"YOU ARE NOT CONVERTED!”

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selves to God, but out of loving gratitude, as those who have been changed by Him to this end.

I will go on now to tell how I was brought at this critical period of my life to real faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ. This was done in a way I knew not, and moreover, in a way I little expected. I had promised a visit to Mr. Aitken, of Pendeen, to advise him about his church, which was then building; and now, in order to divert my thoughts, I made up my mind to go to him at once. Soon after my arrival, as we were seated comfortably by the fire, he asked me (as he very commonly did) how the parish prospered. He said, "I often take shame to myself when I think of all your work. But, my brother, are you satisfied?"

I said, "No, I am not satisfied.” *

"Why not?"

"Because I am making a rope of sand, which looks very well till I pull, and then, when I expect it to hold, it gives way."

"What do you mean ?”

'Why," I replied, "these Cornish people are ingrained schismatics."

I then told him of my gardener's conversion, and my great disappointment.

"Well," he said, "if I were taken ill, I certainly would not send for you. I am sure you could not do me any good, for you are not converted yourself."

"Not converted!" I exclaimed. "How can you tell?" He said, quietly, "I am sure of it, or you would not have come here to complain of your gardener. If you had been converted, you would have remained at home to rejoice with him. It is very clear you are not converted!"

* See Tract, "Are you Satisfied?" by Rev. W. Haslam

I was vexed with him for saying that, and attempted to dispute the point; but he was calm and confident; while I, on the other hand, was uneasy, and trying to justify myself.

In the course of our conversation, he said, "You do not seem to know the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit." Here he had me, for I only knew of one thing, and he referred to two. However, we battled on till nearly two o'clock in the morning, and then he showed me to my bed-room. Pointing to the bed, he said (in a voice full of meaning), “Ah! a very holy man of God died there a short time since." This did not add to my comfort or induce sleep, for I was already much disturbed by the conversation we had had, and did not enjoy the idea of going to bed and sleeping where one had so lately died-even though he was a holy man. Resolving to sit up, I looked round the room, and seeing some books on the table, took up one, which happened to be Hare's "Mission of the Comforter." Almost the first page I glanced at told of the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit. This I read and re-read till I understood its meaning.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was finished, I resumed the conversation of the previous night with the additional light I had gained on the subject. We had not talked long before Mr. Aitken said, "Ah, my brother, you have changed your ground since last night!"

I at once confessed that I had been reading Hare's book, which he did not know was in my room, nor even in the house. He was curious to see it.

He then challenged me on another point, and said, "Have you peace with God?" I answered, without hesitation, "Yes,"-for, for eight years or more I had regarded God as my Friend. Mr. A. went on to ask me, "How did you get peace ?" "Oh," I said, "I have it continually. I

THE LIVING WATER.

57

get it at the Daily Service, I get it through prayer and reading, and especially at the Holy Communion. I have made it a rule to carry my sins there every Sunday, and have often come away from that holy sacrament feeling as happy and free as a bird." My friend looked surprised, but did not dispute this part of my experience. He contented himself by asking me quietly, "And how long does your peace last?" This question made me think. I said, "I suppose, not a week, for I have to do the same thing every Sunday." He replied, "I thought so."

Opening the Bible, he found the fourth chapter of St. John, and read, "Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again." "The woman of Samaria drew water for herself at Jacob's well, and quenched her thirst; but she had to come again and again to the same well. She had no idea of getting water, except by drawing, any more than you' have of getting peace excepting through the means you use. The Lord said to her, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water,' which should be 'a well of water springing up into everlasting life'" (John iv. 10-14). My friend pointed out the difference between getting water by drawing from a well, and having a living well within you springing up.

I said, "I never heard of such a thing."

"I suppose not," he answered.

"Have you this living water?" I continued.

"Yes, thank God, I have had it for the last thirty years." "How did you get it?"

"Look here," he said, pointing to the tenth verse: "Thou wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water."

"Shall we ask Him?" I said.

He answered, "With all my heart;" and immediately pushing back his chair, knelt down at his round table, and I knelt on the opposite side. What he prayed for I do not know. I was completely overcome, and melted to tears. I sat down on the ground, sobbing, while he shouted aloud, praising God.

As soon as I could get up, I made for the door, and taking my hat, coat, and umbrella, said that "I was really afraid to stay any longer." With this I took my departure, leaving my carpet-bag behind. It was seven miles to Penzance, but in my excitement I walked and ran all the way, and arrived there before the coach, which was to have called for me, but brought my carpet-bag instead. In the meantime, while I was waiting for it, I saw a pamphlet, by Mr. Aitken, in a shop window, which I bought, and got into the train to return to Baldhu. My mind was in such a distracted state, that I sought relief in reading. I had not long been doing so, when I came to a paragraph in italics: "Then shall He say unto them, Depart from Me; 1 never knew you." The question arrested me, What if He says that to you?

Ah, that is not likely.

But, what if He does?

It cannot be. I have given up the world; I love God; I visit the sick; I have daily service and weekly communion.

me.

But, what if He does ?—what if He does?

I could not bear the thought; it seemed to overwhelm

As I read the pamphlet, I saw that the words were spoken to persons who were taken by surprise. So should I be. They were able to say, "We have eaten and drunk in Thy presence, and Thou hast taught in our streets in Thy name we have cast out devils, and done many wonderful

A TROUBLED MIND.

59

works." Yet, with all this, He replied, "Depart from Me, I never knew you." I did not see how I could escape, if such men as these were to be rejected.

Conviction was laying hold upon me, and the circle was becoming narrower. The thought pressed heavily upon me, "What a dreadful thing, if I am wrong!" Added to this, I trembled to think of those I had misled. "Can it be true? Is it so?" I remembered some I had watched over most zealously, lest the Dissenters should come and pray with them. I had sent them out of the world resting upon a false hope, administering the sacrament to them for want of knowing any other way of bringing them into God's favour. I used to grieve over any parishioner who died without the last sacrament, and often wondered how it would fare with Dissenters !

My mind was in a revolution. I do not remember how I got home. I felt as if I were out on the dark, boundless ocean, without light or oar or rudder. I endured the greatest agony of mind for the souls I had misled, though I had done it ignorantly. "They are gone, and lost for ever!" I justly deserved to go also. My distress seemed greater than I could bear. A tremendous storm of wind, rain and thunder, which was raging at the time, was quite in sympathy with my feelings. I could not rest. Looking at the graves of some of my faithful Churchmen, I wondered, "Is it really true that they are now cursing me for having misled them?”

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed by, each day and night more dark and despairing than the preceding one. On the Sunday, I was so ill that I was quite unfit to take the service. Mr. Aitken had said to me, "If I were you, I would shut the church, and say to the congregation, 'I will not preach again till I am converted. Pray for me!'" Shall I do this?