SO far we have considered individuals only. Now we shall consider a mass movement. From time to time in history there occur spiritual upheavals. The placid, set face of mankind is stirred, and men’s souls begin to seethe. Such revivals, whether in art or religion, become associated with the name of some one individual—as, for example, in the case of the Franciscan revival. But they do not necessarily originate with that individual. He may be only the one round whom the movement centres, as he may be the one above all others who may best be able to represent and express the essence of the movement, which itself must ultimately originate in the Creative Spirit of the universe, while his part is in a unique degree to manifest and express that Spirit.

The Welsh Revival of 1904-5 was one of such spiritual upheavals in recent times. It became associated with the name of Evan Roberts. He did not actually originate the movement. But he was its chief embodiment; and he more fully and effectively than any other manifested its spirit.

Evan Roberts had none of what are ordinarily considered the advantages of life. He was not born of rich, or even well-to-do parents. He had no public school or university education. He was first a miner and then a blacksmith, and his parents were just simple working-class folk.

Outwardly and seemingly he possessed no advantages in the struggle of life. Inwardly he had an incalculably, great advantage over his fellows. He was endowed with an inordinate love of all high and pure and holy things, and with a sweet, loving and most sincere and genuine disposition. And he was brought up in a home where spiritual things counted. While there was little money there was much affection.

His father was a pump-man and miner; and his mother was the daughter of a blacksmith. Both parents were of a strongly religious disposition, but it was to the firmness and love of his mother that he probably owed most. He was one of fourteen children of these simple-minded poor, industrious parents, and was born in. 1878.

Between four and five years of age he went to school, but owing to the necessity of having to earn something towards his living he had to leave school three months before he reached his twelfth year. And at this early start in life he is said to have had a strong affection for his parents, to have been willingly obedient to them, orderly in his habits, and clean in dress, word and conduct.

At twelve he became a door-boy, looking after doors in the pit of a colliery and earning his first salary. Wishing to improve his position he began cutting coal with another man, and at sixteen he and a friend undertook the working of a heading and earned five-shillings a day each.

Even when mining, though, he had his Bible by him and used to read it in snatches. And away from his work he would read much and attend Chapel meetings where he attracted so much attention by his faithful attendance and earnestness of demeanour that at twenty-one he was appointed to speak on “Practical Atheism” at a church meeting. And young though he was at the time he was not unfitted for such a task, as he had six years before been made teacher in a Sunday school and proved such a success in winning the confidence of children that he had later been appointed superintendent of the children’s school.

At the age of twenty-four he gave up coal-mining and began to learn the trade of blacksmith. And at this period the intensity of his longing to spend his life in the service of Christ began to deepen. He would spend hours in prayer and reading the Bible; and a friend who lived with him says of him that he was the most real and truest friend he had ever met. He was seldom seen to take his meals without having his Bible on the table. And, as he became more and more possessed of the idea of devoting his whole life to God, it became less and less possible to continue his work as a blacksmith. So after fifteen months he abandoned the work and took steps to qualify himself for the Ministry.

At this time he read much—in addition to the Bible. Especially was he influenced by Sheldon’s In His Steps; or, What Would Jesus Do? He learned music and could play on the piano, harmonium and organ, and could understand the spirit and quality of singing. Also, he wrote verses. And in both music and poetry he was much influenced by the Calvinist Methodist hymn-book. And the more he read and prayed and taught the more his spiritual appetite grew. He could not have enough. His spirit was ever reaching out in prayer for more—and of the very holiest.

But now came most terrible spiritual conflicts. Spiritual heights are not climbed without struggle and endurance. The more he strove to purify his thoughts and Me the more conscious he became both of his own shortcomings and of the evils in the world about him, and the more he yearned to better it. His mind dwelling constantly on the purity and holiness of Christ became intensely aware how far short of that standard he himself was; and he struggled and strained to be more like Him. Then his attachment to his fellows made him yearn to get them also to be more like Christ: and he would have liked to have given up all his time and all his energies to this twin task of bettering himself and bettering his fellows. But between him and the fulfilment of his task were many obstacles. He had to earn a living; and while earning a living it was hard to find the time and the opportunity for training himself. Home ties also bound him. It was a difficult thing for a young, half-trained blacksmith to break away from home and from his trade to set out and reform the world. Who was he? men would say, and his own family would say, to set himself above them.

Throughout 1903 his desire to become a preacher grew in strength, and in November he wrote to a friend in the ministry saying he had definitely decided to give up his trade of blacksmith and qualify for the ministry. “I have had enough of bodily labour, as my soul thirsts for knowledge and a wider sphere of usefulness.” His friend encouraged him, and in December 1903 he decided, once for all, to abandon his trade and train himself for the ministry. But he had still to face his family, and the uncle who had put up the money for his training as blacksmith. It was a situation from which he shrank, and his mother had to act as intermediary.

His first sermon was preached on December 18, 1903, in the chapel of his native place, Loughor, his text being, “And He said to them all, if any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me.” It well exemplified the ruling passion of his life—to get the world to follow Jesus.

Subsequently he was allowed to go through the Swansea district on probation, attending each of twelve churches. He commenced in January 1904; and in April he was accepted as a candidate for the ministry and urged to prepare for the provincial examination which was to be held in August.

These were the outward circumstances. Inwardly he was all the time preparing himself by prayer. Hours every day he would spend in prayer. And prayer had always been the distinguishing feature of his religious life. From childhood it was as natural to him as breathing. He would completely lose himself in prayer, and constantly feel himself drawn into communion with God. And not in audible words would he pray but in the silence of his heart. And when he prayed in public his prayers were of extraordinary intensity. His supplications to Heaven showed a yearning of spirit and an agony of soul that profoundly moved his hearers. They came from the depth of his soul with such feeling as to melt the hearts of the congregations. With such fervency and such earnestness would he pray as to shake his whole constitution and leave him in a weakened condition. Men were awestruck with his strange intensity. Every word seemed the product of his whole being, body and soul; and his sighs appeared to rise from the deep and pass along every nerve.

As a result of this long and persistent yearning after God he had in the spring of 1904, while he was preparing himself for the ministry, the supreme experience of his life:

“One Friday night last spring (1904), when praying by my bedside before retiring, I was taken up into a great expanse, without time or space—it was communion with God. Before this it was a far-off God that I had. I was frightened that night, but never since. So great was my shivering that I rocked the bed and my brother awakened, took hold of me, thinking I was ill. After that I was awakened every night a little after one. This was most strange, for through the years I slept like a rock and no disturbance in my room would arouse me. From that hour I was taken up into divine fellowship for about four hours. What it was I cannot tell you, except that it was divine. About five I was allowed to sleep until nine.”

In an interview with Mi. W. T. Stead he described the same experience:
“At one o’clock in the morning suddenly I was wakened up out of my sleep, and I found myself, with unspeakable joy and awe, in the very presence of Almighty God. And for the space of four hours I was privileged to speak face to face with Him as a man speaks face to face with a friend. At four o’clock it seemed to me as if I again returned to earth.”

In answer to Mr. Stead’s question whether he was not dreaming he replied:

“No, I was wide awake. And it was not only that morning, but every morning for three or four months. Always I enjoyed four hours of that wonderful communion with God. I cannot describe it. I felt it, and it changed all my nature. I saw things in a different light. And I knew that God was going to work in the land, and not this land only but all the world.”

In his home they would question him about being so late, but “ it was too divine,” he said later, “to say anything about.” “It was the most divine, light and happy communion “—the most divine thing he ever experienced.

In another description of this experience to the Rev. D. M. Phillips, he said that God used to be in the distance to him till then, but then He came so near as to fill him with divine awe. Every member in his body trembled until the bed was shaking and Dan, his brother, awoke and shouted, “Are you ill, Evan?

“Oh! no,” he answered, “beginning to get well I am.” This experience continued unceasingly for three months, and it was so sweet he feared to lose it if he went, as he had intended, to the Grammar School at Newcastle-Emlyn to train for the ministry. Again a terrible struggle took place within him—the struggle between the desire to go off there and then on his mission to save men’s souls and the desire to educate himself further for his task. If he went to the school he might lose his precious daily communion with God and lose the opportunity of working for God. If he did not go he might embark half-trained on his career. He sought light in prayer and decided to go to the school; and he entered it on September 13, 1904.

But it happened as he had feared. For a whole month God came to him no more. He was in darkness. His heart became as a stone. Even the sight of the Cross brought no tears to his eyes. At the same time he was quite unable to remain with any book except the Bible. He could not get his mind on to grammar and algebra and Latin and other subjects required for the examination. When engaged in his school books he was possessed with some strange, unaccountable feeling and suffered most terribly in body and mind. His only relief was to throw away the school book and seize the Bible. Then only did peace come. He conferred with able men and when they advised him to cling to his studies he summoned all his powers to adopt their advice and prayed earnestly for strength of purpose. But nothing availed. He must proceed at once on his life’s work.

The deciding moment came when the Rev. Seth Joshua commenced a series of meetings in the Methodist chapel at Newcastle-Emlyn, on Sunday, September 25, 1904. Evan Roberts was confined to his bed with a severe cold. But his friend Sydney Evans attended the Monday meeting and reported that it was full of God and that it was attended by a number of young ladies from New Quay in Cardiganshire, amongst whom the revival spirit had broken out in February. On Tuesday, Sydney Evans and some other students came to Evan Roberts to persuade him to come to the meeting.

“The minute they asked me,” said Evan Roberts, “I felt the Spirit descending on me. The irresistible possessed me, and I rushed to the chapel without my overcoat. The divine influence began to bear on me heavily. I had been praying on Monday evening in the house for strength for the girls from New Quay. But the Spirit would not allow me to pray in chapel on Tuesday night. I felt hard, and wept bitterly because of my hardness of heart.”

On Wednesday they were to go to Blaenanerch for a meeting. But he felt like a flint—as if every feeling had been swept from his bosom. In the evening they returned to Newcastle-Emlyn. On that evening he attended a meeting conducted by the Rev. Seth Joshua. And in response to the latter’s request for all who possessed full assurance of faith to stand, he was one of the first of the very few who stood up.

The following day, September 29, was another of the crucial days in his career. With Mr. Joshua and about twenty others they again started for Blaenanerch. On the way his feelings varied up and down— now gloomy, hard and cold, now joyous. But at the evening meeting all was definite and decisive.

“My bosom,” he said, “was full to overflowing. On our way to the nine o’clock service the Rev. Seth Joshua said: ‘We are going to have a wonderful meeting to-day.’ I answered, ‘I am just bursting.’ I felt in going to the meeting that I was compelled to pray.

“When the meeting commenced many prayed, and I asked the Holy Spirit, ‘Shall I pray now?’ ‘No,’ said the Spirit. Shortly, some wonderful influence came over me. I felt some living energy or force entering my bosom. It held my breath. My legs trembled terribly. This living energy increased and increased as one after the other prayed, until it nearly burst me. And as each finished I asked, ‘Shall I pray now?’

“When someone finished, I prayed. My bosom boiled all through, and if I had not prayed I would have burst. What boiled my bosom? It was the verse, ‘For God commendeth His love.’ I fell on my knees with my arms stretched out on the seat before me. The perspiration poured down my face. And my tears streamed so quickly I thought that the blood came out. It was awful on me for about ten minutes. I cried, ‘Bend me, bend me. Oh! Oh! Oh!’ It was God commending His love that bent me, and I not seeing anything in Him to commend.

“After I was bent, a wave of peace filled my bosom.. When I was in this feeling the audience sang heartily:

‘I am coming, Lord!
Coming now to Thee!’

“What came to my mind after this was the bending in the day of judgment. Then I was filled with sympathy for the people who will have to bend in the judgment day, and I wept. Afterwards, the salvation of souls weighed heavily on me. I felt on fire to go through all Wales to tell about the Saviour.”

Evan Roberts had at last found himself. The call from without had met the urge from within and he had found his “vocation.” It was, in his own words, “the most awful and most pleasant day” of his life.

The next day he planned out a scheme for going through all Wales to offer Christ to sinners. He and Sydney Evans and seven women, including some of those from New Quay, were to undertake the task. As to the cost, he intended to defray all expenses himself. He had £200 in the bank, and he would use the whole.

On the Saturday—October 1—he went over to New Quay, fifteen miles distant, to talk over the plan. There he received a warm welcome from his friends, and they prayed for light, but none was forthcoming, and he returned to Newcastle-Emlyn the same evening. For some days more he remained there discussing with Sydney Evans his next steps and scheming to save one hundred thousand souls in Wales.

To his brother Dan he writes at this time that he was “healthy and joyful,” that he had lost all nervousness and was “courageous for Christ and joyful in Christ.” He wonders whether Dan is in possession of the joy of the Gospel.

“I know that you have peace,” he writes, “but ask for joy, though if you wish to possess it you must be ready to do what the Spirit will say: you must be ready to give yourself absolutely into the hands of the Holy Spirit.”

In a similar gladsome strain he writes on October 11 to Mr. Davies, a member of Moriah Chapel at Loughor: “I was having great pleasure with the work before, but now I am having the most pure joy on earth.” And in addition to reiterating that he had “lost all nervousness” he also mentions that he had lost some physical impediment which had prevented him singing and he could now “sing all day long.”

In a letter to his sister Mary, dated October 28, he again refers to the sense of joy which possessed him.

“The old fashion was to draw a long face when speaking of religious things. But it was most part of it based on hypocrisy and based on the thought that God is a solemn and just God, forgetting that God is a happy God and a joyful God. Now, however, when we speak of religion we are full of joy. Our faces are lit up with joy.”

At this very time, though, he had much to test his capacity for happiness. In the same letter to his sister he tells of obstacles he is encountering. “Downright lies “ are being told about him. “Some say we go to see the young girls, and not for the cause. . .

Others say we are only shamming. . . . Others scoff and make light of these spiritual things.” And besides these minor obstructions there was the more serious trial that many were thinking his mind was becoming deranged. His late hours, his deep praying, disturbed his landlady and made her think there was something “strange” about him. And when in the daytime he would incessantly gaze at the sun and during the night at the moon and stars he caused no little anxiety to his acquaintances. But though he well knew the opinion of many as to his mental derangement, that would not make him swerve: he meant to have a revival.