ON Thursday night I went to Merthyr Tydvil to attend one of the meetings. I arrived about seven o’clock, and found a surging crowd outside. Some might have thought it was a theatre, but they were outside a chapel in a mining town. They were turning people away by hundreds. I said to a policeman who was regulating the crowd, “Look here, I’ve come 330 miles to attend this service.” “Is that so?” he replied, “then you shall get in;” and the police asked the crowd to part and let a Yorkshireman pass in. The aisles and vestibules were blocked, and when I got to the door I saw for the first time Evan Roberts. He was set back, looking ghastly white, in an attitude of expectancy — a favourite attitude with him — and his forehead now and then wrinkled as if in deep thought. In a while the heat of the place was intense; some could not stand, and as some elbowed themselves out, I elbowed myself in until I got a comfortable seat, well in front. In a while Evan Roberts stood up, said something in Welsh, and immediately every window in the place was smashed. It appeared Evan Roberts had told those who were near windows to break them: the cool air was admitted, and the crowd outside-could see inside, and took part in the singing. The Revivalist said that the salvation of one soul was of more importance than the fabric of the chapel. . The general atmosphere of the place “beggared” description. The service was in Welsh, and responses were heard from every part of the chapel.

With the aid of an obliging policeman, I had the essential points translated, and was thus informed what Evan Roberts said. They might call it magnetic, or electric, or what they liked, the service gripped one, it got hold of one, and you could not help it. Those who write in a scoffing, sneering style ought to go to Wales and attend the services; the influence at the Welsh churches and meetings was “other worldly”; it was something not of this world, but born of God. When I saw colliers with begrimed faces and tears trickling down their cheeks, taken hold of by that wondrous power, I realised the power of God. The Welsh language, with all its power, fervour, pathos, and beauty, rolled forth from the lips of Evan Roberts, and although I could not understand the language, it was translated into a feeling, and I felt what Roberts was saying. There was no flippancy or curiosity, but a stern, solid desire for a baptism of the Holy Ghost. Evan Roberts was a Methodist, a Methodist of Methodists, a son of old-fashioned Methodist parents; had been trained in a Methodist school, and the Methodist fervour was most palpable and patent. I had an interview with Roberts, and I was convinced there was something in the man that was not of this world. Roberts could not get a watch to go with him: he was charged with something, call it magnetism, electricity, or what you liked.

The meeting started at four o’clock, and continued till half-past ten. I went about seven o’clock, and Evan Roberts a little before that. As soon as Welshmen and Welshwomen gathered together, they held their services, and a remarkable fact was no plan or programme was prepared. Evan Roberts never prepares an address, but bases his remarks on a sentence in a prayer just uttered, or on the line of a hymn just sung, and speaks as the Spirit gives him utterance; At the service eight or ten prayers would be offered up together in different parts of the church without any confusion. One of the lady evangelists got up to sing, and they could sing. . The congregation sang a hymn to the tune “Diadem”; he had heard it sung many a time, but never like that; it was indescribable. They sang in Welsh, the last verse twice —the last time in English; and the singing roused the multitude to a point of enthusiasm. This young collier spoke beautifully, and had spent his time profitably. In the mine so many hours a day, and then with his books; he gave his mind to serious study, and with it all was as simple as a child; no side, no edge, and he attributed the whole of the wonderful Revival, not to himself, but to his God. They can make as many Acts of Parliament as they like, but they cannot make a man sober or moral by Act of Parliament; but the Revival had turned drunken men into abstainers, the gambler into a different person, and men who owed debts that had outrun the statute of limitation, and no law could make them pay, now came under the moral law, and they paid their debts. Those were facts no sneering sceptic could say a word against; those were facts, stubborn things — the effect of the presence of God. Evan Roberts did not beat about the bush; he did not mince matters. The Revival financed itself, and all the paraphernalia usually associated with the organising and working of a mission was conspicuous by its absence, but the results were very real. It made men do better work, no shuffling, no waste; employees looked after their masters’ goods as though they were their own; even the pit ponies, that had been used to blasphemy, did not understand the changed language the colliers were using. It changed men’s lives, and they showed a practical Christianity by their acts; the altered conditions were truly marvellous. Another striking fact in connection with this wave of enthusiasm that was going through Wales, was that two-thirds of the congregations consisted of men, and nearly half were young men. The whole of this mighty Revival is the result of prayer; prayer had made Evan Roberts the chosen one to rouse Wales, and he might aptly be called the “Wesley of Wales.”