_CONTEMPORARIES—JOHN ELIAS_.
Fire and Smoke—Elias’s Pure Flame—Notes in the Pulpit—Carrying Fire in
Paper—Elias’s Power in Apostrophe—Anecdote of the Flax-dresser—A Singular
First Appearance in the Pulpit—A Rough Time in Wales—The Burning of the
Ravens’ Nests—A Hideous Custom put down—The Great Fair of Rhuddlan—The
Ten Cannon of Sinai—Action in Oratory—The Tremendous Character of his
Preaching—Lives in an Atmosphere of Prayer—Singular Dispersion on a
Racecourse—A Remarkable Sermon, Shall the Prey be taken from the
Mighty?—Anecdote of a Noble Earl—Death and Funeral.
WE have already implied that Welsh preaching has had many varieties, and
very various influences too. Even the very excitements produced by these
famous men, whose names we are recording, varied considerably; but one
characteristic certainly seemed to attend them—the influence was real,
and very undoubted. When Rowland Hill was in Wales, and witnessed some
of the strong agitations resulting from great sermons, he said, he “liked
the fire, but he did not like the smoke.” It was, like so many of the
sayings of the excellent old humorist, prettily, and wittily said. But
it may, also, be remarked, that it is, usually, impossible to have real
fire without smoke; and it has further been well said, that the stories
of the results of such preaching make us feel that, could we only get the
fire, we need not object to a little of the smoke.
We are introducing to our readers, now, in John Elias, one who,
certainly, does not seem to have surrounded the clear flames of his
eloquence with unnatural excitement. If the effects of his oratory seem
to rival all that we have heard of the astonishing power of George
Whitefield, the material of his sermons, the severity of their tone of
thought, and the fearfulness of their remorseless logic, remind us of
Jonathan Edwards. He had read extensively, especially in theology; and,
it has been truly said, his mind was a storehouse, large, lofty, and
rich. Like his great coadjutors, he prepared for the pulpit with amazing
care, and patience, but apparently never verbally—only seeing his ideas
clearly, and revolving them over and over until, like fuel in the
furnace, they flamed. He tells us how, having done his part, by earnest,
and patient study, he trusted to God to give to his prepared mind its
fitting expression, and speech. Of course, like the rest, he disclaimed
all paper in the pulpit. An eminent brother minister, Thomas Jones, of
Denbigh, was coming to London to preach what was considered the great
annual sermon of the London Missionary Society, at Surrey Chapel. In his
own country, Mr. Jones preached always extempore; but, being in company
with Matthew Wilkes, and John Elias, he inquired of old Matthew whether,
for such an occasion, he did not think that he had better write his
sermon.
“Well, for _such_ an occasion,” said Matthew, “perhaps it would be better
to write your discourse; but, at any rate, let us have plenty of fire in
it.”
“But,” said John Elias, “he cannot carry fire in paper!”
“Never mind,” said Matthew; “paper will do very well to light the fire
with!”
Mr. Wilkes’ witty rejoinder seems to give the entire value to notes, and
writing in the pulpit; but, no doubt, Elias expressed his conviction, and
the conviction of all these men, that you cannot carry fire in paper.
But we have before said that it was by no means wild-fire. One of the
great poets of Wales imagined a conversation going on between the soul
and the body of Elias, before they both went up together in the pulpit,
when the soul said to the body, “Now, you must be a sacrifice for an
hour. You must bear all my fire, and endure all my exertion, however
intense it may be.” And another writer says of him that, while some
preachers remind us of Pharaoh’s chariots, that drove heavily, Elias
reminded us, rather, of that text, “He maketh His angels spirits, and His
ministers a flame of fire.”
Whatever is to be said of the peculiarities of other great Welsh
preachers, it seems to be admitted, on all hands, that John Elias was the
Demosthenes of the group. Let no reader smile, however high his regard
for the classic orator. The stories told of the effects of the preaching
of John Elias, greatly resemble those of the great Grecian orator, who,
at the close of his tremendous orations, found the people utterly
oblivious to all the beauty, and strength of his discourses—utterly
indisposed to admire, or criticise, but only conducted to that point of
vehement indignation, and passionate action, which had been, all along,
the purpose of the speaker, exclaiming, “Let us march against Philip!”
If profound passionate conviction, persuasion altogether insensible of
anything besides its own emotions, be the chief attribute of the gifted
orator, John Elias must stand, we will not say matchless, but, from all
that we have heard of him, unsurpassed. We have no means of testing this
by any published sermons; scraps and fragments we have, and traditions of
the man, and his soul-piercing eloquence, float about over Wales; but we
apprehend it was an order of eloquence which would not submit itself to
either penmanship, or paper, either to the reporter, or the
printing-press.
How extravagant some things seem when quietly read, unaccompanied by the
passion, and excitement which the preacher has either apprehended, or
produced! The reader remembers very well—for who does not?—Whitefield’s
vehement apostrophe, “Stop, Gabriel!” Who could deliberately write it
down to utter it? and what an affectation of emotion it seems to read it!
But that was not the effect produced on David Hume, who heard it; and we
may be very sure that man,—the most acute, profound, cold philosopher,
and correct writer, had no friendly feelings either to Whitefield, or
Gabriel—to the message which the preacher had to give, or the archangel
to carry. A quiet, ordinary, domestic state of feeling scarcely knows
how to make allowances for an inflamed orator, his whole nature heaving
beneath the passion produced by some great, and subduing vision, an
audience in his hands, as a river of water, prepared to move
whithersoever he will. Thus Elias, when he was handling some weighty
subject, would suddenly say, “Stop! silence!” (_Disymwth_! _Gosteg_!)
“What are they saying in Heaven on the subject?” His hearers testify
that, in such moments, he almost brought them within the precincts of the
glory. The effect was thrilling. And, dealing with alarming truths, he
would exclaim, “Stop! silence! What do they say in hell on this
subject?”
The man who can do these things must be no hearsay man, or such
questionable excursions of speech would be likely to provoke laughter,
and contempt, rather than overwhelming awe. The effect of this preacher
was unutterable. It is said that upon such occasions, had the people
heard these things from the invisible world, as he expatiated on the
things most likely to be uttered, either in Heaven or hell, upon the
subject, they could scarcely have been more alarmed.
His biographer, Mr. Morgan, Vicar of Syston, in Leicestershire, tells how
he heard him preaching once to a crowd in the open air, on “the Last
Day,” representing the wicked as “tares gathered into bundles,” and cast
into the everlasting burnings. There was a certain flax-dresser, who, in
a daring and audacious way, chose to go on with his work in an open room
opposite to where Elias was preaching from the platform; but, as the
preacher grew more and more earnest, and the flames more flashing, the
terrible fire more and more intense in its vehemence, the man was obliged
to leave his work, and run into a yard behind his house, to get out of
the reach of the cruel flames, and the awful peals of the thunder of the
preacher’s subduing voice. “But the awful language of that Elias
followed me there also,” said the panic-stricken sinner.
There was a preacher of Caernarvon, one Richardson, a preacher of
peculiar tenderness, and sweetness, who made his hearers weep beneath the
lovely message he generally carried. On one occasion, while Elias was
pouring forth his vehement, and dreadful words, painting the next world
in very living, and fearful colours, his audience all panic-stricken, and
carried along as if they were on the confines of the darkness, and the
gates opening to receive them, a man, in the agony of his excitement,
cried out, “Oh, I wish I could hear Mr. Richardson, of Caernarvon, just
for five minutes!” No anecdote could better illustrate the peculiar
gifts, and powers of both men.
John Elias was a native of Caernarvonshire. His parents were people in
very humble circumstances, but greatly respected. His paternal
grandfather lived with them. He was a member of the Church of England.
His influence over the mind of Elias appears to have been especially
good; and it is, perhaps, owing to this influence that, although he
became a minister, and the eminent pride of the Calvinistic Methodist
body, he, throughout his life, retained a strong affection for the
services, and even the institution, of the Church of England. Through
his grandfather, he acquired, what was not usual in that day, the
rudiments of education very early, and as a young child, could read very
well and impressively. Thus, when quite a child, they went together to
hear some well-known Methodist preacher. The time for the service had
long passed, and the preacher did not arrive. The old gentleman became
impatient, and said to his little grandson, “It’s a pity the people
should be idling like this; go up into the pulpit, John, and read a
chapter to them;” and, suiting the action to the word, he pushed the
child up into the pulpit, and shut the door after him. With much
diffidence, he began to read portions of the Sermon on the Mount, until,
venturing to withdraw his eye from the Bible, and look aside, lo! to his
great dismay, there was the preacher quietly waiting outside the pulpit
door. He gently closed the book, and slipped down the pulpit stairs.
This was his first appearance in the pulpit. Little could any one dream
that, in after years, he was to be so eminent a master in it.
But he was only twenty years of age when he began to preach, indeed; and
it is said that, from the first, people saw that a prophet of God had
risen amongst them. There was a popular preacher, with a very Welsh
name, David Cadwalladr, who went to hear him; and, after the sermon, he
said, “God help that lad to speak the truth, for he’ll make the people
believe,—he’ll make the people believe whatever he says!” From the
first, John Elias appears to have been singularly like his two namesakes,
John the Baptist, and Elias the prophet. He had in him a very tender
nature; but he was a severe man, and he had a very severe theology. He
believed that sin held, in itself, very tremendous, and fearful
consequences, and he dealt with sin, and sinners, in a very daring, and
even dreadful manner.
He appeared in a rough time, when there were, in the neighbourhood,
rough, cruel, and revolting customs. Thus, on Whitsunday in each year, a
great concourse of people used to assemble together to burn the ravens’
nests. These birds bred in a high and precipitous rock, called _Y
gadair_ (that is, “the chair”). The birds were supposed to prey on young
poultry, etc., and the people thought it necessary to destroy them; but
they always did so on the Sabbath, and it became quite a wild festival
occasion; and the manner of their destruction was most savage, and
revolting. The nests were beyond their reach; but they suspended a fiery
fagot by a chain. This was let down to set the nests on fire; and the
young birds were roasted alive. At every blaze which was seen below,
triumphant shouts rose from the brutal crowd, rending the air. When the
savages had put the birds to death, they usually turned on each other;
and the day’s amusement closed in fights, wounds, bruises, and broken
bones. One of the first of Elias’s achievements was the daring feat of
invading this savage assembly, by proclaiming, in their very midst, the
wrath of God against unrighteousness, and Sabbath-breaking. Perhaps, to
us, the idea of preaching in such a scene seems like the attempting to
still a storm by the waving of a feather; but we may also feel that here
was a scene in which that terrible eloquence, which was a chief power of
Elias, was well bestowed. Certainly, it appears chiefly due to Elias
that the hideous custom was put down, and put to an end for ever.
It was no recreative play, no rippling out of mild, meditative, innocent
young sermons, these first efforts of young Elias. For instance, there
was a great fair which was wont to be held at Rhuddlan, in Denbighshire.
It was always held on the Lord’s Day. Thither, into the midst of the
fair, went the young man. He took his stand on the steps of the New Inn,
the noise and business of the fair going on all around him. His friends
had earnestly tried to dissuade, and entreated him not to venture into
the midst of so wild, and dangerous a scene. Farmers were there, to hire
labourers; crowds of rough labourers were there. It was the great
market-day for scythes, and reaping-hooks. In the booths all round him
were the sounds of harps, and fiddles; it was a wild scene of
dissipation. There stood the solemn young man, thoughtful, grave, and
compassionate. Of course, he commenced with a very solemn prayer;
praying so that almost every order of person on the ground felt himself
arrested, and brought, in a solemn way, before God. Singular effects, it
is said, seemed to follow the prayer itself. Then he took for his text
the fourth commandment; but he said he had come to open upon them “the
whole ten cannon of Sinai.” The effects could hardly have been more
tremendous had the congregation really stood at the foot of the mountain
that “might not be touched.” In any case, Elias was an awful preacher;
and we may be sure that upon this occasion he did not keep his terrors in
reserve.
One man, who had just purchased a sickle, was so alarmed at the
tremendous denunciations against Sabbath-breakers, that he imagined that
the arm which held the sickle was paralysed; he let it fall on the
ground. He could not take his eye from the preacher; and he feared to
stoop to pick it up with the other hand, lest that should be paralysed
also. It ought, also, to be said this man became an entirely changed
character, and lived, to an advanced age, a consistent Christian. The
great crowd was panic-stricken. The fair was never after held on the
Lord’s Day. Some person said to Elias, afterwards, that the fair was an
old custom, and it would recover itself, notwithstanding his
extraordinary sermon. Elias, in his dreadful manner, replied, “If any
one will give the least encouragement to the revival of that fair, he
will be accursed before the Holy Trinity, in the name of the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost!” A dreadfully earnest sort of man this. We are
not vindicating his speeches, only giving an account of them.
Mr. Jones, the Rector of Nevern, one of the most eminent of the Welsh
bards, says, “For one to throw his arms about, is not action; to make
this, or that gesture, is not action. Action is seen in the eye, in the
curling of the lip, in the frowning of the nose—in every muscle of the
speaker.” Mentioning these remarks to Dr. Pugh, when speaking of Elias,
he said he “never saw an orator that could be compared to him. Every
muscle was in action, and every movement that he made was not only
graceful, but it spoke. As an orator,” said Dr. Pugh, “I considered him
fully equal to Demosthenes!”
It was tremendous preaching. It met the state of society—the needs of
the times. What is there in a sermon?—what is there in preaching? some
have flippantly inquired. We have seen that the preaching of Elias
effected social revolutions; it destroyed bad customs, and improved
manners. He lived in this work; it consumed him. Those who knew him,
applied to him the words of Scripture: “The zeal of Thine house hath
eaten me up.” In estimating him, and his work, it ought never to be
forgotten, that, as has always been the case with such men, he lived in a
life of wondrous prayerfulness, and spiritual elevation. He was called
to preach a great Association sermon at Pwlheli. In the whole
neighbourhood the state of religion was very low, and distressingly
discouraging to pious minds; and it had been so for many years. Elias
felt that his visit must be an occasion with him. It may almost be said
of that day, that “Elias prayed, and the heavens gave rain.” He went.
He took his text, “Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered!” It
was an astonishing time. While the preacher drove along with his
tremendous power, multitudes of the people fell to the ground. Calm
stood the man, his words rushing from him like flames of fire. There
were added to the Churches of that immediate neighbourhood, Mr. Elias’s
clerical biographer tells us, in consequence of the powerful impetus of
that sermon, two thousand five hundred members.
The good man lived in an atmosphere of prayer. The stories which gather
about such men, sometimes seem to partake of the nature of exaggerations;
but, on the other hand, it ought to be recollected that all anecdotes and
popular impressions arise from some well-known characteristic to which
they are the correspondents. There was a poor woman, a neighbour’s wife.
She was very ill, and her case pressed very much upon the mind of Elias
in family prayer. But one morning he said to his wife, “I have somehow
missed Elizabeth in my prayer this morning; I think she cannot be alive.”
The words had scarcely passed from his lips when the husband was at the
door, to tell him of his wife’s departure.
There is a singular circumstance mentioned of some horse-races, a great
disturbance to the best interests of the neighbourhood; on the day of the
great race, Elias’s spirit was very much moved, and he prayed most
passionately and earnestly that the Lord would do something to put a stop
to them. His prayer was so remarkable, that someone said, “Ahab must
prepare his chariot, and get away.” The sky became so dark shortly
after, that the gas was lighted in some of the shops of the town. At
eleven o’clock the rain began to pour in torrents, and continued until
five o’clock in the afternoon of the next day. The multitudes on the
race-ground dispersed in half-an-hour, and did not reassemble that year;
and what seemed more remarkable was, that the rainfall was confined to
that vicinity. It is our duty to mention these things. An adequate
impression could not be conveyed of the place this man held in popular
estimation without them. And his eminence as a preacher was astonishing;
wherever he went, whatever day of the week, or whatever hour of the day,
no matter what the time or the season, business was laid aside, shops
were closed, and the crowds gathered to hear him. Sometimes, when it was
arranged for him to preach in a chapel, and more convenient that he
should do so, a window was taken out, and there he stood, preaching to
the crowded place within, and, at the same time, to the multitudes
gathered outside. Mr. Morgan, late vicar of Christ Church, in Bradford,
gives an account of one of these sermons. There was a great panorama
exhibiting at the same time. Elias took the idea of moving
succession—the panorama of all the miracles wrought by Christ. It is
easy to see how, from such lips, a succession of wonderful pictures would
pass before the eye, of living miracles of Divine working,—a panorama of
wonderful cures. Mr. Morgan says, “I was very ill at the time, but that
striking sermon animated me, and I have often stirred the cold English
with the account of it.”
We have said that no sermons are preserved; Elias himself regretted, in
his advanced life, that some, which had been of a peculiar interest to
him, had gone from him. Fragments there are, but they are from the lips
of hearers. Many of these fragments still present, in a very impressive
manner, his rousing, and piercing, and singularly original style; his
peculiar mode of dealing at will, for his purposes of illustration, with
the things of earth, heaven, and hell.
Take one illustration, from the text, “_Shall the prey be taken from the
mighty_, _or the lawful captive be delivered_?” “_Satan_!” he exclaimed,
“what do you say? Shall the prey be taken from the mighty? ‘No, never.
I will increase the darkness of their minds; I will harden more the
hardness of their hearts; I will make more powerful the lusts in their
souls; I will increase the strength of their chains; I will bind them
hand and foot, and make my chains stronger; the captives shall never be
delivered. Ministers! I despise ministers! Puny efforts theirs!’
‘_Gabriel_!’ exclaimed the preacher, ‘messenger of the Most High God:
shall the prey be taken from the mighty?’ ‘Ah! I do not know. I have
been hovering over this assembly. They have been hearing the Word of
God. I did expect to see some chains broken, some prisoners set free;
but the opportunity is nearly over; the multitudes are just upon the
point of separating; there are no signs of any being converted. I go
back from this to the heavenly world, but I have no messages to carry to
make joy in the presence of the angels.’” There were crowds of preachers
present. Elias turned to them. “‘What think you? You are _ministers_
of the living God. Shall the prey be taken from the mighty?’ ‘Ah! who
hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?
We have laboured in vain, and spent our strength for nought; and it seems
the Lord’s arm is not stretched out. Oh, there seems very little hope of
the captives being delivered!’ ‘_Zion_! Church of Christ! answer me,
Shall the prey be taken from the mighty? What do you say?’ And Zion
said, ‘My God hath forgotten me; I am left alone, and am childless. And
my enemies say, This is Zion, whom no man seeketh after.’ Oh, I am
afraid the prey will not be taken from the mighty—the captive will not be
delivered. _Praying Christians_, what do you think? ‘O Lord, Thou
knowest. High is Thy hand, and strong is Thy right hand. Oh that Thou
wouldst rend the heavens, and come down! Let the sighing of the prisoner
come before Thee. According to the greatness of Thy power, preserve Thou
them that are appointed to die. I am nearly wearying in praying, and yet
I have a hope that the year of jubilee is at hand.’” Then, at this
point, Elias assumed another, higher, and his most serious manner, as if
about to speak to the Almighty; and, in quite another tone, he said,
“What is the mind of the Lord respecting these captives? Shall the prey
be taken from the mighty?” Then he exclaimed, “‘Thus saith the Lord,
Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the
terrible shall be delivered.’ Ah!” he exclaimed, “there is no doubt
about the mind and will of the Lord—no room for doubt, and hesitation.
‘The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and
everlasting joy upon their heads.’”
This is the fragment of a sermon preached when Elias was about thirty
years of age. Of course it can give but a very slender idea, but perhaps
it shows something of the manner of the master. His imagination was very
brilliant, but more chastened, and subdued, than that of many. His
eloquence, like all of the highest order, was simple, and he trusted
rather to a fitting word, than to a large furniture of speech. It is
said that, to his friends, every sermon appeared to be a complete
masterpiece of elocution, a nicely-compacted, and well-fitted oration.
Among the great Welsh preachers, David Davies, and Williams of Wern were,
like Rowlands of Llangeitho, comparatively fixtures. Of course, they
appeared on great Association occasions. But John Elias, and Christmas
Evans itinerated far, and wide. Unlike as they were in the build of
their minds, and the character of their eloquence, they had a great, and
mutual, regard, and affection for each other; and it is told how, when
either preached, the other was seen with anxious interest drinking in,
with the crowd, the words of his famous brother. Theirs are, no doubt,
the two darling names most known to the religious national heart of
Wales. To John Elias it is impossible to render such a mede of justice,
or to give of his powers even so comprehensive a picture, as is
attempted, even in this volume, of Christmas Evans.
Something like an illustration of the man may be gathered from an
anecdote of the formation of one of the first Bible Societies in North
Wales. It was a very great occasion. A noble Earl, the Lord Lieutenant
of the county, was to take the chair; but when he heard that John Elias
was expected to be the principal speaker, he very earnestly implored that
he might be kept back, as “a ranter, a Methodist, and a Dissenter, who
could do no good to the meeting.” The position of Elias was such that,
upon such an occasion, no one could have dared to do that; so the noble
Lord introduced him, but with certain hints that “brevity, and
seriousness would be desirable.” The idea of recommending seriousness to
John Elias, certainly, seems a very needless commendation; but when Elias
spoke,—partly in English, and partly in Welsh,—especially when, in
stirring Welsh, he referred to the constitution of England, and the
repose of the country, as illustrating the value of the Bible to society,
and some other such remarks,—of course with all the orator’s piercing
grandeur of expression,—the chairman, seeing the inflamed state of the
people, and himself not well knowing what was said, would have the words
translated to him. He was so carried away by the dignified bearing of
the great orator, that he would have a special introduction to him at the
close of the meeting. A day or two after, a special messenger came to
invite him to visit, and spend some time at the house of the Earl. This,
however, was respectfully declined, for reasons, no doubt, satisfactory
to Elias, and which would satisfy the peer also, that the preacher had no
desire to use his great popularity for his own personal influence, and
aggrandisement.
After a life of eminent usefulness, he died, in 1841, at the age of
sixty-eight. His funeral was a mighty procession, of about ten thousand
persons. They had to travel, a distance of some miles, to the beautiful
little churchyard of Llanfaes, a secluded, and peaceful spot,—a scene of
natural romance, and beauty, the site of an old Franciscan monastery,
about fourteen miles from Llangefni, the village where Elias died. The
day of the funeral was, throughout the whole district, as still as a
Sabbath. As it passed by Beaumaris, the procession saw the flags of the
vessels in the port lowered half-mast high; and as they passed through
Beaumaris town, and Bangor city, all the shops were closed, and all the
blinds drawn before the windows. Every kind of denomination, including
the Church of England, joined in marks of respect, and justified, more
distinctly than could always be done, the propriety of the text of the
funeral oration: “Know ye not that a prince and a great man has fallen?”
Of him it might truly be said, “_Behold I will make thee a new sharp
threshing instrument_, _having teeth_: _thou shalt thresh the mountains_,
_and beat them small_, _and shalt make the hills like chaff_.”