_SUMMARY OF GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF CHRISTMAS EVANS_, _AS A MAN AND A
PREACHER_.
A Central Figure in the Religious Life of Wales—In a Singular Degree a
Self-made Man—His Words on the Value of Industry—His Honest
Simplicity—Power of Sarcasm Repressed—Affectionate Forgiveableness—Great
Faith, and Power in Prayer—A Passage in Dean Milman’s “Samor”—His Sermons
a Kind of Silex Scintillans—Massive Preaching, but lightened by Beautiful
Flowers—As an Orator—A Preacher in the Age of Faith—Seeing Great
Truths—His Remarks on what was called “Welsh Jumping” in Religious
Services.
THE character of Christmas Evans, it will be seen, from all that has gone
before, appears to us to be eminently interesting as the most distinct,
to us the most central, and realizable figure, in the religious life of
his country, and his times: he is the central figure in a group of
remarkable men. We shall not discuss the question as to whether he was
the greatest,—greatness is so relative a term; he appears, to us,
certainly, from our point of view, the most representative Welsh preacher
of his time, perhaps of any time: in him seemed embodied not merely the
imaginative, but the fanciful, the parable-loving spirit of his
department of the great Celtic family; with this, that ardent devotion,
that supersensuous absorption, which to our colder temperament looks like
superstition.
One writer finely remarks of him, and with considerable truth, so far as
his own country is concerned, “He is a connecting link between the
beginning and the ending of the eighteenth century; he has the light, the
talent, and the taste of the beginning, and has received every new light
that has appeared since. He was enabled to accompany the career of
religious knowledge in the morning, and also to follow its rapid strides
in the evening. In this he is unlike every other preacher of the day:
the morning and evening light of this wonderful century meet in him; he
had strength to climb up to the top of Carmel in the morning, and remain
there during the heat of the day, and see the consuming sacrifice, and
the licking up of the water; his strength continued, by the hand of the
Lord, so that he could descend from the mount in the evening, and run
without fainting before the king’s chariot to Jezreel.”
On the whole, there is considerable truth in these words, although author
and reader may alike take exception to some of them. The circumstances
and situation of the life of this singular man have been set so clearly
before the reader in these pages, that there can be no difficulty in
apprehending the unpropitious and unfavourable atmosphere through which
he was compelled to move. Few men can ever have more richly deserved the
epithet of self-made: no systematic tuition could he ever have received;
near to manhood before he even attempted to obtain, before he had even
presented to him any inducements to attempt, the most rudimental elements
of knowledge; we cannot gather that he had any teachers, who assisted him
with more than hints, or the loan of a grammar, a lexicon, or some volume
he desired to read; there are no indications of any particular kindness,
no friendly hands, no wicket, or gate of school, or college opened to
him. And as with the commencement of his career, so with its course; his
intercourse was, probably, mostly with men, and minds inferior to his
own; books, we have seen, he had few, although he read, with avidity,
wherever he could borrow; and as with his mental training, so with his
spiritual experience,—it appears all to have gone on within himself, very
much unrelieved, and unaided; he had to fight his own doubts, and to
gather strength in the wrestling, and the conflict. And as he thus
formed himself, without assistance, so, apparently without any human
assistance, he continued to labour on, amidst the popular acclamations of
fame. The absence of all, and every exhibition of gratitude, is
peculiarly affecting. Altogether, this strikes us as a grand,
self-sustained, and much-enduring life, always hard, and necessitous; but
its lines are very indelible, written as with a pen of iron, and as with
the point of a diamond. It is natural that, in his old age, he should
speak thus to a young man of the—
“VALUE OF INDUSTRY.
“I am an old man, my dear boy, and you are just entering the
ministry. Let me now, and here tell you one thing, and I commend it
to your attention, and memory. All the ministers that I have ever
known, who have fallen into disgrace, or into uselessness, _have been
idle men_. I never am much afraid of a young minister, when I
ascertain that he can, and does, _fairly sit down to his book_.
There is Mr. —, of whom we were talking just now, a man of such
unhappy temper, and who has loved, for many years, to meddle in all
sorts of religious disputes and divisions. He would have, long ago,
been utterly wrecked, had not his habits of industry saved him. He
has stuck to his book, and that has kept him from many dishonours,
which, had he been an idle man, must have, by this time, overwhelmed
him. An idle man is in the way of every temptation; temptation has
no need to seek him; _he is at the corner of the street_, _ready_,
_and waiting for it_. In the case of a minister of the Gospel, this
peril is multiplied by his position, his neglected duties, the
temptations peculiar to his condition, and his own superior
susceptibility. _Remember this—stick to your book_.”
The foundations of the good man’s character were laid in honest
simplicity, real, and perfect sincerity; he was innocent, and
unsuspecting as a child, and here, no doubt, lay the cause of many of his
trials; his frank, and confiding disposition became the means by which
his own peace was poisoned, when jealous men, malicious men,—and these
sometimes Christian men,—took advantage of his simplicity. He once
employed a person to sell a horse for him at a fair; after some time,
Evans being there, he went out to see if the man was likely to succeed.
He found that a bargain was going on for the horse, and nearly completed.
“Is this your horse, Mr. Evans?” said the purchaser.
“Certainly it is,” he replied.
“What is his age, sir?”
“Twenty-three years.”
“But this man tells me he is only fifteen.”
“He is certainly twenty-three, for he has been with me these twenty
years, and he was three years old when I bought him.”
“Is he safe-footed?”
“Well, he is very far from that, and, indeed, that is the reason why I
want to part with him; and he has never been put into harness since I
bought him either.”
“Please go into the house, Mr. Evans, and stop there,” said the man whom
he had employed to make the sale: “I never shall dispose of the horse
while you are present.”
But the dealer was, in this instance, mistaken, for the frank manner in
which Mr. Evans had answered the questions, and told the truth, induced
the buyer to make the purchase, even at a very handsome price. But the
anecdote got abroad, and it added to Mr. Evans’s reputation, and good
name; and even the mention of the story in these pages, after these long
years have passed away, is more to his memory than the gold would have
been to his pocket.
Like all such natures, however, he was not wanting in shrewdness, and we
have seen that, when irritated, he could express himself in sharp
sarcasm. He had this power, but, upon principle, he kept it under
control. It was a saying of his, “It is better to keep sarcasms
pocketed, if we cannot use them without wounding friends.” Once, two
ministers of different sects were disputing upon some altogether
trifling, and most immaterial point of ecclesiastical discipline. One of
them said, “What is your opinion, Mr. Evans?” and he said, “To-day I saw
two boys quarrelling over two snails: one of them insisted that his snail
was the best, because it had horns; while the other as strenuously
insisted that his was the best, because it had none. The boys were very
angry, and vociferous, but the two snails were very good friends.”
He comes before us with all that strength of character which he
unquestionably possessed, as a spirit most affectionate, and especially
forgiving. An anecdote goes about of a controversy he had with a
minister of another sect, who so far forgot himself as to indulge in
language utterly inconsistent with all Christian courtesy. But a short
time elapsed, when the minister was charged with a crime: had he been
convicted, degradation from the ministry must have been the smallest part
of his punishment, but his innocence was made manifest, and perfectly
clear. Mr. Evans always believed the charge to be false, and the attempt
to prosecute to be unjust, and merely malicious. On the day when the
trial came on he went, as was his wont, in all matters where he was
deeply interested, into his own room, and fervently prayed that his old
foe might be sustained, and cleared. He was in company with several
friends and brother ministers, when a minister entered the room, and
said, “Mr. B— is fully acquitted.” Evans instantly fell on his knees,
and with tears exclaimed, “Thanks be unto Thee, O Lord Jesus, for
delivering one of Thy servants from the mouth of the lions.” And he very
soon joined his hearty congratulations with those of the other friends of
the persecuted man.
It is certain the story of the Church recites very few instances of such
an active life, so eminently devotional, and prayerful: we have seen this
already illustrated in those remarkable covenants we have quoted. He had
an old-fashioned faith in prayer. He was very likely never troubled much
about the philosophy of it: his life passed in the practice of it. No
Catholic monk or nun kept more regularly the hours, the matins, or the
vigils than he. It appears, that for many years he was accustomed to
retire for a short season, for prayer, three times during the day, and to
rise at midnight, regularly, for the same purpose. He suffered much
frequently from slander; he had disorders, and troubles in his churches;
he had many afflictions, as we have seen, in life, and the frequent sense
of poverty; but these all appeared to drive this great, good man to
prayer, and his friends knew it, and felt it, and felt the serenity, and
elevation of his character when in the social circle, even when it was
also known that heavy trials were upon him. And one who appears to have
known him applies to him, in such moments, the language of the Psalmist,
“All thy garments smell of myrrh, aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory
palaces.”
And, perhaps, in this connection, we may say, without being
misunderstood, that the especial necessities of his life gave to it
something of a cloistered, and monastic character. He was not immured in
the cell, or the monastery, but how little can we realize the profound
solitude of those long journeys, so constantly renewed, through the
silence of the lonely hills, across the desolation of the uninhabited
moor! An intensely nervous, and meditative nature, no possibility of the
book then, no retreat, we can believe no desire to retreat from the
infinite stretched above him, and even the infinite seeming to spread all
around him. In so devout a nature, how calculated all this to foster
devotion, until it became at once the support, as well as the passion, of
the soul!
And these perpetual wanderings among the mountains must have been a fine
spiritual education, an education deepening emotion in the soul, and at
the same time kindling the mind in thoughtful imagery. He reminds us of
Dean Milman’s hero, also a pilgrim through Wales:—
“His path is ’mid the Cambrian mountains wild;
The many fountains that well wandering down
Plinlimmon’s huge round side their murmurs smooth
Float round him; Idris, that like warrior old
His batter’d and fantastic helmet rears,
Scattering the elements’ wrath, frowns o’er his way,
A broad irregular duskiness. Aloof
Snowdon, the triple-headed giant, soars,
Clouds rolling half-way down his rugged sides.
Slow as he trod amid their dizzy heights,
Their silences and dimly mingling sounds,
Rushing of torrents, war of prison’d winds;
O’er all his wounded soul flow’d strength, and pride,
And hardihood; again his front soar’d up
To commerce with the skies, and frank and bold,
His majesty of step his rugged path
Imprinted . . .
. . . Whence, ye mountains, whence
The spirit that within your secret caves
Holds kindred with man’s soul?”
Henry Vaughan delighted to call himself the Silurist, always proud of the
country from whence he came: his was a different region of Wales from
that which produced Christmas Evans. Henry Vaughan was the swan of the
Usk; but the sermons of Evans, like the sacred poems of Vaughan, were a
kind of _Silex Scintillans_, or sparks from the flint, sparks shot forth
from the great mountains, and the overhanging stars, with both of which
he held long communion: he had no opportunity for any other often in the
course of his travel; they were as the streets of God, lighted with suns
stretching across his way, in the green amphitheatre of day, and the blue
amphitheatre of night.
And this was, no doubt, very greatly the secret of his preaching. It is
not too strong a term to use, to say that, with all its brilliancy, its
bardic, and poetic splendours, it was massive preaching. He usually laid
the foundations of the edifice of a sermon, strong and secure in reason,
and in Scripture, securing the understanding, and the convictions of his
hearers, before he sketched those splendid allegories, or gave those
descriptive touches; before even he appealed to those feelings, when he
led the whole congregation captive by the chains of his eloquence.
We have said before, that like most of the preachers of his country, he
delighted also in the use of sharp, rememberable sayings. That is a
striking expression when he says, speaking of death, to the believer in
Christ, “The crocodile of death shall be harnessed to the chariot of the
daughter of Zion, to bring her home to her father’s house.” Again, “Our
immortal souls, although in perishable bodies, are evidently originally
birds of Paradise, and our faculties are the beautiful wings by which we
understand, remember, fear, believe, love, hope, and delight in immortal,
and eternal things.” That is very pretty when he says, “Faith is the
wedding-ring by which the poor daughter of the old Ammonite is married to
the Prince of Peace: she is raised from poverty to opulence, from
degradation to honour, not because of the intrinsic value of the ring,
though it is a golden one, but on account of the union which it
signifies, between her, and the beloved Prince.” Again, “A cradle, a
cross, and a grave, all of His Father’s appointing, must Jesus have, in
order to open a fountain of living water to the world.” Such sentences
as these the reader will find strewn along all his sermons, and many such
in those which we have quoted more at length.
But it must always be remembered that Christmas Evans was, in a
pre-eminent degree, the orator. He had a presence; he was nearly six
feet high, and finely-proportioned; his whole bearing was dignified, and
majestic; he had but one eye, it is true, but we can believe the
testimony which describes it as singularly penetrating, and even burning
with a wonderful effect, when the strong inspiration of his eloquence was
upon him. Then his voice was one of marvellous compass, and melody; like
his sermons themselves, which were able to touch the hearts of mighty
multitudes, so his voice was able to reach their ears.
When he heard Robert Hall, the marvellous enchantment of that still,
small voice, a kind of soprano in its sweet, and cleaving clearness, so
overwhelmed him, that he longed to preach in that tone, and key; but the
voices of the men were fitted to their words,—Hall’s to his own
exquisitely-finished culture, and to the sustained, and elevated culture
either of spirit, or intelligence of those whom he addressed; Evans’s
words we suppose rolled like the thunder of a mighty sea, with all its
amplitude of many-voiced waves. Singers differ, and, no doubt, while we
are able to admire the evangelical force, and fervour, and even the fine
pictorial imagery of the sermons of Christmas Evans, it is something like
looking at the painting on the glass, which may be very pretty, and
exquisite, but in order really to see it, it should be in the camera,
with the magnifying lens, and the burning lamp behind it. Alas! it is so
with all reported and written eloquence: the figures, and the words are
almost as cold as the paper upon which they are printed, as they pass
before the eye; they need the inspiration of the burning genius, and that
inspired by a Divine affection, or afflatus, in their utterance, to give
them a real effect.
And in the case of Christmas Evans’s sermons, this is not all: to us they
are only translations,—translations from the difficult Welsh
language,—translations without the wonderful atmospheric accent of the
Welsh vowel; so that the very best translation of one of Christmas
Evans’s performances can only be the skeleton of a sermon. We may admire
the structure, the architecture of the edifice, but we can form little
idea of the words which were said to have set Wales on fire.
We recur to the expression we used a few sentences since. We are able to
appreciate the massive character of these sermons: it is very true they
are cyclopean,—they have about them a primæval rudeness; but then the
cyclopean architecture, although primitive, is massive. Here are huge
thoughts, hewn out of the primæval, but ever-abiding instincts of our
nature, or, which is much the same thing, from the ancient, and granite
flooring of the Divine Word. We must make this allowance for our
preacher: he took up his testimony from the grand initial letters of
Faith; he knew something of the other side of thought; the belief of his
country, in his time, in the earlier days of his ministry, had been very
much vexed by Sabellianism.
The age of systematic, and scientific doubt had not set in on the
Principality; but he met the conscience of man as a conscience, as that
which was a trouble, and a sorrow to the thoughtful mind, and where it
was still untroubled, he sought to alarm it, and awaken it to terror, and
to fear; and he preached the life, and work of Christ as a legitimate
satisfaction, and rest to the troubled conscience. This was, no doubt,
the great burden of his ministry; these are the subjects of all his
sermons. He used the old words, the old nomenclature.
Since the day of Christmas Evans, theological language is so altered,
that the theological lexicon of the eighteenth century would seem very
poorly to represent theological ideas in this close of the nineteenth.
But we have often thought, that, perhaps, could the men of that time be
brought face to face with the men of this, it might be found that terms
had rather enlarged their signification, than essentially altered their
meaning,—this in many instances, of course, not in all. But it would
often happen, could we but patiently analyze the meaning of theological
terms, we should often find a brother where we had suspected an alien,
and a friend where we had imagined a foe.
Thus Christmas Evans dealt with great truths. He was a wise
master-builder, and all the several parts of his sermons were related
together in mutual dependence. The reader will notice that there was
always symmetry in their construction: he obeys an order of thought; we
feel that he speaks of that which, to the measure of the revelation
given, and his entrance into the mind of the Spirit, he distinctly
understands. A mind, which itself lives in the light, will, by its own
sincerity, make the subject which it attempts to expound clear; and he
had this faculty, eminently, of making abstruse truths shine out with
luminous, and distinct beauty. This is always most noble when the mind
of a preacher rises to the highest truths in the Christian scheme. A
great deal of our preaching, in the present day, well deserves the name
of pretty: how many men, whose volumes of sermons are upon our shelves,
both in England, and America, seem as if their preachers had been
students in the natural history of religion, gathering shells, pretty
rose-tinted shells, or leaves, and insects for a theological museum! And
a very pretty occupation, too, to call attention to the lily-work of the
temple. But there are others, whose aim has been—
“Rather to see great truths
Than touch and handle little ones.”
And, certainly, Christmas Evans was of that order who occupied the mind,
and single eye, rather on the pathway of the planet beyond him, than in
the study of the most exquisite shell on the sea-shore. Among religious
students, and even among eminent preachers, there are some, who may be
spoken of as Divine, and spiritual astronomers,—they study the laws of
the celestial lights; and there are others, who may be called religious
entomologists,—they find themselves at home amidst insectile
prettinesses. Some minds are equal to the infinitely large, and the
infinitely small, the remote not more than the near; but such instances
are very rare.
The power of great truths overwhelms the man who feels them; this gives
rise to that impassioned earnestness which enables a great speaker to
storm, and take possession of the hearts of his hearers: the man, it has
been truly said, was lost in his theme, and art, was swallowed up in
excited feeling, like a whirlpool, bearing along the speaker, and his
hearers with him, on the current of the strong discourse. The histories
of the greatest orators,—for instance, Massillon, Bossuet, and Robert
Hall,—show how frequently it was the case, that the excited feelings of
an audience manifested themselves by the audience starting from their
seats, and, sometimes, by loud expressions of acclamation, or
approbation. Some such scenes appear to have manifested themselves, even
beneath Christmas Evans’s ministry. Some such scenes as these led to the
report of those excitements in Wales, which many of our readers have
heard of as “Welsh jumping.” Evans appears to have been disposed to
vindicate from absurdity this phenomenon,—the term used to describe it
was, no doubt, employed as a term of contempt. He says,—
“Common preaching will not do to arouse sluggish districts from the
heavy slumbers into which they have sunk; indeed, formal prayers, and
lifeless sermons are like bulwarks raised against these things: five,
or six stanzas will be sung as dry as Gilboa, instead of one, or two
verses, like a new song full of God, of Christ, and the Spirit of
grace, until the heart is attuned for worship. The burying grounds
are kept in fine order in Glamorganshire, and green shrubs, and herbs
grow on the graves; but all this is of little value, for the
inhabitants of them are all dead. So, in every form of godliness,
where its power is not felt, order without life is exceedingly
worthless: you exhibit all the character of human nature, leaving
every bud of the flower to open in the beams of the sun, except in
Divine worship. On other occasions, you English appear to have as
much fire in your affections as the Welsh have, if you are noticed.
In a court of law, the most efficient advocate, such as Erskine, will
give to you the greatest satisfaction; but you are contented with a
preacher speaking so lifelessly, and so low, that you can hardly
understand a third part of what he says, and you will call this
decency in the sanctuary. To-morrow I shall see you answering fully
to the human character in your own actions. When the speakers on the
platform will be urging the claims of missions, you will then beat
the boards, and manifest so much life, and cheerfulness that not one
of you will be seen to take up a note-book, nor any other book, while
the speaker shall be addressing you. A Welshman might suppose, by
hearing your noise, that he had been silently conveyed to one of the
meetings of the Welsh jumpers, with this difference, that you would
perceive many more tears shed, and hear many more ‘calves of the
lips’ offered up, in the rejoicing meetings of Wales; but you use
your heels well on such occasions, and a little of your tongues; but
if even in Wales, in certain places,—that is, places where the
fervent gales are not enjoyed which fill persons with fear, and
terror, and joy, in approaching the altar of God,—you may see, while
hearing a sermon, one looking into his hymn-book, another into his
note-book, and a third turning over the leaves of his Bible, as if he
were going to study a sermon in the sanctuary, instead of attending
to what is spoken by the preacher as the mouth of God.”
He proceeds, at considerable length, in this strain, in a tone of apology
which, while it is frank, and ingenuous, certainly seems to divest the
excitement of the Welsh services of those objectionable features which,
through a haze of ignorant prejudice, had very much misrepresented the
character of such gatherings in England. It was, as Mr. Evans shows, the
stir, and excitement, the more stereotyped acclamation, of an English
meeting manifesting itself in the devotional services of these wild
mountain solitudes. He continues,—
“It is an exceedingly easy matter for a minister to manage a
congregation while Christian enjoyment keeps them near to God; they
are diligent, and zealous, and ready for every good work; but it is
very easy to offend this joyous spirit—or give it what name you
please, enthusiasm, religious madness, or Welsh jumping,—its English
name,—and make it hide itself; a quarrel, and disagreement in the
Church, will occasion it to withdraw immediately; indulging in sin,
in word or deed, will soon put it to flight: it is like unto the
angel formerly, who could not behold the sin of Israel without hiding
himself,—so is the angel of the religious life of Wales, which proves
him to be a holy angel, though he has the name of a Welsh jumper. My
prayer is, that this angel be a guard upon every congregation, and
that none should do anything to offend him. It is an exceedingly
powerful assistant to accompany us through the wilderness, but the
individual that has not felt its happy influences has nothing to
lose; hence he does not dread a dry meeting, and a hard prayer, for
they are all the same to him; but the people of this enjoyment pray
before prayer, and before hearing, that they may meet with God in
them.
“The seasons when these blessings are vouchsafed to the churches of
Wales are to be noticed: it is generally at a time when the cause of
religion is at a low ebb, all gone to slumber; this happy spirit of
enjoyment in religion, like the angel of the pillar of fire, appears
when there is distress, and everything at the worst; its approach to
the congregation is like the glory of God returning to the temple of
old; it creates a stir among the brethren; they have a new prayer,
and a new spirit given them to worship God; this will lay hold of
another; some new strength, and light will appear in the pulpit,
until it will be imagined that the preacher’s voice is altered, and
that his spirit has become more evangelical, and that he preaches
with a more excellent savour than usual; tenderness will descend upon
the members, and it will be seen that Mr. Wet-eyes, and Mr. Amen,
have taken their place among them; the heavenly gale will reach some
of the old backsliders, and they are brought, with weeping, to seek
their forfeited privilege; by this time the sound of Almighty God
will be heard in the outer court, beginning to move the hearers like
a mighty wind shaking the forest; and as the gale blows upon the
outer court, upon the hearers, and the young people, and afterwards
making its way through the outer court, to rouse the inner court,
until a great concern is awakened for the state of the soul. And,
see, how these powerful revivals evince their nature: they are
certain, where they are strong, to bend the oaks of Bashan, men of
strong, and sturdy minds, and haughty hearts; they bring all the
ships of Tarshish, and the merchants of this world, in the harbour
hearing; the power of the day of the Lord will raze all the walls of
bigotry to the foundation; thoughts of eternal realities, and the
spirit of worship, are by these blessings diffused abroad, and family
worship is established in scores of families; the door of such a
district, opened by the powers of the world to come, creates the
channel where the living waters flow, and dead fish are made alive by
its virtues.”
So Christmas Evans vindicated the excitements of religious services in
Wales from English aspersions.