Long after the death of Wesley, a confession was made by a well-known writer, William Hone, which may be a proof to us of the harm done to the cause of God by one who was truly God’s servant. William Hone had been known for many years as an infidel and a blasphemer. This was all the more sad, because his father had been a truly Christian man. But old Mr. Hone, having seen how wrong Wesley was on certain points, had not learned the lesson of “being patient towards all.” He and his friends were in the habit of speaking much and bitterly of Wesley.
They called him a child of the devil. William Hone, in relating the history of his childhood, says, “I had a most terrific idea of this child of the devil. Being under six years old, I went to a dame’s school to learn my book and be out of harm’s way. My dame was a very staid and pious old woman; she was very fond of me, and I was always good with her, though naughty enough at home. She lived in one room, a large, underground kitchen—we went down a flight of steps to it. Her bed was always neatly turned up in one corner. There was a large kitchen grate, and in cold weather always a good fire in it, by which she sat in an old carved wooden arm chair, with a small round table before her, on which lay a large bible open on one side, and on the other a birch rod. Of the Bible she made great use, of the rod very little, but with fear we always looked upon it. There, on low, wooden benches, books in hand, sat her little scholars. We all loved her-I most of all, and I was often allowed to sit on a little stool by her side. I was happier there than anywhere. I think I see her now-that placid, old face, with her white hair turned up over a high cushion, and a clean, neat cap on the top of it-all so clean, so tidy, so peaceful. One morning I was told I was not to go to school: I was miserable, naughty, disagreeable, cried to go to my dame—it was a dark day to me. The next day I got up, hoping to go to school; but no, I might not, and then they told me she was ill, and then I cried the more from grief—it was my first sorrow. That day, too, passed in tears, and I cried myself to sleep. Next morning everybody was so tired of me that the servant was told to take me to her. As we approached the house all was so still, it gave me an awful feeling that all was not right; the kitchen door was shut, the servant tapped, and a girl opened it. No scholars, no benches, the bed let down and curtained, the little round table covered with a clean, white cloth, and on it something covered up with another. ‘Here is Master William—he would come,’ said the servant; and a low, hollow voice from the bed said, ‘Let him stay, he will be good.’ There lay my dame—how altered! death on her face, but I loved her all the same. My little stool was placed near her bolster, and I sat down in silence. Presently she said to the maid, ‘Is he coming?’ The maid went to the window and said, ‘No.’ Again the same question and the same answer. Who could it be? I wondered in silence, and felt overawed.
At last there was a double knock at the house-door above, and the maid said joyfully, Oh, madam, Mr. Wesley is come!’ Then I was to see the child of the devil! I crept to the window—I could only see a pair of black legs with great silver buckles. The door was opened, steps came down the kitchen stairs, each step increasing my terror. I saw the black legs, then came in a venerable old man, with, as it seemed to me, the countenance of an angel, shining silver hair waving on his shoulders, with a beautiful, fair, and fresh complexion, and the sweetest smile! This, then, was the child of the devil! He went up to the bed. I trembled for my poor dame, but he took her hand, and spoke so kindly to her, and my dame seemed so glad! He looked at me and said something. She said, ‘He is a good boy: he will be quite quiet.’ After much talk, he uncovered the table, and I saw the bread and wine, as I had often seen it at my father’s chapel, and then he knelt down and prayed. I do not say I prayed, but I was awfully impressed, and quite still. After it was over he turned to me, laid his hand on my head, and said, ‘God bless you my child, and make you a good man.’ Was this a child of the devil? I never saw Mr. Wesley again. My dame died; but from that hour I never believed anything my father said, or anything I heard at chapel. I felt, though I could not have expressed it, how wicked such enmity was between Christians, and so I lost all confidence in my good father, and in all his religious friends, and in all religion.” And thus through many long years did William Hone live without God, without hope, without happiness. His great talents were used, alas! to hinder the cause of Christ. His life, which might have been spent in God’s blessed service, was worse than useless. You will be glad to hear that in his last years God, in His great mercy, brought him to repentance. Then at last he remembered the lessons of grace and truth which he had learned from his father, and he said that, in spite of the bitter words spoken so unadvisedly of John Wesley, his father had taught him rightly about the Lord Jesus, the Saviour of the lost. You will like to hear some lines he wrote in thinking of his past sin and folly, and of God’s wonderful love in saving him at last.
‘The proudest heart that ever beat
Hath been subdued in me;
The wildest will that ever rose
To scorn Thy word, or aid Thy foes,
Is quelled, my God, by Thee!
Thy will, and not my will, be done:
My heart be ever Thine!
Confessing Thee, the mighty ‘Word,’
I hail Thee, Christ, my God, my Lord,
And make Thy name my sign.”
Let us thank God for His mercy thus shown to a blaspheming infidel, and let us look to Him to be kept from the sin of bitterness and evil-speaking which made William Hone an infidel for so many years of his life. This visit of Wesley to the old dame must have happened about the time of Whitefield’s death. About the same time another little circumstance happened, which was told many years after by an old man, who lived to be about one hundred. This old man was, in his youth, the sexton of Helstone, in Cornwall, and at the same time ostler at the London Inn at Helstone. “One day,” he says, “Mr. Wesley came and obtained my master’s leave for me to drive him to St. Ives. On arriving at Hayle we found the sands between that place and St. Ives over-flown by the rising tide. Mr. Wesley was resolved to go on, for he said he had to preach at St. Ives at a certain hour, and must be there. Looking out of the carriage window he called, ‘Take the sea! take the sea!’ In a moment I dashed into the waves and was quickly surrounded by a world of waters. The horses were swimming, and the wheels of the carriage often sank into deep hollows in the sands. I expected every moment to be drowned, but heard Mr. Wesley’s voice, and saw his long white hair dripping with salt water. ‘What is your name, driver?’ he calmly asked. I answered, ‘Peter.’ ‘Peter,’ said he, ‘Peter, fear not, thou shalt not sink.’ With vigorous whipping I again urged on the flagging horses, and at last got safely over. Mr. Wesley’s first care was to see me comfortably lodged at the tavern; and then, totally unmindful of himself, and drenched as he was with the dashing waves, he proceeded to the chapel to preach.”
John Wesley was not afraid, because he knew he was about his Master’s business. And let me tell you, if you are in the habit of giving way to cowardly fears, or of letting any little hindrance stop you in what you know you ought to do, you have not that which gave Wesley courage and determination, namely, faith in God, and love to His name. The disciples once said, “Lord, increase our faith.” And that would not be a bad prayer for you, if you have faith at all. Some, alas! have none.