From Death into Life Part 21

"I do then, most positively."

"But I have a copy of my letter to your lords.h.i.+p, and your answer."

"Then you may urge your claim by law, if you please."

"No, indeed, my lord, I do not think I will do that." And then, after a short pause, I said, "You have done for me what I could not dare do for myself, though I have often been tempted to do it."

"And pray, what is that?" he inquired.

"To give up parochial ministration, that I may be free to preach wherever I am led."

"Could you do that?"

"I could not do it conscientiously myself; but now that you have stripped me of harness, I will put on no more."

The Bishop made his bow, and I made mine; and that was the end of our interview. In my unconverted days I used to be an ardent and enthusiastic admirer of this man; his charges, his speeches, and especially his withering, sarcastic letters to Lord John Russell and others, who came under his tremendous lash, to my mind made him a great hero. His straight forward manner also commanded my respect, for, generally speaking, I had found bishops very smooth and two-sided, or rather both-sided; but in his ease there was no mistake.

It used to be a proud time for me when this Bishop came into Cornwall, and I was permitted to accompany him, and to act as his chaplain at the consecration of a church or burial ground, or to attend him when he went to a Confirmation. Sometimes I had the happy privilege of rowing him in a boat on the sea. He seemed to take such an affectionate and intelligent interest in my parish and my church work. He asked various questions about my neighbours, just as if he lived among them and knew all their circ.u.mstances. He struck me as a wonderful man, and I was his champion upon all occasions in my unconverted days. Notwithstanding this, he was too honest to his own views to favour me after my conversion.

On my return home without a license, I had but a poor account to give, and the future prospect looked very gloomy.

CHAPTER 26

Plymouth, 1855.

I occasionally preached in the parish church, and went to the daily Communion and the daily service. My spare time I occupied (it was like going back to brick-making in Egypt) in painting the church. I laboured for hours and hours to try and make this great chalk-pit of a place look somewhat ecclesiastical. All round the church I painted a diaper pattern, surmounted with a border, which went over the doors and under the windows. Then on the bare wall at the end I painted a life-sized figure of our Lord, as a Shepherd leading His sheep, taken from Overbeck's picture. This, together with a few other pictures of Christ, warmed up the building very well. Then for the chancel I had a most elaborate design.

First, there was a beautiful gilded pattern over the very lofty chancel arch, which I managed to reach by means of a ladder. Professional people need scaffolding and platforms, which I dispensed with, and accomplished the whole s.p.a.ce in less time than it would take to put up all their needful erections. Inside the chancel I had twelve niches, with tabernacle work above them, for the twelve apostles; and these were all duly represented after a true mediaeval pattern.

The local newspaper made great fun of these paintings; and the reporter would have it, that "these lively saints looked very conscious of being put up there, and that they were constantly 'craning' their necks to look at one another--as if they would inquire, 'I say, how do you like being there?'" My favourite figure, St. John, upon which I bestowed extra pains, the provoking man would have it, was St. Mary Magdalene, leering at the apostle next to her, or at the one opposite--it did not seem quite clear to him which; but her head was down on one side in a bewitching att.i.tude.

In the middle of the great undertaking I was called away for a few weeks. During this time the reporter came again and again, but saw no progress; he therefore put an advertis.e.m.e.nt into his paper to this effect:--

"Stolen or strayed, a monkish priest, who paints apostles. He is not to be found. Any person or persons who can give information concerning this absent personage, will greatly oblige."

My preaching was not acceptable in this church, neither was my connection with it; and my apostles were no better appreciated, for they were soon after whitewashed over, and disappeared like a dream.

Sometimes, in damp weather, they were still to be seen "craning" their necks as heretofore (much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the chorister boys) though with a kind of veil upon them. Doubtless, in a future generation, when the plaster begins to blister, some antiquarian will discover this "wonderful mediaeval fresco," and call the attention of the public to it.

My ideas and dreams about catholic advancement were thus brought to a calamitous end. This church to which I had come was one in high credit for much private and public devotion; but, alas! I found what I might easily have expected, that without spiritual vitality everything must be dry and dead! Dry and dead indeed it was. The conversation of these supposed ascetics was for the most part secular, and at the highest only ecclesiastical. Their wors.h.i.+p, on which a great amount of pains and cost was bestowed, was but a form carefully prepared and carefully executed, as if critics were present; yet it did not, and could not, rise to spirituality. A lady presided at the organ, and had the teaching and training of the choir. Much of her own personal and religious character were imparted to the performances, which in tone and manner were admirable and precise. She made the boys understand the sense of the words they sang, till I have seen them even in tears during the singing.

The "chaste old verger" (as our reporter called him), who headed the procession at least four times a day, up and down the church, was a very important and successful part of the machinery, and from him, up to the highest official, everything was carried out with exact precision.

But oh, how unsatisfying and disappointing it was!--to a degree which I was ashamed to own! How could I be so foolish, to give up a living, where there was vitality, though it was rough, for a superficial and artificial semblance of religion? In the book of Ecclesiastes we read, that "a living dog is better than a dead lion;" and though I had often quoted this saying, I never felt the truth of it so deeply as now. The dead lion and the dead elephant are quite immovable things for a live dog to bark at or fret about. It was a hard and trying time to me in that place. I could not see my way, or understand at all what was the Lord's will towards me. While in this state of mind I had a vivid dream.

I thought that the ornamental iron grating, which was for ventilating the s.p.a.ce under the floor of the church, was all glowing with fire, as if a great furnace were raging there. I tried to cry "Fire!" but could not. Then I ran into the church, and saw it full of people reverently absorbed in their devotions. I tried again to give the alarm, and cry "Fire! fire!" but I could not utter a sound. When I looked up, I saw thin, long, waving strings of fire coming up among the people through the joints of the floor. I called attention to this, but no one else could see it. Then I became frantic in my gesticulation, and at last was able to tell some of the congregation of the great fire which was under them; but they looked at one another, smiling, and told me to go about my business--that I was mad! I woke out of my troubled sleep in a very agitated and perturbed state. Since that, whenever I have seen or heard of churches, where Church and Sacraments are preached, instead of Christ, as the one way of salvation, I long to warn the people of the fire raging underneath, and to show them the way of the Lord more perfectly.

One day, when I was feeling more desponding and wretched than before, a lady called, and said she wanted to speak to me--would I come to her house for this purpose? I went, and she was not long before she opened the conversation by charging me with being uncharitable. "You say we are all unconverted."

I replied, "Of course, as children of Adam we are, till conversion takes place; there can be no mistake about that! But when did I say that you were unconverted? Is it not your own conscience that tells you that?

When we preach to people as unconverted, those who are changed, and brought from death into life, know as well as possible that we do not mean them; and they pray for a blessing on the Word, that it may reach others, as it once reached them. They do not sit there and resent the charge, for they know what has pa.s.sed between G.o.d and their souls, and are anxious for others to share the same blessing." She was silent; so I continued, "May I ask you the question. Are you converted? Can you tell me that you are?"

She replied, "I do not know what you mean."

"Well, then, why do you suppose that I mean something uncharitable or bad?"

"Because I know very well it is not a good thing to be unconverted.

But," she added, "it seems such an unkind thing to put us all down for 'lost,' while you suppose yourself to be saved."

"You may know more about this some day, perhaps; but in the meantime will you allow me to ask you one thing: Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ?"

She replied indignantly, "Of course I do. Now, this is the very want of charity I complain of-the idea of asking me such a question!"

She was one of the Rev. --'s, (the confessor's) favourite devotees, and had been absolved by him for several years; the very idea of asking her if she believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, made her quite impatient, as well as indignant.'

I said, "Do not be angry with me, but what do you believe about Him?"

"Believe everything, of course! I believe the creed."

"Yes, I do not doubt that, for a moment. But do you believe that Jesus died for you?"

"Why, yes, certainly: how could I do otherwise; He died for us all."

"That is not the point. I mean, do you believe that He died; and that you have a personal interest in His death?"

She hesitated, and then looking at me said, "Do you mean objectively, or subjectively?"

"May I ask what I am to understand by these words?"

"Dr. -- taught me that, 'Christ died.' is objective, and that 'Christ died for me.' is subjective."

"Very good indeed," I answered, "I like that very much; it is quite true. But it is one thing to know about subjective faith, and quite another thing to have it. Now I will come back to my question. Do you believe that Christ died for you?"

"You evidently mean something that I do not understand," she said, in a perplexed manner. Then looking at the crucifix on her table, I said, "What does that remind you of?"

"Oh, I pray before that every day, and ask the Lord to take my sins away."

"Then you do not think your sins are forgiven yet. How can you ask for forgiveness, and have it at the same time?"

"Do you mean to say then," she replied, with surprise, "that you have no sins?"

"Yes, I mean to say that my sins were atoned for, once for all, on the cross; and that, believing this, I have peace and remission of sins. My past sins are cast like a stone into the deep; and as to my daily sins of omission and commission, I do not take them to the cross like a Romanist, but to the throne of grace, where the risen and living Christ is now making intercession for me."

She was silent; and so was I, inwardly praying for her. Presently she looked up and said, "I do thank Him for dying for me. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Thanksgiving is an indication of living faith. How can I believe that Jesus died for me, and not thank Him?"

"But I do thank Him, and it is very uncharitable of you to say, we do not thank Him; we all thank Him!"

She was gone again, and I wondered whether I should ever bring her back!