the people!

And in some such circumstances he seems to have first sung that wonderful

song or sermon,

THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA.

The text he announced was—“_Jesus said unto him_, _Go home unto thy

friends_, _and tell them how great things the Lord hath done for thee_,

_and hath had compassion on thee_.”

The introduction was very simple and brief; but, before long, the

preacher broke loose from all relations of mere comment and explanation,

and seemed to revel in dramatic scenery, and pictorial imagination, and,

as was so usual with him in such descriptions, increasing, heightening,

and intensifying the picture, by making each picture, each scene, to live

even in the kind of enchantment of a present demoniacal possession. He

began by describing the demoniac as a castle garrisoned with a legion of

fiends, towards which the great Conqueror was approaching over the Sea of

Tiberias, the winds hushing at His word, the sea growing calm at His

bidding. Already He had acquired among the devils a terrible fame, and

His name shook the garrison of the entire man, and the infernal legion

within, with confusion and horror.

“I imagine,” he said, “that this demoniac was not only an object of

pity, but he was really a terror to the country. So terrific was his

appearance, so dreadful and hideous his screams, so formidable,

frightful, and horrid his wild career, that all the women in that

region were so much alarmed that none of them dared go to market,

lest he should leap upon them like a panther on his prey.

“And what made him still more terrible was the place of his abode.

It was not in a city, where some attention might be paid to order and

decorum (though he would sometimes ramble into the city, as in this

case). It was not in a town, or village, or any house whatever,

where assistance might be obtained in case of necessity; but it was

among the tombs, and in the wilderness—not far, however, from the

turnpike road. No one could tell but that he might leap at them,

like a wild beast, and scare them to death. The gloominess of the

place made it more awful and solemn. It was among the tombs—where,

in the opinion of some, all witches, corpse-candles, and hobgoblins

abide.

“One day, however, Mary was determined that no such nuisance should

be suffered in the country of the Gadarenes. The man must be

clothed, though he was mad and crazy. And if he should at any future

time strip himself, tie up his clothes in a bundle, throw them into

the river, and tell them to go to see Abraham, he must be tied and

taken care of. Well, this was all right; no sooner said than done.

But, so soon as the fellow was bound, although even in chains and

fetters, Samson-like he broke the bands asunder, and could not be

tamed.

“By this time, the devil became offended with the Gadarenes, and, in

a pout, he took the demoniac away, and drove him into the wilderness.

He thought the Gadarenes had no business to interfere, and meddle

with his property; for he had possession of the man. And he knew

that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’ It is probable

that he wanted to send him home; for there was no knowing what might

happen now-a-days. But there was too much matter about him to send

him as he was; therefore, he thought the best plan would be to

persuade him to commit suicide by cutting his throat. But here Satan

was at a nonplus—his rope was too short. He could not turn

executioner himself, as that would not have answered the design he

has in view, when he wants people to commit suicide; for the act

would have been his own sin, and not the man’s. The poor demoniac,

therefore, must go about to hunt for a sharp stone, or anything that

he could get. He might have been in search of such an article, when

he returned from the wilderness into the city, whence he came, when

he met the Son of God.

“Jesus commanded the unclean spirit to come out of the man. And when

he saw Jesus he cried out, and fell down before him, and with a loud

voice said, ‘What have I to do with thee, Jesus, Thou Son of God most

high? I beseech Thee, torment me not.’

“Here is the devil’s confession of faith. The devils believe and

tremble, while men make a mock of sin, and sport on the brink of

eternal ruin. To many of the human race, Christ appears as a root

out of dry ground. They see in Him neither form nor comeliness, and

there is no beauty in Him that they should desire Him. Some said He

was the carpenter’s son, and would not believe in Him; others said He

had a devil, and that it was through Beelzebub, the chief of the

devils, that He cast out devils: some cried out, ‘Let Him be

crucified;’ and others said, ‘Let His blood be on us and on our

children.’ As the Jews would not have Him to reign over them, so

many, who call themselves Christians, say that He is a mere man; as

such, He has no right to rule over their consciences, and demand

their obedience, adoration, and praise. But the devils know

better—they say, Jesus is the Son of God most high.

“Many of the children of the devil, whose work they do, differ very

widely from their father in their sentiments respecting the person of

Christ.

“Jesus commanded the legion of unclean spirits to come out of the

man. They knew that out they must go. But they were like

Irishmen—very unwilling to return to their own country. They would

rather go into hogs’ skins than to their own country. And He

suffered them to go into the herd of swine. Methinks that one of the

men who fed the hogs, kept a better look out than the rest of them

and said, ‘What ails the hogs? Look sharp there, boys—keep them

in—make good use of your whips! Why don’t you run? Why, I declare,

one of them has gone over the cliff! There, there, Morgan, goes

another! Drive them back, Tom.’ Never was there such a running, and

whipping, and hallooing; but down go the hogs, before they are aware

of it.

“One of them said, ‘They are all gone!’

“‘No, sure not all gone into the sea!’

“‘Yes, every one of them, the _black hog_ and all. They are all

drowned! the devil is in them! What shall we do now? What can we

say to the owners?’

“‘What can we say?’ said another; ‘we must tell the truth—that is all

about it. We did our best—all that was in our power. What could any

man do more?’

“So they went their way to the city, to tell the masters what had

happened.

“‘John, where are you going?’ exclaimed one of the masters.

“‘Sir, did you know the demoniac that was among the tombs there?’

“‘Demoniac among the tombs! Where did you leave the hogs?’

“‘That madman, sir—’

“‘Madman! Why do you come home without the hogs?’

“‘That wild and furious man, sir, that mistress was afraid of so

much—’

“‘Why, John, I ask you a plain and simple question—why don’t you

answer me? Where are the hogs?’

“‘That man who was possessed with the devils, sir—’

“‘Why, sure enough, you are crazy! You look wild! Tell me your

story, if you can, let it be what it may.’

“‘Jesus Christ, sir, has cast the unclean spirits out of the

demoniac; they are gone into the swine; and they are all drowned in

the sea; for I saw the tail of the last one!’

“The Gadarenes went out to see what was done, and finding that it was

even so, they were afraid, and besought Jesus to depart from them.

“How awful must be the condition of those men who love the things of

this world more than Jesus Christ.

“The man out of whom the unclean spirits were cast, besought Jesus

that he might be with Him. But He told him to return to his own

house, and show how great things God had done unto him. And he went

his way, and published, throughout the whole city of Decapolis, how

great things Jesus had done unto him. The act of Jesus casting so

many devils out of him, was sufficient to persuade him that Jesus was

God as well as man.

“I imagine I see him going through the city, crying—‘Oh yes! Oh yes!

Oh yes! please to take notice of me, the demoniac among the tombs. I

am the man who was a terror to the people of this place—that wild

man, who would wear no clothes, and that no man could bind. Here am

I now, in my right mind. Jesus Christ, the Friend of sinners, had

compassion on me. He remembered me when I was in my low estate—when

there was no eye to pity, and no hand to save. He cast out the

devils and redeemed my soul from destruction.’

“Most wonderful must have been the surprise of the people, to hear

such proclamation. The ladies running to the windows, the shoemakers

throwing their lasts one way, and their awls another, running out to

meet him and to converse with him, that they might be positive that

there was no imposition, and found it to be a fact that could not be

contradicted. ‘Oh, the wonder of all wonders! Never was there such

a thing,’ must, I think, have been the general conversation.

“And while they were talking, and everybody having something to say,

homeward goes the man. As soon as he comes in sight of the house, I

imagine I see one of the children running in, and crying, ‘Oh,

mother! father is coming—he will kill us all!’

“‘Children, come all into the house,’ says the mother. ‘Let us

fasten the doors. I think there is no sorrow like my sorrow!’ says

the broken-hearted woman. ‘Are all the windows fastened, children?’

“‘Yes, mother.’

“‘Mary, my dear, come from the window—don’t be standing there.’

“‘Why, mother, I can hardly believe it is father! That man is well

dressed.’

“‘Oh yes, my dear children, it is your own father. I knew him by his

walk, the moment I saw him.’

“Another child stepping to the window, says, ‘Why, mother, I never

saw father coming home as he comes to-day. He walks on the footpath,

and turns round the corner of the fence. He used to come towards the

house as straight as a line, over fences, ditches, and hedges; and I

never saw him walk as slowly as he does now.’

“In a few moments, however, he arrives at the door of the house, to

the great terror and consternation of all the inmates. He gently

tries the door, and finds no admittance. He pauses a moment, steps

towards the window, and says in a low, firm, and melodious voice, ‘My

dear wife, if you will let me in, there is no danger. I will not

hurt you. I bring you glad tidings of great joy.’ The door is

reluctantly opened, as it were between joy and fear. Having

deliberately seated himself, he says: ‘I am come to show you what

great things God has done for me. He loved me with an everlasting

love. He redeemed me from the curse of the law, and the threatenings

of vindictive justice. He saved me from the power and dominion of

sin. He cast the devils out of my heart, and made that heart, which

was a den of thieves, the temple of the Holy Spirit. I cannot tell

you how much I love my Saviour. Jesus Christ is the foundation of my

hope, the object of my faith, and the centre of my affections. I can

venture my immortal soul upon Him. He is my best friend. He is

altogether lovely—the chief among ten thousand. He is my wisdom,

righteousness, sanctification, and redemption. There is enough in

Him to make a poor sinner rich, and a miserable sinner happy. His

flesh and blood is my food,—His righteousness my wedding garment, and

His blood is efficacious to cleanse me from all my sins. Through Him

I can obtain eternal life; for He is the brightness of the Father’s

glory, and the express image of His Person: in whom dwelleth all the

fulness of the Godhead bodily. He deserves my highest esteem, and my

warmest gratitude. Unto Him who loved me with an eternal love, and

washed me in His own blood, unto Him be the glory, dominion, and

power, for ever and ever! For He has rescued my soul from hell. He

plucked me as a brand from the burning. He took me out of the miry

clay, and out of a horrible pit. He set my feet upon a rock, and

established my goings, and put in my mouth a new song of praise, and

glory to Him! Glory to Him for ever! Glory to God in the highest!

Glory to God for ever and ever! Let the whole earth praise Him!

Yea, let all the people praise Him!’ How sweet was all this, the

transporting joy of his wife!

“It is beyond the power of the strongest imagination to conceive the

joy and gladness of this family. The joy of seafaring men delivered

from shipwreck; the joy of a man delivered from a burning house; the

joy of not being found guilty at a criminal bar; the joy of receiving

pardon to a condemned malefactor; the joy of freedom to a prisoner of

war, is nothing in comparison to the joy of him who is delivered from

going down to the pit of eternal destruction. For it is a joy

unspeakable and full of glory.”

The effect of this sermon is described as overwhelmingly wonderful. The

first portion, in which he pictured the mysterious and terrible being,

the wild demoniac, something of a wild beast, and something of a fiend,

made the people shudder. Then, shifting his scene, the catastrophe of

the swine, the flight of the affrighted herdsmen, the report to the

master, and the effect of the miracle on the populace, was rendered with

such dramatic effect, the preacher even laughing himself, as he painted

the rushing swine, hurrying down the steep place into the lake,

especially the “black hog,” and all,—for they all understood the point of

that allusion,—that beneath the grim grotesqueness of the scene, laughter

ran over the whole multitude. But the pathos of the family scene! Mary

embracing her restored husband; and the restored maniac’s experience, and

hymn of praise. The place became a perfect Bochim; they wept like

mourners at a funeral. Shouts of prayer and praise mingled together.

One who heard that wonderful sermon says, that, at last, the people

seemed like the inhabitants of a city which had been shaken by an

earthquake, that, in their escape, rushed into the streets, falling upon

the earth screaming, and calling upon God!

This sermon has never been printed; indeed, it is obvious that it never

could be prepared for the press. It defies all criticism; and the few

outlines we have attempted to present are quite inadequate to reproduce

it. All who heard it understood, that it was a picture of a lunatic, and

demon-haunted world; and it was beneath the impression of this, that

passionate cries, universal, thankful, penitent murmurs rose; whilst

amidst loud “Amens!” and sobs, and tears, some petitions ascended: “O

Lord, who didst walk on the sea, that Thou mightest meet the Gadarene,

cast out some demons from our midst to-night.”

Although the demoniac of Gadara is not, in the strict sense of the word,

an allegory, yet it is allegoric throughout; a fine piece of shadowy

painting, in which unconverted, and converted men, and women might

realize something of their own personal history, and the means by which

they would “come to themselves.”

And, no doubt, the chief charm, and most original characteristic of the

preacher, was his power of sustained allegory; some incident, even some

passing expression in Scripture, some prophetic figure of speech, was

turned round and round by him, beaten out, or suggested a series of

cartoon paintings, until it became like a chapter from the “Pilgrim’s

Progress.” It has seemed to us, that his translators have been

singularly unfortunate in rendering these excursions of his fancy into

English; our most vivid impressions of them have been derived from those

who had heard them, in all their freshness, from the preacher’s own

wonderful lips. We will attempt to transfer one or two of these

allegories to our pages. It must have been effective to have heard him

describe the necessity of Divine life, spiritual power, to raise a soul

from spiritual death. This may be called

“THE FOUR METHODS OF PREACHING.

“He beheld,” he said, “such a one as Lazarus lying in the cave,

locked in the sleep of death; now how shall he be raised? how shall

he be brought back to life? Who will roll away for us the stone from

this sepulchre? First came one, who went down to the cave with

blankets, and salt, to rub with the fomentations of duty, to appeal

to the will, to say to the sleeping man, that he could if he would;

chafing and rubbing the cold and inert limbs, he thinks to call back

the vital warmth; and then retiring, and standing some distance

apart, he says to the other spectators, ‘Do you not see him stir?

Are there no signs of life? Is he not moving?’ No, he lies very

still, there is no motion. How could it be otherwise? how could a

sense of moral duty be felt by the man there?—_for the man was dead_!

“The first man gave up in despair. And then came the second. ‘I

thought you would never do it,’ he said; ‘but if you look at me, you

will see a thing. No,’ he said, ‘your treatment has been too

gentle.’ And he went down into the cave with a scourge. Said he,

‘The man only wants severe treatment to be brought back to life. I

warrant me I will make him feel,’ he said. And he laid on in quick

succession the fervid blows, the sharp threatenings of law and

judgment, and future danger and doom; and then he retired to some

distance. ‘Is he not waking?’ he said. ‘Do you not see the corpse

stir?’ No! A corpse he was before the man began to lay on his

lashes, and a corpse he continued still;—_for the man was dead_!

“‘Ah,’ said another, advancing, ‘but I have wonderful power. You,

with your rubbing, and your smiting, what can you do? but I have it,

for I have two things.’ And he advanced, and he fixed an electric

battery, and disposed it so that it touched the dead man, and then,

from a flute which he held, he drew forth such sweet sounds that they

charmed the ears which were listening; and whether it was the

battery, or whether it was the music, so it was, that effect seemed

to be produced. ‘Behold,’ said he, ‘what the refinements of

education and cultivation will do!’ And, indeed, so it was, for the

hair of the dead man seemed to rise, and his eye-balls seemed to

start and dilate; and see! he rises, starts up, and takes a stride

down the cave. Ah, but it is all over; it was nothing but the

electricity in the battery; and he sank back again flat on the floor

of the cave;—_for the man was dead_!

“And then, when all were filled with despair, there came One, and

stood by the entrance of the cave; but He was the Lord and Giver of

life, and standing there, He said, ‘Come from the four winds, O

breath, and breathe upon this slain one, that he may live. Christ

hath given thee life. Awake, thou that sleepest.’ And the man

arose; he shook off his grave-clothes; what he needed had come to him

now—_life_! Life is the only cure for death. Not the prescriptions

of duty, not the threats of punishment and damnation, not the arts

and the refinements of education, but new, spiritual, Divine _life_.”

The same manner appears in the way in which he traces the story of a soul

seeking Christ, under the idea of the Wise Men following the leading star

in

“SEEKING THE YOUNG CHILD.”

We have remarked before that the preacher’s descriptions of Oriental

travel were always Welsh, and this could not arise so much from

ignorance, for he was fairly well read in the geography, and, perhaps,

even in the topography, of the Holy Land; but he was quite aware that

Oriental description would be altogether incomprehensible to the great

multitude of his auditors. He described, therefore, the Wise Men, not as

we, perhaps, see them, on their camels, solemnly pacing the vast sandy

desert, whose sands reflected the glow of the silvery star. They passed

on their way through scenes, and villages, which might be recognised by

the hearers, anxiously enquiring for the young Child. Turnpikes, if

unknown in Palestine, our readers will, perhaps, remember as one of the

great nuisances of even a very short journey in Wales in Christmas’s day.

“The wise men came up to the gate,—it was closed; they spoke to the

keeper, inquiring, ‘Do you know anything of the Child?’

“The gatekeeper came to the door, saying, in answer to the question,

‘You have threepence to pay for each of the asses.’

“They explained, ‘We did not know there was anything to pay; here is

the money; but tell us, do you know anything of the young Child?’

“No, the keeper did not even know what they meant. For they know

nothing on the world’s great highway of the Child sent for the

redemption of man. But he said, ‘You go on a little farther, and you

will come to a blacksmith’s shop; he has all the news, he knows

everything, and he will be sure to be able to tell you all you want

to know.’

“So they paced along the road, following the star, till they came to

the blacksmith’s shop; and it was very full, and the blacksmith was

very busy, but they spoke out loudly to him, and said, ‘Where is the

young Child?’

“‘Now,’ said the blacksmith, ‘it is of no use shouting that way; you

must wait, you see I am busy; your asses cannot be shod for a couple

of hours.’

“‘Oh, you mistake us,’ said the wise men; ‘we do not want our asses

shod, but we want you to tell us, you, who know everything

hereabouts, where shall we find the young Child.’

“‘I do not know,’ said the blacksmith. For the world, in its bustle

and trade, knows nothing, and cares nothing about the holy Child

Jesus. ‘But look you,’ he said, ‘go on, and you will come to the

inn, the great public-house; everybody from the village goes there,

they know all the news there.’

“And so, with heavy hearts, they still pursued their way till they

came to the inn; at the door, still resting on their asses, they

inquired if any one knew of the Child, the wonderful Child.

“But the landlord said, ‘Be quick! Evan, John, where are you? bring

out the ale—the porter—for these gentlemen.’

“‘No,’ they said, ‘we are too anxious to refresh ourselves; but tell

us, hereabouts has been born the wonderful Child; He is the desire of

all the nations; look there, we have seen His Star, we want to

worship Him. Do you know?’

“‘Not I,’ said the landlord. For pleasure knows nothing of Him

through whom the secrets of all hearts are revealed. ‘Plenty of

children born hereabouts,’ said the landlord; ‘but I know nothing of

Him whom you seek.’ And he thought them a little mad, and was,

moreover, a little cross because they would not dismount and go into

the inn. ‘However,’ he said, ‘there is an old Rabbi lives in a lane

hard by here; I think I have heard him say something about a Child

that should be born, whose name should be called Wonderful. See,

there is the way, you will find the old man.’

“So again they went on their way; and they stopped before the house

of the old Rabbi, and knocked, and the door was opened; and here they

left their asses by the gate, and entered in; and they found the old

Rabbi seated with his Hebrew books, and chronicles about him, and he

was strangely attired with mitre and vestment. And now, they

thought, they would be sure to learn, and that their journey might be

at an end. And they told him of the Star, and that the young Child

was born who should be King of the Jews, and they were come to

worship Him.

“‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘He is coming, and you shall see Him, but not

now. You shall behold Him, but not nigh. See, it is written here—a

Star shall rise out of Jacob. And when He comes it will be here He

will show Himself. Go back, and when He comes I will send word and

let you know.’ For even religious people, and Churches, cannot

always guide seekers after God to Him whom to know is life eternal.

“But they were not satisfied, and they said, ‘No, no, we cannot

return; He is born, He is here!’

“‘There has been a great mistake made,’ said the Rabbi; ‘there have

been some who have said that He is born, but it is not so.’

“‘But who has said it?’ they inquired.

“And then he told them of another priestly man, who lived near to the

river hard by; and to him they went, and inquired for the young

Child.

“‘Yes, yes,’ he said, when they pointed him to the Star, ‘yes,

through the tender mercies of our God, the Dayspring from on high

hath visited us; to give light to them that sit in darkness and the

shadow of death; to guide our steps into the way of peace.’

“And so he guided them to the manger, and the Star rested and stood

over the place where the young Child was, while they offered their

gifts of gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.”

Sometimes the preacher, in another version which we have seen, appears to

have varied the last guide, and to have brought the wise men, by a

singular, and perfectly inadmissible anachronism, to the man in the

camel’s hair by the river’s brink, who said, “Behold, the Lamb of God,

who taketh away the sins of the world!”

But one of the most effective of these sustained allegories, was founded

on the text which speaks of the evil “spirit walking through dry places,

seeking rest, and finding none.” We believe we were first indebted for

it, to the old dame who entertained us nearly forty years since in the

Caerphilly Cottage.

SATAN WALKING IN DRY PLACES.

The preacher appears to have been desirous of teaching the beautiful

truth, that a mind preoccupied, and inhabited by Divine thoughts, cannot

entertain an evil visitor, but is compelled to betake himself to flight,

by the strong expulsive power of Divine affections. He commenced, by

describing Satan as a vast and wicked, although invisible

spirit,—somehow, as Milton might have described him; and the preacher was

not unacquainted with the grand imagery of the “Paradise Lost,” in which

the poet describes the Evil One, when he tempts, with wandering feet, the

dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss, and, through the palpable obscure,

seeks to find out his uncouth way. Christmas described him, as spreading

his airy flight on indefatigable wings, determined to insinuate himself,

through the avenues of sense, to some poor soul, and lure it to

destruction. And, with this end, flying through the air, and seeking for

a dwelling-place, he found himself moving over one of those wide Welsh

moors, the preacher so well knew, and had so often travelled; and his

fiery, although invisible glance, espied a young lad, in the bloom of his

days, and the strength of his powers, sitting on the box of his cart,

driving on his way to the quarries for slate or lime.

`“‘There he is,’ said Satan; ‘his veins are full of blood, his bones

are full of marrow. I will cast my sparks into his bosom, and set

all his passions on fire; I will lead him on, and he shall rob his

master, and lose his place, and find another, and rob again, and do

worse; and he shall go on from worse to worse, and then his soul

shall sink, never to rise again, into the lake of fire.’ But just

then, as he was about to dart a fiery temptation into the heart of

the youth, the evil one heard him sing,

“‘Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty,

Hold me by Thy powerful hand;

Strong deliverer,

Be Thou still my Strength and Shield.’

‘Oh, but this is a dry place,’ said the fiery dragon as he fled away.

“But I saw him pass on,” said the preacher, “hovering, like a hawk or

a vulture, in the air, and casting about for a suitable place where

he might nestle his black wings; when, at the edge of the moor, he

came to a lovely valley; the hills rose round it, it was a beautiful,

still, meadow-like spot, watered by a lovely stream; and there,

beneath the eaves of a little cottage, he saw a girl, some eighteen

years of age, a flower among the flowers: she was knitting, or sewing

at the cottage door. Said Satan, ‘She will do for me; I will whisper

the evil thought in her heart, and she shall turn it over, and over

again, until she learns to love it; and then the evil thought shall

be an evil deed; and then she shall be obliged to leave her village,

and go to the great town, and she shall live a life of evil, all

astray from the paths of my Almighty Enemy. Oh, I will make her

mine, and then, by-and-bye, I will cast her over the precipices, and

she shall sink, sink into the furnace of divine wrath.’ And so he

hastened to approach, and dart into the mind of the maiden; but while

he was approaching, all the hills and crags seemed to break out into

singing, as her sweet voice rose, high and clear, chanting out the

words,

“‘Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly,

While the nearer waters roll,

While the tempest still is high.

Other refuge have I none,

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;

Leave, ah, leave me not alone,

Still support, and comfort me.’

‘This is a very dry place, too,’ said the dragon, as he fled away.

“And so he passed from the valley among the hills, but with hot rage.

‘I will have a place to dwell in!’ he said; ‘I will somehow leap over

the fences, and the hedges, of the purpose, and covenant, and grace

of God. I do not seem to have succeeded with the young, I will try

the old;’ for passing down the village street, he saw an old woman;

she, too, was sitting at the door of her cot, and spinning on her

little wheel. ‘Ah!’ said Satan, ‘it will be good to lay hold of her

grey hairs, and make her taste of the lake that burneth with fire and

brimstone.’ And he descended on the eaves of the cot; but as he

approached near, he heard the trembling, quavering voice of the aged

woman murmuring to herself lowly, ‘For the mountains shall depart,

and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from thee,

neither shall the covenant of My peace be removed, saith the Lord,

that hath mercy on thee.’ And the words hurt the evil one, as well

as disappointed him; they wounded him as he fled away, saying,

‘Another dry place!’

“Ah, poor Devil!” exclaimed the preacher, “and he usually so very

successful! but he was quite unsuccessful that day. And, now, it was

night, and he was scudding about, like a bird of prey, upon his black

wings, and pouring forth his screams of rage. But he passed through

another little Welsh village, the white cottages gleaming out in the

white moonlight on the sloping hillside. And there was a cottage,

and in the upper room there was a faint light trembling, and ‘Oh,’

said the Devil to himself, ‘Devil, thou hast been a very foolish

Devil to-day, and there, in that room, where the lamplight is, old

Williams is slowly, surely wasting away. Over eighty, or I am

mistaken; not much mind left; and he has borne the burden and heat of

the day, as they call it. Thanks to me, he has had a hard time of

it; he has had very few mercies to be thankful for; he has not found

serving God, I think, a very profitable business. Come, cheer up,

Devil, it will be a grand thing if thou canst get him to doubt a bit,

and then to despair a bit, and then to curse God, and die; that will

make up for this day’s losses.’

“Then he entered the room; there was the old man lying on the poor

bed, and his long, thin, wasted hands and fingers lying on the

coverlid; his eyes closed, the long silvery hair falling over the

pillow. Now, Satan, make haste, or it will be too late; the hour is

coming, there is even a stir in every room in the house: they seem to

know that the old man is passing. But as Satan himself moved before

the bed, to dart into the mind of the old man, the patriarch rose in

bed, stretched forth his hands, and pinned his enemy to the wall, as

he exclaimed, ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of

death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy

staff they comfort me; Thou preparest a table before me, in _the

presence of mine enemy_; Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup

runneth over; goodness and mercy, all the days of my life, dwell in

the house of my God for ever.’ Oh, _that_ was a fearfully dry place!

The old man sank back, it was all over; those words beat Satan down

to the bottom of his own bottomless pit, glad to escape from such

confusion and shame, and exclaiming, ‘I will return to the place from

whence I came, for this is too dry for me.’”

This will, no doubt, be thought, by many, to be strange preaching; many

would even affect to despise it,—perhaps would even regard it as a high

compliment were we to say, they would feel exceedingly puzzled even if,

by way of a change, they were called upon to use it. It appears,

however, to have been a style exceedingly fascinating to the Welsh mind

of that day; it told, it stirred up suggestions, awakened thoughts, and

reclaimed and converted character; and we need not, therefore, stay to

attempt any vindication of it.

We have inserted these very characteristic illustrations here, because

they appear to have belonged to the Anglesea period. Such, then, was the

teaching, the preaching, the truth, which, while it was his own truth,

and sustained his own mind, gave to him such power, at once, amongst the

Churches to which he immediately administered, and made him the object of

such attraction, when visiting distant neighbourhoods.

It might have been thought—it has usually been the case, in the instances

of other men—that such excursions as those we have described, would have

interfered with the great success of his work in the ministry as a

preacher, and with his efficiency as a pastor. That they did not,

substantially, is clear from many evidences. There can be no doubt that

his sermons were no off-hand productions; there was a careful, rigid, and

patiently conscientious weighing of their material. All those which we

possess, abundantly show this; and he entered with all his heart, and

mind, and strength into the work of preaching; but he never had an easy

sphere; and yet, would his sermons have been greater had he been placed

where the circle of his labour would have been narrower, and the means of

his support more ready, and sufficient, and ample? Most likely not; but

he weighed the entire work of the ministry in a manner which seems to us,

sometimes, more like the sound thoughtfulness, and consideration of the

theological Principal of a college, than a popular, or itinerant

preacher. As an illustration of this, we may insert the following, very

lengthy, but admirable letter to a young minister, written, we believe,

some time nearer the close of his career than that we have just

depicted:—

“DEAR BROTHER,—1. Consider, in the first place, the great

importance, to a preacher, of a blameless life. You must, like

Timothy, ‘flee youthful lusts,’ as you would escape from beasts of

prey; for there are kinds of beasts, living in the wilderness of

man’s corruption, that will charm, by means of their beauteous

colours, those that walk among their haunts; there is no safety but

by keeping from them, and adhering to such as live by faith, and

watch, and pray. It will be well for you, while you travel through

the coppice of youth, to keep from all appearance of evil. May you

have grace to pass through the coppice of forbidden trees, without

cutting your name into the bark of one of them, or you may be

upbraided, at critical times, by those who may wish to prove that you

are not better than themselves; even the _iota_, inserted by your

hand, may be produced after many years.

“2. I remember the words of Luther, that _reading_, _prayer_, and

_temptation_ are necessary to strengthen, and to purify the talents

of a minister. Read, to extend your general knowledge, especially as

to the plan of redemption, according to the Scriptures, in all its

parts, from the election to the glorification; that you may, like a

spiritual watchmaker, know all the relative cog-wheels, and be able

to open them in the pulpit, and to connect them all by faith, hope,

and charity, that they may occupy their own places, and exhibit their

true results on the dial-plate; thus proving yourself a workman that

needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. Be

not like that thrasher, who presumptuously took his watch to pieces

in the barn, and could not put it together again, but was obliged to

carry it home in his handkerchief. The messengers of God, described

in the book of Revelations, are full of eyes behind, and before. You

must use prayer to fetch strength out of Christ, like the homer to

carry home the manna in, or the water-pot of the woman of Samaria.

Without the prayer of faith, the preacher will have ‘nothing to draw

with,’ from the well that is deep,—even _the deep things of God_.

Temptation is requisite, to prove the nature of the metal of the

preacher’s character, and doctrine,—‘approved of God.’ The piece of

gold, in every true minister’s ministry, must be tried in some

furnace, prepared by Divine Providence. He must, therefore, do the

work of an evangelist, fulfil his ministry, endure hardness, and

affliction, and thus prove himself a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

“3. Avail yourself, in the morning of your days, of every

opportunity to acquire knowledge useful for the ministry. Let it be

your constant aim, to turn every stream and rivulet of knowledge in

the right direction, to facilitate the work of the ministry, for the

good of souls, and the glory of God; as the bee, in all her

excursions amongst the flowers of the gardens, and the hedges,

gathers honey to enrich the hive, as the common treasury of the

industrious race. Always have a book to read, instead of indulging

in vain conversations. Strive to learn English, as you cannot have

academical training. Learn your own mother-tongue well. Learn to

write a good hand by frequent practice. Avoid vain conversation,

instead of growth in knowledge. Remember this, that you cannot

commit some loved sin in private, and perform the work of the

ministry, in public, with facility and acceptance. For a preacher to

fall into sin, be it a secret one, and to live in it, is as fatal,

ultimately, as the cutting of Samson’s hair. Be strong in the grace

that is in Christ Jesus against all corruption.

“4. With regard to the composition of your sermons: first, let the

matter be evangelical. The doctrine of the Gospel is a mould from

heaven, and not changed. It puts its own impress and shape on the

professor that is melted into it, so that his justification,

sanctification, and all his salvation, flow from the merits of

Christ; and all through God’s grace, and not of ourselves. The

gospel, as a glass, should be kept clean and clear in the pulpit,

that the hearers may see the glory of Christ, and be changed to the

same image. Every duty is to be urged by evangelical motives. ‘Let

us have grace,’ etc.

“Hereby we can serve God in all the duties of the kingdom of heaven.

The whole is summed up in living by faith, which worketh by love, to

him that died for us, and rose again for our justification.

Secondly, let your divisions be natural to the text. Take care that

your interpretation accord with the contexts. Two or three general

heads; avoid many. Four or five remarks you may make on each head;

see that they are fairly in the truth of the text. Thirdly, I am not

inclined to make inferences, or applications, from the whole. When

the preacher has expended his strength, or ingenuity, in endeavouring

to impress, and apply the truth to the minds of his hearers,

application seems to me to be doing again what has been effected

already. The blacksmith does not put the horse-shoe in the fire,

after he has nailed it to the hoof; and the cook does not spread the

cloth again, when dinner is over. Fourthly, beware of long sermons,

as well as long prayers. When there is but one preacher, he should

not preach for more than an hour; when there are two, both should not

be more than an hour and a half, that the worship may close within

two hours; whenever this time is passed, coolness and fatigue ensue.

To put three ministers to preach (in one meeting) is a modern

corruption, and likely to make some progress in Wales; while the

English, generally, have but one sermon in one service. They excel

us herein; for we do not read that, on the day of Pentecost, Peter,

James, and John, preached after each other; but Peter, ‘_one_ of the

twelve,’ delivered that successful sermon. When we lose sight of the

Scriptures, and common sense, we are driven to extremes, though it be

with the kindly purpose of respecting strange ministers, by putting

them to preach.

“5. Attend, also, my young brother, to your outward appearance in

the pulpit. Beware of a proud, haughty appearance, with wandering

eyes, and unfeeling countenance, so that the people utterly fail to

see the man of God in you. We must, in order hereunto, have

something like unto Moses, when he had been on the mount with God,

that will indicate seriousness, love to souls, a spirit of prayer,

zeal for Christ, and longing for the salvation of men; like unto

those who have felt the fear of perdition ourselves, and the infinite

value of salvation by God’s grace; and that we wrestle with God in

order to be useful to souls. These things must be imprinted on our

appearance and deportment, having transformed us, in some measure, to

a heavenly form and habit. Our outward conversation should be

consistent herewith, or men will despise us as hypocrites, without

the fear of God.

“6. Avoid, my dear brother, all foolish bodily gestures.

“7. We now come to the part of the subject upon which you are most

anxious to have my thoughts: that refers _to the delivery of your

sermons_. It is difficult to put general rules of rhetoric into

execution. After reading all that has been said by Blair, Williams,

Fuller, and the Archbishop of Cambray (Fenelon), who have spoken at

length of Cicero and Demosthenes, it is easy, by endeavouring to

follow them, to lose the spirit of the work, and thus, by seeking the

form, to forfeit the life. Preach the gospel of the grace of God

intelligibly, affectionately, and without shame—all the contents of

the great box, from predestination to glorification. It was the

closing, and concealing, of this box that occasioned the opening of

the venomous Mohammedan box, as well as that of Popery, together with

all the vain legality that is to be found among Protestants,

established and dissenting. It may be said, that they seek

justification; but it is by the deeds of the law. The locking up,

and the losing, of the doctrine of grace, through the merits of

Christ, utterly destroyed the Jewish Church; for it was in the chest,

which they locked up by their false interpolations of Scripture, that

the ‘things which belong to their peace’ were contained; ‘but now,’

says the Redeemer, ‘they are concealed from their eyes;’ shut up

under unbelief. ‘The things that pertain to their peace’ belong also

to our peace, as Gentiles. The Deity of Christ, etc.; Redemption,

etc. Excuse this digression, for the river of God’s throne moved me

along.

“We were upon the best mode of delivering sermons for edification.

It is not easy to reduce the rules of prudence into practice. I have

seen some men, of the highest powers, who understood Greek better

than their mother-tongue, attempting to preach according to rule, and

to them the pulpit was like unto Gilboa; they neither affected

themselves, nor their hearers. The difficulty was, the bringing of

their regulations into natural practice. I saw one of those men, the

most eminent for learning and genius, who found the right way, under

the influence of a mighty fervency that descended upon him in the

pulpit, so that his voice became utterly different from what it used

to be, and his tongue at liberty, as though something was cut that

had hitherto restrained his tongue, and affections, from natural

exercise.

“Here you have the sum, and substance, and mystery of all rules:—1.

Let the preacher influence himself; let him reach his own heart, if

he would reach the hearts of others; if he would have others feel, he

must feel himself. Dry shouting (or vociferation) will not do this.

The shout of a man who does not himself feel the effect of what he

says, hardens, instead of softening; locks, instead of opening the

heart. 2. The elevation, and fire of the voice must accord with the

fervency of the matter in the heart. A person said to me once, ‘Mr.

Evans, you have not studied Dr. Blair’s Rhetoric.’ That man, with

his rules, was always as dry as Gilboa. ‘Why do you say so,’ replied

I, ‘when you just now saw hundreds weeping under the sermon? That

could not be, had I not first of all been influenced myself, which,

you know, is the substance, and mystery, of all rules for speaking.’

Wherever there is effect, there is life; and rules, without life,

have no power. Now, brother, follow the natural course of affection,

and voice. Raise not the voice while the heart is dry; but let the

heart and affections shout first; let it commence within. Take this

comparison:—Go to the blacksmith’s shop; he first puts the piece of

iron in the fire, and there is no sound of striking the anvil; he

collects together the coals for heat; then he tells the boy, ‘Blow!’

while he masterfully manages the shovel, adjusting the coals, and

asking sundry questions. He calmly looks at the fire heating the

iron, and does not yet take hold of the hammer, nor order his

assistants to use the sledge; but at length, seeing that the iron has

attained the proper malleability, he takes it out, covered with

sparkling fire, puts it on the anvil, handles the hammer, and orders

his workman to take the larger one, and fashions it according to his

pleasure; and so on, all day long. Here, observe, he does not beat

the iron in order to make it hot, for without first heating it, the

beating process is in vain. Equally vain is the hammer of

vociferation, unless the matter is brought home with warmth into our

hearts. We have often sought to produce effect, and to influence our

hearers, much as though the smith merely put the iron in fire, and

barely warmed it; it is contrary to the nature of things to use the

hammer while the material is not duly tempered. Thus I have

frequently, brother, found myself in preaching. You have, above, the

mystery of all effective speaking, in Parliament, at the bar, and in

the pulpit; remembering the difference in the subjects, and the

sources of heat. In the pulpit, we speak of the deep things of God;

and we are to pray for, and to expect warmth from the Divine Spirit.

You complain that you cannot get your voice into a manageable key,

and yet to speak with liveliness and power. Many, with a bad voice,

well-governed, have become powerful speakers; while others, with a

good voice, have, in consequence of not mastering a natural key, and

not being able to move themselves, been most ineffective speakers. I

would direct you to fix your voice at its natural pitch, which you

may easily do; you may then, with facility, raise and lower it

according to the subject in hand. If you commence in too high a key,

you cannot keep it up long. First, you cannot modulate it as the

occasion may require; and you fall into an unpliable, tedious

monotony, and all natural cadence, and emphasis is lost. Without

attuning the voice into the natural key, effective oratory is

impossible. Secondly, remember, not to speak in your throat, or

nostrils. If the former, you must soon become hoarse, and harsh

loudness follows; the glory and vivacity are then departed, and

instead of facility and cheerfulness, you have the roarings of

death—the breath failing, with forced screams, and harsh whisperings.

Thirdly, raise your voice to the roof of your mouth; do not close

your teeth against it, neither imprison it in the nostrils, but open

your mouth naturally, and keep your voice within your lips, where it

will find room enough to play its high, and its low intonations, to

discourse its flats, and sharps, to utter its joys, and sorrows.

When you thus have your voice under control, instead of you being

under its control, dragging you about in all disorder, you will find

it your servant, running upon your errands, up and down, all through

the camp, alternating in energy, and pliability, to the end of the

sermon; and not becoming cold and weak, scarcely bearing you through,

like Bucephalus, Alexander the Great’s horse, which, mortally

wounded, just brought his master out of the battle, and then expired.

Fourthly, remember, not to press too much upon your breath, when you

have attained the natural use of it, by using very long sentences,

without pausing at proper places, which (pauses) will add to the

effect, as well as preserve the voice; so that you will be, like the

smith, ready to strike the duly-tempered metal, prepared to give the

suitable emphasis at the end of the paragraph. Let the matter raise

the voice, do not attempt by the voice to elevate the subject.

Fifthly, use words easily understood, that the people’s affections

may not cool, while the mind is sent to a dictionary, to understand

your terms. The great work, the exploit of a minister, is to win the

heart to believe in Christ, and to love Him. Sixthly, bear in mind,

also, the necessity of keeping the voice free, without (affected)

restraint; give every syllable, and every letter, its full and proper

sound. (It is one of the peculiarities and excellences of the Welsh

language, and proves its Eastern origin.) No letter has to complain

that it is (condemned to be) mute, and neglected, and has no

utterance. In English, many letters have this complaint; but in

Welsh, every letter, even as the knights at the round table of King

Arthur, has, without preference, its own appropriate and complete

sound. Seventhly, remember, also, to enunciate clearly the last

syllable in every Welsh word; that will cause your most distant

hearer to understand you; while, without this, much of what you say

must be inevitably lost. Eighthly, in order to all this, carefully

attend to the manner of the best, and ablest preachers, and imitate,

not their weaknesses, but their excellences. You will observe, that

some heavenly ornament, and power from on high, are visible in many

ministers when under the Divine irradiation, which you cannot

approach to by merely imitating their artistic excellence, without

resembling them in the spiritual taste, fervency, and zeal which

Christ and his Spirit ‘work in them.’ This will cause, not only your

being like unto them in gracefulness of action, and propriety of

elocution, but will also induce prayer for the anointing from the

Holy One, which worketh mightily in the inward man. This is the

mystery of all effective preaching. We must be endowed with power

from on high: here is the grand inward secret. Without this, we

(often) perceive that it is impossible, with all academic advantages,

to make good preachers of young men from any college, in the Church

of England, or among the dissenters, in the English or the Welsh

language. A young preacher must have the mystery of being

‘constrained’ by ‘the love of Christ’; ‘the gift of God’ must be

kindled in him; and He alone, by the Spirit, can sustain that gift by

the Holy Spirit. ‘Who is sufficient for these things?’ May the Lord

give you, brother, a good understanding in all things; and preserve

in you the heavenly gift by the Holy Ghost! may it be rekindled where

it is, and contributed where it is not! Without it, we can do

nothing for the glory of God, or the good of souls.

“Affectionately,

“CHRISTMAS EVANS.”

Sometimes Mr. Evans occupied such slight leisure as he could command, by

a contribution to the _Seren Gomer_, an extensively-circulating magazine

of the Principality. Several of these papers are interesting; we select

one, illustrating the bent of the writer’s mind; it was published January

1821,—“An inquiry into the meaning of the singular language of the

Apostle, his wish

“TO BE ACCURSED FROM CHRIST.

“‘For I could wish that I were accursed (anathema) from Christ for my

brethren,’ etc. (Rom. ix. 3). Many things, most incredible to me,

have been said in exposition of this passage; and principally, I

think, from not observing that the word ‘anathema’ is used in two

senses,—the one good, and the other bad. Barclay analyses into four

acceptations; and, according to the first, it signifies that which is

devoted, or set apart, to God, in a good sense. According to

Parkhurst, it signifies, in Luke xxi. 5, a consecrated gift, set

apart for the temple of God, and to His service alone. The word

translated gifts is _anathemasi_. In the second book of Maccabees,

ix. 8, the word denotes a consecrated gift. The word in the LXX.,

according to Parkhurst, is synonymous with the Hebrew word CHEREM,

and signifies, generally, that which is entirely separated from its

former condition, and use. If so, why should we not understand Paul,

in the text, as expressing his ardent desire that he should be

separated, _a devoted thing_, for the conversion of his brethren

according to the flesh? Having gone thus far in explanation, we

offer the following interpretation: ‘For I could wish that I were

_anathema_, or a gift, in my labours as an apostle, and a preacher of

the Gospel, from Christ, for the spiritual benefit of my brethren

according to the flesh, principally, instead of being an apostle to

the Gentiles, as I am appointed; theirs is the adoption, etc.; and I

could also wish that I, also, as an apostle, were an especial gift of

Christ for their distinctive service.’ If this be correct, there is

no necessity for changing the tense of the verb from the present to

the perfect, and reading, ‘I could wish,’ as ‘I have wished;’ while

it saves us from putting in the Apostle’s mouth a wish entirely

opposed to the ‘new creation,’ to the plan of Divine grace, and to

the glory of God; for it is certain that it is quite in opposition to

all this, for a man to desire to live in sin, and to be accursed for

ever,—and that cannot for a moment be predicated of the Apostle of

the Gentiles. I humbly ask some learned correspondent, whether there

is anything in the original text with which this exposition will not

harmonize.

“CHRISTMAS EVANS.”

This letter led to some unsympathetic criticism, and reply. Christmas

Evans wrote a vindication of his former views, which may be not

uninteresting to our readers, as illustrating a phase of his intellectual

character. It appeared in the _Seren Gomer_ for 1822:—

“MR. GOMER,—If you please, publish the following, in defence of my

former letter on Romans ix. 3, and in reply to your correspondent,

_Pen Tafar_.

“It is admitted, on all hands, that the words in the question express

the highest degree of love to the Jews. Let us, now, put the

different expositions before the reader, and then let him judge which

of them contains the greatest harmony and fitness; _i.e._, first, to

express love to the Jews; second, the best adapted to bring about

their salvation; third, the most consistent with supreme love to

Christ; and fourth, within the confines of sinlessness.

“1. Many learned men set forth the Apostle as having formed this

desire when he was an enemy to Christ. This they maintain by tracing

the word _anathema_ throughout the Greek Scriptures, and the Hebrew

word _cherem_, of which it is the synonym. _Anathema_, they say,

always signifies ‘without an exception,’ a separation, or devotement

of a beast, a city, or something else, to irredeemable destruction

(Lev. xxvii. 29). The devoted thing was not to be redeemed, but

certainly to be put to death (Gal. i. 9). ‘_Let him be accursed_,’

says Paul of the angel that would preach another gospel. ‘If any man

love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be _anathema maranatha_,’

‘accursed when the Lord cometh.’ But who _can_ believe that this is

the meaning of the word in the passage before us? I say, with Dr.

Gill, ‘This never can be the signification.’ What probability is

there that Paul would swear, calling Jesus Christ to witness, to his

ancient enmity against Him? This was notorious enough throughout the

whole country. No asseveration was necessary to prove _Paul’s

persecuting spirit_.

“Again, how could that which he formerly had been, prove, he now

having denied himself, his old persecuting spirit, and, being deeply

ashamed on the account, prove his present love to the Jews? How did

his former love to Satan prove his present love to the Jews?

“2. Others say that it is Paul’s wish as a Christian, whatever

_anathema_ means. I believe it is his desire as a Christian;

otherwise I see not how it could be an instance of his love to his

brethren according to the flesh. Several authors maintain that Paul

was willing, _for the sake of saving his nation_, _to part with his

interest in Christ_, _and to perish for ever_. Peter Williams and

Matthew Henry give this interpretation. But, seriously, how can a

person persuade himself to believe this? Would not the Apostle, in

this case, love his nation more than Christ, and be accordingly

unworthy of Christ? This is opposed to a principle of our nature,

which never can desire its own destruction; to the principle of

grace, which loves Christ above all things on earth, and in heaven.

Such a desire would make Paul a devil.

“3. Others suppose that Paul here speaks inconsiderately, in a kind

of ecstasy, carried away by a stream of affection to his people. Who

can believe this without giving up Paul’s inspiration, even when he

solemnly appeals to Christ?

“4. Another notion is, that the Apostle was willing, and desirous to

be excommunicated from the Church of Christ upon earth, and to be

deprived of its ordinances. How can this, again, be considered as

consistent with love to Christ, and His Church? What tendency could

his leaving the Church have to induce the Jews to enter it? This is

contrary to the whole course of the Divine command, and promises: God

will give His people an everlasting home, and place in His house.

“5. Some say, it is an _hyperbole_. To confirm this, Exod. xxxii.

32 is quoted as a case in point: ‘_Blot me_, _I pray thee_, _out of

Thy book_, _which Thou hast written_.’ This is not the book of

eternal life, but the book of the dispensation, in which Moses was

leader, and mediator. ‘_I would_,’ he says, ‘_give up my office_.’

God rejected the request: ‘Lead the people unto the place of which I

have spoken to thee.’ It was not for Israel, nor a condition of

forgiveness to them, but for himself, that Moses said, ‘Blot my name

out of Thy book.’ All this gives but little assistance to understand

the Apostle. The two spiritual men do not stand on the same ground.

Moses seeks the obliteration of his name, unless Israel was pardoned.

Paul seeks a work, and an office, in order to the forgiveness of his

nation.

“6. Further, it is supposed to be proper to modify—_to soften_—the

meaning of the word _anathema_, as signifying, sometimes, anything

devoted to God, and that never could, afterwards, be appropriated to

any other service; and here, to understand it in that softened sense,

signifying that Paul was willing for the Redeemer to make him a

devoted thing—a martyr for the truth, for the good of the Jewish

nation. This is substantially the opinion of Thomas Charles, and Dr.

Gill. Christmas Evans’s theory is erected on this ground—the

modified sense of the word; thus, ‘I could wish myself entirely set

apart, by Christ, to the service of my people, for their spiritual

good; I should have been glad, had I my choice, to have been an

Apostle, separated to them alone, and not to the Gentiles, with my

dwelling, and labours, amongst them, and to die a martyr for the

truth, even the most horrible death that could be devised, if Christ

had appointed me hereto.’ If ‘P. T.’ says this is a new

interpretation of Christmas Evans’s, the answer is, No, but a

legitimate extension of a former one; for he did not intend, nor did

his words import, the separation of martyrdom, or the most

anathematised sufferings, from Paul for his kinsmen according to the

flesh.

“7. Is it not plain, and does not ‘P. T.’ see, that this view is

superior to the former five, and that it takes in, and is an

improving addition to the latter of the five, as to its fitness to

express the Apostle’s great love to his people, without destroying

his love to Christ, as well as to bring about the salvation of the

Jews by proper means? How could the death of the Apostle contribute

to the conversion of the Jews, unless he died _as an apostate of the

circumcision_?”

It appears to have been towards the close of the Anglesea period, that he

was thrown into a panic of fear, by a threat of a legal prosecution, on

account of some chapel debts, for which, of course, he was regarded as

responsible. “They talk,” he said, “of casting me into a court of law,

where I have never been, and I hope I shall never go; but I will cast

them, first, into the court of Jesus Christ.” We have seen that he was

in the habit of putting on paper his prayers, and communions with God.

It was a time of severe trial to him. He says, “I knew there was no

ground of action, but, still, I was much disturbed, being, at the time,

sixty years of age, and having, very recently, buried my wife.” He

continues, “I received the letter at a monthly meeting, at one of the

contests with spiritual wickedness in high places. On my return home, I

had fellowship with God, during the whole journey of ten miles, and,

arriving at my own house, I went upstairs to my own chamber, and poured

forth my heart before the Redeemer, who has in His hands all authority,

and power.” And the following seem to be the pathetic words in which he

indulged:—

“O blessed Lord! in Thy merit I confide, and trust to be heard.

Lord, some of my brethren have run wild; and forgetting their duty,

and obligations to their father in the Gospel, they threaten me with

the law of the land. Weaken, I beseech Thee, their designs in this,

as Thou didst wither the arm of Jeroboam; and soften them, as Thou

didst soften the mind of Esau, and disarmed him of his warlike temper

against Thy servant Jacob, after the wrestling at Penuel. So disarm

them, for I do not know the length of Satan’s chain in this case, and

in this unbrotherly attack. But Thou canst shorten the chain as

short as it may please Thee. Lord, I anticipate them in point of

law. They think of casting Thine unworthy servant into the little

courts here below; but I cast my cause into the High Court, in which

Thou, gracious Jesus, art the High Chancellor. Receive Thou the

cause of Thine unworthy servant, and send him a writ, or a notice,

immediately—sending into their conscience, and summoning them to

consider what they are doing. Oh, frighten them with a summons from

Thy court, until they come, and bow in contrition at Thy feet; and

take from their hands every revengeful weapon, and make them deliver

up every gun of scandal, and every sword of bitter words, and every

spear of slanderous expressions, and surrender them all at Thy cross.

Forgive them all their faults, and clothe them with white robes, and

give them oil for their heads, and the organ, and the harp of ten

strings, to sing, for the trampling of Satan under our feet by the

God of peace.

“I went up once,” he says, “and was about ten minutes in prayer; I

felt some confidence that Jesus heard. I went up again with a tender

heart; I could not refrain from weeping with the joy of hope that the

Lord was drawing near to me. After the seventh struggle I came down,

fully believing that the Redeemer had taken my cause into His hands,

and that He would arrange, and manage for me. My countenance was

cheerful, as I came down the last time, like Naaman, having washed

himself seven times in the Jordan; or Bunyan’s Pilgrim, having cast

his burden at the foot of the cross, into the grave of Jesus. I well

remember the place—the little house adjoining the meeting-house, at

Cildwrn, where I then resided—in which this struggle took place; I

can call it Penuel. No weapon intended against me prospered, and I

had peace, at once, to my mind, and in my (temporal) condition. I

have frequently prayed for those who would injure me, that they might

be blessed, even as I have been blessed. I know not what would have

become of me, had it not been for these furnaces in which I have been

tried, and in which the spirit of prayer has been excited, and

exercised in me.”

It is scarcely necessary to add, that the threat was never executed, nor

did poor Christmas, apparently, hear anything further of the matter; but

we have seen how great was the trouble, and agitation it caused him,

while the fear was upon him. It is very affecting to find that this

great, this saintly, and earnest minister, had upon his heart, and mind,

the burden of all the chapel-debts connected with his denomination in

Anglesea, while he was minister there.

It might have been thought that the ministerial course of Christmas Evans

would close in Anglesea, where he had laboured so long, and so

effectually. He was, now, about sixty years of age, but there was little

light just now, in the evening-time of his life; indeed, clouds of

trouble were thickening around him. It often seems that trouble, in the

ministerial life, comes exactly at that moment when the life is least

able to stand, with strength, against it; and, certainly, in the life of

Christmas Evans, sorrows gathered, and multiplied at the close.

Chief among these must be mentioned, beyond any doubt, the death of the

beloved companion of all the Anglesea life, his good wife, Catherine; she

left him in 1823. She was eminently, and admirably fitted to be the wife

of such a man as Christmas. Somewhat younger than her husband, she

supplied many attributes of character, to him most helpful; she was not

an enthusiast, but she was a Christian, with real, deep, and devout

convictions. We have no lengthy accounts of her; but little side-lights,

a kind of casemented window, reveal a character at once affectionate,

beautiful, and strong.

We have seen that their home was the region of self-denial, and her

husband long remembered, and used to tell, how “if there happened to be

on our table one thing better than the other, she would, modestly, but

cheerfully and earnestly, resist all importunity to partake of it until

she ascertained that there was enough for both.” What a little candle

such a sentence as this is, but what a light it sheds over the whole

room! She did not pretend to be her husband; he filled his larger

sphere, and she, in all her manifold, gentle ways, sought to give him

rest. Surely she adds another name to the long catalogue of good wives.

She reminds us of Lavater’s wife, and some little incidents in that

Cildwrn cottage call up memories from the manse of St. Peter’s Church,

and the shadows of the old Lindenhof of Zurich, where probably life did

not put on a gayer apparel, or present more lavish and luxurious

possibilities, than in the poor parsonage of Anglesea.

It is incredible, almost, to read what the good Catherine did, poor—to

our thinking, miserable—as was the income of her husband. Her hand was

most generous; how she did it, what committee of ways and means she

called together, in her thoughtful mind, we do not know,—only, that she,

constantly, found some food to give to poor children, and needy people;

unblessed by children of her own, she employed her fingers in making

clothes for the poor members, and families, of the Church. There was

always help for the poor hungry labourer passing her cottage; the house

was always open for the itinerant minister travelling on his way to some

“publication,” and she was always ready to minister to his necessities

with her own kind hands. Her husband often thought that the glance she

gave upon a text shed light upon it. She never had robust health, but

she accompanied her husband on several of his longer journeys through the

greater part of Wales,—ah, and some of them in the winter, through storms

of rain, and snow, and hail, along dangerous roads too, across difficult

ferries; and she was uniformly cheerful! What an invaluable creature,

what a blessed companion! A keener observer of character, probably, from

what we can gather, than her husband; a sharper eye, in general, to

detect the subterfuges of selfishness and conceit.

One mighty trial she had before she died; she had, in some way, been

deeply wounded, grievously injured, and hurt, and she found it hard to

forgive; she agonized, and prayed, and struggled; and before she was

called to eternity, she was able to feel that she had forgiven, and

buried the memory of the injuries in the love and compassion of the

Redeemer. Her husband had to give her up, and at a time, perhaps, when

he needed her most. The illness was long, but great strength was given

to her, and at last the release came. There was mourning in the Cildwrn

cottage. The last night of her life she repeated a beautiful, and

comfortable Welsh hymn, and then, ejaculating three times, “Lord Jesus,

have mercy upon me!” she breathed forth her quiet, affectionate, and

hopeful spirit, into her Saviour’s hands, and left her husband all alone,

to bear the burden of her departure, and other griefs, and troubles which

were crowding upon him.

Other troubles,—for, in what way we need not attempt too curiously to

inquire,—the pastorate gave to the poor old pastor little, or no peace.

There were strong Diotrephesian troubles agitating the great preacher’s

life. The Churches, too, which Christmas Evans had raised, and to which,

by his earnest eloquence, and active, organizing mind, he had given

existence, grew restive, and self-willed beneath his guidance, refusing

his advice with reference to ministers he suggested, and inviting others,

whose appointment he thought unwise.

Poor Christmas! Did he ever ask himself, in these moments, when he

thought of his lost Catherine, and felt the waves of trouble rising up,

and beating all round him,—did he ever ask himself whether the game was

worth the candle? whether he was a mere plaything in life, whom that arch

old player, Death, had outplayed, and defeated? Did it ever seem to him

that it was all a vanity, ending in vexation of spirit? The life most

beloved had burnt out, the building he had spent long years to erect,

seemed only to be furnished for discomfort, and distraction.

Did he begin to think that the wine of life was only turning into acrid

vinegar, by-and-by to end with the long sleeping-draught? Of life’s good

things, in the worldling’s sense of good, he had tasted few; most clearly

he had never desired them. He had never the opportunity, nor had he ever

desired to be like a Nebuchadnezzar, roaming the world like a beast, and

pasturing at a dinner-table, as upon a sort of meadow-land of the

stomach, sinking the soul to the cattle of the field; but he might have

expected that his Church, and Churches, would be a joy, a rest, a

pleasant meadow-land to him. The body was certainly crumbling to decay:

would the ideas also prove like frescoes, which could be washed out by

tears, or removed, and leave the soul only a desolate habitation, waiting

for its doom of dust?

We do not suppose that, amidst his depressing griefs, these desolating

beliefs, or unbeliefs, had any mastery over him. What did the men who

tormented him know of those mighty springs of comfort, which came from

those covenants he had made with God, amidst the lonely solitudes of his

journeyings among the wild Welsh hills? He had not built his home, or

his hopes, on the faithfulness of men, or the vitality of Churches; the

roots of his faith, as they had struck downward, were now to bear fruit

upward.

There was a fine healthfulness in his spirit. There is nothing in his

life to lead one to think that he had ever been much intoxicated by the

fame which had attended him; he appears to have been always beneath the

control of the great truths in which he believed, and it was not the

seductive charms of popularity for which he cared, but the power of those

truths to bring light, conviction, and rest, to human souls. All his

sermons look that way; all that we know of his preaching, and experience,

turns in that direction.

Rose-leaves are said to act as an emetic, and have much the same effect

on the constitution as senna-leaves. It is so with those sweet things

which fame offers to the imagination; the conserves of its fragrance,

by-and-by, become sickening. So, the robust nature of our fine old

friend had to rise over grief, and disappointment, and unfriendliness,

and diaconal dictation and impertinence. Only one thing he remembered.

He appears to have been sustained, even as Edward Irving was, in his

conviction that the truth of his message, the lamp of the ministry which

he carried, gave to him a right, and a prerogative which he was not to

relinquish; he had proved himself, he had proved the Spirit of God to be

in him of a truth. He was not a wrangler, not disposed to maintain

debates as to his rights; nor was he disposed to yield to caprice,

faction, and turbulence; and so, he began to think of retiring, old as he

was, from the field, the fragrance of which had proclaimed that the Lord

had blessed him there.

Christmas Evans, as he draws near to the close of his work in Anglesea,

only illustrates what many a far greater, and many a lesser man than he,

have alike illustrated. There is a fine word among the many fine words

of that great, although eccentric teacher, John Ruskin:—“It is one of the

appointed conditions of the labour of man, that in proportion to the time

between the seed-sowing and the harvest, is the fulness of the fruit; and

that generally, therefore, the further off we place our aim, and the less

we desire to be the witnesses of what we have laboured for, the more wide

and rich will be the measure of our success.” This was, no doubt, the

consolation of Christmas; but as we look upon him, a friendly voice

reminds us, that, as he leaves Anglesea, he realizes very much of Robert

Browning’s soliloquy of the martyred patriot:—

“Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs people have dropped down dead.

Paid by the world,—what dost thou owe

Me? God might question; now, instead,

’Tis God shall repay! I am safer so.”

So the candlestick was removed out of its place in Anglesea, and Anglesea

soon, but too late, regretted the removal. Christmas Evans, however,

seems to illustrate a truth, which may be announced almost as a general

law, from the time of the Saviour and his Apostles down to our own, that

those who have wrought most unselfishly, and serviceably for the cause of

God, and the well-being of man, had to receive their payment in

themselves, and in the life to come. In proportion to the greatness of

their work was the smallness of their remuneration here.

If we refer to the painful circumstances in connection with the close of

the ministry of Christmas Evans at Anglesea, it is, especially, to notice

how his faith survived the shock of surrounding trouble. He himself

writes: “Nothing could preserve me in cheerfulness and confidence under

these afflictions, but the assurance of the faithfulness of Christ; I

felt assured that I had much work yet to do, and that my ministry would

be instrumental in bringing many sinners to God. This arose from my

trust in God, and in the spirit of prayer that possessed me; I frequently

arose above all my sorrows.”

And again he writes: “As soon as I went into the pulpit during this

period, I forgot my troubles, and found my mountain strong; I was blessed

with such heavenly unction, and longed so intensely for the salvation of

men, and I felt the truth like a hammer in power, and the doctrine

distilling like the honey-comb, and like unto the rarest wine, that I

became most anxious that the ministers of the county should unite with me

to plead the promise, ‘If any two of you agree touching anything,’ etc.

Everything now conspired to induce my departure from the island: the

unyielding spirit of those who had oppressed, and traduced me; and my own

most courageous state of mind, fully believing that there was yet more

work for me to do in the harvest of the Son of Man, my earnest prayers

for Divine guidance, during one whole year, and the visions of my head at

night, in my bed—all worked together towards this result.”

Few things we know of are more sad than this story. “It was an affecting

sight,” says Mr. William Morgan, quoted by Mr. Rhys Stephen in his

Memoir, “to see the aged man, who had laboured so long, and with such

happy effects, leaving the sphere of his exertions under these

circumstances; having laboured so much to pay for their meeting-houses,

having performed so many journeys to South Wales for their benefit,

having served them so diligently in the island, and passed through so

many dangers; now some of the people withheld their contributions, to

avenge themselves on their own father in the Gospel; others, while

professing to be friends, did little more; while he, like David, was

obliged to leave his city, not knowing whether he should ever return to

see the ark of God, and his tabernacle in Anglesea again. Whatever

misunderstanding there was between Mr. Evans, and some of his brethren,

it is clear that his counsels ought to have been received with due

acknowledgment of his age, and experience, and that his reputation should

have been energetically vindicated. I am of opinion, I am quite

convinced, that more strenuous exertions should have been made to defend

his character, and to bear him, in the arms of love, through the archers,

and not to have permitted him to fall in the street without an advocate.”

The whole aim of Mr. Evans’s life, as far as we have been able to read

it, was to get good from heaven, in order that he might do good on earth.

Clearly, he never worked with any hope of a great earthly reward for any

personal worthiness; perhaps there arose a sense that he had always been

unjustly remunerated, that burdens had been laid upon him he ought not to

have been called upon to bear; and now the sense of injustice sought, as

is so frequently the case, to vindicate itself by ingratitude. It seems

so perpetually true, in the sad record of the story of human nature, that

it is those who have injured us who seek yet further to hurt us.