The Story of John Wesley

The following little history of John Wesley has not been written because there was a scarcity of books on that subject. Neither has it been written to the praise and glory of John Wesley. Neither, in the last place, has it been written to expose the defects and errors of this servant of the Lord. There is but one good reason for any undertaking on the part of those who profess faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

This reason is given in the thirty-first verse of the tenth chapter of the first Epistle to the Corinthians, “Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” It is a simple story, intended for the simple and unlearned, in order to tell them something, not of John Wesley’s goodness and greatness, but of the goodness and greatness of the God of all grace, who raised up the great army of preachers of the last century. It is as the work of God, not as the work of man, that we look with joy and wonder at the labors of the Methodists. Alas, when the thoughts and plans of man showed themselves amidst the thoughts and plans of God, it was but to bring in error and confusion. This is true of John Wesley’s thoughts and plans, whenever they were his own, and not those of his Master. But clouded as was the work of these blessed preachers of the Gospel by their own errors and defects, it was none the less the work of God which was thus clouded. And the Lord who ordered all desires that we “should be made glad through His work” (if, indeed, we are His own people), that we should “triumph in the work of His hands,” that we should join in the song of praise, “O Lord, how great are Thy works, and Thy thoughts are very deep.” It is “the brutish man” who “knows not,” and “the fool” who “understands not” the work of God.

It is in the hope that some of the Lord’s beloved people who have had no opportunity of reading the wonderful history of the times of their grandfathers, will learn something more of the Lord’s ways by reading it, that this little story is written.

It is written also in the hope that some who might otherwise have spent some spare hours in reading untrue and unprofitable stories may be awakened to see something of the love of God, when they read of his messages of grace, through His beloved servants. It is well to “seek the profit of many, that they may be saved,” and the servants of God, who being dead yet speak, may perhaps by means of a small history be heard where larger and more learned books would not find their way. It may be that some of the words which sounded a hundred years ago by the roadsides of England may thus reach some wanderer, who has not yet known the love and grace of God. And lastly it may be that some of the Lord’s faithful servants will take warning by the errors of God’s dear servant, and stand more than before in fear of themselves—in fear lest their own thoughts and opinions should be allowed a place. The Word of God, and that alone, can be a lamp to the feet and a light to the path, and all that man, with the best intentions, can add to it, will be but as a smear upon the lamp-shade, clouding the light of God. May the Lord use this little record of His work for His own glory, and may He lead some who read it to a better understanding of the work He is doing in our own day. We see, from the history of the Methodists, how those who came a hundred years ago with God’s message were despised and rejected. So in all times is it the case, that those who are really sent by God are to be found, like their Master, amongst those who are despised and rejected of men. Let us take warning lest we should be as our fathers in the days of the Methodists. The world will turn an ear to those who have the world’s sanction and authority, but it is amongst those whom men separate from their company, and whose names they cast out as evil, that we shall find the truest of the messengers of God. May He lead each one who reads these pages to seek and to value His true servants, though they may preach in barns, and not in cathedrals, and may have learned by constant experience that “if they pleased men they would not be the servants of Christ.” The offense of the cross has not ceased, and though the enmity of the world may be shown in a less savage manner than in the days of our fathers, it is still true that those of whom all men shall speak well are those to whom Christ speaks the awful words, “Woe unto you!” May we learn to value the reproach of Christ, for ourselves and for others!

Early Days

More than 160 years ago a large family of children lived in Lincolnshire. Their father was a clergyman in a little town called Epworth, which you may find on the map, in the north-west part of the county. The clergyman, Mr. Samuel Wesley, lived in an old wooden house, with a thatched roof. It was a small house for so large a family, for there were at one time thirteen children, besides six who had died when they were very young. I cannot tell you all their names, but I know that the eldest boy was called Samuel, and the two younger boys, John and Charles. Then there were all the sisters—Emilia, Sukey, Molly, Hetty, Nancy, Patty, Kezzy (which is short for Kezia), and several others; but there were no boys who lived to grow up but Samuel, John, and Charles. It is about John that I have now to tell you. He was eleven years younger than Samuel, and was born in June, 1703. His mother, who was a clever woman, took great pains to bring up her children with orderly, obedient habits, as far as she knew. She tried also to bring them up in the fear of God. But I must tell you that at that time, the gospel of God was very little known or believed in England. People were generally taught that if they were good, kind, and honest, and did their duty to their neighbors, and perhaps, in addition to this, said their prayers and went to church, they would go to heaven when they died. All over the country it was the same, and as there were no Sunday-schools, and very few day-schools, scarcely any of the poor people had learned to read the Bible for themselves. They therefore only knew what they were taught by ignorant ministers, who did not themselves understand or believe the good news that it is the blood of Christ, and not our own doings, that makes us fit for heaven. It always happens, that people who talk of being saved by their doings, are just the people whose doings are the worst. Thus we find that Abel, who showed by his offerings that he trusted in the blood of Christ, did good works; for so God has told us (I John 3:12). Cain, who expected God to be pleased with his doings, was a murderer.

You may wonder how it was that in this Christian country, people were sunk in such darkness and ignorance. It had not always been so. About fifty years before, there were many true ministers of the gospel, and the word of God was carefully taught and faithfully preached. But the two ungodly kings, Charles II and James II, had done all they could to put out the true light. Two thousand godly ministers in the reign of Charles II had been turned out of their homes, forbidden to preach, and imprisoned when they continued to do so. Eighteen thousand of God’s people in Scotland had been put to death, and many more sent to work as slaves in the West Indies. God had spoken by terrible judgments to the wicked King Charles II. It was after his persecutions of God’s people, that the great plague and afterward the great fire of London had happened; and James II was driven from his throne and sent to a foreign land. But the good men who had been preaching God’s word in the time of the Commonwealth, were gone to be with the Lord, and those who had taken their places were ignorant and ungodly. It happened in this way that England, was in the year 1703, a land of darkness. But God in His great mercy had purposes of blessing for this wicked nation, and the little boy, John Wesley, was one day to be sent as a messenger from God to preach the gospel, now almost forgotten, amongst the towns and villages of England. But it was not whilst he was a little boy that he learned the gospel. You may like to know what he was taught when he was a child. For five years he did no lessons at all, but during that time he was taught to be very obedient to his mother’s rules. Even before he was one year old he was taught to cry softly, so as not to disturb people. He was never allowed to eat or drink anything between his meals, unless he was ill, which was a very good rule. He was made to sit quiet at family prayers. As soon as he could speak, his eldest sister had to read to him a psalm and a chapter in the New Testament, every afternoon at five o’clock. I do not think he understood it, but at least it taught him to sit quiet, and to obey. When he was naughty, he was taught to confess his fault, and was not punished if he did so. If he made a promise, he had to keep it. At last five years old came; and then was the first day of lessons. This was, indeed, a day of lessons. Even the day before, everything in the house was put straight and tidy, that the mother might have nothing to do on the great day of lessons, but teach her little John. All the older children had their tasks given them, which they were to do that day by themselves, and they were forbidden to do them in the school-room between nine and twelve, or between two and five. During these six hours Mrs. Wesley had John all by himself, and made him learn the whole alphabet perfectly. All the children had been taught in the same way, but Molly and Nancy had not succeeded in learning the alphabet in one day. It took them a day and a half, for which their mother thought them very stupid, poor little things.

It must have been a long day’s work for the little boy. He must have been very tired when five o’clock came, and his sister must have had hard work to keep him awake, whilst she read the chapter and the psalm on that hot summer’s afternoon. (His birthday was, you remember, in June.)

The next day he had his first reading-lesson. He did not have a little easy book to begin with, as you had at first. He was made to read the first line in the Bible—“In the beginning God created the...” The next day after this he had to read the whole verse. So he went on, till he could read the whole chapter all through. I do not know whether he did the six hours’ lessons every day—I hope not; but I daresay he did quite enough. One of his little sisters, Hetty, whose real name was Mehetabel, could read Greek when she was only seven, and no doubt John did as many lessons as his sisters. But he was a very merry, funny little boy, and had great games of play with his sisters, and made plenty of noise when he was allowed to do so. He had only his sisters to play with, for Samuel was gone to school, and Charles was not born till John was six years old. I must now tell you of a dreadful thing which happened soon after Charles was born.

You remember that the whole country was at this time sunk in ignorance and ungodliness, and the people of Epworth were no better than the rest. They were a rough, rude set of people, who were chiefly employed either in working in the flax and hemp fields which surrounded the town, or in making the flax and hemp into sacking, sail-cloth, ropes, and string. They appear to have led in general very wicked lives. Although Mr. Wesley did not preach the gospel much more clearly than his neighbors, he did speak and preach faithfully to them about their sins. This made them very angry. They had already on one occasion set his house on fire, which was easy to do, as it was made of wood. The fire had been put out before it had done much mischief. The worst was that many of Mr. Wesley’s books were burnt, and books were not so plentiful then as they are now.

One night, when little Charles was fourteen months old, Hetty, who was then twelve, was aroused from her sleep by a piece of burning wood, which fell from the ceiling on her bed, and scorched her feet. At the same time some people in the street called “Fire! Fire!” which awoke Mr. Wesley. He called his wife, and Emilia, and Sukey, and told them to run out of the house, and he then ran to the nursery to call the nurse and the five youngest children. The nurse took little Charles, and called to the other children to follow her. Three of them did so; but little John was sleeping so soundly that he did not awake till they were all gone. When he did awake the nursery was so light that he thought it was morning, and he called to his nurse to take him up. When no answer came he got up and looked all round the room, and saw out of the door the roaring flames, which now were blazing up to the door itself.

Poor little John could not go near the door, so he climbed up on a chest by the window, and began to scream and cry. His father had now found out that John was left behind, and three times he tried to get up the stairs to fetch him; but the staircase came down with a crash, and the poor father then fell on his knees in the hall and asked the Lord to take John to be with Him in heaven, for he felt sure he must be burnt. But whilst he was praying the people in the street saw little John at the window. They had no ladder, but one man said, “I will stand close to the wall, if one of you will get on my shoulders and reach the child.” Another man did so, and little John was brought safely down. His mother and the other children had all got safely out of the house—some by the doors, and some by the windows. Mr. Wesley now called his neighbors together, and knelt down with them in the street, to thank God for having preserved them all from so terrible a death.

John always remembered this dreadful night, and long afterward he had these words written under one of his portraits, “Is not this a brand plucked out of the fire?”

Can you find these words in the Bible? John’s mother felt from this time more than ever anxious about his soul, and determined to be more than ever careful in teaching and training him.

A Mother's Example

For some time after the fire the family had to be scattered: some were taken in by one neighbor, and some by another, and when at last a new house was built, and they were all at home again, Mrs. Wesley found that her children had learned many rude ways and bad habits, from being with those who could not train them as carefully as she had done. They had gone back, too, in their lessons, and it was long before they were all as obedient and well-behaved as they had been before. How thankful children should be, to whom God has given Christian parents, who watch over their souls as those who must give account!

In course of time the parsonage was built up again. This time it was a brick house, with many more rooms than before. There were a kitchen, parlor, dining-room, study, nursery, and other rooms. One was called the “Matted Chamber,” another the “Paper Chamber,” which means, I suppose, that the walls were papered, which was not so common in those days as now. Outside the house Mr. Wesley planted fruit trees to be trained against the wall, and mulberry trees, cherry trees, and pear trees in the garden. He planted walnut trees in the croft, or field, and in time all looked pleasant and comfortable, and the children got back to their lessons and were becoming orderly and well-behaved as they had been before. Their mother took great pains to make them speak civilly and pleasantly to everybody. Rude answers were always punished, and they were taught to ask the servants for anything they wanted, in a kind, polite manner. One rule which she made for them was, that the time they spent in amusement, should never be longer than the time spent in reading the Bible and prayer.

You can well believe that the people of Epworth were a great trouble to Mr. Wesley. Besides setting fire to the parsonage, they had done a great many other things to injure and annoy him. Once, when Mrs. Wesley was very ill, they had beaten drums and fired guns all night long under her window on purpose to keep her awake. One night they had stabbed the three cows upon which the children depended for their milk. Another time they set fire to the flax in the field, and another time they nearly chopped off the leg of the house-dog. Any of you who have a dog you are fond of, will I am sure feel very angry, at the thought of such horrible cruelty. There was one person, however, who felt far more sorrow than anger, with regard to these poor brutal people—this person was Mrs. Wesley. It happened when little John was eight years old that his father went to London, where he remained several months. The curate, Mr. Inman, was left to take charge of the parish. Mr. Inman, however, contented himself with reading the prayers, and preaching a bad sermon on the Sunday mornings.

During the rest of the Lord’s day and on the six week days, all went on as if the people had no souls and there were no God. This made Mrs. Wesley very unhappy. She felt that her children and servants were under her care, and that she must give an account to God, as to whether she had done all she could, to lead them to know Him. She therefore determined to spend a part of each Sunday in reading aloud the best sermons she could find, and then all joined in singing some psalms and in prayer. The little servant boy told his parents of this, and they asked if they might come too; then other neighbors asked leave to come; and soon there were thirty or forty meeting every Sunday at the parsonage. The new parsonage being so much larger than the old one, it could hold a good many people. About this time it so happened that Emilia, looking over her father’s books, found an account of the missionaries who had lately been sent out to the heathen by Frederick IV, King of Denmark. The account of these missions is a wonderful story, which I hope you will one day read for yourselves. Mrs. Wesley told Emilia to read it aloud to her. She wrote to her husband, telling him how delighted she had been with this remarkable history. It was not common then, as it is now, to send missionaries to the heathen, and the hardships they had to undergo were very great. Mrs. Wesley says: “Their labors refreshed my soul beyond measure, and I could not forbear spending a good part of that evening in praising and adoring God for inspiring those good men with such an ardent zeal for His glory. For several days I could think or speak of little else.” She then goes on to say that she felt that even a woman must do what she can for the Lord Jesus, and that she would begin by praying more for the people of Epworth, who had been such a trouble to them all. She would speak more to them about their souls, and would begin with her own children. She therefore set apart a certain time every evening to talk alone with each child. On Monday she had Molly; on Tuesday, Hetty; on Wednesday, Nancy; on Thursday, Jacky; on Friday, Patty; on Saturday, Charles; and as there was only one day left, Emilia and Sukey had to come together on Sunday. She also talked, as she had opportunity, to the neighbors who came in to the reading on Sunday afternoons. She spoke to them so earnestly and lovingly, that they became really awakened about their souls. They spoke, too, to others, and so many people became anxious to know the way to be saved, that as many as 200 would come to the parsonage on Sundays, and many more would have come had there been room. They no longer wished to ill-treat Mrs. Wesley and her children, but seemed quite changed from wild beasts, into quiet, well-behaved people.

Mrs. Wesley at first tried to persuade them to go away after the sermon, as she did not think it was a fit thing for a woman to pray in public. She wished only her children and servants to remain for the prayers. The people, however, would not go, and therefore she prayed before them all, for none amongst them were able to pray aloud. It is sad to remember that the best sermons that Mrs. Wesley could find to read, were not such as would tell these poor people, how sin is put away once and forever by the precious blood of Christ. Mrs. Wesley did not herself know this; she had not yet seen, that he that believes in Jesus has full forgiveness and everlasting life. She was hoping that someday her sins would be forgiven, but she did not then know that the blessed work which saves sinners is done and finished, and that God Himself has no more to do. He is satisfied with the work which His Son has done, and He has full and free forgiveness for all who will believe in Him, the moment they look away from themselves to Christ. But as far as Mrs. Wesley knew the truth, she was faithful to her trust in making it known to others. And God has said, “to him that hath, more shall be given, and he shall have abundance.” She little thought that it would one day be through her little boy Jacky, that the light and peace of the gospel of Christ, would be brought to shine into her soul. I suppose Jacky was always by her side on those Sunday afternoons, but he was not old enough to understand much of those dull, old-fashioned sermons.

When Mr. Wesley heard of these meetings he was not quite pleased: it was something so new and strange. After a while he got letters from two or three of the Epworth people, who were, as Mrs. Wesley says, the worst in the parish. They complained of these meetings, which stopped the games and merry-making they had been used to have on Sundays. Then came a letter from Mr. Inman, the curate, warning Mr. Wesley that a conventicle was held in his house, for which he might be punished. Perhaps you do not know what that long word means. To explain it to you we must go back to the year 1664, when Charles II was king of England. In that year a wicked law was made, called the Conventicle Act. A conventicle meant a religious meeting, where people read the Bible, prayed, or preached without using the prayer-book. The law made in 1664 was this: If any person above sixteen years old were present at any such meeting where there were five or more persons besides the family, he should for the first offense be imprisoned three months, and pay £5; the second time he was to be imprisoned six months, and pay £10; the third time he was to be sent as a slave, to the American sugar or cotton plantations for seven years, or pay £100; and should he come back or escape, he should be hanged as soon as he was caught. The sheriffs and justices were to stop any such meetings, and take those who were there into custody. People who allowed such meetings in their houses or barns should be punished in like manner, whether they were present or not. Married women, if present, were to be imprisoned for a year, even for the first offense, unless their husbands paid £40 to redeem them. Any who would tell of such meetings were well paid.

God’s people, then, met together in secret places and at midnight, but there was generally someone to betray them. This terrible law was not thought sufficiently severe, and therefore in 1670 it was further ordered, that any justice who failed to break up such a meeting, should pay £5 in each case.

It is true there were meetings in dissenting chapels for worship and preaching, but this was only as the Parliament gave a license or leave for such meetings, in buildings set apart for the purpose. Members of the Church of England must not attend these meetings, and neither they nor dissenters might meet together in their own houses or elsewhere, to read the Bible or pray. They might meet in crowds to drink, gamble, or amuse themselves, but to speak of God, or to worship Him when they met together was a crime.

Strange to say, it is only within the last twenty years that this law has been set aside, though few people were aware that such a law had been made, and therefore it was often broken, happily for those who did so. In every case where the honor of God is not concerned, we should be extremely careful to obey the laws of our country, and it is only when a law is made which would force us to disobey God, that we should disregard it. In such a case we must say, like Peter, “we ought to obey God rather than men.” It was thus with Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, and many other good men, who knew it was better to be burnt for disobeying the wicked laws of Queen Mary, than to disobey God by keeping them. Let us be thankful that we live in days when we can worship and serve God, without disobeying any of those rulers whom He has set over us.

You now understand why Mr. Wesley was alarmed at hearing of the conventicle held in his house. He might, as he well knew, not only be blamed for it, but taken before a magistrate and punished. It has happened in the lifetime of those amongst us who are not yet old people, that an English nobleman, amongst others, was brought before the county magistrate on two occasions and fined, for the crime of meeting for prayer and for the reading of God’s Word in his own house, when more than twenty persons were present, including his own household. In the days of our forefathers, 170 years ago, Christian people were even afraid to give thanks before meals, if five or more visitors should be there. It was therefore quite true that Mrs. Wesley ran the risk of bringing a severe punishment upon herself and her husband, by these Sunday meetings; and very soon she got a letter from Mr. Wesley, telling her that her conduct was thought very singular. She replied: “As to its looking particular” (particular in those days meant odd or strange), “I grant it does; and so does almost everything that may any way advance the glory of God or the salvation of souls, if it be performed out of a pulpit or in the way of common conversation, because in our corrupt age, the utmost care and diligence have been used, to banish all discourse of God out of society.”

She went on to say, that if she or her children spent the Sunday evenings in idle visiting, nobody would complain, but that if any should blame her for keeping the Lord’s day holy, it did not signify. “For my part,” she said, “I have long since shook hands with the world,” (she meant “have said good-bye to it”), “and I heartily wish I had never given them more reason to speak against me.”

She ends by saying that if her husband thought fit to put an end to these meetings, he must not say that he desired her to leave them off; “for that,” she said, “will not satisfy my conscience; but send me your positive command, in such full and express terms, as may absolve me from all guilt and punishment, for neglecting this opportunity of doing good, when you and I shall appear before the great and awful tribunal of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

It seems that Mr. Wesley did not dare, after receiving this answer, to complain any more of the meetings, and they went on as usual till he came back to Epworth. You see from this history that little John’s mother was, as far as she had light, a true servant of God, and that she would teach her children to care nothing for being blamed or thought odd and foolish by men, if they were doing what God desired.

Only let us be careful not to give any reason to others to blame us by being really foolish, or by being disobedient to the lawful commands of those set over us. Christians sometimes think they are suffering for Christ’s sake, when it is really on account of some foolishness and ill-conduct on their own part. I can tell you of nothing more that happened at Epworth before little John was sent to school in London, which took place when he was eleven years old, in the same year in which George the First came from Germany to be King of England.

School and College Days

The school to which little John was sent when he was eleven years old, was called the Charter-house. To go to London from Epworth was a very long journey in those days: it is rather more than 220 miles. There were no railroads then, and people traveled either on horseback, or sometimes in stage-coaches. An old description of England in the year 1723 tells us, that some of these coaches traveled with so much speed as to go sixty miles in a summer day. It would have taken, therefore, about four days to go to London from Epworth in a coach, and as it was a very expensive way of traveling, I think it more likely that little John went with his father on horseback. They had two horses, called Bounce and Mettle. They would have had to sleep several nights on the road, and boys who went to school such a long way off, could not expect to come home three times a year for the holidays as they do now; in fact they did not go home at all when the distance was so great, and were often four or five years away from home, without seeing their relations. It was therefore a very sad day for poor little John, when he said good-bye to his mother and sisters. The next sister, younger than himself, little Patty, was very fond of him. When she was ill, the very sight of Jacky had always seemed to do her good, and she missed him very much. His mother must have felt very sad when Thursday evening came and there was no Jacky to talk to, and he said long, long after, how he had thought about those Thursday evenings, and wanted his mother to talk to him. The Charter-house was once a Convent, belonging to Carthusian monks, but had been turned partly into a school for forty boys, and partly into a home for eighty poor old gentlemen. There was a green belonging to the house, and a large garden, called the Wilderness. Mr. Wesley made John promise, that he would never miss running round the Wilderness three times every day. John kept his promise, and often said he believed that his doing so had been the means of keeping him in good health, for he was well and strong all his life. He was at first teased and bullied by the bigger boys, who used to take away his meat at dinner and eat it themselves; but I can tell you little else of what happened to him at school. He worked hard at his lessons, and seems to have been tolerably happy. When he had any holidays, he went to stay with his elder brother, Samuel, whom, perhaps, he had not seen before, as far as he could remember, for Samuel had been sent to Westminster School when John was only a few months old. He was living at Westminster School when John was at the Charter-house, having become one of the ushers.

At last John’s school-days were over, and at the age of seventeen he was sent to Christ Church College at Oxford.

Before he left London, his little brother Charles had been sent to Westminster School, so that now only the sisters were left at Epworth. Whilst John was a schoolboy, he had perhaps thought little about anything but his play and his lessons, but now that he was no longer a child, several things began to trouble him. It may be that the same things have begun to trouble you. The thought of God made him afraid and unhappy.

John Wesley was not like some people, of a sad and gloomy disposition, on the contrary, he was like most strong healthy boys, of a cheerful temper and fond of fun. He said, when he was an old man, that he could not remember ever having been in low spirits for a quarter of an hour together, in the whole course of his life; and yet at the time I am telling you of he was not happy. There is a great difference between high spirits and happiness: that is to say, high spirits depend upon our health, and upon the things around us, and are by no means a sign that we have peace in our hearts, or that we know all is well with us. Happiness does not depend upon what we are, or have, but upon what we know God to be, and therefore if all changes with us, if we lose our health, or our friends, that which makes us truly happy does not change, for our happiness is in God. The Bible says, “Happy is that people that is in such a case, yea, happy is that people, whose God is the Lord.” Wesley felt that he was not at peace with God, and that he was an unforgiven sinner. The thought of death was terrible to him, and the thought of God was terrible too, for God was to him only the great Judge, who would one day call him to account for all the wrong things he had thought, said, or done.

He found no one at Oxford to help or comfort him, and it filled him with surprise and horror, to find that the young men who were there being prepared for the ministry of the Gospel, were living in open sin, were many of them blasphemers of God, and not afraid to speak of the Bible as a fable.

Though John had not been taught the gospel, he had been carefully shown the difference between right and wrong in practice. He was grieved and shocked at what he saw around him, and when he looked at himself he was grieved and shocked too, and knew not what was to be done to make himself or others any better. He wrote to tell his mother about all this. She was pleased to find that John had begun to care about his soul. But how could she tell him where to find peace, when she had not yet found it herself? She was still “trying her best,” as people say, to gain peace by her doings, and so she wrote to John “in good earnest, resolve to make religion the business of your life, for after all, that is the one thing that, strictly speaking, is necessary.”

John would only learn from this that he might, perhaps, get peace and salvation by religion. He had yet to learn that religion is not Christ. His father also encouraged him to read a book which he had begun, but which he did not quite like. It was called “The Imitation of Jesus Christ; by Thomas à Kempis.” It is a book still read by so many people, and thought by them so useful and instructive, that it is worthwhile to tell you something about it. It was written in Germany, about the year 1400, by a monk, at the Convent of St. Agnes, near Twoll. It is divided into four parts. The first three parts tell us how we are to make ourselves pleasing to God by our doings, that is to say, by imitating the doings of the Lord Jesus. By this means we are to hope at last to get to heaven. The fourth part tells us that the bread and wine in the Lord’s Supper, are really the body and blood of Christ, and directs us how to adore and reverence them for that reason. The poor monk who wrote the book had been taught these things, and believed as he was taught.

Sad to say, many hundreds of people who have Bibles to read, have never yet found out that this book is entirely contrary to the gospel of God. The book tells us we are to make ourselves pleasing to God by our doings; the gospel tells us we are made pleasing to God by the precious blood of Christ; that is to say, not by what we do for Him, but by what He has done for us. The book tells us that we are to do as Christ did; the Bible tells us God would have us be as Christ is, and then we shall in consequence act as He acted. It is true that St. Paul said, “Be ye followers of me, even as I also am of Christ.” But I wish you to see the difference, between following the example of a person, which is what is meant by these words, and merely imitating him. The difference is a very great one. To follow the example of a man, we must feel like him. It is the same difference as between a child following the example of his father, and a beast imitating a man. You know that there are beasts which can be taught to imitate the actions of men, but the beast never can be made to do the action for the same reason that the man does it, because the mind and nature of a beast are different from those of a man.

Now, as you know, God looks at the heart, not only at the outward action; He looks to see not only what we do, but what motive led us to do it, and therefore to be a follower of Christ as God sees it, I must have the mind and nature of Christ, I must do the thing for the same reason that Christ did, I must like and dislike things as Christ liked and disliked them, and if you think of this for a moment you will see how impossible it is to make ourselves pleasing to God. We like, by nature, the things which God hates. “That which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God.”

Now whilst it is possible for you to alter your outward actions, you will find it is utterly impossible to alter your likings, even in the very smallest matter. You say, for example, you like one color better than another. Could you change your likings even in such a trifle as that? Much less could you change your thoughts about God, whom by nature you do not love at all. It was this which Jesus showed to the young man who came to Him and told Him how good his conduct had always been.

Jesus did not contradict him in that, but He at once put before him another matter. What were his likings? “Which will you have?” He meant to say, “Which do you like best, Me, or your money?” Poor young man! he could not change his likings, and therefore he kept his money, and left Jesus.

If, therefore, we read a book which tells those whose nature is contrary to God, that they must imitate Christ, let us remember that it is only like painting over a piece of rotten wood. Poor Thomas à Kempis has scarcely word to say about the work of Christ for us, nor of the new nature He gives to those who believe, nor of the mighty power that works in us, for he knew but the faintest glimmer of these things; and, therefore, whilst he describes all the things that we should do to imitate Christ, he could not explain how the heart is to be changed, nor how we can ever know that we are saved and forgiven. He says, “The more any man dieth to himself, so much the more doth he begin to live unto God.” The Bible says that Christians are to reckon themselves dead, because they are alive to God. Till I have the new life, the life that is in Christ, I have no power whatever over my own nature. “They that are in the flesh cannot please God.” What solemn words! And what a name has God given to all these attempts to please Him, which are not made because we have life, but in order to get it. He calls them our “filthy rags!”

We have not to bring righteousness to God that He may be satisfied with it, but to receive righteousness from Him, and to own that what He is satisfied with is the perfect work of Christ, by which we are not only cleansed from sin, but by which also we become new creatures, alive with the life of Christ, having the mind of Christ, filled with the Spirit of Christ. The other books which John read were no more likely to help him, than was the book of Thomas à Kempis. It would have been a blessing to him, had he never had any book but the Bible, from which to learn about God. As it was, he read his books of man’s thoughts, and he became more and more unhappy. He wrote to his mother that, after all his endeavors, he only felt more and more how he disliked holiness, and how impossible it was for him to do all the things which Thomas à Kempis said he ought to do. He entreated his mother to spend the Thursday evenings in praying for him, as she used to spend them in talking to him.

The Holy Club

When John Wesley was twenty-two years old, he was chosen to be a fellow of Lincoln College at Oxford. He had been living at Oxford during the past five years, but the change from one college to another made a great difference to him. He was taken out of the way of his former companions, and he resolved to choose no new acquaintances, unless he should find any who would help him to live a holy life. He was by this time thought much of at Oxford for his learning and cleverness, and had become a clergyman. He determined to give himself up entirely to the great work of becoming holy. He went to the Lord’s Supper every week, gave a great deal of money to the poor, and spent his time only in those employments which he thought good and useful.

Just at this time his younger brother Charles, who was now eighteen, left Westminster, and came to study at Christ Church. John, however, saw but little of his brother, for just after Charles came to Oxford, old Mr. Wesley, who was now getting infirm, desired John to go back to Epworth to be his curate.

John therefore returned home in August, 1727. He left Charles a merry, thoughtless boy, with no care for his soul. He found things changed at Epworth. His father was in very bad health. Emilia was living at the parsonage in another parish, which had been given to Mr. Wesley. Sukey was married, and, sad to say, to a very bad husband. Hetty, who had been such a bright, clever girl, had turned out very badly, and was married to a plumber and glazier in London. Nancy, too, was married. Molly and Patty were still at home, and Kezzy was just going to be an under-teacher in a boarding school at Lincoln.

John found more time at Epworth than he had at Oxford for reading Thomas à Kempis and other books of the sort, and he now wished to do as Thomas à Kempis had done—namely, to shut himself up entirely from the world, and see nobody. His mother did not think this a good plan, and someone living near Epworth, whom John calls “a serious man,” whom he went several miles to consult, said to him, “Sir, you wish to serve God and go to heaven, remember, you cannot serve Him alone, you must therefore find companions, or make them.” These words struck John as being right, and he gave up his plan of going to live out of the world, in one of the Yorkshire dales.

In November, 1729, he returned again to Oxford, and there he found matters much changed during the two years that he had been away. This change had been brought about by Charles, of whose history at Oxford I shall tell you something before long.

One reason—perhaps the chief reason—that John Wesley had for returning to Oxford was, that whilst at Epworth, he had received a letter from his brother Charles, in which were these words, “It is owing, in a great measure, to somebody’s prayers—my mother’s most likely—that I am come to think as I do; for I cannot tell myself how or when I woke out of my lethargy, only that it was not long after you went away.”

It was from this time that Charles had become quite changed in his thoughts and conduct, and, like John, he had become very anxious to be saved. Like John, too, he thought that the way to be saved was to try his best to do good works, and especially good works which he found disagreeable. He thought, too, that it would be right, and that it might help him in the way to be saved, to go to the Lord’s Supper every Sunday. He talked about these things to his fellow-students. Two of them, whose names were Morgan and Kirkham, thought Charles was right, and that they ought to do as he did. The rest laughed at them, and called them Methodists. This word had been used before as a nickname for people who led very strict lives, and were religious. Charles and his friends cared nothing for being laughed at, and they agreed together to meet for reading, and to make rules for their conduct, such as fasting twice a-week, and other plans by which they hoped to become holy. Their friends called them “the Holy Club,” thinking that to accuse them of holiness, was indeed a disgrace and insult. When John returned to Oxford in November, 1729, Charles and his friends received him with great joy, and asked him to make the rules which they would all agree to keep. John’s rules were very strict, as he thought that the more people were compelled to do things they naturally disliked, the holier they would become. They were regularly to examine themselves diligently, as to whether they had kept the rules, and obeyed every direction in the prayer-book, especially as to fasting. They were to read Latin and Greek together three or four evenings in the week, and on Sunday evenings the Greek Testament, or some religious book. They were to be very sparing in their food at all times, sleep as little as possible, and deny themselves in every way they could think of.

Mr. Morgan, who quite agreed with him in all this, thought, happily for them all, that it would be well if instead of being solely employed in making themselves better, they were also to think of others, and spend a part of their time in visiting the poor and sick, and in teaching ragged children.

One day Mr. Morgan went to the gaol to see a prisoner there. The gaol at Oxford is an old castle; the same castle in which the Empress Maud was besieged by King Stephen, and from which, it is said, she escaped over the snow, dressed in white. It is a gloomy looking old building, and no doubt the prisoners there were very wretched, for prisons were then badly managed, and the treatment of the prisoners extremely cruel.

Mr. Morgan told his friends of his talk with the prisoner, and they agreed that they too, would go regularly and visit the prison, and also go to the poor and sick in the town. No doubt they thought this would help to save them, and so far they were doing harm rather than good, for any attempt to add to the perfect work of salvation finished by Christ, is sin in the sight of God. But it may perhaps have led them, too, to be less taken up with themselves, when they saw the misery and wickedness of those whom they visited; and though the selfish thought that they were to gain something by their labors would often come in, we can hope and believe that they sometimes forgot themselves altogether, and learned to feel for others.

As time went on, other young men joined themselves to the Holy Club, and agreed to keep the rules. Others at a distance wrote to John Wesley, and seem to have joined themselves together in other places, agreeing to keep rules of the same sort as those of the Holy Club at Oxford.

Ten years afterward we find that John, who had kept the letters of these young men, spent two days in looking them over, and he then said, “I found but one among all my correspondents who declared (what I well remember at that time I knew not how to understand) that ‘God had shed abroad His love in his heart,’ and given him the ‘peace that passeth all understanding.’ But who believed his report? Should I conceal a sad truth, or declare it for the profit of others? He was expelled out of his society as a madman; and being disowned by his friends, and despised and forsaken of all men, lived obscure and unknown for a few months, and then went to Him whom his soul loved.”

Thus, you see that these poor young men who were so full of their own works, and hoped by means of these works to please God, no sooner saw God’s work, than they were displeased and angry, and would no longer keep company with the only one amongst them with whom God was well pleased. How little they knew that whilst they were visiting the prison, and giving money to the poor, their hearts were filled with hatred towards the gospel of Christ, and towards His redeemed people. Like Paul, before that wonderful journey to Damascus, they were endeavoring to be blameless as regards the righteousness of the law, and they did not know that their own goodness was a greater hindrance in the way of their salvation, than the badness of the poor prisoners in the gaol, was in the way of theirs.

But God is rich in mercy, not only for the publicans, but yet more for the proud Pharisees, and He who loved Paul, and gave Himself for him, loved, also, these self-righteous young men, and meant in His own good time to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto Himself.

George Whitefield

I must now tell you something about a young man who joined the Holy Club at Oxford a few years after John Wesley had returned there from Epworth. In the year 1714 the youngest child of the landlord of the “Bell” Inn, at Gloucester, was born. He was called George Whitefield. He had five brothers and one sister older than himself.

When he was two years old his father died, and his mother continued to keep the inn. She gave George a good education at the free grammar-school, at Gloucester. He was a clever boy, and fond of study; but much against his will, when he was fifteen, his mother desired him to leave school and come to help her at the inn. He did not like his employment there at all. He had to wear a blue apron, to wash the mops, clean the rooms, and draw countless pots of beer for the customers. When he had a little spare time, he would go to some quiet corner and read plays. When he was sixteen his mother gave up the “Bell” Inn to her eldest son, but George was still kept at work there as before. He disliked it now more than ever, for his brother’s wife and he, were by no means good friends.

Sometimes they passed three weeks without speaking to one another. George was very glad when one of his other brothers, who lived in Bristol, invited him to pay him a visit. Whilst he was there he heard a sermon in St. John’s Church, which struck him very much. He wished that he too could preach sermons and be a clergyman.

He returned to Gloucester to live with his mother, and now, instead of reading plays in his spare time, he wrote sermons. One day he met an old schoolfellow, who had become a servitor at one of the Oxford colleges. A servitor is a student who is partly employed in waiting upon the other students, and who, in return for his services, receives a payment which partly or entirely pays for the expenses of his education. George thought he, too, would like to be a servitor, and as the expense would be so small, his mother was quite willing that he should have his wish, if such a thing were possible. He was, therefore, allowed to go back to his old school, to learn all the Latin and Greek that would be required of him, before he could enter the University.

When he was eighteen, his mother succeeded in getting him chosen as servitor at Pembroke College, Oxford, and a friend lent her £10, to meet the needful expenses of new clothes and of the journey. George worked hard at his studies when he got to Oxford. He had not been there long when he heard of the Holy Club, to which ten or twelve students now belonged. George Whitefield wished very much that he might belong to it, but did not know any of the Methodists except by name.

When he had been about a year at Oxford, he met with a poor woman who had been trying to kill herself. George Whitefield did not know how to talk to her, and he thought that if Charles Wesley would come and try to do her good it would be much better than anything he himself could say. He therefore asked an old apple-woman, who happened to be at hand, to go to Mr. Wesley’s rooms and desire him to come; “but,” he added, “do not tell Mr. Wesley my name, only bring him to see the poor woman.” The apple-woman, however, did tell Mr. Wesley that it was George Whitefield who had sent for him; and Mr. Wesley said, “Go to Mr. Whitefield and ask him to come to breakfast with me tomorrow.”

Whitefield was very glad to have this invitation, for he had longed to have some friends who would speak to him about his soul. Charles Wesley lent him some books, from which he appears to have learned more than the Wesleys at that time knew themselves. He wrote to his relations, telling them he had found out that we must be born again. His relations thought he was fast becoming mad. He now joined the Methodists in all their plans, and kept their rules. He visited the sick and the prisoners and appears to have been really the means of bringing one young man, who already belonged to the Holy Club, to believe in the Lord Jesus. At the same time Whitefield still felt rather ashamed of his new friends, and did not like to be met in the streets walking with any of them; but this fear of man wore off in time. It was true he had something to fear, for being only a poor servitor the students did not treat him with much civility; and when they knew that he was a Methodist they threw dirt at him, and took away his pay. But he remembered the words of Christ—that no man who hath left father or mother, or wife, or children, or lands for His sake, but shall receive a hundredfold.

Still, Whitefield was not happy, for he did not know what it is to be forgiven, and to be saved forever by the blood of Christ. Had he known it, his Methodist friends might, perhaps, have thought, as they had thought of the young man who wrote to John Wesley, that he had lost his reason. Whitefield told Charles Wesley that he was not happy. Sometimes, he said, he believed that God loved him; at other times he thought he was so wicked that God must be forever displeased with him. People who are ignorant of the fact that God is pleased with us on account of what Christ has done, must be always uncertain as to whether they are saved, for if it depended in the smallest degree upon what we are and do, the case is utterly hopeless. Charles lent his friend “Thomas à Kempis,” which had the effect of making poor Whitefield more miserable than before. He spent days and weeks lying prostrate on the ground, praying that his heart might grow better. He only found out, more and more, how bad it was. One day he read in a Roman Catholic book this sentence, “He who is employed in mortifying his will is as well employed as though he were converting Indians.” “Yes,” he thought, “it is my will which stands in the way. If I could conquer my will I might be saved!” He therefore shut himself up in his study, and resolved to stay there till he could do everything only for God’s glory and not to please himself. To learn how to do this, he studied his Roman Catholic book, and all that he was there directed to do he not only did, but did more. For instance, the book told him not to talk much, he resolved not to talk at all; he even left off praying aloud and speaking to people about God.

For nearly six weeks he remained shut up in this manner; but he found that staying in his room was no use. He left this off, and tried other plans; but he felt still he had not done enough. If he was to be saved or even improved by his doings, of course he had not done enough, it was only a pity he did not know that he never could do enough, were he to live 10,000 years. But at all events he thought he might do more. He already fasted twice a week, now he ate nothing during Lent but coarse bread and sage tea, except on Saturdays and Sundays. He left off powdering his hair; he wore woolen gloves, a patched gown, and dirty shoes. He prayed under the trees at night till he shook with the cold. All this he did because he thought that what was painful to himself must be pleasing to God, and would at last make him holy.

He was only one of many thousands who have thought the same. Men, otherwise reasonable and acting in a sensible way with regard to the things of this life, no sooner act upon their own thoughts with regard to God, than they show how true are those words in Romans “There is none that understandeth.” But still he felt all was not enough. What more could he do? He would give up the only things which still gave him pleasure, and which till now he had enjoyed. He would give up his Methodist friends, and his visits to the sick and the prisoners. He would cease to go to any public worship, but pray alone in the fields. Next day he was engaged to breakfast with Charles Wesley, but he did not go. Charles came to ask why, and when he knew the reason, he got John to talk to his friend, and they persuaded him to leave off his new plan of life. He had, however, become so weak and ill by this time, that he was obliged to stay in his room whether he would or no. He was very ill for seven weeks, and after a year of great unhappiness, he began to see and understand the blessed truth that Christ had done all the work for him, and that believing in Him he had forgiveness and everlasting life. He was now filled with joy, and might perhaps have been useful to his Methodist friends had he remained at Oxford, but in order to recover his health he was advised to go and stay for a time with his relations at Gloucester. There he seems to have been very happy, and to have learned much in reading-not his Roman Catholic book, or “Thomas à Kempis,” but the blessed Word of God: “I got more true knowledge,” he said, “from reading the Book of God in one month, than I could ever have acquired from all the writings of men. Oh what sweet communion had I daily! how often have I been carried out beyond myself, when meditating in the fields!” It was indeed a blessed thing for him no longer to spend the long days in thinking of his miserable self, and how he could make himself better, but in looking at Christ who had loved and saved him. “But was he not to try to get better?” you will ask. The best answer to that question is to be found in the last verse of the 3rd chapter of the 2nd of Corinthians. There you read (I will put it for you in words which are a more correct translation than those of the English Bible), “But we all, looking on the glory of the Lord with unveiled face” (that is Christ’s face is unveiled to us) “are transformed according to the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Lord the Spirit.” That is to say, whilst we look at Christ, we become changed into His likeness! What do we want, what does God want, more than that we should become like His blessed Son in glory?

As long as Whitefield had been looking at himself no change came, except that of becoming more miserable each day—now he was looking at Christ—and when we meet with him again we shall see how true are the words of God in the verse of which I have just spoken.

Changes

For the present we leave George Whitefield at Gloucester, and go back to Oxford. There great changes of another sort were about to happen in the lives of John and Charles Wesley. In March, 1735, they heard that their father was not likely to live long, and they heard, too, that he was very much afraid to die. This made them very sad—they went to Epworth and found him fast sinking. It was a great comfort to them that he seemed at last to be much happier, and when John said to him, “Are you not near heaven?” he answered “ Yes, I am.” Had a man who was strong and well told John that he knew he was going to heaven, poor John would have thought him proud, or perhaps mad, but those who think it wrong for people in health to be sure they are saved, are glad to hear dying people say they are going to heaven. Of course people have no more reason to think they are safe when they are dying, than when they are well and strong. Only one thing makes us safe at any time—the precious blood of Christ, and trusting in that blood we are as eternally safe when well and strong, as if we were to die in ten minutes. John, however, did not understand this and without considering that if his father really had peace and joy, it was after all just what he had blamed one of his young friends for having, he was thankful and glad that he died happily. Mr. Wesley died on the 25th of April, 1735.

Mrs. Wesley went to live with Emilia, in the town of Gainsborough. Kezzy went with her. Mary, who had married a young clergyman, had died some months before her father. Patty, too, was married, and living at a distance. John was now asked whether he would like to take his father’s place at Epworth. This, however, he refused. His father had already asked him to do it some time before his death. John, however, said he was quite unfit to take charge of 100 people, much more of 2000. Besides, he said his life at Oxford was much more likely to forward him in holiness. He had friends there to read with, he could go to chapel twice every day, he had no cares, and plenty of quiet time. He was sure he could do no good at Epworth, and he felt that his great business must be to grow holier himself. For these reasons he returned to Oxford. He had now been there fifteen years, unless we leave out the short time he spent at Epworth when he was his father’s curate. Fifteen years! It was a great part of his life—and it had been spent for one purpose—that of gaining salvation. At least we can say both of John and Charles Wesley, that they were true to this purpose. However mistaken, they were thoroughly in earnest, and thoroughly sincere. They honestly believed that the one important thing was the salvation of their souls, and being ignorant of God’s righteousness they did indeed work hard to have a righteousness of their own, in which to appear before God.

They little thought they were but heaping up filthy rags, and that the time would come when they would count all these things as dung, that they might win Christ. They could look back on years of self-denial—cold winters when they had gone without needful fire and clothing; pleasant summer days when they turned away from the green meadows along the riverside, and spent their time in the garrets and cellars of the sick and poor in the stifling streets. They could remember hard labors and long prayers, but they had no happy hours to remember when they felt and enjoyed the love of Christ, and the joy of being in God’s presence without spot or stain.

We read in old histories of a poor monk who, with the hope of gaining heaven, did a strange penance which the monk who was set over him ordered him to do. It was to go every day and water a walking-stick which was stuck into the dry sand of the desert. He was to do this till he saw the leaves and blossoms grow upon the stick. Day after day, year after year, he might have been seen performing this hopeless task. John and Charles Wesley did not know that they too were watering dry sticks, in the vain hope of seeing the blossoms and the fruit appear at last. Do you know that your old nature, all of that which you got from Adam, is the dry stick upon which, however much you may cultivate it, teach it, train it, deny it, or whatever else you like, no fruit will ever grow. “They that are in the flesh cannot please God.” And now at the end of the long fifteen years nothing was there but the dry sticks still.

I shall have more to tell you of these fruitless labors, in which John and Charles wasted their strength and time. Yet we cannot say it was entirely wasted, for God, who can bring good out of evil, was thus teaching them deep lessons of their own helplessness and sinfulness. He was using them, too, as a warning to others, and is now speaking to you by this little history to tell you that same truth, which He had to teach by yet stranger means to His servant Jonah. Do you know where and when Jonah made that blessed confession, which none truly make till taught by God—“Salvation is of the Lord?” Not our doing, but His. Not the fruit of our labors, but the fruit of Christ’s suffering and death. All the work done and finished long ago by Him alone.

First Acquaintance With Moravians

John and Charles Wesley, who had been working so hard at Oxford to gain eternal life, were now to work in a different way, and in a very different place, but yet with the same object in view, for God was willing that they should be left for a while to try their own plans and ways, till at last they should be brought to own that they could do nothing, and they should be led to come as lost and worthless sinners to the feet of Jesus.

It was during the summer of 1735 that an offer was made to the two brothers which they thought they ought to accept. The English, who had already so many colonies in North America, had been forming a fresh settlement in what is now the southern part of the United States. This new colony was called Georgia; the chief town was Savannah. The object of this new settlement was to provide a home for English people who could get no employment in their own country, and especially for those who had ruined themselves by getting into debt. The person who was chiefly interested in this plan was a gentleman called General Oglethorpe. He hoped that Georgia would not only become a place of refuge for the poor and destitute, but that also Christian people would settle there, who would employ themselves in the conversion of the Indians. He believed that by the cultivation of silk, large numbers of people might get their livelihood there. He now proposed to the two brothers that they should go and live at Savannah, and do what good they could amongst the English settlers and the Indians.

John and Charles thought it would be right to go, but they wished to consult some of their friends about it; and they feared that their mother would never consent to their going to a distant land, now that she was left a widow. Their mother, however, when they asked her, said, “Had I twenty sons, I should rejoice that they were all so employed, though I should never see them more.”

John then went to ask the advice of an old friend who lived near London, of the name of William Law. John had often, whilst at Oxford, walked all the way to the place where Mr. Law lived, because he thought he could learn so much that was good from him. We see how very ignorant John Wesley was at this time of the truth of God, from his thinking so highly of William Law’s teaching. In the first place, Law said that God never punished, and never will punish sin; and therefore he mocked at the thought that the death of the Lord Jesus was needed to put away sin. He thought that the history of Adam and Eve was a fable, and that Christ only came to teach men about God. When John asked his advice about going to Georgia, he recommended him to go, and this decided John to hesitate no longer. He thought it would be an easy and delightful task to convert the Indians. Besides John and Charles, one of their friends, belonging to the Holy Club, offered to go. This was Mr. Benjamin Ingham. Another young man, Mr. Charles Delamotte, also joined them. They sailed from Gravesend in October, 1735. General Oglethorpe went with them, taking out about three hundred persons in two ships. In the same ship as the Wesleys, were twenty-six Germans. These Germans struck John Wesley as being most extraordinary people. They seemed to be, as far as he could tell, without knowing their language, people who loved and feared God. They never quarreled, or even looked cross, they were always cheerful and happy. He found they were coming from Herrnhuth, in Saxony, and going out to America as missionaries. Perhaps you have never heard of Herrnhuth. There is a great deal to be said about it, and it would be a long and most interesting story to tell you, but now I will only say a few words, to explain to you who and what these Germans were. Some years before, a German nobleman, Count Zinzendorf, a man who loved God, had built a little village near his castle which was to be a place of refuge for Christian people, who, for Christ’s sake, had been persecuted and driven from their homes. Such people were often to be found. In Moravia, especially, those who left off being Papists because they had learned the gospel of Christ, had for many years been suffering for their faith. A number of Moravians came to live at Herrnhuth, as the Count’s village was called. Herrnhuth means “the protection of God.”

It seems to have been a most happy little village. To pray and to sing hymns were the chief employments of these poor people when they were not at work. They studied the Word of God and lived together in great love and peace. The Count often told them about things which were going on in other parts of the world, and encouraged any of them who felt a desire to do so, to go to heathen countries and preach the gospel. As the Count lived very simply, and denied himself in every way, he had money to spare for these purposes.

Three Moravians went to live in Greenland, where their preaching was used for the conversion of many souls. One of them, Christian David, went from Herrnhuth to the West Indies, where he sold himself as a slave, in order to have opportunities for making the gospel known to the slaves in the sugar plantations. Several had gone to North America, and the twenty-six who sailed with John Wesley were now on their way to join the former party, who had been at Savannah for some time. John Wesley was made rather uncomfortable by the sight of these Germans. He could not help feeling that they had a joy and peace he had never known, and he could not understand why. Perhaps it was for this reason that he began to deny himself more strictly than before. He would eat nothing but a small quantity of rice and biscuit. One night his bed was deluged by a wave which rolled in at the cabin window, and he had to sleep on the floor. Having once done this, he began to think it was a useless luxury to have a bed, and he resolved to sleep on the floor from that time forward. He and his friends divided their time by rule between reading, prayer, and teaching any on board who were willing to be taught. They worked hard, they allowed themselves no idle time, no unprofitable conversation. They were, as people so often say, “Doing their best.” But, alas! our best is of small use, if that is all we have to make us pleasing to God. Like Adam’s fig-leaves, we feel that in God’s presence they, our best deeds, are no covering. Adam went to hide himself when God came, just as if he had never taken any trouble about the fig-leaves at all.

So it happened on board the ship, when one day a storm suddenly rose; the great waves dashed over the decks; the sailors rushed to and fro in alarm. It was well known that the ship was in terrible danger. The English passengers, the four young missionaries amongst them, were very much frightened, and John and Charles could only feel terror at the thought of being perhaps in a few moments in the presence of God. But the Germans, who had been singing hymns when the storm began, merely went on singing as though nothing had happened; and the Wesleys, who watched them, thinking that now at last their peace and happiness would come to an end, were astonished to see that they looked just as bright and cheerful as ever. “Were you not frightened?” John said to them, when the danger was over. “Oh no,” they said, “why should we be? we should only have gone to the Lord.” “But the women and the children? They seemed not to mind the storm at all.” “No,” said the Germans, “why should they? Our women and children are not afraid to die.” John was more perplexed than ever about the Germans, and yet when they tried to explain to him the cause of their joy and peace, he did not like to hear it, and thought they talked foolishly.

Two Years in Georgia

They had sailed from Gravesend on the 21st of October, It was not till February 5th that they reached Savannah. They first landed on a little island, where they knelt down to thank God for having brought them safely to their journey’s end. General Oglethorpe then went on to the town, leaving the passengers still in the ships. The next day he came back, bringing with him a Moravian pastor, called Spangenberg. John Wesley, thinking the Germans were such wonderful people, was glad to see one who had lived some time at Savannah. He thought Spangenberg would give him good advice as to how to begin his work. But Spangenberg said, “My brother, I must first ask you one or two questions. Do you know whether you are a child of God?” John was astonished at this question, and knew not what to answer. Spangenberg finding he did not reply said: “Do you know Jesus Christ?” “Yes,” said John; “I know He is the Saviour of the world.” “True,” said Spangenberg, “but do you know that He has saved you?” John replied, “I hope He has died to save me.” And when Spangenberg asked him further, “Do you know yourself?” he said “I do.” But he added in his journal, “I fear they were vain words.”

John and Charles now separated. Charles went to the town of Frederica with Mr. Ingham. John and Mr. Delamotte lodged in the house of some Moravians at Savannah, and were glad to have an opportunity of watching their daily conduct. John says “they were always employed, always cheerful themselves, and in good humor with one another; they had put away all anger and strife, and wrath and bitterness, and clamor and evil speaking; they walked worthy of the vocation wherewith they were called, and adorned the gospel of our Lord in all things.”

Things did not go on very well with the two brothers in Georgia. Charles Wesley greatly displeased the people of Frederica. Having long lived by rules themselves, and having, as far as they could, obliged others to do so at Oxford, it seems both John and Charles tried the same plan in Georgia. They gave orders to the people to pray and to go to church, they told them how to dress, they interfered now and then in their affairs, and very soon General Oglethorpe sent Charles back to England. John, however, determined to stay. He soon found he could do nothing with the Indians, not knowing their language, and the few who talked English were quite unwilling to listen to anything he had to say. “No,” they said, “Christians drink! Christians beat men! Christians tell lies! we don’t want to be Christians.”

How often have people, calling themselves Christians, thus led the heathen to think that they had better remain as they are. Some of the English seemed at first inclined to listen to John. He and Delamotte each had a school for boys, and as some of the boys had no shoes and stockings, John began to go barefoot, that the barefooted boys might not be despised by the others. He and Delamotte also determined to eat no food but bread. Had he been satisfied with making rules for himself and Delamotte, nobody would have been displeased; but very soon the English settlers began to complain loudly of his severity and interference. No doubt many of the complaints were unjust and untrue, but it was in God’s great mercy that Wesley’s work in Georgia was not allowed to have any appearance of success. He began to find out that no good came of it, and at first he thought this was the fault of others, and that their taking offense was a proof that he was right. It sometimes is so, but we very often offend others by our foolish and mistaken conduct, and so it was in this case. Besides this, he was not happy in his own mind. Once when there was a terrible thunderstorm he wrote in his journal, “This voice of God told me I was not fit to die, since I was afraid, rather than desirous of it. O, when shall I wish to be dissolved and to be with Christ!”

Learning Himself

Two years passed by, and John determined to go back to England. He felt he was doing no good, and that all his labors, both for himself and for others, had been in vain. He was sad and discouraged.

On December 22nd, 1737, he sailed from Charlestown, leaving Mr. Delamotte behind in America. He was now without any friends, and had plenty of time to think over the past years of his life. The more he thought, the more unhappy he became. How was it that he had for so many years tried hard to be a Christian, and yet after all he could see no sign that he was “nearer to being one,” as he says in his journal?

On the 8th of January, 1738, whilst still in the ship, he wrote down that he was now convinced of unbelief and of pride, and he adds, “Lord, save, or I perish!” He tried still to make himself happier by teaching the cabin-boy and some Negroes who were on board, and for a little while felt more cheerful. But this was not the peace of God which fills the heart of those who believe, whether they have work to do or not. John Wesley was like the lawyer in Luke 10, who was inquiring for the neighbor to whom he might do good, and the Lord had to show him the humbling lesson, that what he needed was a neighbor who would do good to him. The Lord did not say to the lawyer, when He had told him the story of the Samaritan, “Who thinkest thou was the neighbor of the Samaritan?” but “Who thinkest thou was the neighbor of him who fell among the thieves?” That is to say, He did not in this story put the lawyer in as the Samaritan, but as the poor, helpless, penniless man, who could do nothing and pay nothing. Perhaps the lawyer never understood this. But it was a truth which poor John Wesley was now at last to learn.

On January 24th he wrote in his journal the following words, over which we can well believe there was joy in the presence of the angels of God—“I went to America to convert the Indians! But, oh! who shall convert me? Who, what is he that will deliver me from this evil heart of unbelief? I can talk well—nay, and believe myself, while no danger is near, but let death look me in the face, and my spirit is troubled.

“‘I have a sin of fear that, when I’ve spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore.’“

And yet again he tried to take comfort in the thought that he had given and did give all his goods to feed the poor, and that he “followed after charity.” But that thought could give him no comfort when he thought of death. “Oh! who will deliver me,” he writes, “from this fear of death? What shall I do? Where shall I fly from it?”

A day or two later a ship bound for Georgia passed in sight. John Wesley did not know that on board that ship was his old friend George Whitefield. On the 1st of February John Wesley landed at Deal, and wrote in his journal—“It is now two years and almost four months since I left my native country, in order to teach the Georgian Indians the nature of Christianity—but what have I learned myself in the meantime? Why (what I the least of all suspected), that I, who went to America to convert others, was never myself converted to God. I am not mad, though I thus speak, but I speak the words of truth and soberness, if haply some of those who still dream may awake, and see, that as I am, so are they. Are they read in philosophy? So was I. In ancient or modern tongues? So was I also. Are they versed in the science of divinity? I too have studied it many years. Can they talk fluently upon spiritual things? The very same could I do. Are they plenteous in alms? Behold I gave all my goods to feed the poor. Do they give of their labor as well as of their substance? I have labored more abundantly than they all. Are they willing to suffer for their brethren? I have thrown up my friends, reputation, ease, country. I have put my life in my hand, wandering into strange lands; I have given my body to be devoured by the deep, parched up with heat, consumed by toil and weariness, or whatsoever God should please to bring upon me. But does all this (be it more or less, it matters not,) make me acceptable to God? Does all I ever did or can know, say, give, do, or suffer, justify me in His sight? Yea, or the constant use of all the means of grace? Or that I know nothing of myself, that I am as touching outward, moral righteousness, blameless? Or to come closer yet, the having a rational conviction of all the truths of Christianity? Does all this give me a claim to the holy, heavenly, divine character of a Christian? By no means. If the oracles of God are true, if we are still to abide by the law and the testimony, all these things, though when ennobled by faith in Christ, they are holy and just, and good, yet without it are dung and dross, meet only to be purged away by the fire that never shall be quenched. This, then, have I learned in the ends of the earth; that I am fallen short of the glory of God, that my whole heart is altogether corrupt and abominable, and consequently my whole life; seeing it cannot be that an evil tree should bring forth good fruit; that alienated as I am from the life of God, I am a child of wrath, an heir of hell; that my own works, my own sufferings, my own righteousness, are so far from making any atonement for the least of those sins, which are more in number than the hairs of my head, that the best of them need an atonement themselves, or they cannot abide His righteous judgment; that, having the sentence of death in my heart, and having nothing in or of myself to plead, I have no hope but that of being justified freely through the redemption that is in Jesus, I have no hope but that if I seek, I shall find Christ,” (he did not then see that it was Christ who was seeking him) “and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith. If it be said that I have faith (for many such things have I heard from many miserable comforters) I answer, so have the devils, a sort of faith, but still they are strangers to the covenant of promise...the faith I want is, a sure trust and confidence in God, that, through the merits of Christ, my sins are forgiven, and I reconciled to the favor of God. I want that faith which St. Paul recommends to all the world, especially in his epistle to the Romans; that faith which enables every one that hath it to cry out, ‘I live not, but Christ liveth in me—and the life which I now live, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.’”

You will see from this that God in His great mercy had now opened John Wesley’s eyes to see that he was nothing but a poor lost sinner. He now knew that he was, as the Lord Jesus says of the Laodiceans, wretched and miserable, and poor and blind and naked, and this, too, whilst he, like the Laodiceans, had been thinking himself rich and increased with goods, and needing nothing. It was a great step to know this much. But there are some who go thus far, and no further, and it is not by knowing ourselves as sinners, but by knowing Jesus as our own precious Saviour that we have eternal life. This second step John had not yet learned, but he was now longing thus to know Christ, and was ready to listen to anyone who would teach him the simple gospel of God. But of all his friends in England, there does not seem to have been one from whom he could have learned it. He might, no doubt, have learned it from the Bible, but in most cases, almost in every case, God is pleased to make use of His people in saving the souls of others. Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. A messenger of the good tidings was ready in God’s good time to tell John Wesley the words whereby he might be saved. As man would say, this happened by chance. I will tell you how. After Wesley landed at Deal, he went on to London. I told you that he landed on the 1st of February. On the 5th of February, which was Sunday, he preached at a church in London, on the text “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.” Though he did not yet understand the gospel, and therefore could not have preached it fully, there was something about this sermon quite different from his former preaching. He was now himself awakened, and there was such a reality in what he said that the people who heard him were much offended, and he was told he must preach in that church no more.

On Monday and Tuesday he went to visit his old friends in London, and it was on Tuesday that he first saw the servant of God who was to speak to him the words of grace and peace. This was, again, a German Moravian

Peter Böhler

Wesley, it seems, called at the house of Mr. Weinantz, a Dutch merchant, and there found three Germans, who had just landed in England. One of them was called Peter Böhler. Finding they had no friends in London, Wesley offered to find them a lodging, and took rooms for them in a house close to where he himself was staying. From the little talk they had that day, he felt sure that from them he could learn what he now most desired to know—how a sinner can have peace with God. He wrote in his journal that Tuesday evening, “A day much to be remembered!”

From this time John Wesley took every opportunity of talking with Peter Böhler. Peter could not talk English, and John could not talk German, they therefore had all their conversations in Latin. Peter told John that what he needed was faith in Christ, and that there were two marks of having faith, namely, first the certain knowledge that our sins are forgiven, and secondly, power to overcome sin in our daily life. John says he was quite amazed at hearing this. It seemed to him a new gospel. “If it is true,” he said, “it is quite clear I have not got faith.” But he was not willing to be convinced of it, and disputed, as he says, with all his might to convince Peter that though he did not know that his sins were forgiven, still he really had faith, which would prove that Peter was wrong. You may remember that he had written in his journal that those people were “miserable comforters” who thought that he had true faith, for that though he had a sort of faith, so have the devils. But we often are displeased with others when they accuse us of the very same faults of which we have perhaps accused ourselves, and John now argued with Peter to prove that what he had was really faith, though he did not believe his sins were forgiven.

Peter, however, said that if John would only consult the Bible, and the experience of believing people, he would see that those who believe in Jesus not only have forgiveness, but know they have it. John did not give in, but he could not help talking to Peter, and when he went to Oxford, a fortnight after coming to London, he took Peter with him. He felt that there was something in Peter’s arguments which he did not understand, and he hoped that at last he should find out what it all meant.

Ten days later, John went to Salisbury to see his mother, who was living there with Patty and her husband. Whilst he was there he got a message from Oxford to tell him that his brother Charles was there, and was thought to be dying. John instantly went to Oxford, and found his brother better, and with him he found his friend Peter. The next day he and Peter had a talk, and John was at last convinced that he was indeed guilty of unbelief. He felt that he was wrong in preaching to others, whilst he was himself without true faith, and he asked Peter’s advice about leaving off preaching. Peter said, “No, preach faith till you have it, and then because you have it you will preach faith.” This was not good advice, for it is not sincere to preach to others beyond our own belief. However he was right in the main, and John began to see, after a while, that Peter spoke the truth in saying that a believer knows he is forgiven, and has power against sin. But that this great change should happen in a moment, as Peter said, he could not admit. He looked through the Bible, especially the Acts, to see if there were any cases there of people who were all at once brought from darkness to light. “To my utter astonishment,” he says, “I scarce found any instances there of other than instantaneous conversions, the least sudden being the conversion of Paul, who was three days before he knew himself to be a new creature in Christ Jesus.” John saw that the Bible was against him, but he told Peter he thought in those early days, when God worked miracles, things might be different.

It happened, however, only a few days later, that John met with several bright, happy-looking people, who assured him that just this same thing had been true in their case, and that God had shown them all at once that their sins were forgiven, and had turned them from darkness to light, from the power of Satan to Himself. John was then convinced that this was true, but when he said so, Charles was very angry, and begged him not to say anything so wrong.

Soon after, Charles’s illness returned, and this time he was laid up in London, at the house of a pious working man, called Bray. John went to see him, and found him still much displeased at what he called “those new notions.” Peter went too, and had a long talk with him, and this talk opened Charles’s eyes; he now clearly saw what faith was, and only longed to have it. The very next day Peter sailed for America. This was on May 4th, not three months from the time John first saw him. John wrote in his journal, with regard to Peter, “Oh, what a work hath God begun since his coming into England! Such an one as shall never come to an end till heaven and earth pass away.”

John felt very, very sad now that Peter was gone. It cheered him a little to get a Latin letter from him a few days after. But still he felt how terribly true it was that, as Peter had said, he had not yet believed in Jesus, and he could have no peace nor joy. Just a fortnight after Peter left, on the 9th of May, John got the news that his brother Charles was now rejoicing in the knowledge that his sins were forgiven–Charles, who had at first been so angry with him for speaking of it! You will like to know how this happened.

Conversion of the Two Brothers

The good man Bray, in whose house Charles Wesley lodged, read the Bible to him, and talked to him as best he could, and Charles listened gladly, now that he had lost Peter. “God,” he said, “sent Mr. Bray, a poor, ignorant mechanic, who knows nothing but Christ, but by knowing Him, knows and discerns all things.”

A woman of the family also talked to Charles, and told him she would be glad to die at any moment. “For,” she said, “all my sins are blotted out. Christ has saved me by His death, He has washed me by His blood.”

Charles longed to feel this too. As he lay in his bed he prayed, saying: “O, Jesus, Thou hast said, I will come to you. Thou hast said, I will send the Comforter unto you.” And so he prayed till he was dropping off to sleep, when he was roused by hearing some words which came to him as a message from God. They were a few simple words spoken by the good woman who had talked to him before, and who nursed him in his illness. Charles received Christ into his heart, and after praying and talking with Bray, he felt a joy and rest in his soul he had never before known. He knew the love of Christ that passes knowledge.

But John could not yet rejoice. Though he was glad for Charles, he felt all the more unhappy about himself. It was on Sunday that he heard of Charles’ happiness. He says in his journal: “On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I had continual sorrow and heaviness in my heart.” And he goes on to describe how he now saw more and more that he was altogether vile and sinful, “deserving nothing but wrath.” He looked back over his past life, and felt how, that one by one, everything be had trusted to for salvation had been like a broken reed. He remembered he had been taught when a child, at Epworth, that he “could only be saved by keeping all the commandments of God.” Then he remembered that though he believed this to be true, he had lived when at school in constant neglect of his duties, and in the practice—the constant practice—of known sins. And he remembered how he then thought that in spite of it all he might hope to be saved. 1st By not being so bad as other people. 2nd By having a respect for religion. 3rd By reading the Bible, going to church, and saying his prayers.

Then he thought of his Oxford life, how at first he lived there contentedly in known sin, and without any love or fear of God, and yet thought from time to time that perhaps he might be saved by short fits of repentance every now and then. Then he remembered how he had “turned over a new leaf,” as people say, from reading “Thomas à Kempis” and Mr. Law’s books; how he had then tried hard to be holy; had caused himself to be laughed at and hated; had worked like a slave in visiting the poor; had fasted till he was ill; and then after all had felt no happier, and just as much afraid of death and judgment as before. He remembered, too, his voyage to America, and how he had refused to believe what the Moravians told him about faith and Christ. And then his sad, fruitless labors at Savannah; and his terrible discovery on the way home, that he had never really been a Christian. And then he thought of the light that had come into his mind through his talks with Peter, and he felt now assured that Peter had been telling him the truth about himself when he convinced him that he had not really believed in Jesus. And yet, though he longed to believe, he felt that his prayers for faith were dull and cold; he could not arouse himself, nor make himself really care to have it.

Poor John! he was learning that it is not the sinner who makes himself alive; and that it is not to living souls, but to dead ones that Christ speaks the word that calls them out of the grave of sin and death. “The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and they that hear shall live.” It is not that the Son of God wants to hear the voice of the dead calling to Him for help; He speaks the word, and they come forth alive for evermore. It was on Wednesday evening, May 24th, that the word of life was spoken by the voice of Christ to John Wesley. He had gone “very unwillingly” to a meeting in Alders-gate Street, where someone read aloud Luther’s preface to the Epistle to the Romans. Wesley had not been fond of Luther, he had spoken of him before as “a wrongheaded German, who made too much of faith, instead of teaching that we are saved by faith and works together.” But now, as he listened to the one reading aloud, Wesley says, “while he was describing the change that God works in the heart through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, in Christ alone, for salvation, and an assurance was given me, that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death. I then testified openly to all there what I now felt first in my heart.”

After this blessed evening John Wesley was indeed a new creature in Christ Jesus. At first Satan tried to rob him of his peace, but he found that Jesus was with him, and when he looked into the Word of God, he says he scarce remembers ever to have opened it but upon some great and precious promise. He now at last had the peace he had so often longed for, and he could praise God and rejoice in Christ, knowing for the first time what joy really means. But at times he felt more sorrow than joy, in the thought of his own sinfulness—not like the sorrow he had felt before, which was more fear of punishment than real sorrow for sin. Now, he never doubted that Christ had saved and forgiven him, and therefore his peace never left him, though at times his joy did. He longed to know more of Christ, and to have more power over his own evil heart, but forgiveness he knew that he had, and he could now understand what it is to be a new creature. I hope to tell you in what follows how John Wesley ran the race in which he had at last started. His history, as God’s servant, properly begins here, and a wonderful history it is. But before I tell you about it I would ask you earnestly to consider all that I have hitherto told you about him. It concerns you. If you have not yet been born again, it is as needful for you as it was for him to pass through this great and glorious change from death to life. It will be a wonderful day when the body of John Wesley comes forth from the grave, made “like unto Christ’s glorious body,” but it was a more wonderful day in his history when he first heard the voice of Christ and lived. If you do not know what this means, be sure it has never yet happened to you. You see from the history of Wesley, it does not mean turning over a new leaf, or becoming religious, and kind to the poor. All these things could be said of him before. It is a mistake to think that an unsaved, unforgiven sinner never does what are commonly called “good works.” There are thousands who give to the poor, teach in Sunday schools, read the Bible, and say prayers, and “do many things” (which last we are told of Herod, who ended by mocking at the Lord Jesus).

What is really true about an unsaved sinner is that all he does are what God calls “dead works,” works that have in them nothing pleasing to God. They are like leaves and blossoms stuck upon a dead tree. The works of a believer are the leaves and blossoms which grow out of the living tree. Which case is yours? If it is the life that is wanting in your case, it is quite plain you cannot give it to yourself, and your case would indeed be an utterly hopeless one, if God did not undertake to do, not some of the work for you, but all. “Then,” you say, “I must wait till He does it.” This would be perfectly true if there were anything to wait for on the part of God. But let me remind you, that your salvation rests, not upon something God is going to do, but on something He has done. God will never do anything more to put away sin. If that is what you are waiting for, you may wait forever. When you look back to the cross on Calvary to see what He has done, and up to Christ who is in glory as the proof how fully that work on the cross has satisfied God—when you thus look, believing all was for you, you have eternal life. Just as when the dying Israelite looked up at the serpent, life flowed into him, so the moment you look up to Christ, owning Him as the One who bore all your punishment, the eternal life flows into your soul from God. It is all there, treasured up in Christ, ready for you now. And remember, too, that the life God gives is the very same life that is now in Christ in glory. “God has given to us eternal life, and this life is in His Son.” And again, He says, “Christ, who is our life.” With such a life flowing into us, well may we bring forth fruit to the praise and glory of God. It is no longer an imitation of Christ, but we may rather say a continuation of Christ. Wonderful thought! Do you say you must wait, then, till God calls you to take this free gift? He calls you now, by these words. If you do not receive it, it is because you refuse it. You cannot give it to yourself, but God has said “Whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.” God gives it, you only receive it.

"Many Adversaries"

You may, perhaps, think that now that John Wesley had joy and peace, and all his fears were gone, he would have no more troubles and sorrows, unless some great misfortunes befell him. It is true that his old troubles and sorrows were gone forever. It is written: “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed away; behold all things are become new, and all things are of God.” But as the old troubles passed away, new troubles came. Yes, amongst the new things which God gives His people, are not only new joys, but new troubles and sorrows. Do you think they are no better off, then, than they were before? If you did but know the difference between the old troubles and the new, you would not say so. The new troubles are a glorious, blessed gift from God, which, strange as you may think it, make the one to whom they come far happier than he would otherwise have been. Hear how Paul speaks about them, or rather how the Holy Ghost speaks by Paul: “We glory in tribulations also.” “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed.” “As sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” “I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then am I strong.” And God tells us of Moses, that the thing which he esteemed greater riches than the treasures of Egypt, was not that which most people would value, it was “the reproach of Christ.”

You can well understand that John Wesley, in his old days, could not take pleasure in his doubts and fears, nor glory in them, nor find them in any way an advantage. Now he was to have troubles such as His blessed Lord and Master had had, and he would learn to understand those words, “Blessed are ye when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of Man’s sake. Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in Heaven.” John Wesley soon found out that the world is not changed since these words were spoken. He had come to London, as you remember, on the 3rd of February and had preached there since that time in many churches. By the 28th of May he was forbidden to preach any more in no less than ten of these churches. On that day he had preached twice about God justifying the ungodly, and this sounded strange to people who had been taught that God loved good people, and took them to heaven because they had done their best. This was the first Sunday after the day that John found rest and peace in Christ; therefore the sermons which had given offense before, must have done so because, though not himself at peace, he had at least preached some of the truths he had learned from his friend Peter; and, besides, he had been thoroughly in earnest, a thing which cold or lukewarm people much dislike.

On this same Sunday evening he gave fresh offense by something I am now going to tell you. Whenever John Wesley had had any business in London in former days, he used to stay at the house of his brother Samuel, in Westminster. When Samuel left London and went to live in Devonshire, a friend of his, called Mr. Hutton, said that he would gladly receive John and Charles into his house whenever they wanted to come to London. It was in the house of Mr. Hutton that John had been staying ever since he came back from America. You will see from this that Mr. Hutton was a kind, friendly man. He was, besides, a religious man. On Sunday evenings he used to read a sermon aloud to his family and visitors. On the Sunday of which I am telling you, when he had finished the sermon he was reading, all at once John Wesley stood up, and told them all he had something to say to them. It was this: he said, “I have to tell you that I was never really a Christian till five days ago. I am sure that this is true. If you, too, wish to be Christians, not in name only, but in truth, there is but one way. It is to confess that you are nothing but lost sinners, and believe in Christ only as the Saviour.” Mr. Hutton was astonished and displeased at John’s speech. He said that Mr. Wesley had been baptized long ago, and had often gone to the Lord’s Supper. How, then, could he dare to say that he had never been a Christian till five days ago?

Mrs. Hutton, too, was much displeased. In vain John told them that nobody was a Christian, except in name, until he gave up all trust in baptism, in the Lord’s Supper, or in any works whatever, as able to save him, and till he trusted in Christ, and Christ only.

Mr. and Mrs. Hutton only became more angry, and at last Mrs. Hutton settled it in her mind that her friend John was becoming mad, and she wrote to his brother Samuel to tell him that both John and Charles had become so wild and strange she knew not what harm they might not do. She told Samuel she believed they both meant to pay him a visit, and that then, if he could not persuade them how wrong and foolish they were, the best plan would be to shut them up in a lunatic asylum. Samuel quite agreed with Mrs. Hutton, and said, “What Jack means I cannot understand. He was baptized long ago, and how then can he say he has only just become a Christian? I pleased myself with the expectation of seeing Jack, but now that is over, and I am afraid of it.”

John, however, did not go to pay Samuel a visit. He had other plans, of which I will tell you further on. In the meantime he found that other old friends besides Mr. and Mrs. Hutton had turned against him. Amongst these was Mr. William Law. John had written to him to tell him that he had now, and only now, become a true believer in the Lord Jesus, and that it was through the teaching of Peter Böhler that he had learned the blessed truth that we are saved by Christ only, and not by our own works in any degree. “And now, sir,” he added, “suffer me to ask, how will you answer it to our common Lord that you never gave me this advice? Why did I scarcely ever hear you name the name of Christ never so as to ground anything upon faith in His blood?...I know that I had not faith, unless the faith of a devil, the faith of Judas....I beseech you, sir, to consider whether the true reason of your never pressing this upon me (that it is by faith we are saved) was not this, that you had it not yourself?” He then warned Mr. Law of the danger of remaining without true faith in the Lord Jesus.

To this letter Mr. Law replied that he had taught John the truth about faith in Christ, and so had Thomas à Kempis. It was plain, therefore, that Mr. Law did not so much as understand what John meant. In fact, amongst all his old friends, scarcely any seemed now to agree with him, except his brother Charles and Mr. Ingham, who had once belonged to the Holy Club.

Among the Moravians

John’s new plan was to go to Germany and see Count Zinzendorf, and the Moravians at Herrnhuth. He thought he might learn more from them than from anyone in England. He went first to Salisbury, to say good-bye to his mother, who was still living there with Patty and her husband. John and Charles had both told their mother of the great change that had happened to them. Mrs. Wesley thought they spoke very oddly, but as she did not quite understand what they meant, she told John she was glad he was now so happy in the knowledge of Christ. And when John read her a paper in which he had written what he now believed, she said she agreed with it. She did not, however, really understand it, for when Samuel showed her the same paper after John was gone to Germany, and explained to her that it was quite wrong, she believed what Samuel said, and became unhappy about John and Charles, thinking them much mistaken. Mr. Ingham went with John to Germany. Charles stayed in England, as he had become curate to a good man in Islington, and he found that great numbers of people came to hear the gospel preached. One reason why so many people were ready to listen was that George Whitefield had been preaching in London before he sailed for America, and many had become anxious to be saved.

We see how God orders all the plans of His servants. He sowed the seed by George Whitefield, and now He sent Charles Wesley to reap the harvest.

You will like to hear what happened to John in Germany. On the 15th of June, 1738, he and Mr. Ingham landed at Rotterdam. The next day they arrived at Ysselstein, where they were taken in by a friend of Count Zinzendorf’s, Baron Frederick Watteville.

Baron Frederick had seemed when he was a boy at school to have a desire to love and serve God. He was at that time a friend and companion of Count Zinzendorf, who was about his own age. But when he grew older and went into the world he became careless and ungodly. He was led, through the means of his old friend Count Zinzendorf, to think of his soul, and was brought to repentance and to faith in Christ. He was now a very earnest servant of God. Wesley spent a very pleasant day with Baron Frederick and a number of Moravians. They told him of the work which God was doing in many parts of the world; they all joined together in prayer, and in praise, and it was a very happy time. After this they went to many other places along the Rhine, and at last arrived at Frankfort, where Mr. Böhler, Peter’s father, gave them a warm welcome. The next day they went on to Marienborn, to pay a visit to Count Zinzendorf. The Count’s home was, you know, in Saxony, close to the village of Herrnhuth, but he had been banished from his country by the King, who did not like him to receive strangers from other countries, especially from Austria. He had been sentenced to lose all his property; but he seems to have foreseen this, and had therefore ten years before sold his estates to his wife, so that he now had nothing to lose. He had been at Marienborn only a little while when Wesley came there. He had taken the castle as a home for his family, intending himself to go as a missionary to the West Indies, and shortly after Wesley’s visit he went there, having first seen a little settlement of Moravians formed near Marienborn. This new settlement was called Herrnhaag.

John was very much pleased with all he saw at Marienborn. He wrote to Samuel: “God has given me at length the desire of my heart. I am with a church whose conversation is in heaven, in whom is the mind that was in Christ, and who so walk as He walked.” This was saying a great deal, and he found afterward that he had said too much, for we must have very low thoughts of what it is to walk as Christ walked, if we are satisfied about any set of Christians, that they are doing so. The more nearly they are truly doing so, the more will they see and own what is wanting in their obedience to God, because they will the better know and understand how wonderfully perfect was the walk of Christ; but God gives us no lower standard, so that besides having a perfect example, we have something which ought always to keep us from being satisfied with ourselves.

John and Mr. Ingham spent a fortnight at Marienborn, and then went on to Herrnhuth. You will like to know what sort of place it was. There were about 100 houses, built on a rising ground, with evergreen woods on two sides, gardens and corn-fields on the other, and high hills quite near. There was one long street, in the middle of which stood the orphan-house. The lower part of this house was an apothecary’s shop. The upper part was a chapel, so the orphans lived in the middle. Every day there were two or three meetings for reading the Bible, praying, or singing hymns. Some were in houses or in the chapel, others out of doors, in the woods and on the hills. The first meeting was in the summer, at four o’clock in the morning; in the winter at five o’clock. Even the little children would go out in parties on the hills to pray and sing hymns. On Sundays they had meetings from morning to night. People came from a long way off, bringing a crust of bread in their pockets, and spent the day in the meetings.

It must have been a happy thing to see so many people who all found pleasure in praying and reading the Bible; and no doubt God really worked amongst them, and made Herrnhuth a place from whence the light of the gospel shone into the darkness around. But it would have been better if the Count had had faith to trust God to order all the prayer and praise, by leaving the people to meet together simply following the rules given in His word. Instead of this, all things at Herrnhuth were arranged as if for children in a school. There were rules for worshipping God, rules for prayer, and, besides this, rules for dress, rules for the spending of every hour of the day and night, rules as to which of the people might be special companions for one another, rules for the employment of each person, rules as to how long each might sleep, and even rules as to the choice of a wife, if any one wished to be married. All the people were divided into classes, like school-children, and dressed accordingly. Every class amongst the women were forbidden to use jewelery, lace, parasols, or fans. They were all to wear white straw bonnets with plain ribbon. The widows wore white ribbon, the married women blue, the unmarried pink, the girls, between 14 and 18, red. All were to pray in turns, besides the prayer at the meetings, so that there should be always some praying both all day and all night. The little children, the middle children, and the great children were all kept in separate classes; the boys apart from the girls. So everything went on in excellent order, but, alas! not in God’s order. God has His own order for everything, but men often think they can improve upon it. God sets people in families of different ages, because it is good for the old to learn to care for the young, and for the young to submit themselves to the older. God would have our outward conduct ordered by a motive from within, which is much stronger than a rule outside. No doubt, in our own affairs, rules are often useful for the sake of order; but in the service of God He must direct us, and for this purpose He has given us His own rules in His word, which must be received into our hearts by the power of the Holy Ghost, and obeyed by that power working in us to will and to do of His good pleasure.

Christian David

Having told you what was mistaken amongst the Moravians, it is pleasant to be able to say, on the other hand, that there seems to have been amongst them a great deal of true, earnest love to Christ, and of devotedness to His service. John Wesley talked a good deal to many of them, and was very glad that one, whose name was Christian David, came back to Herrnhuth for a time just after he arrived. He had heard before of Christian David, whose history was a remarkable one. He had lived as a child in Moravia, and had, when very young, read a great many religious books. These books convinced him that Papists were wrong, but he could not make out what was right. He disliked the Lutherans, because they talked so much about Christ. What a sad tale that tells of the heart of man! He did not then believe that Christ was God. Strange to say, he became persuaded that Christ is God by meeting with some Jews, who told him the New Testament was not true. This led him to read the Old Testament carefully, and compare it with the New, to see whether the prophecies about the Messiah came true in the case of Jesus. He could no longer doubt after doing this, who and what Jesus is. He was still by name a Roman Catholic, but soon after this he openly gave up the Popish religion, and called himself a Protestant. But he had no peace in his soul, and tried in vain to get it by reading, praying, and “doing his best.” He became a soldier, thinking he should have time when going about the country to read the Testament and hymn-book he kept in his pocket. But his books were stolen, and then he had a dangerous illness, and could neither read, nor do anything else. It was then that God sent one of His servants to visit him, and through the teaching of this good man he learned the blessed news that Christ saves the ungodly, and, believing it, he was saved.

When he got well he went about preaching Christ, and it was then that Count Zinzendorf heard of him, and sent for him to his castle in Saxony. Christian David was the first Moravian who went there, and it was he who began the building of Herrnhuth.

After this he went to preach in Greenland, then a heathen country; and later, after John Wesley’s visit to Herrnhuth, he sold himself as a slave in the West Indies to preach to the Negroes. Other Moravians had also gone to preach in Greenland, and in other parts of the world.

Christian David preached several times during the fortnight that Wesley spent at Herrnhuth. Wesley was willing to learn from this poor carpenter, as he then was, and has told us about his sermons. Perhaps you would like to hear a little of one of them, it helped Wesley much, and if God gives His blessing, it may help you. I suppose it was preached in the chapel, which was, you remember, the upper room in the orphan house. Perhaps you can imagine the large plain room, with the open windows looking out on the green hills, and the fir-woods, and the ripe corn-fields. The quiet orderly Moravians all in their places, the men and boys on one side, the women and girls on the other, looking like beds of flowers with their various colored ribbons, Christian David standing up in his plain workman’s dress. No doubt many peasants around him from the neighboring villages. John Wesley, who never forgot to dress himself like an English clergyman, sitting amongst them, taking notes.

Christian David said: “The word of reconciliation which the Apostles preached, as the foundation of all they taught was, that we are reconciled to God, not by our own works, nor by our own righteousness, but wholly and solely by the blood of Christ. But you will say, ‘Must I not grieve and mourn for my sins? Is not this just and right? Must I not first do this before I can expect God to be reconciled to me?’ I answer, it is just and right. You must have a broken and contrite heart. But then observe, this is not your own work—this is the work of the Holy Ghost. Observe again, this is not the foundation. It is not this by which you are justified; this is not the righteousness; this is no part of the righteousness by which you are reconciled unto God.

The remission of your sins is not owing to this cause either in whole or in part. Your humiliation and contrition have no influence on that. Nay, observe farther, that it may hinder your justification; that is, if you build anything upon it—if you think, ‘I must be so or so contrite; I must grieve more before I can be justified.’ To think this, is to lay your contrition, your grief, your humiliation, for the foundation of your being justified; at least, for a part of the foundation. Therefore it hinders your justification, and a hindrance it is which must be removed. The right foundation is not your contrition (though that is not your own), not your righteousness—nothing of your own—nothing that is wrought in you by the Holy Ghost, but it is something outside of you—the blood of Christ. For this is the word, ‘To him that believeth on God that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.’ See ye not that the foundation is nothing in us? There is no connection between God and the ungodly. They are altogether separate from each other. They have nothing in common. There is nothing, less or more, in the ungodly, to join them to God. Works, righteousness, repentance? No, ungodliness only. This, then, do—go straight to Christ with all your ungodliness. Tell Him, ‘Thou, whose eyes are as a flame of fire searching my heart, seest that I am ungodly. I plead nothing else. I do not say I am humble or contrite, but I am ungodly; therefore, bring me to Him that justifieth the ungodly: let it be Thy blood that saves me; for there is nothing in me but ungodliness.’ Here the wise men of the world and the learned fail to understand. It is foolishness to them. Sin is the only thing that divides men from God. Sin is also the only plea the sinner has—the only reason he can give why the Lamb of God should have compassion on him, and by His blood bring him near to the Father. This is the foundation which can never be moved. By faith we are built upon this foundation, and this faith also is the gift of God.”

As Christian David preached these blessed words, John wrote them down, thankful and glad to have heard them. Never amongst the learned men who had preached at Oxford, had he heard words which so helped and cheered him, as those of this poor German carpenter. Several others helped him, too, by their conversation and example. “I would gladly,” he says, “have spent my life here, but my Master calling me to labor in another part of His vineyard, I was constrained to take my leave of this happy place.” So he said good-bye to dear old Christian David, and his other Herrnhuth friends.

He went from place to place till he again reached Marienborn. He found in Germany that the laws were in some States even stricter than those in England against meetings for prayer or reading the Word. In one place any number exceeding three were forbidden to read together or to worship God, and, sad to say, the Lutheran clergymen were those who chiefly objected to it.

The Count was not at home when Wesley returned to Marienborn. He only saw the countess and her children, and after a short stay returned to England. He landed in London on Saturday, September 16.

"A Great Door and Effectual" and John Nelson

The evening that John Wesley returned from Germany he went to Charles’s house. They had a great deal to tell one another. John gave an account of his travels, and of the help and encouragement he had had from being amongst the Moravians. Charles had to tell of the great work the Lord was now doing in England, of sinners converted in great numbers in many places, and of the great desire to hear the gospel which was now preached by Charles and a few others. There were at that time, and there had been for about seventy years, little companies of believers who met together, a few at a time, to read the word of God, and to pray. These little companies had been first formed by two London clergymen, just after the Fire of London, in the reign of Charles II. They met at one another’s houses once a week. Their meetings were no doubt often rather stiff and lifeless, as they had a printed paper from which to read their prayers, and they had bound themselves to keep various rules, such as praying a certain number of times every day. But it is hard to meet over the Word of God without finding some blessing. It was at one of the meetings of these “societies,” as they were called that John had heard the reading from Luther that had at first brought peace to his soul. These little meetings were now to be of great use, for, as John and Charles were so often forbidden to preach in the churches of London, they would often have been at a loss to know where to preach had it not been for the meeting rooms of these little “societies,” which were in the houses of those belonging to them.

The day after John came home (on Sunday) he spoke to a large company in one of these rooms in the City of London. He continued to do this daily in one room or another—sometimes two or three times a day—and found many glad to listen. He and Charles also went often to Newgate Gaol to visit the prisoners condemned to death. You must remember that at that time people were hanged not only for murder, but for stealing, so that there were generally people to be found under sentence of death—often a considerable number. The brothers still preached in churches when they were allowed; but it generally happened that after the first sermon they were forbidden to preach in that church any more. John now began to preach in other places besides London, at Windsor, Oxford, and so many other places, that it seems wonderful how, in those days, when there were no railroads, he could be so constantly moving about, and so constantly preaching, as though his journeys took but a small part of his time. He either walked or went on horseback.

At the end of this year, on December 8th, John and Charles heard the good news that their old friend George Whitefield had arrived in London from America. John went at once to see him. George Whitefield began preaching immediately, but after three days he was forbidden to preach in no less than five London churches. He, too, was very glad of the rooms of the “societies.” He not only preached there, but he and his friends had prayer meetings, which lasted sometimes all night. They felt sure that God had a great work for them to do in this poor, benighted country, and they began the New Year with much prayer, and with meetings to consult together as to the best way of carrying on the preaching of the gospel.

George Whitefield left London early in that year (1739) and went to Bristol, where he had leave to preach in the churches. In a fortnight, however, his preaching had given such offense that he was forbidden to do so again in any church in the town. In fact, the only place left where he was allowed to speak a word was in the gaol, and very soon the Mayor of Bristol forbad this also. What was now to be done? Perhaps you think it was a pity he did not take more care about offending people. But if it is the gospel that offends them, it would not be right to hold it back on that account. Do you know that one of the titles of the Lord Jesus Christ is a very sad and strange one? He is called (Rom. 9:32-33) the Stumbling Stone! That is to say, there is something in the thought of being saved by Him alone, without any doings or feelings of our own to help in the work, that is very displeasing to the proud heart of man. We would like to have some share in saving ourselves.

The people of Bristol had stumbled at the Stumbling Stone, and God would now send out His servant into the highways and hedges, that His house might be filled. Three or four miles from Bristol is a place called Kingswood. It was once a royal forest, but coal having been found there, the trees were mostly cut down, and the whole country round filled with coal-mines, and inhabited by miners. These miners were a very rough, brutal set of people, almost savages in their manners. There was no church or chapel anywhere near them; nobody cared for their souls or bodies, and they lived and died as heathens.

Whitefield thought much of these poor people, and for the second time in his life the thought came to him whether he might do such an extraordinary thing as preach out of doors in a case like this. When he had thought of it before, was just before he left London. Such crowds of people had come to hear him preach in Bermondsey Church, that one thousand remained standing outside the door unable to get in. Whitefield then thought of going out and preaching on a tombstone, but he did not dare; and when he had afterward consulted John and Charles, they said it was a most mad thought. Now, however, Whitefield had no one to consult, which was a good thing. He saw that if he did not go and preach to the colliers out of doors, they must remain heathens.

On Saturday, February 7th, 1739, he set the first example in England of what then seemed so extraordinary, but it is now so common that we think nothing of it. He stood on a hillock and began to preach. He remembered Christ had done the same. A number of colliers came to listen. Next time two thousand; the third time from four to five thousand, and soon twenty thousand. The trees and hedges were filled with black men and boys. He says the scene was very strange: the sun shining brightly—the people standing still “in an awful manner.” All could hear, which was wonderful, considering the numbers. As he preached, he saw white lines on many of the black faces, which were made by the tears running down their sooty cheeks. Numbers of them appear to have been truly converted. In time, others came besides the colliers—ladies and gentlemen, on horseback or in carriages, so that as far as he could see were crowds eager to listen. God had at last begun to awaken England. Whitefield then thought it well to preach on a large bowling-green, in Bristol itself, and as the crowds increased, he sent for John Wesley to come and help him. John hardly knew what to make of it when he arrived. He says he had been used to think that “the saving of souls was almost a sin if it had not been done in a church.” I suppose he thought the rooms of the “societies” almost as good as churches. He let Sunday pass without daring to preach out of doors; but next day, on Monday, April 2nd, he took what he thought the desperate step of preaching on a hill near the town. Three thousand people came to listen. He now had no more fears about it. He preached day by day, and always to crowds.

Whitefield said that as John now found open-air preaching was not a sin, he would leave the Kingswood Collieries to him, and go himself into Wales. The poor colliers took a most affectionate leave of him. They made a sort of farewell feast in their simple way, and brought their pence to be saved up to build a school for their children, asking him to lay the first stone before he left. So, with much prayer, this was done, and Whitefield rode away into Wales.

Wesley went on preaching to great multitudes of people when Whitefield was gone. Now and then he was allowed to preach in a church. He went to the towns round Bristol as far as Bath. There was a man called Mr. Nash living at Bath at that time. He was the leader in all the fashionable amusements of the place, and was known by the name of the King of Bath. A report was spread that if Wesley dared to preach at Bath, Mr. Nash meant to take some violent measures to stop it. Many people begged him, therefore, to give up the thought of preaching there. John Wesley, however, was not easily frightened, and was glad the report had been spread, because great numbers of people, especially of the higher classes, came to the preaching in order to see what Mr. Nash meant to do.

He had just begun to explain his text when Mr. Nash appeared, and asked, as the chief priests and elders once did on a former occasion, by what authority he did these things? Wesley replied that it was by the authority of Jesus Christ. Mr. Nash then told him that such preachings were contrary to the Conventicle Act, “and besides,” he added, “your preaching frightens people out of their wits.” “Sir,” said Wesley, “did you ever hear me preach?” “No.” “How, then, can you judge of what you never heard?” “Sir, by common report.” “Common report is not enough. Give me leave, sir, to ask is not your name Nash?” “My name is Nash.” “Sir, I dare not judge of you by common report; I think it not enough to judge by.” (I should tell you that common report said of Mr. Nash that he was a very bad character.) Here Mr. Nash paused awhile to recover himself, and then said, “I desire to know what these people come here for?” upon which an old dame stepped forward, and said to Mr. Wesley, “Sir, leave him to me; let an old woman answer him. You, Mr. Nash, take care of your body, we take care of our souls, and for the food of our souls we come here.” Mr. Nash replied not a word, but walked away, and we hear no more of him.

Many of Wesley’s friends were somewhat shocked and astonished when they heard of all that was going on. One of them wrote to advise him to leave off his strange practices. He wrote in reply that God had commanded him to preach the gospel. “Man,” he said, “forbids me to do this in another’s parish, that is, to do it at all, seeing I have now no parish of my own, nor probably ever shall. Whom, then, shall I hear, God or man? If it be just to obey man rather than God, judge you. You ask, ‘how can one do good of whom men say all manner of evil?’ I will put you in mind, the more evil men say of me for my Lord’s sake, the more good will He do by me. How could you ever think of ‘saving yourself and them that hear you’ without being ‘the filth and off-scouring of the world?’ To this hour is this scripture true, and I therein rejoice, yea, and will rejoice. Blessed be God! I enjoy the reproach of Christ! Oh may you also be vile, exceeding vile, for His sake! God forbid that you should ever be other than generally scandalous—I had almost said universally. If any man tell you there is a new way of following Christ, he is a liar, and the truth is not in him.” I do not know whether Wesley’s friend was convinced by this letter. Perhaps he thought it very foolish, as many would think now. In any case, whilst he was thinking about it, lost souls were being saved, and brutal, drunken colliers were becoming as lights shining in a dark place, for which John Wesley thanked God, and we can thank Him too.

John spent about ten weeks in and near Bristol. He then heard that he was wanted in London, and on June 13th he returned there. In London he found his mother, who had come to live there. He had not seen her since he went to say “good-bye” before going to Germany. He now found her very unhappy about his “strange way of thinking.” She said she had read a paper he had written, which proved he had greatly wandered from the faith. This was the very same paper which John had read to her at Salisbury, and which she then said she approved. But it was Samuel’s doing that she now thought it so wrong. John preached next day out of doors at Blackheath to 12,000 or 14,000 people. This was not the first open-air preaching in the neighborhood of London. Whitefield had arrived from Wales a few weeks before; he had preached on a tombstone in Islington churchyard, and, being forbidden to preach in churches any more, he went the next Sunday to Moorfields. Moorfields is now a busy part of London, but was once really a moor, and later, in the time of James I, had been made into a sort of public park for the people of London. Thus it was in the year 1739. There were rows of trees, straight gravel walks, and large spaces where crowds might assemble. Whitefield had preached there from the top of a wall, as the table which he had at first used for a pulpit was broken in pieces by the mob. There was now constant preaching in and near London, as the Wesleys and Whitefield were all there together. John, too, preached in Moorfields and on Kennington Common.

I must now tell you a story about John’s first preaching in Moorfields. But to begin this story at the beginning we must go back a good many years. One Sunday night in the year 1717, whilst John Wesley was a schoolboy at the Charterhouse, another little John sat listening to his father reading the Bible. This other little John, who was then nine years old, was the son of a stonemason of the name of Nelson, at Birstal, in Yorkshire. On that Sunday evening the stonemason was reading aloud the 20th chapter of the Revelation. His little boy sat on the ground by the side of his chair. But as the father read on, little John fell with his face on the ground. He did not like it to be seen that he was crying bitterly. The solemn words made him tremble with fear. He tells us.

“As my father proceeded I thought I saw everything he read about, though my eyes were shut, and the sight was so terrible I was about to stop my ears, that I might not hear; but I durst not. As soon as I put my fingers in my ears I pulled them back again. When he came to the 11th and 12th verses the words made me cringe, and my flesh seemed to creep on my bones while he read, And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat thereon, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened, and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works.”

Little John felt as though he were one of those guilty sinners, standing there before God. He says, “Oh, what a scene was opened to my mind! It was as if I had seen the Lord Jesus Christ sitting on His throne, with the twelve apostles below Him, and a large book open at His left hand, and, as it were, a bar fixed about ten paces from the throne, to which the children of Adam came up. On one leaf of the book was written the character of the children of God, and on the other the character of those that should not enter into the kingdom of heaven. I thought neither the Lord nor the apostles said anything, but every soul, as he came up to the bar, compared his conscience with the book, and went away to his own place.” The stonemason never knew whilst he was here on earth what was the consequence of his reading that chapter that Sunday evening. What a blessing would it be if the fathers who now spend their Sundays at the public-house, or in reading Sunday newspapers, were to follow the example of the Yorkshire stonemason. From that time John had no more peace or rest in his soul. He became so frightened when he knew he had done wrong that he would hide himself somewhere and cry bitterly. But when he was with his boy companions he would pretend to be merry and happy. “But, oh,” he says, “the hell I found in my mind when I came to be alone again! And what resolutions I made! Nevertheless, when temptations came, my resolutions were as a thread of tow that had touched the fire.”

Once, when he was sixteen, he heard a sermon which kept him from sleeping all night, but after trying a few days to do right he began again to follow the example of older boys, and fell back into all sorts of sin. Just after this his good father died. He said when dying, “I know that my peace is made with God, and He will provide for my wife and children.” John was greatly surprised at his words, wondering how he could know his peace was made with God. But the death of his father had no other effect upon him. He still lived, as he says, in sin and folly, and tried to make himself happy with any pleasure or amusement he could find. Perhaps there are other boys like John, who give themselves up to pleasure, and seem to their companions to be jolly, merry fellows, when at the bottom of their hearts they are utterly miserable. No one knew but John himself that the reason he was so eager for amusement was that he wanted to get rid of the thought of the great white throne, and of Him who sat thereon. Ungodly as he was, he still prayed from time to time, and when he was nineteen he asked the Lord to give him a suitable wife, and “then,” he said, “I will live to Thy glory.”

Soon after he met with a young woman, who was, he thought, the wife God intended for him. They were married, and she proved a good, affectionate wife. But neither one nor the other loved God, and all John’s promises and resolutions were again broken. He gave himself up to pleasure as before. “Yet,” he says, “many times, when I had been shooting a whole day, and had killed a good many creatures, I was quite unhappy, and ready to break my gun in pieces, resolving never to shoot nor hunt any more.” John at last became so restless and miserable, he thought he would go away to a distance, and see if he could turn over a new leaf when he was away from his old companions. He did not at first take his wife with him, because he wanted to go from place to place to see where he could get work enough to make it worthwhile to settle there. He found he could get plenty of work in London, and there he tried to live a steady life, and began to read the Bible and pray. But his fellow-workmen cursed and abused him because he would not drink with them nor spend his money as they did. He bore a good deal very patiently; but at last they took away his tools, and said, if he did not drink with them, he should not work whilst they were drinking. This was too much for poor John. He forgot all his good resolutions to be patient and meek, and gave them a good thrashing. It was sad that all his “best endeavors” should thus have ended with black eyes and bruises. But so it was.

John Nelson, like John Wesley, had been trying what he could make out of the dry stick, and those who do so are doomed to disappointment. John knew that he had thoroughly broken down in his attempts to be good, and he left off reading and prayer almost entirely. He had by this time saved up £12 15s, and with this large sum he returned to his wife in Yorkshire. But he still felt so restless and unhappy, he could not settle down there. He told his wife that he would go back to London, and that she must follow him in the stage-wagon. This she did, and they lived in London some years. But poor Martha Nelson missed the fresh air of the Yorkshire moors, and became at last so weak and ill that John told her to take the two children and go back to her friends in the country, and he said he would follow her soon. This he did. But he again felt as though he could not stay in Yorkshire. He could not rest night or day. At last he said, “Martha, I must go back to London, for I have something to learn I have not yet learned.” What this was he scarcely knew, but he thought if he could but find out what it was that would make him happy, his troubles would be over. He says, “I was as a man in a barren wilderness that could find no way out. I said to myself, ‘What can I desire that I have not? I enjoy as good health as any man can do; I have as agreeable a wife as I can wish for; I am clothed as well as I can desire; I have at present more gold and silver than I have need of: yet still I keep wandering from one part of the kingdom to another seeking rest, and cannot find it. Oh! that I had been a cow or a sheep!’ I looked back to see how I had spent above thirty years, and thought rather than live thirty years more so, I would choose strangling. But when I considered that, after such a troublesome life, I must give an account before God of the deeds done in the body, I cried out, ‘Oh, that I had never been born!’ for I feared my day of grace was over, because I had made so many resolutions and broken them all.”

Poor John had no one to help him. He went back alone to London for the third time. Sometimes he wandered out in the fields when his work was done, thinking whether there were any way by which he could possibly be saved. Sometimes he went from church to church in the hope of learning it there. At St. Paul’s Cathedral he heard a sermon about people doing their duty to God and their neighbor. The preacher said, “What joy will such people have on their death-bed by looking back to their well-spent life!”

Poor John then looked back at his life to see if he could get any comfort out of that. “But, alas!” he said, “I could not see one day in all my life wherein I had not left undone something which I ought to have done, and done many wrong things besides, and I saw that I was so far from having a well-spent life to reflect upon, that even if one day well spent would save my soul, I must be damned forever.”

This sermon, as you may think, made him far more miserable than he was before. Then in another church he heard the preacher say that man could not keep God’s law perfectly, but God required him to do all he could, and Christ would make out the rest. But unless man did all he could he must perish, for he had no right to expect salvation from Christ unless he had done his part. “Then,” thought John, “it is quite clear that not only I, but everyone, must be damned, for I am quite sure no one has ever done all he could.” He now thought he would try no more churches, but would go to dissenting chapels. But there he got no help either. Then he tried Roman Catholic churches, still to no purpose. Then he went to the Quakers. But all was in vain! Nothing remained but to try the Jews; but this he thought would be quite hopeless, and so he began again with going to church, and continued to do so till the spring, when George Whitefield came from Wales, and began to preach in Moorfields.

Nelson hoped that this preaching of Whitefield’s might at last be the message from God to his soul. He went to hear him. I will tell you what he says of it: “Mr. Whitefield was to me as a man who could play well on an instrument, for his preaching was pleasant to me, and I loved the man, so that if anyone offered to disturb him, I was ready to fight for him. But I did not understand him, though I might hear him twenty times, for aught I know. Yet I got some hope of mercy, so that I was encouraged to pray on, and spend my leisure hours in reading the Bible. Sometimes as I was reading, I thought, ‘If what I read is true, and if none are Christians but such as St. John and St. Paul describe to be God’s people, I don’t know any person that is a Christian, either in town or country, and as for myself, I am no more a Christian than the devil,’ and my hope of ever being one was very small.”

So poor John went on, spending sad days and sleepless nights, till the morning came when John Wesley preached his first sermon in Moorfields. You shall hear John Nelson’s account of it—“Oh!” he says, “that was a blessed morning to my soul. As soon as Mr. Wesley got upon the stand, he stroked back his hair, and turned his face towards where I stood, and, I thought, fixed his eyes upon me. His countenance struck such an awful dread upon me, before I heard him speak, that it made my heart beat like the pendulum of a clock, and when he did speak, I thought his whole discourse was aimed at me. When he had done, I said, ‘This man can tell the secrets of my heart. He hath not left me there, for he hath showed the remedy, even the blood of Jesus.’ Then was my soul filled with consolation, through hope that God, for Christ’s sake, would save me.” It was still only a hope, but till now poor John Nelson had not had even that. So he took courage, and he says—“I continued to hear Mr. Wesley as often as I could, without neglecting my work.” It was right of him not to neglect his work. People whose consciences are really awakened, will be careful about such a thing as that. But, in spite of this, his fellow-workmen told him that Mr. Wesley’s preaching would make him quite unfit for his business. They said, “We wish you had never heard him, for it will be the ruin of you.” John told them he had reason to bless God that ever Mr. Wesley was born, to which they replied, in their rough way, that they were very sorry for him, and should be glad to knock Mr. Wesley’s brains out, for he would be the ruin of many families. Some of them said they would not hear him preach for £50. It would be well if all such men would be equally determined not to go to public-houses, which really are the ruin of many families, but it is one of the proofs how utterly foolish, as well as sinful, the heart of man is, that they thus call darkness light, and light darkness.

John bore all their abuse for a time, but at last his temper gave way. “Everyone tries to provoke me,” he thought, “and I can’t bear it. Perhaps I had better give it all up and go back to my old ways.” But God saw the trials and difficulties of the poor stonemason, and sent him a word in season. As he came one day out of St. James’s Park into Westminster, there walked before him a party of soldiers and some Welshwomen, who were talking earnestly. One soldier spoke so loud, that John, as he followed, could hear all he said. “None of you,” said the soldier to his companions, “pitied me some months ago, though I was going headlong to the devil. I was a drunkard and swearer, a fighter, a Sabbath-breaker, and a gamester, and I don’t know any sin that I was not guilty of, either in word or deed, so that it is a miracle that my neck was not brought to the gallows, and my soul sent to hell long ago.” Then the soldier went on to tell how he had heard Mr. John Wesley preach on Kennington Common, and how he had tried to turn from his sins, but his old companions had dragged him off to an ale-house, and he had given way, and got tipsy, and left off praying. But he had determined to go once more to hear Mr. Charles Wesley, and there and then the grace of God had reached his heart: he had believed in the precious blood of Christ, and was saved. These words encouraged John Nelson, and though soon after he again lost his temper and went into a passion, he still felt the hope that there was mercy in Christ even for him. So instead of going to his dinner, he went up to his room, shut the door, and knelt down to pray. But the more he prayed, the more he felt that his case was hopeless. Twice he knelt down and prayed earnestly. The third time, in utter despair, he knelt down, and, to his great dismay, he found he could not pray any more. “I could not,” he says, “say a word if it would have saved my soul. I was dumb as a beast.” Poor man, God was taking away the last prop on which he had been leaning. And now when he could not even ask for mercy, the Holy Ghost brought brightly and clearly before his mind the blessed truth that Christ had borne his punishment, and that his sins were all put away. “Christ,” he says, “was as plainly set before the eye of my mind, as crucified for me, as, if I had seen Him with my bodily eyes.” From this happy day John Nelson was a new creature. He had to suffer for it very soon, for his landlady turned him out of doors because, she said, she “could not have such a fuss made about religion in her house.” But when John went back to fetch something he had left behind, he found that the woman’s husband was filled with sorrow for having turned him out, and said, “If God has done anything more for you than he has for us, tell us how we may find the same mercy.”

So John sat down and told them of Christ, and persuaded them to go to the preaching. They both went, and were saved. Next came a complaint from John’s master, because John had refused to work on Sunday. The master said he would employ him no more, and that his wife and children would then have to suffer for his folly. John said, “I would rather see them beg their bread bare-footed to heaven than drive in a coach to hell.” The master swore at him, and said, “I have a worse opinion of you now than ever,” to which John replied, “Master, I have the odds of you, for I have a much worse opinion of myself than you can have.” He was surprised after this that his master sent for him again and gave him employment as before. “When a man’s ways please the Lord, He maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.”

After a while John set off to return to his wife in Yorkshire. He had only once seen John Wesley to speak to, but they were to meet again, as you will hear by-and-bye. At present I will only tell you that when John got back to Yorkshire he had anything but a warm welcome from his family. They said they would be ashamed to show their faces in the street if he persisted in telling people his sins were forgiven. They had never heard of such a thing in their lives. John’s old mother said, “Why, lad, your head is turned.” “Yes, mother,” he said, “and my heart, too, thank the Lord.” His wife said she wished he had stayed in London, for she couldn’t live with him if he went on saying people needed to be converted. John said he was sorry for it, for he loved her better than ever, and would always do all he could to provide for her. “If thou wilt not go to heaven with me, Martha,” he said, “I will still do the best I can for thee, only I will not go to hell with thee for company. But I believe God will hear my prayer, and convert thy soul, and make thee a blessed companion for me in the way to heaven.” You will be glad to hear John’s prayer was answered, and Martha became a bright, happy Christian.

We will now leave John doing the best he could to make known the gospel in Yorkshire, and go back to London, where we left John Wesley preaching in Moor-fields.

In the afternoon of the day when John Nelson first heard him, he preached to 15,000 people on Kennington Common. This was on Sunday. The next day he returned to Bristol, having only spent five days in London. Charles and Mr. Whitefield went on preaching whilst he was away. At Bristol, and in the country round, and at the large towns of Gloucestershire and Somersetshire, the multitudes continued to come, and numbers, it would appear, believed the gospel. Wesley returned to London in August, having been absent about two months. Again the crowds gathered on Kennington Common and in Moorfields, sometimes to the number of 20,000.

Lady Huntingdon

But I must now tell you of something which gave John Wesley the greatest joy. The very day after he returned to London, his mother told him that till within the last few months she had scarcely heard such a thing mentioned as our having forgiveness of sins now, much less did she imagine that this was what God desired all His people to know. “Therefore,” she said, “I never durst ask it for myself. But two or three weeks ago, when I heard the words spoken ‘The Blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee,’ the words struck through my heart, and I knew God, for Christ’s sake, had forgiven me all my sins.” This was indeed happy news for John. His mother now began to go with him to the preachings. Her doubts and fears were gone, and she thanked God for the blessed work He was doing by her two sons. Besides preaching out of doors, Wesley had many meetings in the rooms of the societies, especially at the room in Fetter Lane, in the City of London. To this little meeting a lady came, of whom you will hear a good deal by-and-bye. But I will first tell you a little of the London life of ladies in those days, that you may understand how strange a thing it was that any of them should find their way to this little Methodist meeting.

We find in an old book, written in those times, a sad account of the manner in which the days were spent by both ladies and gentlemen. The ladies, we are told, “seldom rise till noon, and the first part of their time is spent either at the tea-table (which must have been a sort of late breakfast) or in dressing, unless they take a turn to Covent Garden or Ludgate Hill, and tumble over the mercer’s rich silks, or view some India or China trifle, some prohibited manufacture, or foreign lace.”

Whilst the ladies were engaged in these useful occupations, we are told that the gentlemen, if they were not Members of Parliament, and had no particular business to attend to, were to be found in the chocolate houses near the Court, or in the park, or were up so late in the morning as not to go out till after dinner. Dinner seems to have been at about two or three o’clock, as we are told that the evening, which is reckoned to begin about four or five, was devoted to pleasure. “All the world get abroad in their gavest equipages between four and five in the evening, some bound to the play, others to the opera, the assembly, the masquerade, or music-meeting, to which they move in such crowds that their coaches can scarce pass the streets. There are many gentlemen, however, that choose to spend their evening at a tavern in agreeable conversation, whilst others go to their clubs; but of all diversions theatrical entertainments seem to rank the highest, as being most universally admired.” Our old book goes on to describe these much admired theatrical entertainments, giving the account written of them by a French gentleman who visited England. “It is here,” says the Frenchman, “that young people are made familiar with vice, which is always represented as a thing indifferent, and never as vice. The characters in the play swear, game, drink, fight, etc. All that can be said of the best of them is that he is more genteelly wicked than the rest. There seldom fails to be abundance of swearing, idle stories, and foolish comparisons,” etc.

This description goes on to say that one reverend writer condemns playhouses, as unlawful for a Christian: as “unlawful as to be a drunkard or glutton, or to curse and swear,” and you might, perhaps, suppose from this that there were many right-minded people who saw the evil of such amusements. But, alas! the old book goes on to tell us that such an opinion was thought too severe, and to “border upon arrogance and uncharitableness.”

“What must we think of our clergy,” adds the writer, “knowing that they have, every one of them almost, sometimes in their lives attended at such places, and given their money to be thus entertained? This should lead us to conclude that the playhouse does not deserve the bad names which the reverend writer has been pleased to bestow upon it.”

The accounts given of the other amusements of those days are much what we might expect, having been told that the playhouse was thought a fit place for the men who called themselves ministers of the gospel; nor can we be surprised when we hear how entirely useless were the sermons preached by such men on Sunday. A learned lawyer who lived at that time tells us that he went from church to church all over London to hear what the sermons were like. He says he did not hear a single sermon that had more Christianity in it than the writings of the old heathen, Cicero, and that it would have been impossible for him to find out, from what he heard, whether the preacher were a follower of Confucius, of Mahomet, or of Christ. Confucius was, you know, a heathen Chinaman who lived a long time ago, and taught the Chinese his own dark thoughts about religion. It seems wonderful that any of those living in the midst of this darkness could ever have been brought into the light of the Gospel of Christ. But God will have mercy upon whom He will have mercy, in spite of all the hindrances which the devil or man may put in the way, and so it came to pass that at the meetings of the little “society” in Fetter Lane, one who listened most eagerly, and was most diligent in coming there, was a lady, who had been much admired, flattered, and sought after in the gay world of London, and who was now to be despised, laughed at, and evil spoken of, for Christ’s sake. This was the Countess of Huntingdon.

It would be difficult to imagine two people so outwardly unlike one another as this high-born lady, brought up in luxury and refinement, and the rough Yorkshire stonemason, John Nelson. But their inner history was in some respects strangely alike. When Lady Huntingdon (then Lady Selina Shirley) was a little girl of nine years old, she one day saw a funeral going to the churchyard. When she heard that it was the funeral of a little girl, just her own age, she asked if she might go to the churchyard and see the little girl buried. As the coffin was put into the grave, little Selina began to think for the first time about her soul that could never die, and she wondered where her soul would go if she, too, were to die and be buried. She cried bitterly at the thought of this, and in her heart she asked God as she stood there by the grave to take her to heaven when she died. She often went to see the little girl’s grave, and remembered her prayer, and she began to pray at home in a little closet whenever she had any little trouble. One of her prayers was that, if ever she should marry, it might be into a family where there were some who feared God.

When she was twenty-one she married Lord Huntingdon. He and his family were people who had more appearance of religion than many in those days, and as Lady Huntingdon did not know what real believers in Jesus were like, she no doubt thought that their forms of religion were all that could be desired. She tried, too, herself to be, as she imagined, a true Christian. She was very kind to the poor, and very careful to act honorably and justly in all her dealings; but she had no peace in her heart, and the thought of eternity was one which filled her with dread. She often remembered the fear and terror she had felt at the little girl’s funeral, and she still thought, if she were to die, she might be lost forever. But God remembered her prayer, that she might marry into a family where there were those who feared Him, and though it seemed at first that He had not answered it, He meant in time to show her that He had granted her request. Her husband, Lord Huntingdon, had four unmarried sisters. The eldest, Lady Betty Hastings, had an estate of her own called Ledstone Hall, in Yorkshire. It happened in the autumn of 1738, just ten years after Lady Huntingdon’s marriage, that her three younger sisters-in-law, Anne, Frances, and Margaret, went to stay at Ledstone with Lady Betty. It was just at the time that John Wesley and Mr. Ingham had returned from Herrnhuth. Mr. Ingham went into Yorkshire as soon as he arrived in England, to stay with his relations, who lived at a place called Ossett, not far from Ledstoue Here he began to preach the gospel, and to hold meetings in the neighboring towns, to which many people came. The ladies at Ledstone had heard of the Methodists, even so long ago as in the days of the Holy Club at Oxford, and when they were told that a Methodist preacher had come into their neighborhood, they resolved to go and hear what it would be like. It would seem that Lady Margaret Hastings no sooner heard the gospel thus simply preached than she believed and was saved. She then, like the woman at Sychar, began at once to speak to others of the Saviour. In a very short time Betty, Frances, and Anne, were all rejoicing in the knowledge of Christ. Lady Margaret took the first opportunity of telling the same glad tidings to Lady Huntingdon, who listened attentively, and began, not to rejoice, but to feel the more sure that she was a lost sinner. Soon after, it would seem that winter, she had a dangerous illness, and then all her fear of death and eternity became so great that she was utterly miserable. She thought again and again of some words which Lady Margaret had said, and which had struck her deeply: “Since I have known and believed in the Lord Jesus Christ for life and salvation, I have been as happy as an angel.” And now in her despair she felt that for her, too, the only hope was in Jesus. Lying there on her sick bed she told the Lord that she would now cast herself wholly upon Him alone, to be saved from all her sins. She began to get better from that hour, and rose from her bed in a short time not only healed in body, but eternally saved—“a new creature in Christ Jesus.” When she went to London soon after, she at once found her way to the little meeting in Fetter Lane, and took her husband with her. She began to speak of Christ to her old friends, still taken up, as they were, with the things of the world. She entreated them to go, too, and hear the preaching of the Methodists, and took with her any who would accept the invitation. You would like to know some of the answers she received to these entreaties. You shall hear one or two just as they were written by Lady Huntingdon’s friends. The first is from Sarah, the old Duchess of Marlborough. If you ever read the life of Queen Anne, you will know something about this old duchess. She had spent her life with the one thought of being great in the eyes of the world, and having labored for this end she had had her reward. She had been flattered and admired by some, and envied by others. If what the world has to give could make a woman happy, the duchess ought to have been one of the happiest. You shall judge whether she was so. This is her note—

“My dear Lady Huntingdon is always so very good to me, and I really do feel so very sensibly all your kindness and attention, that I must accept your very obliging invitation to accompany you to hear Mr. Whitefield, though I am still suffering from the effects of a severe cold. Your concern for my improvement in religious knowledge is very obliging, and I do hope that I shall be the better for all your excellent advice. God knows we all need mending” (the duchess did not know that we are past mending, and need to be made anew), “and none more than myself. I have lived to see great changes in the world—have acted a conspicuous part myself, and now hope, in my old days, to obtain mercy from God, as I never expect any at the hands of my fellow creatures. The Duchess of Ancaster, Lady Townsend, and Lady Cobham were exceedingly pleased with many observations in Mr. Whitefield’s sermon at St. Sepulcher’s Church, which has made me lament ever since that I did not hear it, as it might have been the means of doing me some good—for good, alas! I do want; but where among the corrupt sons and daughters of Adam am I to find it? Your ladyship must direct me. You are all goodness and kindness, and I often wish I had a portion of it. Women of wit, beauty, and quality cannot hear too many humiliating truths: they shock our pride. But we must die—we must converse with earth and worms...

“Believe me, my dear madam,
“Your most faithful
“And most humble servant,
“S. MARLBOROUGH.”

In another note from the duchess we read—

“Your letter, my dear madam, was very acceptable. Any communications from my dear, good Lady Huntingdon are always welcome, and always, in every particular, to my satisfaction. I have no comfort in my own family, therefore must look for that pleasure and gratification which others can impart. I hope you will shortly come and see me, and give me more of your company than I have had latterly. In truth, I always feel more happy and more contented after an hour’s conversation with you than I do after a whole week’s round of amusement. When alone, my reflections and recollections almost kill me, and I am forced to fly to the society of those I detest and abhor. Now there is Lady Frances Saunderson’s great rout tomorrow night—all the world will be there, and I must go. I do hate that woman as much as I do hate a physician, but I must go, if for no other purpose than to mortify and spite her. This is very wicked I know, but I confess all my little sins to you, for I know your goodness will lead you to be mild and forgiving, and perhaps my wicked heart may gain some good from you in the end.”

Alas! it would seem that, though the old duchess did go to the preaching, she never turned to the only One from whom she could gain good—at least, we have no proof that she ever did. You remember that Herod heard John gladly; but the last we hear of him is that he “set at naught” the blessed Son of God.

The next note is from the Duchess of Buckingham. She says—

“I thank your ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist preachers; their doctrines are most repulsive, and strongly tinctured with impertinence and disrespect towards their superiors in perpetually endeavoring to level all ranks and do away with all distinctions. It is monstrous to be told that you have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl on the earth. This is highly offensive and insulting, and I cannot but wonder that your ladyship should relish any sentiments so much at variance with high rank and good breeding. Your ladyship does me infinite honor by your obliging inquiries after my health. I shall be most happy to accept your kind offer of accompanying me to hear your favorite preacher, and shall wait your arrival. The Duchess of Queensbury insists on my patronizing her on this occasion, consequently she will be an addition to our party.
“I have the honor to be,
“My dear Lady Huntingdon,
“Your ladyship’s most faithful and obliged,
“C. BUCKINGHAM.”

This poor lady died not long after she had written this note. Lady Huntingdon tried to see her on her death-bed, but the duchess refused to admit her.

The last letter I shall copy for you is from Lady Hinchinbroke. It is one which must have cheered Lady Huntingdon, different as it is from the letter of the proud Duchess of Buckingham—

“My dear Madam, I am deeply indebted to your kindness and the anxiety you have manifested at all times for my spiritual improvement. Indeed, I stand in need of all your sympathy, and all your unwearied exertions, for I feel myself utterly helpless, miserable, and guilty in the sight of heaven, and were it not for the ray of hope which I have in the atoning sacrifice of Christ, would be driven to despair and ruin. I shall have much pleasure in waiting on your ladyship tomorrow. Have you heard where Mr. Whitefield and Mr. Wesley are to preach this week?
“I remain, my dear madam,
“Your faithful friend,
“And most humble servant,
“E. HINCHINBROKE.”

There is every reason to believe that Lady Hinchinbroke’s “ray of hope” soon became a firm trust in the precious blood of Christ, and that she was for the rest of her life a true servant of God.

The Moravians and Methodists

We will now go back to John Wesley. We shall hear more of Lady Huntingdon and her friends later on.

It was during this summer and autumn of 1739 that disputes arose between the Methodists and the Moravians, who all met together in the room in Fetter Lane. It is difficult to find out exactly how far the Moravians were in fault, as they denied having said some of the things of which they were accused. It seems likely that both the Methodists and the Moravians were wrong on some points, and also that they misunderstood one another, as people often do in such disputes. This might the more easily happen, as many of the Moravians were Germans, who neither spoke nor understood English perfectly. I would remind you, that by “Moravians,” it is not simply natives of Moravia who are meant, but those belonging to the sect founded by Count Zinzendorff, of whatever nation they might be. It seems clear that some of the teaching of the Moravians was not according to the Bible, and this was so mixed up with much that was right and true, that those who were not well taught by the study of the word were easily misled by it. The Moravians said that until a man knew that his sins were forgiven, it was wrong in him to go to the Lord’s Supper, to read the Bible, to hear preaching, or to pray. He should only, as they said, “be still,” and wait for God to save him. It is very true that the Lord’s Supper is only intended for those who are really believers in the Lord Jesus, for we read in Scripture that those who meet at the Lord’s Table to eat together the “one bread,” thus signify that they are all joined together as One Body, the Body of Christ, of which the one bread is the emblem. It is quite clear that none but a real believer has a place in that Body, and therefore none but a real believer ought to have a place given him at the Lord’s Table. But when the Moravians went on to say that an unsaved sinner should not read the Bible, or hear preaching, I need hardly tell you they were going directly in the face of the plain word of God. We read that the “law of the Lord,” by which we may understand the word of God in general, “is perfect, converting the soul”—that the “entrance of God’s word giveth life.” Preaching, too, we are told, is the chief means by which God converts the sinner, as we read in Romans 10, where it is said, “How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?”

Again, the Moravians must often have done harm by telling those who were still unsaved that they were wrong if they attempted to pray. It is possible that they may have merely meant that the habit of “saying prayers,” which is not really praying, and which is very commonly done by those who are entirely without faith or life, is a habit displeasing to God. We read in the Bible (Prov. 28:9), “He that turneth away his ear from hearing the law, even his prayer shall be abomination.”

And again, of such God has said, “When ye spread forth your hands, I will hide Mine eyes from you; when ye make many prayers, I will not hear.”

So far, it is true, that there are millions of prayers repeated daily, which are simply an offense to God; and I would warn you of this most strongly, lest any of you who have not really known the love of Christ, should think that the mere habit of “saying your prayers,” whilst your hearts are far from God, is a habit which God can approve. It is also true that with regard to unsaved sinners, God does not tell them to ask Him for pardon and life. On the contrary, He asks them, prays them, beseeches them, to take these gifts, as we find in 2 Corinthians 5:20-21. If you went on asking me for something which I was all the while beseeching you to take, I should think you were deaf. But then we must remember that the unsaved soul really is deaf to the voice of God, and therefore if we meet with any such, who feel themselves lost and miserable, and who, not knowing that God is calling them, begin to call upon Him for mercy, we can gladly believe that this is the beginning of their awakening from the death-sleep of sin. It is a very, very different thing from “saying prayers,” and certainly we ought to rejoice to find in any sinner this first sign of a desire for God’s great salvation, deaf and ignorant as it proves him to be. I cannot tell you whether this is what the Moravians meant. It is easy to mistake the meaning of what is said, just as you might, if after reading this you were to say, “Then you mean to tell me that if I want to be saved I must leave off saying my prayers.” What I do mean is, that when you do want to be saved, you will not “say prayers” any more. When once you know what God is, and have been awakened by Him, you will be only too glad to hear His voice speaking to you, and to pray to Him with your whole heart, as you never did in your life before. Most likely the Moravians did not all think alike. In fact, we know that Peter Böhler had advised John Wesley to read the Bible, and even to preach, before he knew his sins were forgiven. Wesley and the Methodists were certainly wrong in some of their answers to the Moravians; for instance, they said that unsaved persons ought to come to the Lord’s Table, in the hope of being converted there. You see Satan was very busy in trying to sow tares among the wheat, as is always the case where the wheat is sown, and a great deal of trouble and sorrow and evil arose from these ignorant disputes. At last, the Moravians said they would keep the chapel in Fetter Lane entirely for themselves, and let the Methodists meet elsewhere. Wesley then bought a large old building in Moorfields, which had formerly been used as a foundry for casting cannon, but was now deserted. This building contained not only a large room suitable for a chapel, but other rooms, to be used for a school, a dispensary, and for prayer-meetings. There was also a somewhat tumble-down house attached to the building, in which John Wesley took up his abode, with his mother and Kezzy. This happened in November, 1739. Just whilst the foundry was being prepared for these purposes, John was at Bristol, where he spent October, making from thence a little journey into Wales. He spent five days in Wales, and preached fifteen times to crowds of people.

He had been invited into Wales by a devoted servant of God, called Howel Harris. It was this good man who had before invited Whitefield to go there. I must tell you something about him, for God remembers His servants, and likes us to do the same. Wales was, 150 years ago, almost a heathen country. The people lived in ignorance and wickedness, and had no more opportunities, generally speaking, of learning the Gospel, than if they had lived in China. Bibles in their own language were almost unknown amongst them. Saturday night was spent in music and dancing, which lasted till Sunday morning. Sunday afternoon was again spent in dancing and other amusements. They must, therefore, have spent the Sunday mornings in sleep. Where the Lord’s Day is forgotten and overlooked, we may be sure the Lord Himself is not remembered. One good clergyman seems to have been the first in the past century who tried to make God known amongst the Welsh people. He sent a party of teachers from village to village, to teach any, who were willing to learn, to read the Bible (if they could get one), and to sing psalms. He himself went about the country, preaching in the open air, before Whitefield began open-air preaching in England. This good man was called Griffith Jones. About twenty years later Howel Harris, then a young man, began also to preach from village to village. Howel Harris was a gentleman of good family. He was born at a place called Trevecca, in 1714. When he was about twenty he became convinced that he was a lost sinner. This thought came to him when he was repeating the confession in the communion service. It suddenly struck him, when he said the words, “that the remembrance of his sins was grievous to him, and the burden intolerable,” that he was telling a fearful untruth, for he had up to that time considered himself tolerably good. He was led by this to real repentance and faith in Christ. His relations, to cure him of what they called his folly, sent him to study at Oxford, intending him to become a clergyman. He does not seem to have known any of the Methodists there, and he became so miserable at the sight of the wickedness and infidelity around him, that he left Oxford in disgust, and returned to Wales. Things were not much more cheering there; but in Wales he could at least do something to spread the knowledge of God. “There was,” he says, “a general slumber over the land—no one I knew had the true knowledge of God—a deluge of swearing; lying, reveling, drunkenness, fighting, and gaming, had overspread the country like a mighty torrent, and that without any notice taken of it, or any stop attempted to be put to it.” Harris, therefore, began to preach anywhere and everywhere—in rooms, barns, market-places, churchyards, and high roads—generally three, and sometimes five or six times a day. All this was before open-air preaching had ever been attempted in England; nor had Harris, as yet, heard of the Methodists. We often find, that when the Lord is doing a great work, He raises up one here and one there, who are all led by the same Spirit to do the same thing, though they may know nothing at first about each other. Harris was threatened by the magistrates, preached against by the clergymen, pelted and insulted by the mobs to whom he preached; but he went on, from village to village, for three years, and then for the first time met with Whitefield. He had thus been used by God to prepare the way for the preaching of the Methodists, and both Whitefield and Wesley found many souls awakened, and ready to receive the Gospel. Two other Welshmen also began to preach over the country—a young clergyman, Daniel Rowlands, and Howel Davies. They met with every kind of ill-treatment, and seem to have become quite used to the showers of stones, dirt, eggs, dead dogs, and dirty water which were lavished upon them wherever they went. “During it all,” says Howel Harris, “I was happy in my soul, and could cheerfully stand as a mark for them.” I hope you will not forget these faithful servants of God.

During this autumn of 1739 a great sorrow befell the Wesley family. Samuel died suddenly at Tiverton, in Devonshire. Sad to say, he had only about three weeks before written to his mother, to tell her how grieved he was to hear that she now approved of the strange notions of John and Charles, and to entreat her to leave off going to the open-air preaching. There was, however, some reason to hope that a few days before he died he had been led to see that his brothers were right, but we cannot tell certainly whether he ever received the gospel into his heart, so as to be saved. He had, however, been a dutiful son, and a great help in many ways to his family, and his mother felt his loss bitterly.

Errors in Doctrine

It would be an endless history were I to attempt to tell you, one by one, of all the journeys taken by John Wesley for preaching the gospel from this time forward. He seems seldom to have spent more than a week or two in the same place; but for some time his journeys were chiefly between London and Bristol, stopping at places on the road, or going some distance out of the direct road, in order to preach. The year 1740 was thus spent. He sometimes rode on horseback, sometimes walked, and occasionally we hear of his traveling in what he calls “a machine,” which was a sort of stagecoach. This was, however, only on rare occasions. Whilst at Bristol, he would take the opportunity of going into Wales, generally for about six days. Whitefield was, meanwhile, in America. It was during the year 1740 that several of the Methodists began to preach and teach truths of which Wesley did not approve. One of them, Mr. Cennick, wrote to Whitefield to ask him what he thought on these matters, for Mr. Cennick felt that he ought to preach what he knew to be true, displeasing as it was to Mr. Wesley, and he wished to know whether Whitefield also thought him wrong. Whitefield, however, fully approved of Mr. Cennick’s preaching, and this grieved John Wesley very much. The matters about which they differed were chiefly two. John Wesley believed that a man, after being saved, could again be lost, by his own carelessness and neglect of prayer, or of obedience to God. He also believed, on the other hand, that a saved man could attain such complete victory over sin that it might at last be entirely rooted out of him, and nothing be left in him but what was perfect and holy. This he called attaining “perfection.” Whitefield and Cennick, on the other hand, said that salvation was entirely God’s work from beginning to end—that God had chosen His own people before the world was made—that He saved them because He loved them—that although no dependence could be put in them, God could be depended upon to keep them safe forever. That, moreover, He gave to them everlasting life, and that everlasting life lasts forever. That they should never perish, and that none should be able to pluck them out of His hand. They said that if their safety and continuance in faith depended in any degree upon themselves, they not only might be, but certainly would be lost at last; but that He who had begun the good work in them, would assuredly carry it on and complete it, for “whatsoever God doeth, it is forever.”

With regard to perfection, they said, that whilst it is true the believer has power over sin, there is always in him, as long as he is down here, the sin over which he has power; and that “if we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” More than that, “if we say we have not sinned, we make God a liar, and His word is not in us.” But the very fact that we have power against sin leaves us without excuse when we do sin, so that as we go on we learn the more deeply to feel how sinful our natural hearts always are, and we condemn ourselves the more, the more we know not only God’s love and grace in forgiving us, but also His great power working in us, the power of the Holy Ghost, which leaves no room for the excuse, “I could not help it.” Moreover, the more we know of Christ, so as to be able to compare ourselves with Him, the more we learn how far short we fall in our conduct from that perfect standard—the only standard God will allow.

If you take the trouble to look into the Bible, you will see that in these matters John Wesley was in the wrong. It may be that the immense amount of preaching which filled up so much of his time, and the many journeys he took, left him often but a little while in the day to study the Word of God. He sometimes read whilst he rode on horseback; but he could not always have either a good horse or a good road, and would then have to give up his book, and attend to his journey. Besides which, he never seems to have entirely got rid of the teaching of Thomas à Kempis, and of other books of the same sort. We often see that people suffer in their bodies, even whilst living year after year on wholesome food, if, during their childhood, they have eaten many unwholesome things. So it is with reading. The bad books we read when young, even if we see afterward they were wrong, leave an evil effect, which never entirely passes away. Those are very happy children who have all books kept out of their way, except such as are really good and wholesome; and those are happy young men and women who have wisdom enough to read such books when left to themselves. But we need God’s care and guidance in all these matters; and I would advise you to pray earnestly to be kept from reading a page of anything that would do you harm. When you are old enough, you may perhaps have to read even bad books, when necessary, to show the evil they contain to those who might be misled by them; but any needless reading of what is wrong, at any age, will do lasting harm. “Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity, and quicken Thou me in Thy way “is a prayer which may specially be applied to the matter of reading. May you think of it when you see the many yellow volumes put out to tempt you on the railway-stalls; and may you more especially think of it when it is a question of reading any religious books, numbers of which are filled with error and folly, and are all the more dangerous because they have the appearance of being what people call “good books.” With regard to them, it is indeed needful to be directed aright, and God will direct you, if you look to Him, and desire to know His will in order to do it. The fact that it is God who keeps us safe forever, is by no means an encouragement to carelessness, neglect of prayer, or reading the word, and diligently seeking to know His will. Just as when God keeps us in health, His doing so is shown by our having a good appetite, not by our ceasing to eat; so the fact of God keeping our souls in health is shown by our diligence in using all the means He has given us for growing in grace, and also by our carefulness in avoiding whatever is contrary to His mind.

John Wesley had learned in former years from Thomas à Kempis that we are to work hard to mend and improve the old nature. This thought seems always to have clung to him. And if we are really thus to improve our evil nature, “why,” he would naturally think, “should we stop short of entirely mending it? Why may we not hope, with God’s help, to get rid of the last trace of evil, and be perfect?” For the answer to this we must look into the Word of God. We there find, on the contrary, not a word about attempting to mend or improve the old nature. We find God looks upon it as something past mending, and fit only to be utterly destroyed. Not only so, but God looks upon the “old man,” as it is called, in the believer, as something already not only condemned, but put to death. If Christ died in my place, that is my death. I am no longer, therefore, to treat the old self as alive, but as dead. I cannot improve it—it never will be improved. I am, therefore, not to indulge it, or attend to its desires, or treat it otherwise than as something done with and set aside. But as long as we are down here, this evil self is still there; and though it is true the new man is perfect, that does not improve the old nature; on the contrary, just because the new man is perfect, he sees and understands how evil the old nature is, and the believer condemns himself the more, the more he makes use of the light and grace which, as a new creature in Christ Jesus, he possesses. He condemns himself because he is the person in whom these two natures are; and he ought always to act according to the new, not according to the old. More than this, he has power to refuse and deny the desires of the old nature, and is left without excuse when he gives way to them. And even if he does not give way to them, the very desire is sin, and needs nothing short of the blood of Christ to blot it out of God’s sight. There are, therefore, two ways of shutting our eyes to our own sinfulness. One is to say, “I cannot help sinning,” which is not true, if we are really believers, strengthened with all might according to God’s glorious power; the other is to say that avoiding acts of sin is a perfect state. If we were perfect, we should never have to avoid sin, any more than if you were walking through a solitary desert you would have to avoid bad company. Christ had no sin to avoid, and He was the only perfect man who was ever on this earth. Moreover, Christ in heaven is the only standard or measure of perfection in God’s sight. Nothing short of Himself is perfect before God. Wesley’s thought of perfection must, therefore, have been different from God’s thought of it. I am sorry to have to tell you of the mistakes of so faithful a servant of God, but as it is needful to give you a true account as far as possible, this cannot be helped. Let us rejoice that there is a time coming when God’s people really will be perfect. “When He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.” And “He shall present the Church to Himself a glorious Church, not having spot or wrinkle, or any such thing, “but it shall be holy and without blemish.”

Family Bereavements

In the spring of 1741, George Whitefield came back from America, and John Wesley went to talk to him. Whitefield spoke very plainly to him, and told him he could no longer join him in preaching, and that he should feel it right to warn those to whom he preached against the two errors I have told you about.

It is very sad when Satan thus divides God’s people by bringing in errors and misunderstandings of God’s truth; but in such cases it is wrong to “agree to differ,” as people often say. Those who are speaking according to God’s mind are right in showing the errors of those who differ from it, however painful it may be to do so. Peter Böhler came to England about the same time, and Wesley had a long talk with him, which, he said, “made his heart burn within him;” but still Peter could not convince him that he was wrong. John’s old American friend, Mr. Spangenberg, was also in London, and they both talked to John Wesley a great deal about “perfection.” Mr. Spangenberg said, “The moment we are justified a new creature is put into us. This is otherwise called the new man. But notwithstanding, the old creature, or the old man, remains in us till the day of our death. And in this old man there remains an old heart, corrupt and abominable. But the heart which is in the new man is clean, and the new man is stronger than the old, so that, though corruption continually strives, yet while we look to Christ it cannot prevail. You fancy your corruptions are taken away, but inward corruption never can be taken away till our bodies are in the dust.” To this Wesley answered, “Was there inward corruption in our Lord? Cannot the servant be as his master?” We see from this answer how great was Wesley’s error. We know there was no inward corruption in the Lord; but it was in this that He was perfectly different from any other man. And if we look at the passage where it is said “the servant shall be as his master,” we find it refers to the way in which the ungodly world will treat the servant. “If they persecute Me,” He says, “they will also persecute you.” In Luke 6:40, where it is said “every one that is perfect shall be as his master,” we find in the margin it should be read, “every one shall be perfected as his master.” Just as in the verse before we are told that the blind who follow the blind will be led into the ditch, so they who follow Christ will be led in His steps, and they will at last in glory be perfectly conformed to His image. But that is when the sinful nature is entirely gone and even our bodies are made like His.

However, John Wesley never saw that he was wrong. Only God can convince the heart. Let us be careful to look to Him to be taught, and to be kept from error in belief or practice. In the autumn Count Zinzendorff came to London, and Wesley had a long talk with him in Gray’s Inn walks. This conversation was in Latin. They seem to have separated without agreeing on any of these points more than before.

During this year, and the beginning of the following, Wesley made constant journeys as before between London and Bristol, and once went north as far as Nottingham. He was sometimes ill-treated, but almost always found crowds ready to hear the gospel. The change which had taken place amongst the colliers of Kingswood was indeed wonderful to behold.

I must for a moment go back to the beginning of this year 1741, to tell you of the last great sorrow which befell poor old Mrs. Wesley during her life of many troubles.

On the 9th of March, Kezzy died at the house of a friend in Surrey. She had always been in delicate health, and till about two years before her death she had opposed the gospel, which her brothers, Charles especially, told her “plainly and fully,” as he says. At last Charles had said, “Will you then discharge me in the sight of God from speaking to you again? If you will, I promise never more to open my mouth till we meet in eternity.” Kezzy fell on Charles’s neck with many tears, and was now ready to listen. She believed, and after the short time still left her here below, she died “full,” as we are told, “of thankfulness and love, commending her spirit into the hands of Jesus.” I will now only mention a few of the events which we find in Wesley’s journal from time to time, as to tell you all would fill many large books.

Once, near Bristol, the mob brought a bull they had been baiting, and drove him into the crowd when Wesley was preaching on the village green. They hoped the bull would upset the table on which the preacher stood. But though the bull stood close to the table he was quite quiet, which so provoked the mob that they seized the table themselves and broke it in pieces, whilst some of Wesley’s friends rushed to the rescue, and carried him off on their shoulders. In May, 1742, Wesley set off on a journey further north than he had yet been as a preacher of the gospel. He first went to Donnington Park in Leicestershire, where Lady Huntingdon lived. Then he went on into Yorkshire, and at the end of May reached Birstal, our old friend John Nelson’s home. As soon as he got there he sent for John to come and see him at the inn, for John had written to him a little while before telling him of the troubles and trials which had befallen him, and it was a great comfort to the poor man to see Mr. Wesley and have his advice. John had also good news to tell, how his two brothers and his old mother had believed in Jesus, and his mother had died rejoicing. Then his aunt and two cousins had believed, and numbers of his neighbors. He had at first talked to them, and read with them, and when he found many willing to listen he had begun to preach out-of-doors, and the Lord had blessed his labors, so that many souls had been saved. A little while before, John Wesley would have been shocked to hear of a stonemason preaching the gospel, or, in fact, anybody who was not a clergyman. (That such things should be done in other countries he does not appear to have thought wrong. As he had listened gladly to Christian David at Herrnhuth, he perhaps thought that where there was no Church of England it mattered little who preached.) When he had first heard of such a thing, in England, it was in the case of a young man called Thomas Maxfield. Not long before, when going from London to Bristol, he had once left Maxfield to look after the classes and meetings at the Foundry, telling him he might read the Bible to any anxious to be taught, and now and then make a remark, but he was on no account to preach. Maxfield found, however, so many longing to hear the gospel, that he dared not refuse to preach it to them. Wesley heard of it, and his mother saw him one day unexpectedly walk in, when she thought he was busy at Bristol. He looked very much disturbed, and very angry. “So Thomas Maxfield has turned preacher, I find,” he said. “John,” said his mother, “you know I used to think none but a clergyman ought to preach, but take care what you do with respect to that young man, for he is as surely called of God to preach as you are. Examine what have been the fruits of his preaching, and hear him yourself.” Wesley was wise enough to take his mother’s advice. He went to hear Maxfield, and was only thankful when he found he preached faithfully and well. “It is the Lord.” he said, “let Him do what seemeth Him good. What am I that I should withstand God?” God in His providence had ordered this to happen before Wesley and John Nelson met at Birstal, so that Wesley could now cheer and encourage poor John, who had already been told more than once that he had no business to preach without authority.

Wesley himself was cheered and encouraged by finding, that in consequence of John’s preaching, there were many believers in the town of Birstal, who met together for reading and prayer just as the other Methodist societies which Wesley had formed in other places. Wesley preached twice that day at Birstal to large crowds, and spoke to many besides. Next day he set off for Newcastle-upon-Tine. Newcastle was a surprise to John Wesley. He calls it “the Kingswood of the north.” Like Kingswood, it abounded with colliers, and the wickedness of the people was beyond anything he had ever seen. He says, “So much drunkenness, cursing and swearing (even from the mouths of little children) do I never remember to have seen and heard before. Surely this place is ripe for Him who came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” The first morning Wesley walked down to the worst part of the town, at seven o’clock, and there, standing in the street, began to sing the 100th Psalm. Before long a crowd collected; there were at last about 1500. He preached on the text, “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed.” Blessed tidings to have to tell to these poor degraded people! But at first it seemed beyond their comprehension, for Wesley said: “When I had done, I observed them stand gaping and staring upon me with the most profound astonishment. I told them—if you desire to know who I am, my name is John Wesley. At five in the evening, with God’s help, I mean to preach here again.” At five o’clock, more than 20,000 people were standing ready to listen. Wesley had never seen so large a crowd, either in Moorfields or at Kennington. He preached on the text, “I will heal their backsliding, I will love them freely.” It was sad to leave these poor people who seemed, he said, after the preaching, to be ready to tread him under foot out of pure love and kindness. But this was Sunday, and he had promised to be at Birstal again on Tuesday. After preaching at Birstal and the villages round, Wesley set off for his old home at Epworth, in Lincolnshire. He had not been there since his visit to his dying father. He wondered how he would be received now that he was a despised Methodist. On arriving at the inn, an old servant of his father’s, with two or three poor women, found him out. The old servant was rejoiced to see him, not only because she had loved the family, but for a stronger reason—because she, too, had found peace through believing in Jesus. Wesley called next morning (Sunday) on Mr. Romley, the curate, and offered to read prayers, or to preach in the church. But Mr. Romley was by no means anxious to have the help of a Methodist. On the contrary, as a crowd came to church in the afternoon, hoping to hear Mr. Wesley, Mr. Romley took the occasion to preach a sermon against enthusiasm, by which he meant, people being in earnest about the salvation of their souls. The text he chose was a strange one for such a subject—“Quench not the Spirit.” I suppose he did not know that was just what he was doing at that moment, to the best of his power. But man is not always allowed to succeed in his attempts to do so. As the people came out of church, a good man who had gone with John Wesley to Epworth, called John Taylor, stood in the churchyard, and called out, “Mr. Wesley, not being permitted to preach in the church, intends to preach here, at six o’clock.” “At six o’clock,” says Wesley, “such a congregation came as, I believe, Epworth never saw before. I stood upon my father’s tombstone, and preached upon ‘The kingdom of God is not meat and drink, but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.’”

At eight o’clock he preached again, and every evening that week, on his father’s tombstone. During the day, he visited the towns and villages round. One day he paid a visit to a neighboring magistrate, before whom a whole wagon-load of people had just been brought, because they went to the Methodist preachings. “But what is their crime?” asked the magistrate. No answer was given, for the people who brought them had forgotten to settle what they were to be accused of. After a deep silence, one man said, “Why, they pretend to be better than other people; besides which, they pray from morning to night.” “Have they done nothing besides?” asked the magistrate. “Yes, sir,” said an old man. “An’ ’t please your worship, they have converted my wife. Till she went among them, she had such a tongue! and now she’s as quiet as a lamb.”

“Carry them back,” said the magistrate, “and let them convert all the scolding wives in the town.” Next Sunday, Wesley preached his last sermon in Epworth churchyard. The people stayed for three hours to hear him. It was very hard to part with them, but souls were perishing elsewhere; and now that the seed had been sown, Wesley had to leave them for a while, and, after preaching many times on the road, returned to Bristol. There he stayed till the middle of July, when he was called back to London for a sad reason. Old Mrs. Wesley, who had been suffering much for years in one way and another, was now so much worse, that a message was sent to John to desire him to come to London at once. He accordingly started from Bristol on Sunday evening, July 18. On Tuesday he writes, “I came to London, and found my mother on the borders of eternity. But she had no doubt or fear, nor any desire, but (as soon as God should call) to depart and to be with Christ.” All her five daughters were with her—Mrs. Harper, Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Wright, Mrs. Lambert, and Mrs. Hall; or, to call them by their old Epworth names, Emilia, Sukey, Hetty, Nancy, and Patty. Since you last heard of Emilia she had, at the age of fifty, married Mr. Harper, an apothecary at Epworth. Charles was not in London, and we have a short account of Mrs. Wesley’s last days in a letter which he received after her death from Nancy. She relates—“A few days before my mother died she desired me, if I had strength to bear it, that I would not leave her till death, which God enabled me to do. She labored under great trials, both of soul and body, some days after you left her, but God perfected His work in her above twelve hours before He took her to Himself. She waked out of a slumber, and we, hearing her rejoicing, attended to the words she spake, which were these: ‘My dear Saviour! are you come to help me at my extremity at last?’ From that time she was sweetly resigned indeed. The enemy had no more power to hurt her. The remainder of her time was spent in praise.”

It was on Tuesday, as I told you, that John had arrived. On Friday she seemed to be fast sinking. Her six children sat by her bedside, and sang to her for a time. “After this,” says John, “she continued perfectly sensible, though she could not speak, till nearly four o’clock. I was then going to drink a dish of tea, being faint and weary, when one called me again to the bedside. It was just four o’clock. She opened her eyes wide, and fixed them upward for a moment. Then the lids dropped, and the soul was set at liberty, without one struggle, or groan, or sigh. We stood around the bed and fulfilled her last request, uttered a little before she lost her speech, ‘Children, as soon as I am released, sing a psalm of praise to God.’”

Mrs. Wesley was buried on the following Sunday week, late in the afternoon. Her grave is in the Bunhill Fields burying-ground, near where the Foundry once stood. One who was present at the funeral says, “At the grave there was much grief when Mr. Wesley said, I commit the body of my mother to the earth.” When the funeral service was over, John preached a sermon over the open grave. The text was, “I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it—” and so on to the end of the following verse, which speaks of the dead being judged out of those things that were written in the books according to their works. It was a strange text to choose for such an occasion, for we know that those verses in Revelation 20 describe, not the first resurrection, when Mrs. Wesley will rise again, but the second resurrection, which is not to happen till Christ has reigned on the earth 1000 years. In this last resurrection, called by the Lord in John 5 by the terrible name of the resurrection of damnation, the saints of God, instead of standing to be judged, will sit in judgment, in company with Christ, upon those then called out of their graves to receive the awful reward of their ungodly works. If you ask when will be the first resurrection, at which time God’s people will rise from their graves, I can tell you with joy and thankfulness that it may be tonight—tomorrow—any day—for it is for that glorious moment we are told to wait, expecting at any hour that the Lord may come. The first thing that He will do on coming down from heaven, will be to call the dead saints out of their graves, “then we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so shall we ever be with the Lord.” If it seems strange to us that John Wesley did not on such an occasion preach about the first resurrection in which his mother should rise again, we should remember that at that time even God’s believing people seem to have been in total ignorance of the blessed truth, that at any moment the Lord may come and call away His saints. They seem only to have expected Him to come for judgment, after many signs and prophecies should have been fulfilled. They did not understand that He would come and take away His saints before He would come with them to pour out His judgments on the ungodly, as is plainly taught us in 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17, where it is said that “the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:” and that then the living saints shall be “caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air.” And in 2 Thessalonians 1:7, we are told that the Lord Jesus shall be revealed from heaven to take vengeance on the ungodly, and that then He shall be glorified in the saints, who, we read in Colossians 3, shall appear with Him in glory, and, as it is said in Zechariah, “The Lord my God shall come, and all the saints with Thee.” It is then that those found alive on earth shall be judged by Christ and His saints, and 1000 years later we read of the judgment of those who have died, Christ and His saints sitting in judgment as before. But these things were overlooked even by God’s people 100 years ago. Neither Wesley, Whitefield, nor any of God’s servants in those days ever gave the blessed message, “The Lord Jesus may come today. We must be looking for Him.” It should not surprise us that so it was. The Lord Jesus foretold in the 25th chapter of Matthew that so it should be. He says, “While the bridegroom tarried, they all (foolish and wise virgins alike) slumbered and slept.” That is, as regards the truth of His coming at any moment, they were all alike asleep. Let us be thankful that we live at the time when the glorious midnight cry has been made, “Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet Him!”

John says, “We set up a plain stone at the head of her grave, and on this stone he wrote the following lines—

“In sure and steadfast hope to rise,
And claim her mansion in the skies;
A Christian here her flesh laid down—
The cross exchanging for a crown.
“True daughter of affliction, she,
Inured to pain and misery;
Mourned a long night of griefs and tears,
A legal night of seventy years.
“The Father then revealed His Son,
Him in the broken bread made known,
She knew and felt her sins forgiven,
And found the earnest of her heaven.”

There in the Bunhill Fields burying-ground we may leave Mrs. Wesley, till that day, we hope so soon to come, when she shall be raised in incorruption, and be forever with the Lord.

Other Preachers' Privations

After his mother’s death John Wesley again began his travels between London and Bristol, and in the autumn went for the second time to Newcastle, where Charles had been preaching for some weeks. “Here,” John says, “I met the wild, staring, loving society,” for by this time those who had been awakened through the Methodist preaching in Newcastle had been formed into what Wesley called a “society.” This plan he and Charles, and, indeed, the Methodists in general, seemed to think always needful. John and Charles wrote a set of rules for the various societies in different towns. All these societies formed together what Wesley called “The United Society.” He describes a society as “a company of men, having the form and seeking the power of godliness, united in order to pray together, to receive the word of exhortation, and to watch over one another in love, that they may help each other to work out their own salvation.” Each society was to be divided into classes, and each class was to have a leader, who was to meet them all once a week.

It seems very strange in looking through these rules to find that not a word is said in them about the belief of those who were thus formed into societies. “The only condition” was that they should have “a desire to flee from the wrath to come, and be saved from their sins.” This at least would be a proof that they believed there is a wrath to come, and a way to be saved; but further than this nothing is said about their belief, though they were required to obey the strictest rules as to practice. We know from Scripture that a right practice can only grow out of a right belief. But John Wesley was very slow in getting rid of his old habit of making plans and rules, and of his old thoughts of sticking the fruit upon the tree, instead of looking for the fruit to grow out of it.

The rules for practice in the societies were such as no unsaved sinner, such as these professedly were, could observe for ten minutes together. For example, they were to “avoid doing anything which they knew was not for the glory of God.” If it were found that they failed to obey the rules, they were, after reproof, to be put out of the society.

The societies were, therefore, to be formed not of persons believing certain truths, but of persons who had undertaken to obey certain rules in their practice. You may say that, as a tree is known by its fruits, this would be the best way of finding out and gathering together those who were really believers. But we are apt to forget that to confess with our mouths the Lord Jesus—that is, confess our belief in Him—is the first fruit God looks for. And as regards the plan of forming “societies,” men are apt to forget that God has already formed His believing people into one great society, which is made up of all who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. He does not need that men should form even believing Christians into societies, and make rules for them, because He has joined all His people into One Body, and Himself made the rules they are to obey. We may be sure He has made all the rules which He knew to be needful. These rules we find in the Bible, especially in the New Testament. This great society, formed by God, is called the Church of the living God. Christ is the Head, and all believers are members of that One Body. God has thus joined together His people by the Holy Ghost, as we read in 1 Corinthians 12:13, “By one Spirit are we all baptized into one body.”

The first question, therefore, is, “What do we believe?” It is needful this should come first, because it is no use to talk of practice to those who have not yet believed in Jesus and received the new life from which the practice comes. We might as well talk about practice to the dead people in the churchyards. What a blessed thing would it be, if all the Lord’s believing people in any place did indeed own and feel that they are members of the One Body of Christ, and, therefore, without having to be directed by rules made by men, they were to see that God desires them to encourage one another; to “edify” one another; “to warn them that are unruly, comfort the feeble-minded, support the weak: be patient toward all.” Be sure, if we are indeed Christians, we do not stand alone, and are bound to observe the rules of the great society in which God has placed us, and to act as “members one of another,” without having any further orders to do so than those which we find in God’s blessed word.

Having made arrangements for building a room in Newcastle for the “society” to meet in, Wesley returned into Yorkshire in December, and about the end of December again went towards Lincolnshire, reaching Epworth on the first day of the year 1743. During the past December he had constantly preached in the open air, in wind, rain, and snow, yet the people stood to listen, and as yet in the North of England he had met with but little opposition. At Epworth he fared the worst, for on this, his second visit, Mr. Romley not only refused to let him preach in the church, but even to let him come to the Lord’s Supper, saying “he was not fit.” Wesley says this was at least a “fit” place for him to be thus treated as an outcast, for it was here he had so long in former days “lived a Pharisee:” that is, during the two years when he was his father’s curate. For some months he went over the northern counties; again to Newcastle and Epworth; and in the spring south again to Bristol, and for six days into Wales; then, in June, north to Newcastle again, and in July back to London.

The gospel had now been preached in most towns and villages of the North, not only by John and Charles, but by John Nelson, and for a short time back by a good man, of whom you have not yet heard, Mr. Grimshaw, who, in the year 1742, became the clergyman of Haworth, a wild, desolate place on the Yorkshire Moors. Mr. Grimshaw had himself found forgiveness and peace but a little while before. He now heard of the Methodist preachers, and was glad to ask the help of John Nelson, and of others, in making the gospel known round Haworth.

John Nelson seems to have become by this time a great preacher, and he lost no opportunity of speaking to any he met in his travels about the country. He had a plain, simple way of speaking, which often seems to have been blessed by God to the salvation of sinners; but on the whole he had to suffer a good deal from the rough treatment of the North country mobs, who pelted him with eggs, potatoes, and stones on various occasions, which he seems not to have minded, except that he got his clothes spoiled more often than he liked, and it was not always very easy to get new ones. So it happened that when, in the summer of 1743, he got a message from John Wesley, who was then in London, asking him to come south, Martha Nelson declared that her John was not fit to be seen anywhere, and his going was out of the question in such clothes as he had. “Martha,” said John, “I have worn them out in the Lord’s work, and He will not let me want long.” And true it was, that only two days after a tradesman in the town came, bringing a present for John of a piece of blue cloth for a coat, and a piece of black cloth for a waistcoat and trousers. This man was not a Methodist, and did not know of John’s desire to go to Mr. Wesley.

In a few days the new clothes were ready, and John arrived in London in August, where he found Mr. Wesley on the point of starting on quite a new expedition. He was now going for the first time to preach in Cornwall, and wanted to have John Nelson’s company. It was not, however, the first time Methodist preaching had been heard in Cornwall, for Charles Wesley had gone there in May, and stayed some time. On the way John Wesley, and John Nelson, too, preached in various places, and stayed a few days at Bristol.

From Bristol a party of four started for Cornwall—John Wesley, Mr. Shepherd, Mr. Downs, and John Nelson. Mr. Downs and Nelson had but one horse between them, so they walked by turns, and had to set out every morning earlier than their companions, who had a horse a-piece. As they proceeded further into the wild Cornish country various difficulties arose, chiefly that of getting food, and it was a long way from one inn to another, so that one day, having journeyed twenty miles, they found they were still twelve miles from the nearest inn. “We must look to the Lord,” said John, “and He will send us something. Let us go to that house with the stone porch, and ask if we can buy some food there.” The woman of the stone porch said she had bread, butter and milk, and hay for the horse, for which she did not want any payment, but John insisted on giving a shilling. Beds, too, were as scarce as food; for several weeks John Wesley and Nelson slept on the floor. Mr. Wesley had Nelson’s great-coat for his pillow, and Nelson had a somewhat hard one—a great book, called “Burkitt’s Notes on the New Testament.” “Brother Nelson,” said Mr. Wesley when he woke one morning, “let us be of good cheer: I have one whole side yet, for the skin is off but on one side.”

John Wesley found it a happier thing to sleep on the floor for Christ’s sake than when in his old Savannah days he had done it, hoping thereby to gain salvation. It was hungry work to preach over the Cornish moors without eating. “One evening,” says Nelson, “Mr. Wesley stopped his horse to pick the blackberries, saying, Brother Nelson, we ought to be thankful that blackberries are plentiful, for this is the best country I ever saw for getting an appetite, but the worst that ever I saw for getting food.’“ Nelson, however, had fared better that day, for a kind woman at St. Just had given him a feast of barley bread and honey. But it was worthwhile to undergo these little hardships, for the Cornish men and women came by hundreds and thousands to hear the blessed tidings, and many believed and were saved. Towards the end of September, three of the preachers returned to Bristol, John Nelson following a fortnight later; and from thence Nelson went home to Yorkshire, preaching as he went. As he no doubt walked most of the way, he had many opportunities on so long a journey, not only of preaching, but of speaking to those he met with on the road. He continued to travel about the northern countries after paying a short visit to his home, and had many adventures and some risks of his life, but much to encourage him in the conversion even of those who began by ill-treating him. He tells us, amongst other conversations, he met a gentleman on the road one day, who said “I know you, for I have heard you preach, but I do not like you, you lay a wrong foundation for salvation. Do you think that the blood of another man will save me?” To this John replied, “Other foundation can no man lay than that which is laid, which is Christ Jesus. But if you say that is the wrong one, on what terms do you expect to be saved?” “By good works,” said the gentleman. John answered, “You will be the first that got to heaven that way. But what will you do when you get there?”

This it would seem the gentleman had not considered, for he only said, “Why, what do others do there?” John answered, “They sing ‘Glory to God that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb forever and ever that was slain, and hath redeemed us by His blood.’ But your song will be, ‘Glory be to myself, for I have qualified myself for heaven!’ Oh, sir, your song will make discord in heaven!” The gentleman turned pale, and said nothing for a time, till he thought of a text to quote. It was this: “What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” “Do you expect to stand or fall by that scripture?” inquired John. “I do,” said the gentleman. “Then,” said John, “you are lost forever. I appeal to your conscience, if you have not come short in every one of these duties. Have you dealt with every man as you would have him do to you in all circumstances? Suppose you have, have you dealt justly with God, and only employed, therefore, everything you have solely for His glory? Have you not robbed God?” And so John continued to describe what perfect devotedness to God would be, till the gentleman put in a word, “But, then, there is repentance.” “But not for you,” said John, “for you are to be saved for doing justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God. If you fail in this you must be damned.” “Lord have mercy upon me!” said the poor man; “what you say is enough to drive anyone to despair.” “Yes,” replied John, “it is well for a man to despair of saving himself that he may be driven to Jesus to be saved by Him.” The gentleman had no more to say, but he now listened patiently, and at last took a kind leave of John. We will hope they may meet again at the glorious day when the Lord will gather His saints to Himself.

"In Perils by Mine Own Countrymen"

But it is time to return to John Wesley, whom we left at Bristol. Up to this time, though Nelson, Whitefield, and Charles Wesley had often been ill-treated, and terrible riots had been caused by their preaching, John Wesley had escaped with an occasional blow from a stone or a turnip, and had never been at any time in danger of his life. The Cornish people who had listened so quietly to him had risen in fury against Charles only a few weeks before John went amongst them. Terrible disturbances had taken place in other parts, especially in Staffordshire, where Charles had just been. “Hell from beneath,” wrote Charles, “was moved to oppose us.” So it was in Yorkshire, and so it was again in Cornwall shortly after John had left. Many Methodists were severely hurt, women especially, who were dragged about and trampled on by the mob. In various places the buildings where meetings were held were torn down. In the parish accounts of some places we can still read the entry of “expenses for drink at the village inn for those who drove out the Methodists.” Too often a drunken clergyman or churchwarden headed the mob of ruffians, thinking they were defending the cause of the church. It was perhaps from hearing of the Staffordshire riots that John Wesley determined to go there on leaving Bristol. About this time we find an entry in his journal that he feared his strength would only admit of his preaching four times each day; and thus, preaching as he went, he arrived one morning in October at Wednesbury, in Staffordshire. At noon he preached in the town to a large crowd, who behaved quietly. He then went to the house of a good man, Mr. Francis Ward, with whom he was to lodge. In the afternoon, as he was busy writing, an alarm was raised that the mob had attacked the house. Wesley and his friends joined in prayer that the Lord would send them away, and in half-an-hour’s time all had dispersed. “Now,” said Wesley, “is the time to go in peace.” But his friends were so anxious he should stay longer, that he at last consented to do so, and, as he foresaw, the mob collected again in greater force, so that by five o’clock the house was surrounded by a furious crowd, who shouted wildly, “Bring out the minister! We will have the minister!” Wesley desired someone to bring in the leader of the mob that he might speak to him alone. After a few words had passed between them the enraged man became quite meek and quiet. Wesley then asked him if he would kindly bring in one or two more of the most angry of his companions. The man went out, and returned with two, who were storming with rage. In a few minutes, however, they were quiet as lambs. Wesley then asked his three new friends to make a way for him into the thick of the mob. Having followed them into the midst, he called for a chair, and, standing up, said, “What do any of you want with me?” “We want you to go with us to the justice!” called out some of the crowd. “That I will, with all my heart,” said Wesley, and, having added a few more friendly words, some of the mob began to take a new view of the case, and shouted loudly, “The gentleman is an honest gentleman, and we will spill our blood in his defense.” “Shall we go to the justice tonight, or in the morning?” asked Wesley. “Tonight! tonight! “cried out a number of voices. “Come along, then,” said Wesley, and, leading the way, he was followed by two or three hundred of the crowd, the rest returning to their homes. It now began to get dark, and to rain heavily; but the justice, Mr. Lane, lived at Bentley Hall, two miles off, and this journey had to be performed in spite of darkness and wet. Two or three ran on in front to tell Mr. Lane they were bringing Wesley. Mr. Lane was greatly puzzled as to what he should do. He dreaded the thought of rescuing Wesley from a mob, who would then, he thought, vent their rage upon himself. At the same time, for what could he punish him? It was an awkward position for the poor justice. “Go and take Mr. Wesley back again,” he said, “it is no concern of mine.” By this time, however, the whole mob had arrived before the door. Mr. Lane sent out a servant to tell them he was in bed, which they must have thought strange as it was only about six o’clock. Young Mr. Lane, the son, then came out, and asked what was the matter. “An’t please you, sir,” said one, “they sing psalms all day, and make folks get up at five in the morning. What would your worship advise us to do?” “To go home,” said young Lane, “and be quiet.” And so saying the door was shut. What was to be done next? “Let us go to Justice Persehouse, at Walsall!” called out one. All agreed to this, and the march began again. About seven they reached the house of the second justice. But Mr. Persehouse had hit upon the same plan as Mr. Lane, and sent out word that he too was gone to bed. After a short consultation they decided all to go home. About fifty of them undertook to convey John Wesley safely back. These fifty friends were headed by a valiant woman, who swore that no one should touch the good gentleman to hurt him. Scarcely however had they gone many yards on their homeward way, when a raging crowd rushed out of the streets of Walsall. “They poured in,” Wesley says, “like a flood—bearing down all before them.” The brave woman, seeing her followers give way, rushed into the thickest of the enemy, and after knocking down three or four men was overpowered, and would probably have been killed by three strong men, who fell upon her with their fists, but the captain of the first mob, who still remained true to Wesley, came to the rescue, and the poor woman was left to crawl home as best she could. The remainder of the fifty now fled for their lives. Four Methodists alone remained to defend Wesley, or rather to share his fate. One of these was a woman called Joan Parks. It was no use to attempt to speak, as the noise of the furious crowd drowned the loudest voice. Some dragged Wesley along by the collar, or by the long flap of his waistcoat; some tried to throw him down on the slippery, downhill path, hoping to trample him to death. Some hit him on the head, yelling, in their fury, “Away with him! Kill him at once!” Thus they entered the town of Walsall, where, seeing a door open, Wesley made for it, hoping to find a refuge. He was dragged back by the hair, and thus forced along the main street to the other end of the town. Here he made a rush at another open door, but a gentleman in the shop came out saying he must stay outside, or the house would be pulled down. Wesley then called out to his persecutors, “Are you willing to hear me speak?” “No! no! Knock his brains out. Down with him! Kill him at once!” shouted the mob in reply. In vain Wesley asked “Why? What evil have I done?” In vain he endeavored, for a quarter of an hour, to make his voice heard. At the end of that time he could speak no more, and the yells and shouts rose louder. “Bring him away! bring him away!”

Wesley now used the means which would at first have been the most effectual, as he himself remarks in his journal, he turned to the Lord and prayed. And now the leader of the mob suddenly exclaimed, “Sir, I will spend my life for you; follow me, and not one soul here shall touch a hair of your head.” Two or three others gathered round their leader to share in his defense of Wesley. The gentleman at the shop door, who turned out to be the Mayor of Walsall, now also interposed, and said, “For shame, for shame; let him go.” A butcher in the crowd joined in the cry of “shame,” and, rushing forward, dragged off four or five men who were preparing to seize Wesley and tear him from the doorstep. By the help of the butcher and the other three or four who had now taken up his cause, he was carried off through the crowd, who fell back to right and left, and only began their shouts again when they saw their victim led towards the bridge. Here they made a stand, intending to seize him and throw him into the river. Wesley here, for the first time, felt a shadow of fear, not for himself, for he could swim well, and would readily have crossed the river had they thrown him in; but he had some papers in his pocket which would have been spoiled. His friends, seeing the bridge blocked, carried him over the mill-dam, and through the meadows, so that a little before ten he got safe to Wednesbury, having lost only one flap of his long waistcoat, and some skin off one hand. The other side of his waistcoat, which was but half torn off, contained in the pocket a bank note, which would have been a serious loss to him had it fallen into the hands of the mob. The rest of his clothes were torn in many places, but of all the blows aimed at him, only two had hurt him, and that slightly. Joan Parks, who had been dragged away in the crowd, got safely back. It was reported she had fought for Wesley, but she said she had no fear for him, nor for herself, for she knew God would fight for His children, and she had no need to do so” Next morning Wesley rode on to Nottingham, where Charles was preaching. “He looked,” says Charles, “like a soldier of Christ. His clothes were torn to tatters.” But nothing daunted by John’s ragged appearance, Charles shortly after went to Wednesbury to cheer and encourage the little Methodist band, and preached boldly in the town on the text, “Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer.” Amongst those who asked Charles to receive them into the Methodist Society, was the captain of the mob who had rescued John. He had been a prizefighter, and this perhaps was one reason why he was allowed to carry John away without resistance. “What do you think of my brother John?” inquired Charles. “Think!” said the penitent man, “that he is a man of God, and God was on his side, when so many of us could not kill one man.” As soon as the two justices, Mr. Lane and Mr. Persehouse, knew that John Wesley was safe out of the county they published the following notice, for most likely they feared lest their zeal against Methodists might be considered so doubtful as to provoke the mob to attack their houses—

“Staffordshire:
“To all high constables, petty constables, and others of His Majesty’s peace officers within the said county, &c.
“Whereas, we his Majesty’s justices of the peace for the county of Stafford, have received information that several disorderly persons, styling themselves Methodist preachers, go about raising routs and riots to the great damage of his Majesty’s liege people, and against the peace of our sovereign lord the king,
“These are, in his Majesty’s name, to command you, and every one of you, within your respective districts to make diligent search after the said Methodist preachers, and to bring him or them before some of us, his said Majesty’s justices of the peace, to be examined concerning their unlawful doings.
“Given under our hands and seals, this day of October, 1743.
“T. LANE.
“W. PERSEHOUSE.”

Thus ended for a short time the Staffordshire riots. During that one year (1743) we find it recorded by one who was by no means a friend to the Methodists, that these harmless people, in Staffordshire alone, had their property destroyed to the amount of £504. When we consider that such a loss at that time would amount to about twice the value of the same sum in 1876, and when we also consider that almost all these Methodists were working-men who could ill afford the loss, we can understand that it was no small stand for Christ, which they were called upon to make. But they seem for the most part to “have taken joyfully the spoiling of their goods,” and their numbers increased in spite of persecution. The following year the Staffordshire mobs, especially those of Wednesbury, rose again in greater fury. Houses were plundered, the windows broken, the furniture dashed in pieces or torn to rags, the Methodists beaten and wounded and forced to fly for their lives, the women and children dragged through the gutters, and, lastly, the Methodists themselves accused to the Government as having been the rioters, and having themselves committed these outrages. The magistrates refused to defend them, although not one Methodist had been known to offer violence in return for the ill-treatment they had received.

John Nelson

During the remainder of 1743 and the beginning of 1744, John Wesley journeyed first to Newcastle, then after many other journeys we find him in April, 1744, again in Cornwall (where things were now quieter, and he escaped with, every now and then, a shower of stones and dirt), then, in May, again in the North, when he visited Birstal. But our friend John Nelson was not there; he had been “sent for a soldier,” as it was called; that is, he had been forced to become a soldier, which was a thing allowed in those days. The young Stuart Prince, Charles Edward, was threatening to come into England with an army, and troops were called out for the defense of the country. But the reason, and the only reason, given why John Nelson was chosen as one of the recruits was that “he was a preacher.” It was thought the best way to stop his mouth. Wesley went on further North, and next month, at Durham, met poor John Nelson and another Methodist, Thomas Beard, who had also been dragged away from his wife and children, the same reason being given, that “he was a preacher.” This poor man, Thomas Beard, died shortly after in the Newcastle Hospital from the ill-treatment he received. He was the first Methodist who had been called to lay down his life. John Nelson had a sorrowful tale to tell Mr. Wesley. I will tell it you. He had been told when he was seized that it was on account of his preaching, and that only, that he was condemned to be a soldier against his will. He was taken from one town to another, and at last, on reaching Bradford, he was sentenced to be put in a dungeon, instead of lodging with the other soldiers. A kind soldier went to the captain, and said “Sir, if you will give me charge over Mr. Nelson, instead of putting him in the dungeon, my life for his, he shall be forthcoming in the morning.” The captain, however, only replied “If you say anything more about Nelson, I’ll break your head.” John himself only asked to have a little water, but this the captain refused, though the poor man had had nothing all day but a little tea for breakfast. The dungeon was a sort of hole under a slaughter-house, and filled with dirt, as the drainage of the slaughter-house ran down into it, so that the smell was dreadful indeed. But John said “My soul was so filled with the love of God that it was a paradise to me,” and he fell on his knees to thank God for His goodness in allowing him to be put in a dungeon for the truth’s sake, and also to pray for his persecutors, for he “wished them to be as happy as he was.” Late at night some friends came to the dungeon door and pushed some candles, some meat, and a bottle of water through a hole.

When John had eaten his supper, he joined his friends in singing hymns until it was nearly morning. One other man was shut up with John. He was not a Methodist. I do not know for what crime he was imprisoned. Early next morning Martha Nelson came to talk to John through the hole. She encouraged him to stand fast for Christ, and not to trouble himself about her and the children, for God would care for them. All this time John sat on the wet ground, for there was not even a stone for a seat. His fellow-prisoner, to whom he had given some of his food, was filled with wonder at all that happened. He said, “Are the people who brought you this your relations, that they love you so well?” Then John explained to him what it was to be Christ’s disciple, and to know the love of Christ, which makes Christians love one another. They then went on to Leeds, where John was lodged in the gaol, and the other soldiers in the alehouse. At York it was the same.

During this time John had many opportunities of speaking both to officers and men about their souls. After some days spent in York prison, John was brought before a court-martial. Here he was ordered to take the money paid to every soldier on enlisting. John said he could not fight, and would not therefore take the money. He was told that it was all the same as if he had received it. He must now consider himself a soldier, and wear the uniform. He was allowed to live in a lodging, but had to go through the drill, and follow the directions of a corporal who was placed over him. This corporal, however, proved to be a Christian, and treated him kindly. He was now allowed more liberty, and found opportunities of preaching, as well as speaking, to many of the people of York, who listened gladly. One evening, on a moor, near York, he preached to 6,000 people. The officers told him if he would not leave off preaching he should be severely flogged. John, however, said, “It is better to obey God than man;” and he preached again. He was, consequently, put in prison, a young ensign having taken great pains to get him punished. This young man kept a watchful eye upon him, and took every opportunity of persecuting him. “I hope you will preach again,” he said, one day, with an oath, “that I may get you a worse punishment.” “Sir,” said John, “you will get a worse punishment for swearing than I shall for preaching.” The young man, however, continued to mock and torment him, and followed him about for no other purpose. It was a trial to John to be made the sport of a wicked, ignorant lad, and for one moment the thought came into his mind how easy it would be for a sturdy Yorkshireman as he was, to “tie him up head and heels together;” but the next moment he felt it was best to pray for him. All this had happened to John before he met Mr. Wesley at Durham, and it was a great comfort to him to see his old friend, and to talk and pray with him, and tell him of his troubles and his joys. The next day, however, John was marched off to Sunderland, and thence from one town to another, till on his return to Sunderland a week or two later, he had a severe illness for three weeks, from so much marching in the hot weather. At the end of that time he received the good news that, by the order of the Earl of Stair, he was to be set at liberty. He was told to go to Newcastle, and receive his discharge from the major, who was there. The adjutant and three more officers were to go with him, and fill up the discharge. When the adjutant had done so, he said to the major, “I wish all the men in our regiment would behave as well as Mr. Nelson has done since he has been amongst us; it would be better for us and them too.” The lieutenant added, “Indeed he has done much good since he came among us, for we have not had one-third of the cursing and swearing in the regiment which we had before he came, and he has given me several private exhortations, and some of their books, and I thank him for them, and for his advice, for they are good.” Then the major said, “I wish I had a regiment of such men as he is in all respects, save that one, his refusing to fight. I would not care what enemy I had to meet, or where my lot was cast.” Then John explained for what reason he could not fight, and this led to a conversation, which gave him an opportunity of preaching the gospel to all the officers present. The major and the rest then took a kind leave of him, and said they wished him well wherever he went.

John found that his release had been obtained through Lady Huntingdon, who had spoken to the Earl of Stair about his case. Another man had to be sent in his place, and the Methodists had to pay this man to undertake it. John Downs, who had shared Nelson’s horse in Cornwall, and who had also been “sent as a soldier” on account of his preaching, was set free at the same time.

"The Canorum"

But we must now go back to John Wesley, whom we left at Durham in June. He traveled from place to place, reaching Oxford in August. Here he was to preach before the University at St. Mary’s Church, it being his turn, as a fellow of Lincoln College. He felt it would be the last time he would be allowed to preach on such an occasion, and therefore spoke very plainly. After traveling backwards and forwards between London and Bristol we find him in the beginning of 1745 again in the North traveling over the snow-covered moors. Turnpike roads were, it seems, unknown in those parts till some years after, and the moors were a trackless waste of deep snow. “We were often,” he says, obliged to walk, it being impossible to ride, and our horses several times fell down while we were leading them.” On reaching Newcastle in February, he says, “Many a rough journey have I had before, but one like this I never had—between wind, and hail, and rain, and ice, and snow, and driving sleet, and piercing cold. But it is past. Those days will return no more, and are therefore as though they had never been.” You see, it was no easy work to be a Methodist preacher, and you see, too, the difference between doing disagreeable things merely because they were disagreeable, as Wesley had done at Oxford, to “gain favor with God,” and doing them for Christ’s sake, not to gain salvation, but to carry out God’s blessed purposes. In the one case we should be insulting Christ by thinking to earn by our sufferings that which He has earned for us by His precious blood; in the other case we are partakers of Christ’s sufferings, just because as saved people we are one with Him, and are glad to suffer in His cause, for His sake, and not to gain merit for ourselves. After many wanderings we find Wesley in June again in Cornwall, where there had been more riots, and where Thomas Maxfield, who had been preaching, had been “sent for a soldier,” with many other Methodists. The warrant for their apprehension was shown to Wesley, and he saw written amongst the names of those yet to be seized, “a person, his name unknown, who disturbs the peace of the parish.” This meant himself. In fact about a fortnight later, as he was preaching at St. Just, Mr. Eustick, a neighboring squire, came up and apprehended both Wesley and his companion, Mr. Shepherd. It seems, however, that Mr. Eustick had been drinking so much that evening, that, having carried Wesley off to his inn, he left him there, and did no more, but said he would come again in the morning. In the morning, however, he did not appear, and Wesley went to find him, wishing to show him that he was not ashamed of his doings. Mr. Eustick had now fully come to himself, and no longer felt inclined to do anything further in the matter. He was glad when Wesley and Mr. Shepherd went on to another village, called Gwennap. Here, as soon as the preaching began, another squire rode up in a violent rage, leaped off his horse, cursing and hitting his servants because they had not obeyed his orders; then, catching him himself by his gown, he dragged him off, saying, “I take you to serve his Majesty.” Wesley spoke to him calmly, as they proceeded for nearly a mile, and represented to him that he was acting in an unjustifiable manner in thus seizing him by force. The squire seemed awe-struck by Wesley’s calmness, and, letting him go, said he was free to go back to Gwennap, if he pleased. Wesley told him that his proceedings had roused such a rabble of rough men, who were following them along the road, that he doubted whether it would be wise to go back. “Then,” said the squire, “I will take you back myself,” and, putting Wesley on one of his horses, he himself got on another, and escorted him safely into the village of Gwennap, where he left him in peace.

The next day Wesley rode to Falmouth to see an invalid lady. Scarcely had he arrived at the house when an innumerable multitude of people surrounded it, yelling and shouting in wild confusion. The poor lady and her daughter at first endeavored to quiet them, “but they might as well have attempted to still the raging of the sea,” says Wesley, in his description of this strange scene. The mob only shouted the louder, “Bring out the Canorum! Where is the Canorum?” “Canorum,” it seems, was the Cornish name for “Methodist.” The two ladies thought it best to hide themselves where they could, leaving Wesley and Kitty the maid locked up in the parlor. The rabble meanwhile broke open the house door, and rushed into the passage, which was only separated from the parlor by a wainscot partition. Against this wainscot they kicked and battered with fearful oaths. “Oh, sir!” exclaimed the terrified Kitty, “what must we do?” Mr. Wesley who had been occupied in taking down the looking-glass, which hung upon the wainscot, fearing lest it should be shattered, now put it in a safe place and replied to Kitty’s question, “We must pray.” But Kitty was too much frightened to have any thought left except how to escape. She entreated Mr. Wesley to hide in the cupboard. “No,” he said, “it is best for me to stand just where I am.” Amongst the raging crowd were some sailors from the men-of-war in the harbor. They set their shoulders to the parlor door, calling out in chorus, “Avast, lads! avast!” Away went all the hinges at once, and the door fell in with a tremendous crash. Wesley stepped forward at once into the passage, saying, “Here I am. Which of you has anything to say to me? To which of you have I done any wrong?” And purposely leaving his hat behind, that his face might be seen, he pushed his way into the middle of the street, where he called aloud, “Neighbors! countrymen! do you desire to hear me speak?” “Yes! yes!” shouted the mob, “He shall speak. He shall! Nobody shall hinder him.” After a few words calmly spoken, one or two of the leaders of the mob turned upon their followers, swearing that nobody should touch the Canorum. Some gentlemen now came up, saying, “Are you not ashamed to use a stranger thus?” and placing themselves round him they led him through the town to a house close to the harbor. In those evil times it is pleasant to find that the gentleman who took the chief part in thus rescuing Wesley was a neighboring clergyman, Mr. Thomas. These friendly gentlemen desired Mr. Wesley to rest in the house, whilst they went to fetch his horse, which they sent on to Penryn to meet him, thinking it safer he should himself go by water. They therefore led him out at the back-door of the house, and put him in a boat. The mob meanwhile gathered at the end of the town, intending to waylay him as he left, but finding he had escaped by means of the sea, some of them ran along the beach to meet him at the landing-place at Penryn.

On getting out of the boat Wesley walked up to the foremost man, and said, “I wish you a good night.” The whole party stood as if spell-bound, whilst he mounted his horse, and then, as he rode away, the leader called after him an awful curse, and led back his followers to Falmouth. That evening when Wesley went to preach on a hill near Helstone, he found a party of gentlemen on horseback ready to seize him. He rode up to them, and said, “Gentlemen, have any of you anything to say to me? I am John Wesley.” At this they seemed extremely angry, nor did they appear the least to believe him, till a neighboring clergyman came up and told them he had known the gentleman at Oxford, and that he was really John Wesley. They then explained that they had been informed he was a spy sent by Prince Charles Edward, and that the Methodist societies were being formed to help the Pretender in his conquest of England.

There were very many amongst the poor near Helstone, who would gladly have gone to the preaching, but were kept back by fear of the squire, Sir Francis Vyvyan, who proclaimed to them as they came out of church, “If any man dares hear these fellows he shall not come to my Christmas feast!” So they turned away from God’s blessed invitation, “Come, for all things are now ready,” and had in exchange the feast the squire gave them when Christmas came. No doubt they were a merry party, but it was to be the squire’s last Christmas feast! The next year, just before Christmas came, Sir Francis Vyvyan was called into the presence of God.

For about a week longer Wesley preached in the Cornish villages. Almost everywhere some attempt was made to stop the preaching, but everywhere the Lord stood by him, and strengthened him, and there was blessing such as he had never known before. Multitudes, it would seem, were turned from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God.

Towards the end of July, Wesley sailed across the Bristol Channel into Wales. You may perhaps wonder, after reading of these riots, how it was that there were to be found in so many places, north and south alike, such numbers of people who were enraged with the preaching of the gospel. Why was it so? Why should one harmless man rouse such multitudes to rage and fury? The best answer may be given in the words of a Cornish gentleman to whom Wesley put a question of this sort. It would seem that a poor miner, who had been left in peace as long as he was remarkable for nothing but cursing, drunkenness, and wickedness, was, as soon as he became a well-conducted Methodist, taken from his wife and seven children by the neighboring magistrate, and “sentenced to banishment or death,” as Wesley says, in other words, sent abroad as a soldier. “What offense has the poor man given?” asked Wesley. “Why, sir,” replied the Cornish gentleman, “the man is well enough in other things, but his impudence the gentlemen cannot bear. Why, sir, he says he knows his sins are forgiven!” “Yet,” you may say, “Why should the gentlemen be angry at his knowing his sins were forgiven?” Let me try to show you this, for, strange as it seems to you, your heart, too, is ready to take offense at the gospel of God, and why? It is plain to us from God’s word that there are two reasons why the gospel displeases men. One is, because it shows that God can see nothing in the sinner but that which is displeasing to Him. The other is, because it tells us God saves the sinner, because He sees that in Christ, and only in Christ, which pleases Him perfectly. Therefore, you see, it makes nothing of you, and makes everything of Christ. We do not like to be made nothing of. As long as the poor miner, Ned Greenfield, was a drunken, wicked man, the sight of him would not hurt the pride of the gentlemen who thought themselves a great deal better, and who went to church, and sat respectably in their pews, whilst Ned Greenfield was cursing and swearing in the alehouse. But when it happened that this ignorant, wicked man, whom the squire would scarcely have thought worthy to hold his horse for him, really took God at His word, and believed that the Lord Jesus had borne the punishment of his sins, and that God forgave him, therefore, fully and freely, the squire would feel it an insult to himself, and to those who, like himself, had “been doing their duty,” as they would think. That they should have been so much better in every respect, and yet still fear to die, knowing that they were not sure where they were going, and that Ned Greenfield should be quite happy in the thought that he was a saved man, when he had been such a wicked sinner, was not merely putting them all on a level, but “setting himself up to be something better.” That Ned was happy on account of what Christ had done, they could not understand, nor can anyone, as long as they have never seen themselves simply as lost sinners. It would make them out to be nothing and nobody. It would also prove how displeasing sin is to God, since He needed so to show His hatred of it, as to punish His own Son. And that God so hates sin, is a fact which stirs up the anger alike of the man who is proud of his goodness, and of the man who knows he has none to be proud of. And therefore Ned’s old companions, the drunkards and the swearers, would be angry because by the preaching of the cross of Christ their sin was proved to be exceedingly sinful, whilst the respectable were offended at being put in the place of lost sinners, just as if they were no better than the drunkards and swearers. It would not offend people to preach to them that they do very well as they are, nor would it offend them to preach that though they are sinners, God is so kind He will make allowance for them and forgive them, but to tell them they are utterly sinful, and that God so hates sin that He could forgive them on no other terms than the death of His own Son, is what is called in Galatians “the offense of the cross.” Satan will allow a man to say, “I hope I am going to heaven, because I am doing my best.” He will also allow a man to say, “I hope I am going to heaven, because God is so merciful, He will make allowance for my sins.” But he will not allow you to say, “I know I am going to heaven, because Christ has been punished in my place, and God is satisfied with Him.” That is to say, as long as Christ and His precious blood are left out of the question, Satan will leave matters alone; but when that blessed gospel is preached, which is “the power of God for salvation to every one that believeth.” Satan will rouse up all his people to oppose it. He has his saints as well as his blackguards, and all will alike make common cause against the preacher who says, “Your goodness and your badness are alike unclean in God’s sight, and Christ—Christ only—is the One with whom God is well pleased. He will give you the reward that Christ has earned by that which He has done in dying for lost sinners, or, if you refuse that, the reward of your own doings, which is eternal destruction. It must be the one or the other.” Perhaps you now understand why Wesley by a few simple words about Christ roused such multitudes to fury. But let us thank God that, on the other hand, multitudes believed, and were saved. Thus the gospel is to them that perish foolishness, but to those who are saved the power of God. It brings death or life, according as we believe or reject Christ. Salvation was brought into Cornwall, as regards many thousands; but, alas! a deeper condemnation for others. So, too, Wesley found it to be in Wales.

I must tell you a little of what had been happening in Wales during the last year or two. Daniel Rowlands, the clergyman I told you of; who helped Howell Harris in preaching the gospel, did not travel about as much as Howell Harris did, but preached chiefly in his own parish of Llangeitho. People would come sixty miles over the great Welsh mountains to hear him, Sunday after Sunday. They had to start very early on Saturday, and travel by day and by night, halting to rest near some little river from time to time. As they sat resting, they would sing and pray, and thus go on their way rejoicing. Once a party from Carnarvon (about one hundred miles from Llangeitho) went in a ship to the preaching. But the wind changed on Sunday, and they had to go back by land, walking all the way. They were hooted and mocked on their homeward journey at one town after another, and at last, at Harlech, the mob rushed upon them to stone them. None were killed, but several very badly hurt. Howell Harris meanwhile went from place to place, traveling about 150 miles every week, sometimes not taking off his clothes for several nights together. Once, in the middle of the night, he arrived at a lonely farmhouse on a mountain, his clothes in tatters, his face covered with blood from thirteen cuts in his head, and he was besides covered with bruises. He had escaped but just alive from a mob in Monmouthshire. Happily the farmer was a Christian man. He took him in, and nursed him for a week, when he set off again to preach as before.

Wales

It would be endless to describe the dangers and sufferings Harris had to pass through. At Machynlleth, as he preached from a window, an attorney and a clergyman led up a mob to attack him, and one of the two fired a pistol at his head. However, he was unhurt, except by the sticks and stones with which the mob pursued him as he left the town. At Newport his clothes were torn to rags, and he was wounded by the stones thrown at his head. At Caerleon he was pelted with dung and dirt, with eggs and stones and dead dogs, and his companion was totally blinded for life. A drum was beaten whilst he preached to drown his voice. At Bala he fared still worse, and was all but killed. The other Methodist preachers met with the same treatment. There were now many in South Wales, including ten clergymen, and it would seem that those who persecuted the Methodists were soon kept in full employment. One of the squires gave two of his men, Dick, a Welshman, and Mike, an Irishman, a bountiful supply of whiskey, and then sent them off to thrash the preacher. They wanted to hear a little of what he had to say before they began. “Now, let’s at him!” said Mike, after a few minutes. “No,” said Dick. “Then I’ll go my own self and hit him,” said Mike. “If you do,” said Dick, “I’ll hit you, and such a blow that you shan’t want another.” So the preaching went on, and Dick and Mike went peaceably home. “Did you thrash him well?” asked the squire. “Not at all, at all, master,” said Mike. “Sure enough it was Dick’s fault, he threatened to bate me instead of the preacher.”

At another place a strange plan was thought of to stop the preaching. The village choir were mustered, and made to sing the 119th Psalm close to the preacher, in which they persevered for hours without ceasing. One preacher, who was used to preach on a little mound in Denbighshire, had a narrow escape. A hole was dug in the mound, two feet in width, filled with gunpowder, and covered with turf. A train was placed which was to be lighted during the preaching. But a man who was passing by an hour before, observed the train, and, though not a Methodist, he thought he would like to play a trick to the people who had made the plot. So he scraped out the powder, separated the train, and watched to see the disappointment of the man who really came, when the preaching began, and set a light to it. This preacher was afterward imprisoned for six months in Dolgelly Gaol, where the magistrate who imprisoned him went to see him. “Well, Lewis,” he said, “here you are still, and here you are likely to be forever.” “No, sir,” said Lewis, “neither you nor I shall be here forever.” “If you were but to give me a little money I could get you out.” “Indeed, sir!” said Lewis, “I think that you ought to get me out for nothing, for you had most to do in putting me in.” The magistrate knew this, for he had been told that he had acted unlawfully in his sentence upon Lewis, and was therefore anxious to get him out, making at the same time a little money by it. However, Lewis’s friends proved that his imprisonment was unlawful, and the magistrate had to release him for nothing. Another preacher was taken away from his little motherless children, and sent into the navy. He died in a foreign land. He had at first been leader of the choir in the parish church, where it struck him one day that he and the rest of the choir had never made the Lord their object in singing, but their thought had been to have their singing admired by the congregation. He felt that, if he told the truth, he ought not to give out the hymn saying, “Let us sing to the praise and glory of God,” it would be more truthful to say, “Let us sing to our own praise and glory.” Thus convinced of sin, he had begun to read the Bible, and to hear the Methodists, and before he was seized he had preached the gospel diligently.

Others besides the preachers had to suffer. The Methodist farmer would find that cows had been turned into his corn, that his tools were broken to pieces, that the winnowed corn would be mixed up again with the chaff. He had to submit to be at last turned out of his farm by the landlord. One of these men had to take refuge in a cave far up on the side of Snowdon, where a shepherd fed him for weeks. Afterward, in order to be near his family, he lived in a hole in a furze bank, covered up with the furze. A poor widow had to leave her house, and live with her children in a shed she built on a common. Thus it was no small matter to make a stand for Christ, and we should be thankful to hear of so many who rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer shame and ill-treatment for His blessed name. All this was going on when, in the summer of 1745, Wesley went for a little while to preach amongst the Welsh mountains. He was cheered and refreshed by all that he saw and heard amongst God’s persecuted people, and no doubt they were cheered, too, by having him for a while amongst them.

On leaving Wales, Wesley returned, by way of Bristol, to London. In September, we find him again in the North, where things were in a disturbed state. The people of Newcastle had, just before Wesley entered the town, received the alarming news that Charles Edward Stuart had taken possession of Edinburgh, and would soon march southwards into England.

The walls of Newcastle were mounted at once with cannon, and the people either fled, or removed their goods, and prepared for an assault. The effect of all this was to rouse some to anxiety about their souls, so that they listened eagerly to the preaching, and to rouse others to greater fury against the Methodists, who were accused of plotting against the Government by secretly helping Prince Charles. Lady Huntingdon, as well as the poorer Methodists, had thus been accused. You remember that Wesley himself, when in Cornwall, had been suspected of the same plans. These accusations, however, turned out in the end, under God’s ordering, to be for the advantage of the Methodists, for Lady Huntingdon, hearing that several preachers had been ill-used on these pretenses, sent a remonstrance to the king, George II, by means of Lord Carteret, one of the Secretaries of State, who was connected with her family. The king sent the following reply through Lord Carteret—“My royal master,” writes Lord Carteret, “commands me to assure your ladyship that, as the father and protector of his people, he will suffer no persecution on account of religion; and I am desired to inform all magistrates to afford protection and countenance to such persons as may require to be protected in the conscientious discharge of their religious observances.”

No doubt this had the effect of lessening, in some degree, the persecutions to which Methodists had been exposed, though they continued to suffer, as you will hear, from time to time, and not infrequently from enraged mobs, and from many in a higher class who should have protected them. Every public event that happened, seems to have been turned into an occasion for attacking the Methodists, as, for instance, on this journey into the North, the band of preachers, including Wesley, were pelted with dirt and stones; “the mob,” says Wesley, “being ready to knock out all our brains for joy that the Duke of Tuscany (who was an ally of England) was chosen Emperor of Germany.” Meanwhile the Newcastle Methodists were peaceably employed in hearing the Word and in prayer, praying specially for King George, and for the defeat of Charles Stuart. They were well aware that, were he to conquer England, Popery would be forced upon the nation; and whilst Wesley was preaching to them, the report was spread elsewhere that he was with Charles Stuart near Edinburgh.

Before the end of the year Wesley returned to London, and it was just as he arrived there that Prince Charles marched into England, and made his way as far as Derby. There, as perhaps you know, he was forced to retreat, and to return with the remains of his army to Scotland. The Methodists, who had met constantly for prayer at the Foundry and elsewhere, received the news of his retreat as an answer from the Lord.

The following year Wesley continued his journeys, now including Sussex. A clergyman at Shoreham, Mr. Perronet, had invited the Methodists to preach in Sussex, because it was through them he had himself found peace in believing.

"In Cold and Nakedness"

In the beginning of 1747 Wesley tells us of a journey from London to the North, which will give you a little idea of what it was to be a Methodist preacher. “The rain and hail,” he says, “drove through our coats—great and small—boots, and everything, and yet froze as it fell, even upon our eyebrows, so that we had scarce strength or motion left when we got to our inn at Stilton.” They then started afresh, through deep snow drifts, cold and weary, to a little town which they reached at dark. Next day they were told that they were snowed up—the roads were impassable for riders. “At least,” said Wesley, “we can walk twenty miles a day, leading our horses.” The north-east wind had so drifted the snow, however, that the main road was entirely blocked. But still they found a way to get on, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, and, after two more days, arrived at Epworth. They had had to ford the dykes, breaking the ice, which would not bear, and, moreover, to find the fords in a trackless waste of snow which covered the fens. When I add to this that Wesley had had a bad toothache during this weary journey, you will understand that the life of a wandering preacher was by no means an easy one, if people cared about being comfortable. It was a cheering thing to find that the Lincolnshire people now seemed glad to hear the gospel which had reached them through such difficulties.

Some time before it had been otherwise. John Nelson had had anything but a peaceful visit to Grimsby, where Wesley was now well received. Perhaps it was John Nelson’s preaching which had prepared the way. When Nelson had arrived there the clergyman had gone through the town, followed by a man beating the town drum, in order to collect a rabble, to whom the clergyman gave a good supply of drink, that they might fight, as he said, for the Church. He then ordered this drunken mob to pull down the house in which Nelson was preaching. They proceeded so far as to break every pane of glass in the house, but then fell upon one another, and fought, till the clergyman again supplied them with ale, and led them on to a fresh attack upon the house. This time they further demolished it; broke the furniture to pieces with paving-stones, which they tore up and threw in at the windows, the clergyman shouting, “If they will not turn out the villain, that we may put him in the black ditch, pull down the house.” The drummer, meantime, beat loudly on his drum, accompanied by the cursing and swearing of the mob. One terrified man, who was not a Methodist, ran to an alderman of the town to entreat his help in quelling the riot. The alderman however said he would do nothing but lend them his mash-tub to pump the preacher in. The riot, therefore, continued till twelve at night, and then the clergyman engaged the drummer to be on the spot again at five next morning, “for the villain,” he said, “will be preaching again by that time.”

At five, as the clergyman supposed, Nelson was there, and began to preach. The drummer was there too, beating on his drum. After three quarters of an hour, however, the poor drummer took a rest, and began to listen to the preaching. As he stood there, the tears ran down his cheeks, and he went to Nelson as soon as it was over to beg his pardon. Scarcely had he done so, when the clergyman came up. “Be sure,” he said to the drummer, “you are here again by seven.” “No sir,” said the drummer, “I will never beat a drum to disturb you people any more while breath is in my body.” And from this time the Grimsby riots were at an end, and Wesley’s visit proved to be a peaceful one.

We should fervently thank God that we live in times when such terrible scenes are things of the past; but we should remember that the work done by the Methodists has been, under God’s ordering, perhaps the chief reason why England is, in these respects, a country changed for the better. The preaching and the prayers of those whom God awakened in those days served as a barrier against the awful tide of ungodliness which had well-nigh quenched the last spark of light in England. The clergyman of Grimsby did not then stand alone. Let us be thankful that in these acts of violence he has none to follow in his steps in our days.

Grimsby had not been the only place where John Nelson had nearly caused the house in which he was preaching to be pulled down. Wesley had had a letter from him not very long before, in which he described a similar scene at Nottingham. On this occasion the constable had carried off John, to take him before the mayor of Nottingham for making a riot. A bystander, however, had advised the constable not to take him to the mayor, who was a friend of the Methodists, but to a certain alderman, to whom, accordingly, the constable went, saying, “Sir, I have brought you another Methodist preacher.” The alderman said to John, “I wonder you can’t stay at home; you see the mob won’t suffer you to preach in this town.” John replied, “I did not know this town was governed by the mob; most towns are governed by the magistrates.” The alderman looked very red, and accused Nelson, and the Methodists in general, of having caused the invasion of England by Prince Charles. John, having denied this charge, spoke solemnly to the alderman about the sin of rejecting the gospel. It would seem the poor man was so far struck by John’s words that he dismissed him without punishment.

The retreat of Prince Charles and his defeat at Culloden, had caused many attacks upon the Methodists in other places, for it was by pelting and beating the preachers, and the listeners also, that the rabble in the English towns expressed their joy for the victories gained by the king’s troops.

Charles Wesley, just at the time when John was at Grimsby, had a narrow escape of his life from the mob at Devizes. The mob, headed by the curate and two Dissenting ministers, first flooded the house in which Charles was with a fire-engine, seized one of the leaders of the Methodists and threw him in a horse-pond, and then attacked the house, some battering at the doors, others climbing on the roof to pull off the tiles. The mayor’s wife managed to send Charles a message, begging him to escape in women’s clothes. Charles, however, and his friends were kept by the Lord from any feeling of fear, though they knew if the house were entered they would be killed at once.

Mr. Meriton, a preacher, who traveled about with Charles, hid his money and watch. “They shall have nothing of me but my carcass,” he said. Just as the mob were rushing in, the constable made his way through the crowd, and told Charles he would take him safely out of the town if only he would promise never to preach there again. “I shall promise no such thing,” replied Charles. “I will not give up my birth-right, as an Englishman, of visiting what part I please of His Majesty’s dominions.”

The constable then entreated Charles to say he would not come again immediately. “I cannot come immediately,” said Charles, “because I have business in London next week; but, observe, I make no promise of not preaching here when I see it to be a fit time, and don’t you say I do.” With this answer the constable had to be satisfied, and with much difficulty he succeeded in conveying Charles and Mr. Meriton through the raging mob to a safe distance from the town; but not before Mr. Meriton had been dragged from his horse, thrown on his back in the crowd, and fastened upon by two bulldogs. The only means he and Charles had taken to secure their lives, was prayer to God.

This riot lasted all night. Meanwhile, John Wesley was traveling northwards, and after a visit to Newcastle, he again turned south.

"In Stripes Above Measure"

IN April, 1747, we find Wesley at Osmotherly, in Yorkshire, where he preached on a tombstone, the text being, “The Lord is risen indeed.” This was on Easter Monday, late in the evening. Amongst the congregation, Wesley was happy to see his old friend, John Nelson. Poor John had a great wound in his head, and looked otherwise as though he had been in the wars. And so he had, though to endure, not to fight. He related to Mr. Wesley the events of the last few days. He had first been attacked by a mob when at his breakfast at a friend’s house at Kirkheaton, in Yorkshire. The mob besieged the house, and called for the Methodist dog, as they meant to drown him in the river. They had brought with them a lunatic, who was a powerful man about six feet high. They had agreed that the lunatic, who was provided with a halter, should fasten it on John’s neck, and a butcher had undertaken to drag him by a rope to the river.

When John attempted to speak to the furious crowd, they rang large bells to drown his voice. Just as John was attempting to hold back the lunatic, who had rushed upon him with the halter, a constable came up, and proceeded to threaten John. John, however, ordered the constable to do his duty—namely, to rescue him from the mob, and if he had done wrong, take him before a magistrate. The constable turned pale, and, without further threats, fetched John’s horse out of the stable, helped him on, and told him to ride away, which he gladly did.

But John’s troubles were not yet at an end. From Kirkheaton he had journeyed to York, and there gave notice that he would preach on the morning of Easter Sunday, on Hepworth Moor, outside the town.

When the time came, be found two parties assembled on the moor—the one to listen, the other to make a riot. This last party was headed by a Roman Catholic gentleman. Scarcely had Nelson begun to preach, when the gentleman shouted, “Knock out the brains of that mad dog!” whereupon a volley of stones showered upon John and upon those who were listening. Soon all his hearers had fled in dismay, but John, nothing daunted, continued to preach to the mob. Not a stone hit him of the many hurled at his head, and having finished his preaching he walked away. A man then threw a brick at the back of his head, which stunned him completely, and he fell on his face. When two men went to lift him up, the blood streamed even into his shoes. After a few moments he was able to walk on, followed by the mob through the streets of York.

As he prayed to the Lord for help, a gentleman came up, and asked how he had been hurt. Some of the mob said, “This is but little to what we will do to him.” The gentleman threatened the mob that some of them should be locked up in York Castle before an hour was over, unless they went home at once. He then sent for a surgeon, who bandaged up John’s head, and John rode off to Acomb, near York, to preach again. He was followed, however, by a coach full of half-drunken young gentlemen, who had provided themselves with bad eggs to throw at the preachers. As John, having dismounted, was crossing a field, one of his enemies rushed at him, and after several vain attempts to throw him down, at last succeeded. This man, who was strong and heavy, then jumped upon him till he was breathless, and till the blood again rushed from the wound on his head. Thinking he had killed John, which was what he desired, he flew at another Methodist, and broke two of his ribs by hurling him against the wall. He then informed the party of gentlemen that he had killed the preacher; “he lies dead,” said he, “in the Croft.” The gentlemen said they would make sure of the matter, and went to see, but John was now beginning to move, and when they helped him up, he demanded to be taken before the mayor, that he might be judged according to law. “I am a subject,” he said, “of King George, and to his law I appeal.” They replied, however, only by cursing him and the king too, because he had not hanged all the Methodist dogs long ago. One said, “If the king were here we would serve him as bad as you.” “We will kill you as fast as you come!” shouted another, who was the clergyman’s brother; “for, according to your preaching, our ministers are blind guides.” “If Wesley come,” called out a third, “he shall not live another day in this world.”

John meantime made his way into the street, where he was speedily knocked down by a blow on the head. Eight times he got up and eight times he was again hurled to the ground, and at last he was unable to get up any more. Some seized him by the hair and dragged him upon the stones for nearly 20 yards, others kicking him vigorously all the way. Six, at last, began to trample on him, “to tread,” as they said, “the Holy Spirit out of him.” As last one said to the other, “We can’t kill him I have heard that a cat has nine lives, but he has nine score!” Another shouted, “If he has he shall die this day.” One of them proposed to bring his horse to take him out of the town, but as John was aware they meant to follow him, he said, “No, if you do murder me, it shall be here in public, and it may be the gallows may bring you to repentance, and your souls may be saved from the wrath to come.” One of them then swore if he did not go he would put him down the well. Some lifted the lid of the well, whilst others dragged him towards it. A friend now appeared in the shape of a poor woman who reached the well first, and threw down several of the gentlemen as they came up dragging John after them.

During this scuffle two ladies, who came from York, drew near, and spoke to the gentlemen by their names and called them away. The gentlemen looked much ashamed of themselves, and returned to the coach in which they came. The mob dispersed, singing wicked songs. The last words John heard the gentlemen say were, “It’s impossible he can live, and if John Wesley comes we’ll kill him, then we shall get rid of the Methodists forever!”

John then went to a house for the night, covered with blood and bruises; but the next morning he set off again on horseback, rode 40 miles to Osmotherly, and arrived in time to hear Wesley preach on the tombstone on that Easter Monday evening. He thanked the Lord for all that he had got, which made such troubles of no account to him; he had felt neither fear nor anger, but had been kept in perfect peace. He and Wesley joined that evening in praising God for all His goodness.

It is well for us to think, in reading these histories, whether we know by experience what it is to have a treasure which could well repay us for such ill-treatment and suffering. Those who have never possessed the unsearchable riches of Christ would do well to consider what it was which made John and Charles Wesley and John Nelson think it worthwhile thus to risk their lives day by day, thus to spend weeks, months, and years in unceasing labor, for which they had no reward as far as this world goes, but shame, contempt, and suffering. And for those who are God’s people it is well, too, to consider whether their desire for the glory of Christ and for the salvation of souls is leading them thus to make Him known, day after day, as the one great object for which they are left down here.

There are many who have had better teaching and greater light than John Nelson, but who are more afraid of one contemptuous look or speech than he was of the dangers and suffering he passed through, as a matter of course. He knew it signified not, if only Christ were known where before He was never thought of. And God, who gave His servant faith and courage thus to serve Christ, had not only a reward awaiting him when He should welcome him into the glory, but He gave him a reward down here, which far outweighed his suffering. From one end of the land to the other, souls were being awakened from the sleep of sin, and were in their turn arousing others.

There were by this time very many Methodist preachers traveling over the length and breadth of England besides Whitefield, the Wesleys, and Nelson. Several of these were clergymen, such as Mr. Grimshaw, of whom you will hear more by-and-bye, and Daniel Rowlands, in Wales, and Mr. Ingham, Wesley’s old Oxford friend.

Mr. Ingham had married Lady Margaret Hastings some years before (in 1741), but he was still an unwearied preacher of the gospel.

Mr. Hervey, who had been in the Holy Club, was preaching, too, with the Methodists. Though, perhaps, awakened in his Oxford days through George Whitefield, he had remained very much in the dark about the gospel till towards the year 1741. It is said he was first led into a clearer knowledge of Christ when talking to a plowman, with whom he was walking after the plow. “It is a hard thing to deny sinful self,” said Mr. Hervey, thinking he might instruct the plowman a little. “It is harder to deny righteous self, sir,” said the plowman. And these few words were blessed by God to open Mr. Hervey’s eyes more fully. He had seen the worthlessness of sinful self, he now saw that before God righteous self is worthless too, and Christ alone the One with whom God is or can be satisfied.

It will be easier for you to imagine, than for me to relate, how Wesley continued his ceaseless journeys. Day by day, and we may almost say night by night, we find him on foot or on horseback traversing the country from Newcastle to the Land’s End. In summer he would start at three in the morning, and constantly preach at five to crowds of every description. Sometimes, he tells us, they were “quiet and loving,” sometimes “earnest and well-behaved,” sometimes “civil and senseless,” sometimes “fierce and furious.” Sometimes the fire-engines were brought out to drench the preacher; sometimes dirt and stones flew in a shower around him; sometimes the house in which he lodged would be surrounded for hours by a yelling crowd who “fought valiantly,” as he says, “with the doors and windows till their strength was exhausted.” His general practice was then to walk in amongst the crowd and talk to them, shaking hands with the leaders of the riot. This had often the effect of quieting them.

Ireland

In August, 1747, Wesley went, for the first time, across the Channel to Ireland. He first preached in a church in Dublin to a “gay and senseless” crowd. Other Methodists had been to Dublin before Wesley came, so that he found a “Society” already formed there, and by the members of it he was welcomed. The Archbishop, on the other hand, objected strongly to his preaching. Wesley, therefore, had to proceed in his work without asking his consent. This time he seems to have preached only in Dublin, and after about a fortnight returned to England.

With the exception of these few Methodists, Ireland appears to have been, in those days, a land of utter darkness. Whitefield said—that, so far as he could learn, there was not a single minister in the whole of Ireland, either among churchmen or dissenters, who was faithfully preaching the gospel of Christ. We should, therefore, thank God that He now sent the blessed tidings to those amongst whom He was forgotten and unknown.

In the spring of 1748 we find him at Bristol, on the way to Ireland again, through Wales. Whilst at Bristol, he went with a friend called Mr. Swindells to preach at Shepton. Here the house where he lodged was attacked by a mob almost more violent than any he had yet seen. Finding the door was too strong to be battered in, they threw a ceaseless volley of stones in at every window. They did not know that their leader, who, in his zeal, had followed Wesley into the house, had got locked in. This poor man found himself in a sad predicament. He dared not show himself at the windows, through which huge stones were rattling in every direction, and he could not open the door. He knew not where to go for safety, and thought it best to follow Wesley, as if he were his shadow, for he had a belief that no stone could come near the man he dreaded as much as he hated. But, having followed Wesley to the top of the house, he was hit by a large stone on the forehead, so that the blood streamed over him. “Oh, Sir!” he cried out, “are we to die? What must I do? What must I do?” “Ask God to save you,” said Wesley. The poor man began to pray as he had never before done. Wesley and Mr. Swindells also prayed, asking the Lord to bring them safely out of the house. They then went down stairs and walked out of the back door just as the mob broke in at the front door, which they had at last shattered to pieces. The preachers walked through the garden and escaped unhurt. Wesley then proceeded to Dublin, where Charles was preaching; but, on his arrival, Charles returned to England to preach elsewhere. Mr. Swindells and Mr. Meriton had gone with John to Ireland.

Since John’s first visit to Ireland the Methodists at Dublin had had much to suffer from the Popish mobs. The Irish mobs appear, if possible, to have been more furious and dangerous than those in England. At Dublin they had destroyed the furniture in the chapel, and in the neighboring houses, and made a bonfire of the fragments in the street. They had beaten a woman to death, and killed a number of men, including a constable, who was sent to put down the riot. They hung up the dead body of the constable in triumph. No one had been punished for these murders. Charles Wesley had several times narrowly escaped with his life. The mobs had been urged on by the Roman Catholic priests.

At this time not more than one Irishman in every hundred professed to be a Protestant; nevertheless, many had been converted. The conversion of two Irishmen is a very remarkable story. One of these men, knowing that Charles Wesley was to preach in a barn, had gone in beforehand and crept into a sack close to the door, intending, as soon as the preaching had begun, to open the door to the mob outside; for the Methodists had agreed to lock themselves in, for fear of an attack. The man in the sack, being fond of music, remained quiet whilst the hymn was sung. But something more than the music reached him—it was the voice of God, speaking through the words of the hymn to his conscience. He dared not open the door, but waited to hear the prayer. He now felt himself to be a lost sinner, and, forgetting where he was, he began to pray aloud for mercy, to the astonishment of the congregation, who helped him out of the sack. This man was from that hour a true follower of Christ. The other man, who was also fond of music, had gone to the meeting to hear the singing. He was resolved not to hear the preaching, but to stop his ears as soon as the first hymn was over until the second hymn began. He, therefore, sat, after the hymn, with his head down, and his fingers in his ears. But when God will speak to a soul He can make his voice heard. He can use, too, such means as would appear to us strange and contemptible. As the man sat there a fly lit upon his nose. For a moment he moved his hand to drive it away, and, in so doing, nine words only reached his ear –what were they? “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” From that moment this man, who was an ungodly tavern-keeper, had no rest in his soul. He went, afterward, to seek out the Methodists: listened eagerly to the gospel, and became a converted man. Such things had been happening in Ireland between the first and second visits of John Wesley. On this second visit, Wesley preached not only in Dublin, but through the country towns. Ireland was then a wild, dark country. Not only Popery darkened the land, but amongst the country people the old heathen customs still lingered. In the distant parts, and amongst the mountains, it may almost have been called a barbarous country. The wolves still ran wild in the woods; the people lived in mud huts with a hole in the roof for a chimney—they were ignorant as the heathen—ignorant of the things which the children know in an English infant school. They called the Methodists “swaddlers,” because one preacher had told them that the Lord Jesus had been born at Bethlehem, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger. They had never heard of this before, and laughed at it, as if it were a fable. After traveling about Ireland for two months, Wesley returned to England. He had met with but little ill-treatment in Ireland, but had suffered from fever and other complaints, which had prevented his preaching for two days only.

One circumstance worthy of remark is mentioned in Wesley’s journal of July, in this year. He was then at Epworth. “I was quite surprised,” he says, “when I heard Mr. Romley preach. That soft, smooth, tuneful voice, which he so often employed to blaspheme the work of God, was lost, without hope of recovery; all means had been tried, but without effect. He now spoke in a manner shocking to hear, and impossible to be heard distinctly by one quarter of the congregation.” Thus had God Himself stopped the mouth of the enemy.

Mr. Grimshaw

Again his journeys through Wales and England continued without ceasing. In the August of this year, 1748, he was again in danger of his life in a special manner. I have told you before that a Yorkshire clergyman, Mr. Grimshaw, had become a Methodist preacher in and around his own parish of Haworth. Mr. Grimshaw was a strange man, and Haworth was a strange place. It was a wild, dreary looking village, far away on the high Yorkshire Moors. Far away from everything, and everybody, so that the people had lived on for many long years, knowing nothing of the world beyond. You can imagine this, when I tell you, that the first time a cart with wheels made its appearance at Haworth (which was about the same time that Mr. Grimshaw made his appearance there), the village people brought hay to feed it, thinking it to be some kind of strange animal. People so unlike the rest of the world, needed someone who was unlike people in general to understand them and to teach them. And very unlike the world in general was Mr. Grimshaw. In the first place, he seems to have been given up, heart and soul, to the service of Christ. That, alas, is very unlike the men and women we commonly behold. “All seek their own, not the things which are Jesus Christ’s.” This was true in Paul’s time—in Mr. Grimshaw’s time—and is true in our time too. Mr. Grimshaw’s ways and habits too were peculiar, they shocked and astounded the neighboring clergymen and gentlemen. He went by the name of Mad Grimshaw. A greater than Grimshaw was called mad too. You will wish to know what some of his strange customs were. He would preach not only in his church and church-yard, but he would go all over the country, and preach anywhere and everywhere, generally about thirty times a week. Sometimes before preaching he would go through the streets and into the alehouses, hunting out the idle people from every corner, and would drive them before him to the place of preaching. This seems a strange plan to us, but perhaps Mr. Grimshaw understood the best way of dealing with these wild people on the moors. In any case, multitudes listened to him, and multitudes, too, appear to have been saved. He would open his house to the Methodist preachers, whether they were clergymen or poor men like John Nelson. They were free to come and lodge there at any time, as they went about preaching the gospel. Sometimes a number would arrive at once, and then Mr. Grimshaw would give up to them every bed in the house, and go and sleep on the straw in the barn. At five in the morning, they would hear Mr. Grimshaw’s cheerful voice, singing hymns, whilst he was hard at work cleaning their shoes. He thought it an honor to do this for them. He built a room in the village for them to preach in, as it was unlawful for them to preach in the church, and he would listen to them with overflowing delight. “The Lord bless thee,” he would say to one of these poor men who had been preaching in his simple way, “this is worth a hundred of my sermons!” Though he was careful to pay his debts, he never kept a penny, but gave away all he had, living himself on the commonest food. It was in August, 1748, that John Wesley went for a few days to Haworth. A neighboring clergyman, Mr. George White, who resembled the vicar of Grimsby more than he did Mr. Grimshaw, took the occasion of preaching two sermons against the Methodists. He warned his people against them as rebels, who disobeyed all laws of God and man, ruined trade, and caused riots wherever they went. This last accusation was the more remarkable from the fact, that as soon as he had preached this sermon, Mr. White sent round the neighborhood the following notice, in order to collect a mob: “Notice is hereby given, that if any men be mindful to enlist into His Majesty’s service under the command of the Rev. George White, Commander-in-chief, and John Banister, Lieutenant-General of His Majesty’s forces for the defense of the Church of England and the support of the manufactures in and about Colne, both which are now in danger, let them now repair to the Cross, when each man shall have a pint of ale in advance, and other proper encouragements.”

This notice had the desired effect, and on the 24th of August, when Wesley and Grimshaw were preaching near Colne, the mob came “pouring down the hill like a torrent.” They were headed by Mr. Banister, and the ale and other proper encouragements had, as Mr. White expected and hoped, made them very noisy and very furious. They rushed upon Wesley with clubs and staves, and told him they would drag him away to Mr. White. One man struck him a violent blow in the face with his fist, another hurled a stick at his head, and the rest, brandishing their clubs, shouted, “Bring him away!” Thus was he dragged into Colne, preceded by a drummer to collect a further rabble. Mr. Grimshaw and two others were also taken to Mr. White’s house, where for three hours Mr. White and his friends endeavored to force them to promise that they would preach there no more. None of them would promise this. Wesley made vain attempts to leave the house. The mob forced him back with oaths and curses, and beat him to the ground. This was also the fate of Mr. Grimshaw, who was not only knocked down, but loaded with dirt and mire. The other Methodists were trampled in the mud, dragged by the hair, beaten with clubs, and one was compelled to leap from a rock, ten or twelve feet high, into the river. All this while Mr. White sat “looking on, well pleased,” as Wesley says in his letter of remonstrance, written to him afterward. But three years later, when Mr. White was laid upon his dying-bed, he was far from being well pleased at the remembrance of that sinful day. The thought of all that he had then looked upon with satisfaction filled him with grief and horror, and in the agony of his mind he sent for Mr. Grimshaw to come to him. How remarkable it is that we thus often see those who have scoffed at God’s people, turning to them in the hour of death, when the secrets of their heart are beginning to be brought to light in the dawn of approaching judgment. We can be sure that Mr. Grimshaw spoke to this poor trembling sinner of Christ and His precious blood, and it may be that, in God’s exceeding mercy, we may meet in the glory a saint washed in the blood of the Lamb, who was once the persecuting, blaspheming vicar of Colne. Wesley escaped at last from the mob unhurt, and before many days were over, the fearless Mr. Grimshaw was preaching again at Colne. Wesley meanwhile was again on his travels, finding everywhere crowds who listened to the blessed gospel. “People talk,” he said, “of the indecency of field preaching; but if they would go to a place where things are not done decently and in order, let them go to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the people either sleep or talk during the sermon.” At the field preaching the multitudes would listen for their lives, “Behaving often,” says Wesley, “as if God Himself were before their eyes.” Those who would not listen made violent opposition—but at least none slept.

Among High and Low

At the end of the year 1748, after many more perils, we find Wesley again in London, where strange things had happened, which I will relate to you.

About a fortnight before Wesley returned there, six men had been hanged, after having been imprisoned for a time in Newgate. I told you before that people were hanged in those days for very slight offenses (although as we have seen, they were neither hanged nor punished in any way for murdering Methodists). One man, a few years later than the time I am telling you about, was hanged for stopping two women in the street, when he and his family were starving, and asking for money. He used no violence; but merely took the twopence which one woman, and the fourpence which the other woman, gave him. He was a man of good character. The six men who were hanged just before Wesley came to London in the autumn of 1748 had all been thieves. They were visited in Newgate by a Methodist called Silas Told, who had been a sailor, but was now chiefly employed as a sort of unpaid City Missionary. Another Methodist, called Sarah Peters, also visited the prisoners, though she was warned not to do so on account of a fever which was raging in the prison, called the “gaol distemper.” It seems to have been an illness common in goals, on account of the dirty, unhealthy state in which they were then kept. Silas and Sarah told the poor condemned prisoners of the love of Christ. They told them of the thief who was saved on the cross; of the sinful woman who washed the Saviour’s feet with her tears, because He had forgiven her all her sins. They told them how David the murderer, and Peter the liar, and Paul the persecutor, had been washed from their sins in the precious blood of Christ, and were now gone to be with Him in Paradise. Five of the six men seem to have believed the blessed tidings. When the morning came for their execution, they praised God together for all that He had done for them, that He had brought them to Newgate, where they had heard of the love of Christ, and that He was now taking them home to be with Him forever. They prayed once more, but not this time for themselves; their prayer was that the gospel of Christ might be preached far and wide, that souls might be saved, that God would reward the Methodists who had told them of Christ, that John and Charles Wesley might be blessed in their labors, and that the officers of the prison, who stood around might be found by the Saviour who came to seek and save, and brought to the glory. As they were taken in the cart to the gallows, one of them said to the others, “Come, dear friends, let us go on joyfully, for the Lord is making ready to receive us into everlasting habitations.” At the gallows, one of them, John Lancaster (who was hanged for stealing a piece of velvet), gave out a hymn with a clear, strong voice. And thus with joy and praise they departed to be with Christ. It may be well to mention that John Lancaster was not altogether ignorant of the gospel when he came to Newgate, though he had never believed in Jesus so as to be saved. When a lad, he had attended the meetings at the Foundry, but had been led away by sinful companions. His first downward step was going to play skittles on the Lord’s Day. Some who read these words may take them as a warning. Sarah Peters soon followed the Newgate prisoners to Paradise. She had caught the gaol distemper, and a fortnight after the execution she fell asleep in Jesus.

Nor was it only amongst the thieves and outcasts of London that God had been saving souls. Whilst Sarah Peters had been telling of Christ in Newgate, Lady Huntingdon had been gathering together in her house in Chelsea large numbers of the upper classes to listen to the same blessed gospel. Mr. Whitefield, Howell Harris, Mr. Wesley, Dr. Doddridge, and other Methodist preachers, had been invited by her to tell the glad tidings to these rich and great ones of the world, who were, alas, as ignorant of Christ as the thieves in Newgate—perhaps more so. Dean Swift who lived but a little while before this, writes, on the subject of the Bible: “I am sensible few of our fine ladies are furnished with this useful book, the same being got entirely into the hands of their servants and other mean people, who are poor enough to be good Christians. I must therefore acquaint the quality that the book called a Bible may be met with at the booksellers, Mr. Baskett having, not long since, ventured upon a new impression, otherwise ‘tis thought Bibles might in a small time have been out of print.” There was, therefore, plenty of reason why Lady Huntingdon should open her house in Park Street, Chelsea, for the preaching of the gospel. Her husband, Lord Huntingdon, had died in the year 1746, and two years before she had lost two of her boys, George and Ferdinand, by smallpox. Thus the Lord had been preparing her by much sorrow for much service. She had four children left—Francis and Henry, and Elizabeth and Selina. Her two good sisters-in-law, Lady Anne and Lady Frances Hastings, also lived with her. Lady Betty was dead, and Lady Margaret had married Mr. Ingham, as I told you before. Many of the nobility came to Lady Huntingdon’s gospel meetings. Some had, besides this, frequently attended Mr. Whitefield’s preaching at the Tabernacle, a building which had been opened for him in Moorfields. Amongst these were Frederick, Prince of Wales, and his brother William, Duke of Cumberland. But, alas, it is easy to be “almost persuaded” to be a Christian, and never to be saved at last. Whether the Prince of Wales ever went further than being almost persuaded we do not know. It is said that one day at Court he inquired of Lady Charlotte Edwin where Lady Huntingdon was, as she was so seldom to be seen. “Praying with her beggars, I suppose,” said Lady Charlotte, with a sneer. The prince looked grave, and said, “Lady Charlotte, when I am dying, I think I shall be happy to seize the skirt of Lady Huntingdon’s mantle, to lift me up with her to heaven.” Poor prince! to touch the hem of Christ’s garment would have been the better hope. God tells us of the “strong consolation” which those will find “who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us, which we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, and which entereth into that within the veil,” into Heaven itself; blessed is the soul that is anchored there! Yet there were some who were more than “almost persuaded.” God has said “not many mighty, not many noble, are called.” Lady Huntingdon said she was thankful for the letter “m”. It might have been “not any.” As it was, we hear of some who were willing to share the reproach of Christ with John Nelson and Ned Greenfield. A meeting for prayer and reading the word was held at the houses of six noble ladies, and was attended by others who had learned the love of Christ at Lady Huntingdon’s house. And thus, from the highest to the lowest, many were called, and the gospel of the grace of God was in His great mercy spread abroad, to the salvation of some; but alas! to the condemnation of others. In a letter written to Dr. Doddridge in the year 1747, Lady Huntingdon speaks of the bitter opposition she had to undergo. “Our affronts and persecutions here, are,” she says, “hardly to be described. But alas! these are among those honors that should not be mentioned by me—that so unworthy a mortal should thus be favored by so loving a Father, ought to make me bow down with confusion of face, that He should regard me. Many secret and shameful enemies of the gospel, by His will, appear; the particulars would amuse you, and blessed be God, they rejoice me, as good must follow from it. They called out in the open streets for me, saying, if they had me, they would tear me to pieces, etc., but alas! this does but prove that it is the Lord that offends them, and so must He continue to the unregenerate heart.”

Lady Huntingdon had not only been thus helping forward the Methodists preaching in London, but had taken them about with her to various places, that they might have gospel meetings wherever it seemed to be desirable. During this summer of 1748, she had thus traveled through Wales. Lady Anne, Lady Frances, and her two daughters had been with her. They were now all returned to London.

Marriage of Charles Wesley

Two clergymen, who were both useful afterward in making the gospel known, had just become Methodist preachers—Mr. Walker, at Truro, in Cornwall, and Mr. Romaine, in London. They were much opposed and hindered, as the earlier preachers had been, but that did not signify. In the spring of the next year, 1749, John Wesley went again to Ireland for the third time. On the way he spent a short time in Wales, where, on April 8th, he married his brother Charles to a young lady called Sarah Gwynn. Her father, a Welsh squire, had been much opposed to the Methodists; and had once gone to a meeting, intending, as he was a magistrate, to seize Howell Harris, and send him to prison. But Mr. Gwynne’s opposition arose entirely from ignorance, and not from enmity. He waited to hear what the preaching was about, and was so thankful for what he heard, that instead of arresting Howell Harris he went up to him, shook hands warmly with him, and invited him to his house, at a place called Garth. The family at Garth, besides Mr. Marmaduke Gwynne and his wife, included nine children, twenty servants, and a chaplain. There were generally ten or fifteen visitors there besides. Great was the consternation with which this large party was struck, when the Methodist preacher was brought into the house; and to add to their wonder and horror, Mr. Gwynne, before the assembled household, said that he wished to make a public acknowledgment of his sin and ignorance, shown in opposing the Methodists. He wished also to ask Mr. Harris’s forgiveness. Mrs. Gwynne upon this walked out of the room, and would not return till Howell Harris was gone. Mrs. Gwynne’s next trouble was that her daughter Sarah began to go to the preaching, and believed in the Lord Jesus. But at last Mrs. Gwynne was herself persuaded to go, and she too believed, and was saved. Two years later Charles Wesley had been invited to Garth and now, on the spring day of which I have told you, he and Miss Sarah were married. Perhaps you would wish to know what a Methodist wedding was like. I will tell you. On this occasion it was a lovely day, not a cloud to be seen from morning to night. Charles and John Wesley, Sarah Gwynne, and her sister Becky all got up at four o’clock. For three hours and a half they prayed and sang hymns together. At eight they went to the church. Only the family were present. We are specially told that Grace Bowen, the old nurse, was one of the company. After they returned to the house they spent more time in praying. “Prayers and thanksgiving,” says Charles, “was our whole employment. We were cheerful without mirth, serious without sadness. A stranger, that intermeddleth not with our joy, said it looked more like a funeral than a wedding.” Perhaps the stranger was one of many who think that prayer is something which has to do with death beds, and that, for a wedding, finery and jewels are far more suitable than prayer and praise. Just as many people think of churches and churchyards as belonging to one another, so do they think of prayer as fit for dying people and mournful occasions, and when it is a time of joy and gladness, we see, alas, but too plainly, what their notions of joy are. Fine clothes, eating and drinking, are the marks of their times of gladness. But if Charles Wesley and Sarah Gwynne had higher thoughts of happiness and pleasure, let us be glad that so it was.

Next day, John began preaching again on his way to Ireland, where he arrived about the middle of April. He stayed there some months, preaching all about the country. In the meantime the Popish mobs at Cork were beating, stoning, and maiming the Methodists, breaking into their houses, demolishing their goods, and burning the fragments in the street. The mayor would not interfere. He said Papists were tolerated, but Methodists were not, and they must suffer for their folly.

Conversion of Thomas Walsh

It was just at this time that we first hear of a remarkable man called Thomas Walsh. I must first tell you that Robert Swindells (the same who had so narrowly escaped with his life at Shepton), was in Ireland with Wesley. He was preaching one day on the parade-ground at Limerick, when he observed, amongst the listening crowd, a young man with an intelligent, but very sad countenance. He was listening earnestly, poor young man, for his heart was very sorrowful, and he wanted comfort and help, and the words of the text had seemed like a message from God to his soul. The text was, “Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He had often tried to get rest to his soul, from the time that he had been a very little boy. His parents were Roman Catholics, living in a little Irish village called Newmarket. They had taught him, when a child, the Lord’s Prayer and a prayer to the Virgin Mary, in Irish. They had also taught him the 100th Psalm in Latin, which he did not understand. When he was seven he learned English, and after that, his elder brother, who was teacher in a school, taught him the Latin grammar. This brother had been brought up to be a priest, but had become a Protestant. Most likely, however, he had not become a believer in the Lord Jesus, for he never seems to have told Thomas the way to be saved. There are millions of Protestants who know as little about that as the Papists do, and care as little about it as the heathen. Thomas, though he did not know it, did care about it, and longed to be saved; he was terrified at the thought of death, and the more frightened he became the more he prayed, now and then to God, and very often to saints and angels. When he was thirteen he began to go constantly to mass, and tried to leave off bad ways, but he only became more frightened and unhappy, because he found his prayers could not give him peace. He says “my very bones trembled because of my sins.” He went to tell the priest, who advised him to pray more. He also tried to get rid of his fears by amusing himself. But he grew more and more unhappy. He fasted, confessed his sins to the priest, and would throw himself on the ground in an agony, praying to the saints for mercy. When he was seventeen his brother convinced him that popery was full of error. He sat up with Thomas one night, and talked to him till nearly one o’clock about the worship of saints. Thomas began that night to pray to God only, and resolved to pray to saints and angels no more. He also began to study the Bible, and soon told his father he was a Protestant and that he would go to the Church of England services instead of to mass. His father could not answer his arguments. But though Thomas was a Protestant, he was not any happier than before. Instead of having peace, he only saw more than ever “the exceeding sinfulness of sin.” And it was just then that on the parade-ground, at Limerick, the blessed words reached his ears, “Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” To his great joy, the preachers came just after this to his little native village, where a Methodist society was formed, and Thomas joined it. The preaching, he said, had shown him not only what sin is, but what Christ is. The fact is, we never really see the blackness of sin till we see the Blessed One who has put it away, and know who and what He is. It was this that made Peter fall down and say, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord.” It was a very blessed day for Thomas Walsh when he first knew Christ. He says, “I broke out into tears of joy and love.” A friend who had gone to the meeting with him was converted at the same time. From this moment Thomas Walsh “counted all things but dung that he might win Christ.” Not win salvation—that he already had, as far as it is salvation for the soul. (The salvation of the body will not be till the Lord comes to change our vile bodies, and fashion them like to His glorious body.) But to win Christ is something more than being forgiven and saved. It is to know Him—a knowledge which begins at conversion. When will it end? Will it ever end?

Thomas Walsh did not think as many do, that now that he was saved, the way to be devoted to Christ was to spend his whole time in preaching the gospel to others. It is a very blessed thing as God gives us opportunity to make Christ known to perishing souls. But those who do this are just those who need all the more to be learning themselves. Those who give out most need to take in most. Thomas Walsh would study the Bible for hours every day. For this purpose he got up at four o’clock, and taught himself Greek and Hebrew for the better understanding of the Scriptures. He would leave off to pray, or thank God for the treasures he found in His blessed word, and then go again to his studies. Wesley said afterward, such correct knowledge of the Bible he never saw in any man before, and never expected to see again. It was only after much study and much prayer that he began to preach. He walked thirty miles to preach his first sermon, which was in a barn. Thenceforward he went about the country preaching with wonderful power and blessing. It was a great advantage to him that he could preach in Irish, as of course the English Methodists could not. Numbers seem to have been saved through his labors, and it is not wonderful therefore that mobs were gathered by the priests to attack him wherever he went. One day seventy-eight men with clubs rushed upon him, and in a very Irish fashion proposed to bring a Roman Catholic priest and an English clergyman to convert him between them. Then, said the Irishmen, he might have his choice whether to be a Papist or a member of the Church of England. If he would be either one or the other he should go in peace. He explained to them that he had not come to talk about sects, but to preach of the Saviour, who would save Roman Catholic sinners and Protestant sinners alike. Upon this the wild Irishmen attempted to put him in a well, but with the help of the parish minister he was rescued. We will now leave him preaching through the towns and villages of Ireland, sometimes mobbed, sometimes imprisoned, but whether in prison or out of it, telling the glad tidings, and finding everywhere some whose hearts the Lord opened, who believed and were saved.

Wesley remained in Ireland about three months, traveling all about the country. “Multitudes,” he says, “of every kind and degree, are daily turned from the power of darkness unto God.” On the other hand, there was often opposition, both from the priests, and from the Protestants. The Protestants appear to have been as dark and unbelieving as the Papists. “It is true,” said Wesley, “ they hate Popery, but they hate Christianity a great deal more.” The work of conversion continued in Ireland after Wesley left. There were now many Methodists preaching there. A list of these men, Charles Wesley at the head, was that summer sent out by the grand jury of Cork, with the declaration: “We find and present these nine men to be persons of ill fame, vagabonds, and common disturbers of His Majesty’s peace, and we pray they may be transported.” John Wesley meanwhile was preaching over the length and breadth of England. The work went on as before, multitudes coming to hear, and receiving pardon and life, and here and there mobs, violent as ever, attacked the preachers, and filled the houses where they lodged. Wesley rejoiced on these occasions that “God thus brought all the drunkards, swearers, and mere sinners in the place to hear of His plenteous redemption.”

Early in the year 1750, the people of London were alarmed by the shock of an earthquake. The second shock, a month later, was more violent. The houses were much shaken and chimneys thrown down. John Wesley was not in London at that time, but Charles was, and he preached with great power to the trembling crowds who thronged to the Foundry, and other Methodist meeting places. Many of the people of London fled from the city in terror, and spent the night in the fields. Hyde Park was filled with these terrified people, and there, at midnight, Whitefield preached to them, and found them eager to listen. “They thought,” as they said, “the day of judgment was come.” “We know that a day is coming, when the Lord will arise and shake terribly the earth.” But before He does so, He will have gathered His saints to Himself, in a moment—in the twinkling of an eye. Are you ready for that solemn moment? We shall be caught up to be forever with Him, or we shall be left behind to the terrible judgments which are coming on the earth. Wesley’s journeys now included Ireland, and nearly the whole of England, besides Wales. I do not find that he had as yet visited the eastern counties of England, nor had he as yet been to Scotland. But you must remember, that by this time there were very many Methodist preachers, preaching incessantly in every direction. Whitefield especially was untiring in his labors, and not even Wesley himself preached as often, or to such immense multitudes. In the thirty-four years of his ministry his public preachings amounted to 18,000 times. Forty hours a week was the time he usually spent in preaching, sometimes sixty hours. He went over England from one end to the other, and went also into Scotland, and crossed the Atlantic thirteen times in order to make the gospel known in America. Besides this wonderful amount of preaching, he spent many hours more in prayer or the singing of hymns, in the houses to which he was invited. Frequently he spent whole nights in reading the word and in prayer. He always got up at four, and went to bed at ten. It would appear that thousands of souls were saved by his means. And there is no doubt that his knowledge of God’s word and mind was far more deep and true than Wesley’s. We have seen how faithfully he warned Wesley against some of his errors. We do not find either that he fell into the snare of forming societies and making rules. His business was simply to make Christ known, as far as he himself had that blessed knowledge. I could not tell you of all the other preachers, so many were they by this time. Their various histories were so far alike, that we find them constantly preaching to multitudes of people—constantly beaten, stoned, dragged through the mire, pelted and insulted. And when we further remember that these men were not sent out by any society, or paid a penny for their labors, that in fact they had to suffer great loss, and spend as well as be spent in Christ’s service, we can then better understand how real a work of the Spirit of God was this—how great mercy was God now showing to a nation who had forgotten and despised Him. It is true that there was much which these Methodist preachers did not yet understand or know. Of the Lord’s coming, as we have seen, they were in ignorance. They do not seem either to have thought of the blessed fact that God not only saves souls, but by the Holy Ghost unites them to Christ, the Head in Heaven, so that all who are thus saved at the present time are members one of another—form one Body—which is the true Church of God. And we have duties as belonging to the Church, just as everyone has duties as a member of a family. What concerns one, concerns all—all who believe. What a blessed thing thus to know that we are one with all those who are loved by Christ, and who love Him. Surely they ought to have a great share in our thoughts, our prayers, and our service. But we must look elsewhere than in the accounts of the Methodists to find teaching and guidance in that which concerns the Church as a body. Where must we then look for that? Thank God, we have not in these days to look far. Now that everyone has, or can have, a Bible, they have no excuse for remaining in ignorance of any truth which God has made known. Read the New Testament, with earnest prayer to God, that He will teach you what the Church is, and how you should own this truth in practice, and He will give you a ready answer. If it is true that you have brothers and sisters in the family to which you belong down here, you can clearly understand that to behave as the only child, even if your behavior were good so far, would not be right. So, if you belong to a heavenly family, and are united even more closely than by relationship to God’s believing people, you have to act accordingly. May God teach you how to do so!

It was not till the spring of 1751 that Wesley first went to Scotland. Whitefield had been preaching there from time to time for the last ten years. Shortly before going there, Wesley had married a widow lady, called Mrs. Vizelle, who had been a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wesley. He had resolved not to let his marriage in any way interfere with his ceaseless journeys, nor to cause him to preach one sermon the less.

But Mrs. Wesley by no means approved of this wandering life, she liked to be made comfortable, and when we remember how Wesley had accustomed himself to ride about in all weathers, to lodge anywhere, to sleep on the floor, and eat anything he could get, we can hardly be surprised that his wife found it by no means a life of ease and comfort. Unhappily, she discovered this too late, and was then very much displeased with him, and as far as we can find out was most unamiable and unkind. Wesley was, therefore, none the happier for having married her; she found it almost equally a hardship to go about with him, or to stay at home. The plan upon which he had always gone was to give away his money, leaving only enough for his absolute necessities. He possessed, for example, in the way of plate but four silver tea spoons; two in London, and two at Bristol. “Nor,” said he, “shall I ever get more when so many people want bread.” With regard to his habits, he was equally simple, giving himself the example to his preachers how they should live. He not only made rules for them, but observed the same himself. These rules concerned everything they did. They were never to touch spirits, tea, tobacco, or snuff; to eat no supper, or very little. Instead of tea at breakfast they were to drink orange-peel tea or nettle tea, which are by no means pleasant to the taste. They were to go to bed before ten, and get up before six. They were never to exceed three meals a day; they were never to be a moment unemployed; they were to be ashamed of nothing but sin; they were not to mind fetching wood, or drawing water, or cleaning their own shoes or their neighbors, and they were to avoid all jesting, or foolish talking.

Wesley might have saved himself the trouble of making rules, had he borne in mind that the rules laid down in the Bible are all we need. By them the man of God may be thoroughly furnished unto all good works. What we need, is not to have more rules, but to be more, far more, obedient to those which God has given. No man, living in obedience to God, will be guilty of self-indulgence in any shape or form, and will find the blessed footsteps of the Lord Jesus Christ a sufficient guide as to how we should walk, and please God, even in the smallest particulars of our every-day life.

It was on the way back from this first journey into Scotland, that we find the following entry in Wesley’s journal. He was again at Epworth, when he thus wrote—“May 13th, 1751. I learned the particulars of Mr. Romley’s case, of which I had heard but a confused account before. In November last he was desired to baptize a child. It was observed that his voice, which had been lost several years, was entirely restored. He read the office with great emotion, and many tears, so as to astonish the whole congregation. But, going home from church, he behaved in so strange a manner that it was thought necessary to confine him. During the first week of his confinement, he was for constraining every one that came near to him to kneel down and pray; and frequently cried out, ‘You will be lost, you will be damned, unless you know your sins are forgiven.’ Upon this Mr. ––– roundly averred that the Methodists had turned his head. After seven or eight days he grew much worse, though still with intervals of reason; and in about a fortnight, by a judgment mixed with mercy, God took him to Himself.”

"In Journeyings Often"

John Wesley faithfully kept to his resolution that his marriage should not be any obstacle in the way of his preaching. We find that his incessant journeys continued as before, from Scotland to the Land’s End, from Sussex to the West of Ireland. When we read how it seemed a matter of perfect indifference to him that it should hail, rain, or snow, blow hurricanes, or turn to sultry heat, we can scarcely wonder that his wife found it simply impossible to travel about with him. That he should have to sleep in a cellar where there was a window that would not open seems to be the only hardship that he objected to, but he tells us he made it quite comfortable by breaking a pane of paper which had been put in instead of glass. It does not seem wonderful that at last, in the year 1753, his health began to fail, and when the cold autumn weather came, as he went on traveling about and preaching, in spite of illness, he became so much worse, that he and others thought that his time would be very short.

He was ordered by the doctor to preach no more, and to leave off writing, for he had spent much time in writing books, as well as in preaching. Wesley however turned a deaf ear to the doctor. He could not preach, but he continued to write, rising at four, and writing from five in the morning till nine at night, except that he took an hour to ride, half an hour for each meal, and one hour’s rest in the evening, from five to six. He also explained the scriptures to those who came to his house every evening. During this time of rest from preaching, he was at Bristol with his wife. Thinking he was dying he wrote the epitaph of “John Wesley, a brand plucked out of the burning.” He did this lest any words of praise should be put on his tombstone.

As the spring of 1754 came on, he got better, and returned to London, and at the end of March again began to preach, and to ride from place to place for that purpose. During his illness he had been obliged to travel in “the machine.” I would describe to you, if I could, what “the machine” was like. I imagine it was a sort of stage-coach. Very soon we find him journeying all over the country on horseback, as before, through all weathers, and preaching to crowds numerous as ever. We hear, however, less of mobs and riots. The Cornish people especially, had not only become quiet and well-behaved, but their desire to hear the gospel seems to have been very great. “The lions,” said John Wesley. “are changed into lambs.” This was, perhaps, partly owing to the preaching and teaching of good Mr. Walker, the clergyman of Truro.

In any case, Wesley now found that he was received in Cornwall with joy and affection. Nor is he now forgotten there. Go where you will through the Cornish villages, the name of John Wesley is still everywhere to be heard. If you go into the little whitewashed cottages, half buried in fuchsias and hydrangeas, it is almost certain you will see the picture of John Wesley on the wall. The miners still sing the hymns of Charles Wesley as they go about their work, for he, too, had been much amongst them, and his hymns seem to have been a great means of making the gospel known. John wrote but few hymns, but Charles wrote an immense number. He was composing hymns whenever he rode about the country, and in his long journeys had plenty of time for this.

About the year 1756 Charles Wesley began to leave off his wandering life, and to live at home with his family. He then chiefly occupied himself in writing, and in preaching near home. Meantime, the number of Methodist preachers had greatly increased, and by them the gospel was carried into every corner of Great Britain and Ireland. It is wonderful to read of the labors and sufferings of these men. Though John Wesley, being well-known, often met with friends where formerly he had only found raging mobs, these latter preachers had to meet with the fiercest persecution. It would be endless to tell you of their many adventures, their ceaseless perils, and terrible sufferings. The amount of labor, too, which they were able to endure seems almost beyond belief. We read of Alexander Mather, a baker, who took but eight hours in the week for sleep, for, as he preached a great part of the day, he had to work nearly all night. His first preaching journey was 150 miles on foot. Another, John Pritchard, during one winter and spring, walked 1200 miles, preaching the glad tidings. It was, of course, very seldom that they could travel in any other way than on foot, being most of them poor working men, who went forth only because the Lord had laid it on their hearts to make Christ known to lost sinners. Some, as we have seen, were clergymen, but of these few made long journeys. They preached chiefly, like Mr. Grimshaw, round their own villages.

John Berridge

It was in the year 1757 that another clergyman was added to the number. He was a man so remarkable that I must tell you something of his history. John Berridge was the son of a grazier in Nottinghamshire. He was born in the year 1716. His father was very anxious that John, his eldest son, should be a grazier too. He therefore took him about to markets and fairs, to learn the price of cattle, but John made such terrible mistakes in these matters that his father got into despair. He told John at last he was good for nothing but to go to college. It was true that the boy was fond of reading, and was also what people call “very religious.” One day a boy met John on his way from school, and asked him to come home with him, that he might read the Bible to him. John’s religion was of a different sort from that, but he was afraid he would not be thought good if he refused. He therefore went whenever the boy asked him to these little Bible readings, which he much disliked. As he came home one evening from a fair, he tried to avoid the turn by the boy’s house, for he dreaded being asked to come in. The boy, however, was on the watch, and asked him to come in and pray. For the first time John began to feel he was a sinner. He said to himself, “Why did I enjoy the fair, and do not enjoy praying?” To quiet his conscience he began himself to pray with his schoolfellows. Soon after he made acquaintance with a tailor, who was a believer in the Lord Jesus. But all he gained, either from the boy or the tailor, was a sad knowledge that he had never been born again. He became unhappy, and more religious than before, but he did not turn to the Lord Jesus for salvation. At last he was old enough to go to college, and was sent to Clare Hall, at Cambridge. Here all his religion fled away. It was not worth keeping, for there was no faith nor love to God in it. But, alas, instead of finding anything better, John Berridge lived in sin and open unbelief. He left off even “saying his prayers” for ten long years. He was not ashamed to own that he did not believe that Jesus is God. Sometimes the truth that he had learned from the boy at Nottingham, and from the tailor, came back to his mind, and then he would weep bitterly; but again he forgot the good resolutions he would make at such moments. He was much admired for his wit and cleverness, and when he found that his company was sought after, and that his jokes were delighted in, it became more and more true of him, that “God was not in all his thoughts.” But he was in God’s thoughts all the while. By degrees, he knew not how, he began to see, through God’s great mercy, that Christ is indeed God Himself.

John Berridge now determined to be a clergyman, and for eight years he labored as a preacher in country places. Six years he was curate of Stapleford, near Cambridge; two years vicar of Everton, also not far from Cambridge. All this time he worked hard, and preached earnestly. He hoped to see the wicked people in the village become good, or at least repent of their sins. But he went on preaching, and they went on sinning, just as before. He thought the reason was they were so very bad. At last, at the end of these eight weary years, John Berridge became very miserable. Could it be that the fault was in himself? “Oh Lord,” he said, “if I am right, keep me so; if I am not, make me so; lead me to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus.” None but God the Holy Ghost could have led him thus to pray. If you have never prayed in this way, I hope you will soon become as miserable as John Berridge, for I fear, if such has never been your prayer, your heart has never turned to God; you have seen no beauty in Christ that you should desire Him.

God, I need not tell you, answered this prayer; He always answers such a prayer as that. One morning, these words came into Berridge’s mind: “Cease from thine own works: only believe.”

This was something new to him. It was true he had preached to his people that they were to believe; but then he had told them they would be saved by faith and works put together. Only believe was quite another matter. But could it be true? If you wish to know whether “only believe” is really the truth, I advise you to do what John Berridge immediately did. He got a Concordance (a book which everybody ought to have), where you can find all the texts put together about any one thing you want to learn. Berridge looked for all the texts about faith—about believing. He wanted to see what God said about it. Shall I tell you one text of the many that he found? “To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.” And one more: “A man is justified by faith, without the deeds of the law.”

He was very much surprised at the texts he found, and at the great number of them. And all, too, were alike in proving to him that a man must be saved by faith alone. Berridge knew that there were people who said St. James spoke of these matters in quite another way, but when he looked into the Epistle of St. James, he found, as he says, that “St. James is sturdy in this matter, and declares that if a man should keep the whole law, except in one point, he is yet guilty of all.” That is to say, so far is St. James from saying that works can help in the smallest degree in putting away sin, that he speaks of it as an entire impossibility. He puts before us the case of a man, who had only committed one single sin, and he tells us that if for the whole of his life besides, he did nothing but perfectly good works, he would have to appear before God, not as a saved man, but just as much guilty as if he had broken all the commandments of God every day of his life. Therefore Berridge saw, that when St. James speaks, as he does in the 2nd chapter, of people being justified by works, he is very far from meaning that their works save, or help to save them. He speaks of works as a proof of faith. He says “I will show thee my faith, by my works.” The faith is the matter which has to be proved, and the works prove it. “Now” said Berridge with tears of repentance, “I will preach salvation by Jesus only.” After two or three Sundays of such preaching, a poor woman from the village came to see him, looking very disconsolate. “What is the matter, Sarah?” said he. “I don’t know what’s the matter!” replied Sarah. “Those new sermons keep me from eating, drinking, or sleeping, they make me so miserable, why it seems we’re all lost sinners!” The same week several more came to the parsonage, all as unhappy as Sarah. How fervently did Mr. Berridge thank God that what the preaching of the law had not done, the preaching of the gospel now did; that by it sinners were thus awakened, and made to feel their need of a Saviour. How humbled, too, did he feel, to think that he had spent so many years of his life in misleading others. He piled up all his old sermons, and looked on with tears of joy as he saw them consumed in the fire. He now began to preach all over the neighborhood, indoors or out of doors, as he found opportunity. People would come many miles to listen—sometimes to the number of 10,000 or 15,000. He would preach three or four times a day, and wherever he preached the blessing of God followed.

During the first year after his conversion a neighboring clergyman, Mr. Hicks, was saved through his preaching, and began himself to preach the gospel. During the year that followed, it would seem that about 4,000 persons were brought to repentance through the labors of Mr. Berridge and Mr. Hicks. Both of them journeyed about the country preaching everywhere. “Long rides,” wrote Berridge to Lady Huntingdon, “miry roads, and sharp weather!” For Lady Huntingdon wanted Berridge to find someone to take his place for a time, that he might come to her at Bath; and Berridge thus describes what any preacher who would take his place must make up his mind to endure—“long rides, miry roads, sharp weather! Cold houses to sit in, with very moderate fuel, and three or four children roaring or rocking about you; coarse food, and meager liquor; lumpy beds to lie on, and too short for the feet; stiff blankets, like boards, for a covering; rise at five in the morning to preach; at seven, breakfast on tea, made with dirty water; at eight, mount a horse, with boots never cleaned, and then ride home, praising God for all mercies.”

Berridge, however, does not mention here what may really be called “enduring hardness.” Of these little hardships he thought nothing, but there were others less easy to endure. To be hated, ill-treated, to have his name cast out as evil, to have every possible hindrance put in the way of his preaching, were the real sufferings he had now to rejoice in for Christ’s sake. The only name by which he was to be known for nearly thirty years amongst the neighboring gentry, was “the Old Devil.” Christ has said, “If they call the Master of the house Beelzebub, much more will they call so them of His household.”

Very soon the Bishop of Ely sent for him to tell him what he thought of his strange doings. “Berridge,” he said, “they tell me you go about preaching out of your own parish. Did I appoint you to the parishes of A——, or E——, or P——?

“No, my lord,” said Berridge, “neither do I claim any of those livings, the clergymen enjoy them, undisturbed by me.”

“But you go and preach in other men’s parishes, which you have no right to do.”

“It is true, my lord,” said Berridge, “I have admonished people in other parishes to repent of their sins, and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. When I was doing so one day at E—— I remember seeing five or six clergymen, all out of their parishes, playing bowls on the green.”

“I tell you,” said the bishop, “you have no right to preach out of your own parish, and if you persist in it you will very likely be sent to Huntingdon Gaol.”

“As to that, my lord,” replied Berridge, “I have no greater liking to Huntingdon Gaol than other people, but I had rather go there with a good conscience than live at my liberty without one.”

“Here,” Berridge says, “the bishop looked at me very hard, and said gravely, that I was beside myself, and that in a few months time I should either be better or worse. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘my lord, you may be quite happy about it, for if I should be better, you suppose I shall leave off preaching of my own accord, and if worse, you need not send me to Huntingdon Gaol, as I shall be provided with accommodation in Bedlam.’”

The bishop saw it was no use to threaten, so he began to entreat. He told Berridge he would bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave—that he would give him an hour or two to think it over at the inn, and he would expect him at dinner time with an answer to his entreaties.

At dinner nothing was said, but Berridge says “the other gentlemen who dined there, sometimes cast their eyes towards me in some such manner as one would glance at a monster.”

After dinner the bishop took Berridge into the garden, and said, “Have you considered my request?”

“I have, my lord,” said Berridge, “and I have been on my knees about it; but I dare not desist from preaching. I would comply with your lordship’s request if I could with a clear conscience.”

“But why should you wish to interfere with the business of other men?” said the bishop.

“If they would preach the gospel themselves to their people,” said Berridge, “I need not do it, but as they do not, I must. And I would say further, that I think it were hard if I were not allowed the pleasure of preaching the gospel, whilst they are freely allowed such pleasures as attending cock-fights in the alehouse.”

“But you preach,” said the bishop, “on all days and at all hours.”

“My lord,” replied Berridge, “I preach only at two times.”

“What times?” asked the bishop.

“In season and out of season,” replied Berridge. “Such are my orders, and my Master has also said, preach the gospel to every creature.”

What was the bishop to do with such a man, but turn him out of his living! And this therefore he determined to do. He was however stopped in his designs in a way he little expected. A nobleman to whom the bishop was under great obligations, called upon him one day, and said, “There is an honest fellow, Berridge, who is unjustly disliked and slandered by some of his neighbors, who would like him to be turned out of his parish, you will much oblige me by preventing anything of the sort, and by turning a deaf ear to all the complaints you may hear against him.”

This nobleman had been persuaded to speak a word for Berridge, by Pitt, who was then at the head of the English Government. Pitt had done this to please an old college friend, who, though he disliked the Methodists, had been fond of Berridge in the old times when he amused his fellow students by his jokes and cleverness. After this Berridge was threatened no more, and year after year, like good Mr. Grimshaw, he preached the gospel in churches, barns, houses, fields, and anywhere else, and it would seem that thousands, through his preaching believed and were saved.

Thus God raised up fresh preachers, as from time to time He took to Himself those who had been making His gospel known. Just as Berridge began to preach, Thomas Walsh died, worn out with his ceaseless labors. He had preached and studied by night and by day, till a terrible illness came upon him, which caused him much suffering in mind, as well as in body. But just at the last, with a look of brightest joy, he called to his friends, and said: “He is come! He is come! My beloved is mine, and I am His! His forever!” Thus Thomas Walsh died, at the age of twenty-eight. Wesley said of him, “wherever that blessed man preached, the Word was sharper than a two-edged sword. I do not remember ever to have known a preacher who in so few years as he remained on earth, was an instrument of converting so many sinners.”

Whitefield's Death

You can now imagine how year after year the work of the Methodist preachers was carried on. In the dark dens of the great cities, and in little villages far away on the moors and in the fens, there was now heard the blessed call of God to the weary and the thirsty, and the sinful. Such words were heard as had not been spoken there for many, many long and dreary years perhaps never before. The people who had been used to go to sleep through long, weary, Christless sermons ever since they could remember, now heard plain and loving words which they could understand, and which told them of Jesus the Saviour of sinners. It was a wonderful day in many a little village when there came some poor, simple man, who stood on a hillock and preached Jesus Christ. Now and then it was a clergyman who did so, now and then an old soldier, or a working man, but all came with the same blessed message—often learned, not from having themselves heard the Methodists, but, like John Berridge, from having read the Word of God with prayer for light and teaching. “How could they be kept from making mistakes?” you may ask. They did make many mistakes; but we may safely say that the worst mistakes they made were as nothing in comparison with the continual and the awful mistakes by which thousands of souls were in those dark days preached into everlasting destruction from hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the pulpits in the cathedrals and churches of England. We have but to read the sermons then preached, and admired and believed; preached by men who had been taught at public schools and colleges, but who had never been taught by God the Holy Ghost. We see that these teachers, owned by man, were, alas, far oftener than not, the blind leaders of the blind, whose preaching cannot be described by saying they made many mistakes—rather, that it was one great and fatal mistake, darkness, with no light in it. There were some who preached Christ, but they were few and far between. The Methodists had at least a message from God Himself, often delivered very imperfectly, but it was God’s message all the same. We may at least say of those who preached, like Whitefield and Berridge, that they did not tell people to do their best, and then hope to get to heaven; they did not tell them that when they repented enough, and prayed enough, God would forgive them; they did tell them that Christ had done all, and that He gives repentance and forgiveness of sins to all who come unto God by Him; they did tell them that the precious blood of Christ, and that alone, puts away sin from the sight of God; they did tell them that a man must be born again, and that it is by faith in Christ he is thus made a new creature and a child of God; they did tell them that God saves the lost, and vile, and wretched; not that He loves good people, and is angry with bad ones. No; they told them that God loves sinners, and finds no good people to love. There was much, much more, which the Methodists might have preached had they known it. But they did know how Christ hung upon the cross, and bore the wrath of God for our sins; they did know how He rose again, having put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself; they did know how He went back to Heaven having finished the work the Father gave Him to do; they did know how the Shepherd sought and found His sheep; they did know how the father loved and kissed the son who came back from the far country. Wesley and those taught by him preached the gospel less clearly, but still, more or less, they did point to Christ as the Saviour, and found blessing as they did so.

Perhaps there are many now who could tell more of what is in the Father’s house, and what it is to be an heir of God, and joint heir with Christ. Let us pray that those who do know more of these things may be as faithful in making them known far and wide, as the Methodists were in telling forth the message God had given to them.

Years passed on, one after another of these dear servants of God were called away from their labors. Four years after Thomas Walsh went to be with Christ good Mr. Grimshaw passed away, saying: “I am as happy as I can be on earth, and as sure of glory as if I were in it. Here goes an unprofitable servant!” He was carried to his grave amidst the songs and tears of many thousands of the Yorkshire dales men. You may wonder when I tell you, that his only son, John, had never believed the gospel his father preached. He had been sent when a boy to Wesley’s school at Kingswood, with his only sister. The little girl died, believing in Jesus, at twelve years old, but John grew up a scoffer and a drunkard. He went to see his dying father, who said, “Take care, John, you are not fit to die.” John thought afterward of his old father’s words. “Ah,” he said one day to the old horse which had carried his father about to preach, “once thou didst carry a saint, but now thou carriest a devil!” But God had mercy on poor John Grimshaw. Soon after his father’s death, he, too, was saved, and his repentance was very deep and true. “What will my old father say,” he called out as he was dying, “when he sees I have got to heaven!” John died three years after his father. And five years later, the greatest, the best, and the most faithful of the Methodist preachers was suddenly called home. George Whitefield died in America, September 30th, 1770. He had preached unceasingly over England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and North America for thirty-four years. He had crossed the Atlantic thirteen times. It seems impossible to speak of the work that God had done by him. When we hear how thousands upon thousands on both sides of the Atlantic were through him alone brought to Christ, we may well thank God for sending him in those dark days, and making him so faithful to his trust. His last sermon, September 29th, was two hours long. He preached in the open-air. We are told it was wonderful beyond measure. He went on that evening to a place called Newburyport, where he was to preach next day (Sunday); but on the Saturday evening, as he sat at supper, a crowd came together around the house, and pressed into the hall and passages to hear more. Whitefield was very tired. He said to a friend. “Brother, you must speak to these dear people, I cannot say a word.” He took his candle to go up to bed; but he stopped on the stairs. He felt as though he could not send these hungry souls empty away. He began to speak over the banisters—he could not cease—the candle burned down in its socket, and went out before he had said his last word. At six the next morning, as the sun was rising over the sea, Whitefield lay dead. He had been taken ill at two o’clock. He could not speak afterward, except to say “I am dying.” He had said not long before, “God will give me nothing to say when I am dying. He will have given me all the messages He has for me to give during my life.”

And so it was. There was great mourning for George Whitefield; and none mourned more truly than his old friend John Wesley. Though they had differed, as I told you before, and George Whitefield had faithfully reproved Wesley for his errors, Wesley did not love him the less. I wish I could tell you that Whitefield’s reproofs had shown him where he was himself wrong. But it was not so. All the Methodists had not learned, like John Wesley, to love those who believed them to be wrong. Some it would seem, both amongst those taught by Wesley, and those taught by Whitefield, spoke against one another in a manner which must have been displeasing to God, and which must have hindered His work. Thus Satan makes use even of God’s people to bring a reproach upon Christ. Let us take warning for ourselves. We are not to say that wrong is right, but when we have to own that another of God’s people is wrong in belief, or in practice, it should be owned with much love, with much humility, and with much sorrow. And if we have the mind of Christ towards the most mistaken of His people, it will be so.

Memories

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.

The Hawkstone Children

God, who sees all things from the beginning, had been preparing other messengers who should go forth to preach the glad tidings, when the voice of Whitefield was heard no more. It was in the year that Whitefield died, that one of the most remarkable of these new preachers was sent forth into the highways and hedges. To tell you his history, I must go back to the year 1761. You have seen how God had raised up witnesses to preach Christ from amongst all sorts of people. Self-righteous clergymen, learned men from Oxford and Cambridge, Cornish miners, soldiers and sailors, rough north-country laborers, and Irish Papists; but, perhaps, the most unlikely of all places in which to find a Methodist preacher, would be amongst the Eton boys; yet it was an Eton boy whom God now called forth to this post of honor.

It was in the Christmas holidays of 1761, that a large party were gathered at the old Manor House of Hawkstone, in Shropshire. This beautiful old place, standing amongst wooded hills, wild rocks, and deep green valleys, belonged to Sir Rowland Hill, the father of five sons, and two daughters. Richard and John, the two eldest sons, were grown up at the time of which I am telling you, Rowland and Robert were Eton school-boys, and little Bryan was still in the nursery; the two sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, were a little older than Rowland. The schoolboys, Rowland especially, were full of fun, and kept the whole family alive by their pranks. Old Sir Rowland and Lady Hill, who were very fond of their mischievous boy, were amused by his tricks, and glad to make the holidays a merry time for all the party; but there were two of the family who loved Rowland in a different way. They thought of the great eternity which lay before him, and longed that his soul might be saved. These two were Richard and Jane.

It was little more than two years since Richard had learned the love of Christ. He knew how dark and dreary are the ways of Satan and the world, and how blessed and happy is the way that leadeth unto life. He longed to see his brothers walking in it, for their own sake, and yet more, for Christ’s sake. Richard talked much to his brothers, during those holidays, of Christ and salvation. He read the Bible with them, and prayed for them. When they went back to Eton, he wrote them long letters, which I would copy for you, were there not a fear of making this history too long. He told them what a glorious and blessed thing it is to know the love of Christ, and what an awful thing to be cast out forever and ever from the presence of God. Robert was struck by what his brother wrote, but he feared the mockery of his schoolfellows; he would have liked to serve two masters. Rowland turned to Christ with his whole heart, and gladly wrote to his brother to say that he was Christ’s, and that Christ was his. You can believe what joy Richard and Jane felt when Rowland’s letter came; but it was not only to Richard and Jane that Rowland thus confessed Christ. God gave him courage and faithfulness to speak plainly and fearlessly to the boys around. He told them gladly all that God had done for him—he entreated them to come themselves to Christ for forgiveness and life. You may well believe that he was laughed at and despised by most of the boys; this, however troubled him but little, except for the sake of the boys who did it, for it harmed nobody but themselves. Some of the boys listened to what he had to say, and it mattered not to Rowland Hill that he was abused for thus “setting up to be a Methodist,” when he saw that one boy after another was brought to repentance and faith in Christ. These boys agreed to meet together regularly for prayers, and reading the Bible, and they, in their turn, spoke of Christ to their schoolfellows, and thus the work of God was carried on in the midst of the ungodliness of Eton. It needed courage in the boys who thus openly confessed Christ; but nothing gives courage so much as faith in God. If you think that a really Christian boy is a weak-minded coward, or that he will become more of an old woman than a boy, you are greatly mistaken. There is no such cure for cowardice and weakness of character as a real belief in Christ, and love to His cause. The boys, who had been saved through Rowland’s conversations, were deeply thankful to him, and he had the happiness, many years after, of finding that they were still following Christ faithfully.

But Rowland had very soon great troubles and trials. When he went home for the holidays, he found that all his family, except Richard and Jane, were extremely angry at his “new opinions.” “Often,” he says, “I walked up and down the terrace at Hawkstone weeping bitterly, because I was considered a disgrace to my family; but it was for the cause of my God.” But at Hawkstone he had at least the comfort of talking to some of the poor people who had been brought to know God through the labors of Richard and Jane. “I have here many opportunities,” he wrote to Jane during the Midsummer holidays, “of conversing with the children of God, as well as of hearing the gospel; whereas at Eton I hear nothing but the oaths and blasphemies of the children of darkness.” It was a great grief to Rowland when Jane was away from home, as she often was during the holidays. At Easter he did not always come home, for in those days the journey to Shropshire was a great undertaking. He then spent his Easter holidays in London. He wrote to Jane from London, describing how there had been dancing and all sorts of gaiety on the occasion of his cousin’s birthday. He was allowed to go up to his room after tea, and spend the evening alone writing to his sister. He told her how he had enjoyed his holidays in some respects, for he had been able to go to the Methodist preaching, especially Mr. Romaine’s, and a kind friend (Mr. Jones) had given a general invitation to the Christian boys from Eton, who constantly met at his house. They were also invited by good Mr. Romaine to a Bible-reading at his house at 8 o’clock in the morning. “Every word,” wrote Rowland, “which comes from Mr. Romaine’s mouth ought to be writ in letters of gold upon our hearts.” He had met with many Christian friends, and was thankful for their love and kindness. “All the family of God,” he writes, “are kind to us, and surely His loving-kindness is better than life itself. What favor is better than the favor of the Lord? Is the friendship of the world to be compared to His friendship? No, no, give me Christ, and I will despise 10,000 worlds, for He is all, more than all. But, oh wonder of wonders, how came I to enjoy His friendship? Oh, that I could therefore praise and love my God, who hath loved me with an everlasting love, and made Himself a curse that I might be blessed.”

Rowland Hill

When Rowland was 19, his father sent him to Cambridge. He meant him to be a clergyman when he was old enough. But in the meantime it was a terrible grief to the poor old gentleman that his boy should have turned Methodist, and that he should even hear reports of his being a preacher, which he thought, however fitting for a clergyman, was a thorough disgrace to anybody else. Rowland was at Hawkstone in the long summer holidays before he went to Cambridge, and he had a hard time of it as far as his family were concerned, for Richard and Jane seem to have been away from home at that time. Old Sir Rowland heard that there were meetings at a cottage on the estate, and that his son preached there. He hoped this at least might be a false report, and meeting a boy who came from the cottage he asked him who preached at his mother’s house. The boy, who was half-witted, replied, “The young man that fettled mother’s clock.” This was really Rowland, who was in the habit of mending clocks for the poor people, and the boy had never found out he was “the young squire.” Sir Rowland happily thought it must be some clockmaker’s apprentice, and his son escaped this time without further reproof. Rowland went to Cambridge in October, 1764. He wrote a sad letter to Jane a month later. He said he was entirely out of the reach of any of God’s children, had no one to speak to but worldly people, could hear of no place near where the truth was preached, and spent hours in tears, having no choice but “perpetual solitude” or ungodly company. He entreated Jane to send him a picture of Mr. Romaine, which he had left with his brother Richard, or with “Archer.” Giles Archer was Richard’s valet, who was an earnest Christian. Richard had been very diligent in making Christ known amongst the servants. He had supplied the servants’ hall with a Bible, had lent books to the men and the maids, and Archer had become a great help and comfort both to Richard and Jane. When Rowland got Mr. Romaine’s picture, he stuck it up in his room, together with the portraits of Wesley and Whitefield. When we remember how Wesley and Whitefield were by this time “a proverb and a byword” amongst all classes in England, we can understand that young Rowland Hill had learned to value the reproach of Christ, or he would not have hung up these pictures in the face of his scoffing fellow-students. The consequence was, that he was despised, hated, and avoided, so that he says he never got a smile from anyone, in the college, except the old shoe-black, who was a Christian man. We can scarcely suppose he took a blacker view than the case called for, when we read in history the account of those times. Except the few clergymen who had become Methodist preachers, scarcely one was to be found who preached more Christianity than a Hindu or a Muslim would have done. We read of one, who, having mentioned Christ in his sermon, apologized for doing so, because, he said, it was Christmas-day; but he promised his hearers not to allude again to such a subject till that day came round in the following year. One of themselves, writing in the year 1757, tells us, “In the conduct of the clergy they curb not, but promote and encourage the trifling manners of the times. It is grown a fashionable thing among these gentlemen to despise the duties of their parish, to wander about to every scene of false gaiety, to frequent and shine in all public places, their own pulpits excepted. If false pleasure and self interest thus take possession of the heart, how can we expect that a regard for religion and Christianity should find a place there?” These words, which are not those of a Methodist, will help us to understand how sad and lonely Rowland Hill felt amongst the clergymen and students at Cambridge. “Did the writer,” says our old author, “court the applause of his polite readers, he would preface this part of his subject with an apology for the rudeness of hinting at religious principles. To suppose a man of fashion swayed in his conduct by a regard to futurity, is an affront to the delicacy and refinement of his taste.” Rowland had, therefore, to bear the reproach of being an ill-bred, vulgar lad, who knew not how to behave like a gentleman. But it has been true of many, since the days of Moses, that they have esteemed the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt. And God be praised that we can say so! Though, at the same time, how worthless is all that we can give up, when compared with the unsearchable riches of Christ, given so freely to all who believe. If the cross and the reproach so far outweigh the treasures of Egypt, what in comparison are the riches of the glory?

Rowland was to stay at Cambridge for the Christmas vacation. Perhaps because of the long journey, perhaps because his parents no longer found pleasure in his company. It must have cheered him, therefore, when one morning the following note was brought to his rooms—

“Grandchester, Tuesday Ev.,

Dec. 18, 1764.

“Sir—Mr. Thomas Palmer” (this was an old Eton friend of Rowland’s) “was at my house last week, and desired me to call upon you when I went to Cambridge. I am now at Grandchester, a mile from you, where I preached last night and this morning, and where I shall abide till three in the afternoon. Will you take a walk over? The weather is frosty, which makes it pleasant under foot. The bearer of this is Mr. Matthews, who lives at Grandchester Mill, at whose house I am. If you love Jesus Christ, you will not be surprised at this freedom taken with you by a stranger, who seeks your acquaintance only out of his love to Christ and His people. I am, for His sake,

“Your affectionate servant,
“JOHN BERRIDGE.”

You can well believe that Rowland at once started off for Grandchester Mill, and was there warmly received by our dear old friend, Mr. Berridge, who invited him to spend the Christmas at Everton, and henceforward every Sunday Rowland rode over to hear Mr. Berridge preach, and to spend as much time at the Vicarage as he could, having to be back in time for college chapel. His letters to Jane now became not only cheerful, but overflowing with happiness. He met numbers of Christian people at Everton Vicarage, and Mr. Berridge himself was just the friend he needed. Jane warned him to be careful not to go too often to Everton, “for,” she said, “should that be discovered, I need not tell you the storm it would raise;” that is to say, Sir Rowland would interfere to rescue his son from such bad company. No doubt poor Jane had much to bear in her own family, but she knew where to find “the refuge from the storm, the shadow from the heat, the rivers of water in the dry place, the shadow of the great rock in the weary land.” Rowland now set about his Master’s work at Cambridge with fresh courage. He told the glad tidings to his fellow-students, to the prisoners in the gaol, to the sick and poor, and he began preaching both in the town and in the villages round. He was encouraged by frequent letters from Whitefield and others, and by the fatherly counsel of Mr. Berridge. He had many meetings in fields and barns, went down to Newmarket to preach at the races, and was in time helped by seven other undergraduates who had been converted through his means. In the vacations he joined Richard in preaching in the neighborhood of Hawkstone. His father and mother continued to oppose him. Sir Rowland kept him short of money, and would not allow him a horse, hoping to set a limit, at least, to his preaching. His mother was even more bitter in her opposition; but to the great joy of Richard, Jane, and Rowland, Elizabeth, who had married a Mr. Tudway, became a believer in Jesus, and little Brian, though only eleven years old, made a bold confession of Christ, and remained faithful to it ever after.

Sometimes in the vacations Rowland was warmly received by Lady Huntingdon, who helped and encouraged him in his difficult path. She was specially interested in the case of some of Rowland’s young friends, who were students at St. Edmund’s Hall, at Oxford. Rowland had sometimes passed through Oxford, and had had conversations and reading with some of the undergraduates. Six of these young men began to meet for reading and prayer at the house of a Christian widow who lived at Oxford. These meetings were discovered, and hints were given to the young men that they would lose their character, would be refused their degrees, and might even be expelled from the University unless they gave up such practices. They thought it, however, cowardly to shrink from disgrace and suffering, and were resolved to take the consequences. They were called before the Vice-Chancellor and others, and, in spite of the remonstrances of Richard Hill, and of the head of St. Edmund’s Hall, they were expelled. The reason given was that they were void of learning, which was not true, and that they had been guilty of praying, singing hymns, and expounding the scriptures in private houses. Lady Huntingdon was accused of having sent them to Oxford, in order that they might preach Methodistical follies, when they should have become clergymen. It seems strange that Rowland Hill was not at the same time expelled from Cambridge; but he had a kind tutor, who interceded for him with the head of his college, and was very anxious that he should remain to take his degree. The master of his college (St. John’s) consented to Rowland’s remaining on the following strange conditions—1. That he should never make any more converts in the University. 2. That he should never go into any house in the town, even to relieve the poor, but give his money through others. Rowland said he would leave at once, rather than remain on such terms, and through the kind entreaties of his tutor, the master gave way. Rowland worked hard for his degree, and took honors, which proves that his preaching and visiting had by no means hindered his studies. He had not neglected either the proper training of his body, a matter which some young men who are fond of study do not sufficiently attend to. “The body is the Lord’s,” and should be kept in order by proper exercise, to be fit for the Lord’s service. Rowland could ride, swim, and skate better than most of his companions, but his heart was in the Lord’s work notwithstanding.

After taking his degree he returned to Hawkstone, where a fresh storm burst upon his head. All his Cambridge education had been intended by his father to fit him to take one of the family livings; and now, when he was ready to be ordained, the Bishop decidedly refused to perform the ceremony. The reason he gave for it was, that Rowland had preached at Methodist meetings, which he ought not to have done, nor in fact ought he to have preached at all, according to the Bishop’s view of the matter. As no other Bishop would ordain him either, there was an end to the plan of the family living, and Sir Rowland was now roused up to the last pitch of displeasure. No path was left for Rowland but to go forth as a wandering Methodist preacher.

In the year 1770 he entered upon the path of labor from which God was now calling away George Whitefield. God gave power to the word preached by Rowland Hill. Lady Huntingdon says, “The Lord blessed his testimony in a very remarkable manner. The word of the Lord runs, and is glorified in the conversion of multitudes. I have attended him at Blackheath and Kennington; thousands and thousands were there, and the most awful and solemn impressions seemed to pervade the vast assemblies. Excepting my beloved and lamented Mr. Whitefield, I never witnessed any person’s preaching wherein there were such displays of the divine power and glory as in Mr. Hill’s. May He who hath raised up this second Whitefield crown his message with success, and keep him faithful to the end.”

"To Him That Worketh Not"

We must now return to John Wesley. The preaching of Rowland Hill did not gladden his heart as it did that of Lady Huntingdon. No doubt he sincerely rejoiced in the salvation of so many souls, but he still resisted the truth which was held and preached, alike by Whitefield, and by Hill. He still believed that the Christian could entirely get rid of the sin that dwells in him. He still did not believe that those whom the Lord had chosen and saved shall “never perish,” but are “kept by the power of God, through faith unto salvation.” He did not deny that these are the words of God, but he affixed his own meaning to them so as to explain them away. Whilst deeply thankful to God for the grace given to him we must not make excuses for that in him which was contrary to the mind of God.

It is grievous to find that John Wesley opposed and spoke against the truths preached by Rowland Hill, and was in his turn spoken of with bitterness by that young preacher. It is sad to find God’s true servants thus hindering one another. The blame no doubt lay chiefly with Wesley, as, on the points upon which they differed, it was he who was in the wrong. Old Mr. Berridge used to say, “It is a part of my litany, ‘Lord, deliver me from myself!’” And true it was in the case of Wesley, that neither brutal mobs, ignorant clergy, nor angry magistrates, ever did half so much to hinder the work God was doing by him, as his own opinions did, when he put them in the place of God’s word. Let us make no excuses for him, at the same time remembering that God has had but One Servant on this earth who turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, but “did always such things as pleased Him.”

The gospel as far as it was faithfully preached was still powerful in the mouth of John Wesley, and God so preserved his bodily strength, that he writes on his 63rd birthday, “I am still a wonder to myself. My voice and strength are the same as at nine-and-twenty. This also hath God wrought.” It would have been well had Wesley been willing to own that all spiritual life is from God, and in no degree from ourselves. He could see it as regards bodily life; but, alas! in the year 1770 we find him speaking of the life of the soul in a way which shows how much darkness still clouded his mind. He says—“With regard to working for life. This also our Lord has expressly commanded us. ‘Labor,’ literally, ‘work for the meat that endureth to everlasting life;’ and in fact every believer till he comes to glory works for as well as from life.” But, alas! Wesley does not add what the Lord added to these words. Those to whom they were spoken (John 6) asked the Lord, we are told, “What shall we do that we might work the works of God?” Then “Jesus answered and said unto them, ‘This is the work of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent.’” How terrible a contrast to these simple words of Christ are the words that follow in Wesley’s declaration. “We have received it as a maxim that a man is to do nothing in order to justification. Nothing can be more false. Whoever desires to find favor with God should cease from evil, and learn to do well. Whoever repents should ‘do works meet for repentance.’ And if this is not in order to find favor, what does he do them for?”

In vain did good Mr. Berridge and others remind Wesley of the words of God: “To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.” In vain did they say to him that, though God assuredly works repentance in those whom He saves, and though He gives them that new nature from which good works come, yet these things do not help in any way to justify them. Had Wesley remembered and believed Christian David’s sermon at Herrnhuth he would have done well. But in vain do we hear and read, unless we are willing to give up our own thoughts and our own wisdom, and look to God alone to make His word plain to us. Having thus put works in their wrong place, we can scarcely be surprised at his further mistakes as to what good works are, for when the eye is in any degree turned away from Christ we see all things mistily and falsely.

It is sad to read in his journal, “Five persons desired to return thanks to God for a clear sense of His pardoning love, and two gave a plain, simple account of the manner wherein God had cleansed their hearts, so that they now felt no anger, pride, or self-will, but continual love, and prayer, and praise.”

It seems wonderful that Wesley could rejoice in the humility of people who believed themselves free from pride, but it is thus that even natural good sense breaks down in the things of God, when we are not willing to be taught simply and only by God’s Word and Spirit. He frequently tells us of people who were “perfected in love,” in whom “the very remains of sin were destroyed,” and who were “emptied of all sin.” Some told him “that they feel no inward sin, and, to the best of their knowledge, commit no outward sin; that they see and love God every moment, that they have constantly as clear a witness from God of sanctification as they have of justification,” meaning that as completely as the guilt of their sin is put away by the blood, so completely has the sin itself disappeared from their hearts. Wesley did not say to these people “You deceive yourselves, and the truth is not in you.” The Apostle John would have said this, because God said it. Wesley, on the contrary, said, “Now in this I do rejoice, and will rejoice, call it what you please.”

In vain did he have sad lessons from experience, as well as sad warnings from his friends. One girl told him she never had a murmuring thought, felt no pride, no fretfulness or peevishness, no self-will, and had no desire but that the will of God should be done. He has to relate of her afterward, “I fear now she has no religion at all!” at which people who read the Bible under the teaching of the Spirit will not be surprised.

It is sorrowful but needful to tell these sins and follies into which so devoted a servant of God was permitted to fall. It is true that many of those who blamed him had fallen into opposite errors, and errors no less terrible. Those who say that the believer has no power over sin, that he is still in bondage to his evil nature, that he is still unable, even by the mighty power of the Holy Ghost, to do that which is pleasing to God, and that the good he would he cannot do, are contradicting the plain word of God just as much as John Wesley. God has left us no excuse for sinning, for which reason we should humble ourselves before Him ten thousand times the more, knowing how often that glorious power with which He strengthens us is left unused, because of our unbelief. “I can do all things through Christ, who strengtheneth me,” is as true now as it was 1800 years ago; but it is equally true that “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves.” Thus, whilst Wesley believed in Christ he had not cast away his own thoughts and reasonings. It is only as far as we do so, that we make Christ known.

Divisions

It was in consequence of the paper published by Wesley, in 1770, that the Methodists, who had received the truth through Whitefield, separated themselves from those who are now called the Wesleyan Methodists. Berridge, Romaine, Howell Harris, Hill, Toplady, Venn, and Lady Huntingdon, took an active part in this separation. Of those who agreed with Wesley, the chief was Mr. Fletcher, afterward the clergyman of Madeley in Shropshire. He was, therefore, removed by Lady Huntingdon from her college at Trevecca, of which he had been the head. This college, formerly an old castle, had been opened by Lady Huntingdon in 1768, when the six students were expelled from Oxford. She meant it to be a place where young men might have Christian training to fit them for the ministry of the gospel. It was plain from what had happened, that neither Oxford nor Cambridge were likely to furnish anything much better than heathen training; Mr. Berridge did not quite approve of the plan. He thought it best to leave such training to the Lord Jesus, who could, he said, “glean up ministering servants when and where He pleased.” He reminded Lady Huntingdon that when Elijah was to have a successor, God did not take one out of “the school of the prophets” at Bethel, but chose a man from behind the plow. However, Lady Huntingdon had her college, which was afterward removed from Trevecca to Cheshunt, where it is still to be found. Howell Harris meantime had built an enormous house at Trevecca for the Lord’s work, though how it was to be used he had no definite idea. Scarcely was it finished, when families came from all parts of Wales desiring to settle at Trevecca to be taught by Harris. He lodged them in the house, and it became a sort of mission-station, whence laborers of all sorts were sent forth to work for God; but in the year 1773, Howell Harris was called away. The year following, our old friend, John Nelson, also departed to be with Christ. Martha was not long separated from her good husband. Two months later, September, 1774, she was laid by his side in Birstal churchyard.

I am sorry to have to tell you that the disputes between the Wesleyan and Calvinistic Methodists, which became so violent in the year 1770, lasted with increasing violence for at least six years. They ended in an almost entire separation of the one party from the other. Wesley said that the paper, of which I told you, and which had given rise to the disputes, was quite misunderstood by the Calvinistic Methodists. He had, soon after publishing it, signed a paper, written by Lady Huntingdon’s cousin, Mr. Shirley.

This good man was a clergyman who had been much used by God in the conversion of sinners. He was one of the most remarkable of the Methodist preachers. He had written the paper, of which I am telling you, in the name of John Wesley. It was as follows—“We,” (i.e. John Wesley and others, who had joined in publishing the former paper), “do declare that we had no such meaning as to favor justification by works, and that we abhor it as a most perilous and abominable doctrine; and we hereby solemnly declare, in the sight of God, that we have no trust or confidence, but in the alone merits of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, for justification or salvation; and, though no one is a real Christian believer (and consequently cannot be saved), who doeth not good works when there is time and opportunity, yet, our works have no part in meriting or purchasing our justification, from first to last, either in whole or in part.” This was just what Wesley himself had taught many years before and he said that it was what he still believed. But many of the Methodists said, very truly, that, if he believed it, he ought to own that the paper he had published before, and which had been so much blamed, was wrong. They were not satisfied with his signing the paper written by Mr. Shirley, unless he also made this acknowledgment. But Wesley, on the contrary, required that Mr. Shirley should make a written acknowledgment that he had mistaken the meaning of the paper which had given such offense. Mr. Shirley was willing, for the sake of peace, to make this acknowledgment. It is not wonderful that many of the Methodists were deeply grieved and much dissatisfied with this. If Wesley’s paper did not mean what it said, and said very plainly too, it must, to say the least, have been very badly expressed, and was very likely to mislead people. The error, too, which it in any case appeared to contain, was one so grievous, and so dishonoring to Christ, that it is a cause for thankfulness to find so many among the Methodists who were grieved and displeased at it. And one cannot but fear that Wesley must have been more anxious to defend himself, than to avoid the smallest risk of dishonoring the blessed work of Christ.

The heart, which is deceitful above all things, still exists, even in the children of God, and the moment that Christ is not with us, the one object, our eyes become dim and clouded, and we do harm, even without intending it, to the cause of God. I cannot, therefore, give you a truthful account of all these matters without owning that the Calvinistic Methodists, as they were called, showed far more faithfulness of heart to Christ on this occasion than did those who differed from them. But it must be owned of both that, in blaming one another, they spoke violently, angrily, and bitterly, forgetting that the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. You will be grieved, but scarcely surprised, to hear of these errors and sins, unless you had expected to hear that the Methodists were perfect people. Whilst in some respects they were a bright example, in others they are a sad warning. There has been but one Man walking this earth who has been to us a bright example, and that only. It is but fair to add that there were, no doubt, some among the Calvinistic Methodists who went beyond the plain word of God in explaining how the sinner is saved.

Those who simply taught that salvation is entirely and wholly of the Lord, that man has no more share in saving himself than in creating himself, but that from first to last all is the work of God, were merely saying what the word of God plainly declares. When a man is born again, it is “not of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.” If it depended on our will we should be lost forever. Nor is it by our feelings, nor our doings. It is “Not that we loved God, but that He loved us.” It is “Not of works, lest any man should boast.”

But some of the Calvinistic Methodists added words of their own to the plain statements of the Bible. Some of them denied that God made any offer of mercy to sinners, except in the case of such as were chosen by Him before the foundation of the world. If this were true there would be no such sin as that of which Christ speaks in the 12th chapter of John—the sin of rejecting Him. If it were true, we should not read of the gracious invitation, “Come, for all things are now ready,” sent to those who all with one consent began to make excuse, and never came at all. Of them the Lord said, “none of them who were bidden shall taste of My supper.”

Some, too, of the Calvinistic Methodists, who were right in saying that our feelings and behavior have no share in saving us, seem to have gone further, and to have said it mattered not what our feelings or behavior were. They thus made the grace of God an excuse for sin. Let us ask to be kept from turning to the right hand or to the left. And let us be thankful that God tells us not only that Christ Himself has finished the work which saves us, but that He gives to us that eternal life which is in His Son, so that we can feel, think, speak, and act according to the mind of God, the Holy Spirit working in us to will and to do of His good pleasure. It must have been a joyful thing for Howell Harris and John Nelson to be called away from the sorrow and strife of the wilderness. But they were deeply mourned by those who were left behind. We read of the thousands who followed them to the grave, with tears, and yet with hymns of praise.

Wesley, meanwhile, grew stronger in his old age than ever he had been before. “My sight,” he writes, in 1774, “is considerably better now, and my nerves firmer than 30 years ago. I have none of the infirmities of old age, and have lost several I had in my youth. The grand cause is the good pleasure of God, who doeth whatsoever pleaseth Him. The chief means are—1. My constant rising at four for about 50 years. 2. My generally preaching at five in the morning, one of the most healthy exercises in the world. 3. My never traveling less, by sea or land, than 4500 miles in a year.” To this we might add his extremely temperate habits, which must have been a great means of keeping him in health.

There was not much opportunity for self-indulgent habits in the case of a man who, whatever his income, made a rule to spend no more upon himself than £28 each year. It is true that sum would go about twice as far then as it would now; but, allowing for that, it was indeed small to pay the expenses of a man who was constantly employed in riding about the country. Whilst spending so little upon himself, he probably gave away in the course of his life about £30,000.

Working in Old Age

About the year 1774 some friends made him a present of a carriage, which he used in places where carriages could go; but, as you know, many of his journeys would have been impossible, except on horseback. Sometimes even a horse could not get along, and then he walked. Sometimes, from riding bad horses, he had tumbles of all sorts, but was never seriously hurt. About this time, however, he had the worst illness he had ever yet had. It was caused by sleeping on the grass in an orchard in Ireland. For more than a fortnight he was laid up with fever, delirium, convulsions, and other alarming symptoms. His usual remedies failed him entirely. They were generally peculiar ones. He would put treacle on the soles of his feet, or drink treacle and water. This time he only got worse, till he became partly unconscious, which was a happy thing for him, as a kind friend took that opportunity of making him swallow a cup of medicine, which effectually cured him, under God’s blessing; and, before the end of three weeks from the beginning of this terrible illness, we find him preaching again.

As he went again and again from one end to the other of the three kingdoms, he found matters much changed since he began these long and ceaseless journeys. “People,” he says, “who were 35 years ago as wild as bears, were now quiet and attentive.” In Cornwall he found the first Methodists now gray-headed people, but thousands had been added to their number. At Gwennap, in Cornwall, is a hollow in the hills, in the form of a horseshoe. Here the crowds would sit around him, one row above another, so that twenty thousand or more could hear at the same time. “I think,” he says, “this is the most magnificent spectacle which is to be seen on this side heaven. And no music is to be heard upon earth comparable to the sound of many thousand voices, when they are all harmoniously joined together, singing praises to God and the Lamb.” At 73, he says, “I am far abler to preach than at 23.” He had scarce a sign of old age except the long, white hair which flowed upon his shoulders. One reason for this continued strength was, no doubt, his freedom from care and anxiety. “Ten thousand cares,” he said, “trouble me no more than ten thousand hairs upon my head. I feel and grieve, but fret at nothing.” It would be well if we all thus learned to cast all our care on Him who careth for us. At Moorfields thousands upon thousands still came to listen. “Not only violence and rioting,” he says, “but even scoffing at field preachers is now over.” In most places the crowds seemed to increase year after year, and Wesley had no thought either of making shorter or easier journeys. Through snow, rain, wind, and mud, over mountains, and over water, he seemed still able to travel on without a thought of weariness, preaching three or sometimes four times each day.

At 75, he says, of an Oxfordshire village, “How gladly could I spend a few weeks in this delightful solitude; but I must not rest yet. As long as God gives me strength to labor I am to use it.” About this time the old Foundry was given up, a new chapel having been built. Wesley had no home and needed none.

It would have been well had he understood that other preachers were as accountable to God for their preaching and their journeys as he himself was. But one of his rules for the Methodist preachers had long been, “Above all, you are to preach when and where I appoint.” This rule caused much confusion and trouble. He had, of course, no more right to direct other preachers than they had to direct him; and the same God on whom he depended himself for guidance, was equally able to direct them. But, alas! how often we think the path of faith an impossible, or, at least, an inexpedient path. We find, at the age of 78, the Isle of Man added to Wesley’s large parish. And, just before he was 80, he relates how he fell backwards down stairs, head foremost, and went on his way none the worse for it. God had still work for him to do. He was still as strong as at 25.

Meantime other preachers were passing away, and their places supplied by fresh converts. Amongst the most remarkable of these was the wicked slave-dealer, John Newton, who, after an ungodly, seafaring life, became a devoted preacher of the gospel. He, with the poet Cowper, made the collection of hymns called the Olney Hymns, Olney being the parish of which Newton had become the clergyman. Several of these hymns were written by Cowper, who appears to have been truly converted through his acquaintance with the Methodists. But Cowper was, at times, in great darkness of mind, on account of disease of the brain. Some of the Olney Hymns are very dear to God’s people, and deserve to be. You will remember, no doubt, “God moves in a mysterious way,” and “How sweet the name of Jesus sounds.” But others in the same book are very cheerless and sad. On the whole we have to thank the Methodists, Charles Wesley especially, for a great number of the hymns we now have amongst us.

It must have been pleasant to hear the singing of so many voices at the open-air preachings—sometimes “in a green meadow, gilded by the rays of the setting sun;” sometimes on the seashore, sometimes on the fells and moors. But Wesley’s journeys, at the age of 80, extended into a new field, into scenes very unlike any he had hitherto beheld. In 1783 he set off for Holland. He seems to have been delighted with the Dutch people, who came in crowds to listen. He had, of course, to preach by an interpreter. He found many earnest Christians amongst them, and seemed surprised that, “without any rule but the word of God,” they should dress as plainly as the English Methodists, who were put under rules made by man. How well would it be if Christian people, who like rules, would begin by observing carefully all the rules made by God. They would find, when they had done this, that God has left nothing out. Wesley often remarked how well it was that he had made rules for the Methodists regarding another point—namely, that of meeting together in classes to read and pray. But it would have been better had he reminded any of God’s people, who were not in the habit of doing this, that God Himself has commanded it; and, had Wesley never lived, they were as much bound to do it as any Methodists who were put under rule. Look at Hebrews 10:25; 1 Thessalonians 5:11; Colossians 3:16, and you will see what God has said on this matter. Wesley, however, went so far as to preach on Jeremiah 35, putting it to his hearers that they were more bound to observe his directions as to dress, early rising, etc., than the Rechabites were to obey their father Jonadab.

At the age of 81 we find him, strong as ever, fording the Findhorn through the melting snow, walking twelve and a-half miles without the least fatigue, preaching at five every morning, and often twice afterward, by sunlight and moonlight, and, when there was neither sun nor moon, still riding through wind and rain, and never tired. But whilst rejoicing over his zeal and diligence, we meet with strange remarks in his journal from time to time. He found forty people, all in one town, “who had a clear witness of being saved from inbred sin.” They told him so, and he gladly believed it. Very sad is an entry in his journal soon after. He preached in Newgate to forty-seven criminals who were all going to be hanged. Twenty were hanged at once a few days after. Just at this time we hear of his spending five days in walking about the London streets when they were ankle deep in melting snow. Bad as London streets are now in a thaw, they were far worse in those days. Wesley did this in order to collect money from house to house to clothe poor Methodists. He had collected £200 when Saturday came, but had a fit of illness from the chill it gave him. However, on Monday he started afresh on a preaching journey and soon after we find him in Ireland preaching four times a day; and later, in Cornwall, where “thousands upon thousands” came to hear, we find him preaching by the roadside for two hours without ceasing; though, just as he began, a wasp had stung him on the lip. “It is now twelve years,” he writes, on entering his 83rd year, “since I have felt any such sensation as weariness. I am never tired, either with writing, preaching, or traveling.”

"They Rest From Their Labours"

And when past 83 Wesley started for a second journey to Holland. The traveling in Holland was chiefly in large boats, on canals. He would then get his companions to join in singing hymns, or he would preach to those on board. In addition to the preaching, he soon after began to write the life of Fletcher, his old friend at Madeley. “To this,” he says, “I gave all the time I could spare, from five in the morning till eight at night.” But he still continued to preach three times a day, beginning at five each morning. We find, too, that many of his nights were spent in mail coaches, and that upsets and breakdowns were common events. But all came alike to the cheerful old man, who felt sure at all times the Lord was caring for him. He remarks that, in all his fifty years of ceaseless traveling, he had never once fallen in with highwaymen. Those of you who know the state of England a hundred years ago, will understand how strange this seemed to all who knew not the loving care which the Lord has for His people who trust in Him. At the age of 84 a fresh scene was added to his preaching tours. He started in stormy weather for the Channel Islands, and was there weather-bound for a while. Not being able to return to Southampton, from contrary winds, he started in a French ship bound for Penzance. Great was the joy, and great the wonder of the many Cornish Methodists when he landed thus unexpectedly amongst them, and the “pit” of Gwennap was made to contain 1,000 more than ever before. Yet all could hear in the still, calm evening. Soon after this we hear, for the last time, of the two brothers preaching together. This was at Bristol. Charles’s work was nearly done. The following year, six months afterward, Charles Wesley slept in Jesus, at the age of 80. His life had, for some years, been a sorrowful one, and this partly through his own mistakes in the education of his two sons, Charles and Samuel. The two boys were remarkable for extraordinary musical talent. Such a talent is useful, when employed, as all talents should be, in the service of God. But the boys were allowed, or rather encouraged, to make a display of their musical genius before the world. This led them into ungodly company. Charles was steady, and well-behaved, but without any sign of love to God. Samuel became a Papist, and lived a life of sin. It was against the repeated warnings of John Wesley that his nephews had been thus brought up for the world, and Charles had to reap the bitter fruits. We find in one of his poems how deep was his sorrow and remorse. John Wesley, too, must have grieved deeply over his nephews. We find in his journal how fond he ever was of children. It was one of his great joys in traveling about to meet with children who loved God.

At Bolton we find in 1788, he met with 30 or 40 children, who were in the habit of meeting together to pray and sing hymns, and who would spend their play time in visiting the poor, who were sick, in the town. Children were always fond of the kind old man, with such a happy face, and pleasant ways. Sometimes they would crowd around him, at an open-air preaching, each anxious to shake him by the hand, till he says he could hardly get loose from them. One little girl sat up all night, and afterward walked two miles to see him. Great was her joy when her kind old friend took her into his carriage to have a talk with him as he drove along. We hear more than once, about this time, of the floors of the preaching-rooms giving way from the crowds who came.

But no one seems ever to have been seriously hurt, nor was the preaching stopped. Wesley would remove to some spot outside the house, some “shady grove” or pleasant orchard, and there have fresh crowds added to those who were already gathered. On his 84th birthday he writes that weariness is still unknown to him. But he has now, from time to time, a pain in his eye. “Whether,” he says, “this is sent to give me warning that I am shortly to quit this tabernacle, I do not know, but, be it one way or the other, I have only to say—

“My remnant of days
I spend to His praise,
Who died, the whole world to redeem.
Be they many or few
My days are His due,
And they all are devoted to Him.’”

At Raithby he says, “An earthly paradise! How gladly would I rest here a few days; but it is not my place! I am to be a wanderer upon earth. Only let me find rest in a better world!” He still often visited Epworth, where there was now a new clergyman, Mr. Gibson, of whom Wesley says “he is not a pious man, but rather an enemy to piety, who frequently preaches against the truth, and those that love and hold it.” Yet, strange to say, Wesley adds that he used all his efforts to persuade the Methodists to attend the church where Mr. Gibson thus preached, and was much grieved that they refused to do so. We see that Wesley was not in all matters a safe guide. He had prejudices which he never shook off. But it would be well if we all followed him in his untiring devotedness. We read, when he was past 85, “My friends, more kind than wise, would scarce suffer me to walk to Bristol. It seemed so sad a thing to walk five or six miles! I am ashamed that a Methodist preacher, in tolerable health, should make any difficulty of this.” Later on, we find him preaching at four in the morning on Christmas-day, and twice afterward, and still sometimes four times a day, and, in addition, spending a part of the night in singing hymns with his companions in the mail-coach. At this time his constant companion was a preacher, called Joseph Bradford, who was, generally speaking, devoted to Wesley, but, at the same time, he could be cross and sullen. Wesley told him once to take some letters to the post. Bradford said he would first hear Wesley preach, and would go afterward, and when Wesley would not consent to this, Bradford refused to go at all. “Then,” said Wesley, “you and I must part.”

“Very good,” said Bradford coolly. Next morning, Wesley asked him if he had thought over the matter. “Yes,” said Bradford, in a sullen manner.

“And must we part?” asked Wesley.

“Please yourself,” said the provoking Bradford.

“Will you beg my pardon?” said Wesley.

“No,” replied Bradford.

“You won’t?”

“No,” repeated Bradford.

“Then I will beg yours,” said Wesley. Poor Bradford now cried like a child, so much was he ashamed of himself.

I should be glad if, in this matter, you would follow the example of Wesley, whenever it happens that a “Bradford” comes in the way.

We hear, when nearly 86, that Wesley had “a day of rest,” by which he meant that he only preached twice, and did nothing beside. But his journeys were neither shorter nor fewer; 70 or 80 miles a day was no uncommon distance. But he owns, when 86, that he now grows old, and can only trust in the Lord to keep him from growing “stubborn” or “peevish.” But 70 miles one day, and 80 the next, preaching besides, soon follow in his journal, and preachings in Cornwall to multitudes larger than ever, on the smooth hill-tops, in the pit at Gwennap, in the market-places and the streets. At the end of this year, when past 86, he begins to think he must cease from preaching more than twice a day, but resolves to begin again the morning preachings at five, which, for some weeks, he had made over to other preachers. At last, January 1st, 1790, he writes, “I am now an old man, decayed from head to foot. My eyes are dim, my right hand shakes much, my mouth is hot and dry every morning, my motion is weak and slow. However, blessed be God, I do not slack my labor.” Nor did he. We find him soon in Scotland, and preaching three times a day, and later in the summer, after endless wanderings, at Epworth. It was his last visit to the place which, “above all others,” he says, “he loved.”

Nor had his labors there been lost. Even in the spinning and weaving factories, where the boys and girls were employed, and where wicked and profane talk had been heard from morning to night, there was now scarce an idle word to be heard at all, but the praises of God and holy conversation. Soon after we find Wesley well soaked from head to foot in an open boat, in which he crossed from the Isle of Wight to Portsmouth. This was in the autumn of 1790. A few days afterward, under a large tree at Winchelsea, he preached his last out-of-door sermon. But the in-door sermons continued, twice a day, as before; and on October 24th, 1790, after journeying through Norfolk, we find the last entry in his strange journal. Such a journal as no one else could ever have written. But though the journal ends, the preaching continues as before. Early in the spring of 1791 he caught a cold, but though ill and feverish, he set off for a preaching journey. On Wednesday, February 23rd, he preached at Leatherhead the last of his 42,400 sermons (counting only those that he had preached since returning from Georgia). He preached upon the text. “Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near.” And then the voice, which had sounded the good news so far and wide for 53 years, was heard no more. When Sunday came, he got up, but could not leave his room. He repeated the words—

“’Till glad I lay this body down,
Thy servant, Lord, attend;
And O, my life of mercy crown
With a triumphant end.”

He tried to talk to his friends, but was too weak. As he lay on his bed they prayed around him. He then said, “There is no need for more than what I said at Bristol, my words then were—

“I, the chief of sinners am,
But Jesus died for me.”

This he repeated again in the evening. And the next day he said, when in a half slumber, “There is no way into the holiest but by the blood of Jesus.” This he repeated again and again as he aroused himself. “We have boldness to enter,” he said, “boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus.” When Tuesday came, he was fast sinking, but happy as ever—no doubt happier than ever; he began the day by singing hymns, amongst others one of his brother Charles’s. Finding he could speak no longer without difficulty, he asked for a pen and ink, but he could not write. A friend said he would write for him—what did he want to say? “Nothing,” said Wesley, “but that God is with us.” And after a while he began to sing again—

“I’ll praise my Maker while I’ve breath,
And when my voice is lost in death,
Praise shall employ my nobler powers;
My days of praise shall ne’er be past,
While life, and thought, and being last,
Or immortality endures!”

After this, he shook hands with the friends who said they had come to rejoice with him, saying, “Farewell—the best of all is, God is with us. He causeth His servants to lie down in peace. The clouds drop fatness.” And again he tried to sing. The next morning, as Joseph Bradford was praying with him, he said, “Farewell,” and departed to be with the Lord.

He had often prayed that his work and his life might close together, and so it was. One who was with him that last day, says, “The solemnity of the dying hour of that great and good man, will be ever written on my heart. A cloud of the Divine presence rested on all, and while he could hardly be said to be an inhabitant of earth, being now speechless, and his eyes fixed, victory and glory were written on his countenance, and quivering, as it were, on his dying lips. No language can paint what appeared in that face. The more we gazed upon it, the more we saw of heaven unspeakable.”

He was buried in the City Road Chapel about five in the morning. How soon will the day come when his body shall rise in glory, and be caught up to meet the Lord in the air, and to be forever with Him! Thus ended this life of long and devoted service. No doubt when the Lord comes from heaven with a shout, and the voice of the archangel, and the trumpet of God, multitudes will arise from the towns and the villages of England, who learned the blessed gospel from the lips of John Wesley. When first he went forth to preach, England was lying in thick darkness. The darkness of Popery was gone, but those who had ceased to be Papists had not cared to be Christians. If they went to church, it was to talk to their friends, to sleep, or even to play cards. It is hard to say whether it would have been sadder to look behind the curtains of the high pews, or to endeavor to listen to the dull, heathenish sermon, which was about everything, or anything, except Christ. It had been as life from the dead, on the days when first Whitefield, then Wesley and the army of Methodist preachers, so suddenly raised up, had preached Christ, and Him crucified, to the baptized heathens around them. And now, when Wesley’s labor ended, there was not a corner left in the three kingdoms in which the name of Christ was not made known; on hill-tops, by road-sides, in market-places, in meeting houses, in barns and meadows, in streets and lanes. The Methodists were everywhere—still a despised people. All the better for them that so it was. But the word of the Lord had free course and was glorified. It was thus that God had mercy upon England, and it is thus that the gospel of God is still made known, in many a place where otherwise it would not be heard.

But, alas, it is needful to add that this blessed work would have been far deeper, and far more to the glory of God, had Wesley been more careful as to the belief of those whom he taught. In the first place he needed to know the way of God more perfectly himself, but, besides this, he seems to have been strangely indifferent as to whether the Methodists really believed what God has said on every point. We find him writing, in praise of the Methodists, “They alone, of all societies, do not insist on your holding this or that opinion; but they think, and let think. Neither do they impose any particular mode of worship, but you may continue to worship in your former manner, be it what it may. Now I do not know any other religious society, either ancient or modern, wherein such liberty of conscience is now allowed, or has been allowed since the age of the apostles. Here is our glorying and a glorying peculiar to us.” And again, “I have never read or heard of, either in ancient or modern history, any other church which builds on so broad a foundation as the Methodists do; which requires of its members no conformity, either in opinions or modes of worship, but barely this one thing, to fear God, and work righteousness.”

It seems wonderful that a man who really did preach salvation more or less clearly through the precious blood of Christ, could speak thus approvingly of the great sin of setting up man’s opinion, instead of insisting that every imagination should be cast down, and every thought brought into captivity to the obedience of Christ. The gospel is not a set of opinions, but a history of facts, told to us by God Himself, and to have an opinion at all about it is simply unbelief. Look at the account given by the Holy Ghost of the gospel preached by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15, you will find it at the beginning of the chapter. Paul did not preach his opinions, nor anybody’s opinions, he simply told of Christ, His death, and His resurrection. He told of what God had done, and of what God will do. And it was not a matter of indifference whether people believed it or not. Had our forefathers, 350 years ago, been content to leave men to their own opinions, and to worship God according to the devices and desires of their own hearts, Wesley would, as far as man can see, have had no gospel to preach, and no Bible to preach from. And though it is not on record that any man or woman was converted through the preaching of Ridley or of Latimer, we see now that they did a greater work for God as they stood in the fire in the Broad Street at Oxford, than Wesley did in the fifty-three years of his ceaseless preaching.

Latimer was right when he said, in the midst of the fire, “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man, we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” And thus the Bible was won for England, and the way was cleared for those who should afterward go forth to preach the gospel, which had been brought to light again by the work of these faithful men. And I would have you remark that the work of Ridley, of Latimer, and of the other Reformers, was a higher and a deeper work than that of the Methodists, for one simple reason, the Reformers put the truth of God in the first place, the blessing of man in the second; but the blessing to man was all the greater for that very reason. The Methodists were too apt to consider the blessing of man the chief object, and to be less anxious as to the truth of God. At the same time, we see how the great work of the Reformers seemed to have all but perished two hundred years later, for want of faithful men to preach the blessed tidings. It would have been but of little service that the Reformers had, so to speak, filled the barns with plenty, had there been no willing hands and feet to take the bread from house to house. Therefore, let us fervently thank God for that great work of the Spirit done in our land in the century that is past, and let us also take warning by the mistakes of Wesley. Let us learn to put God’s truth first, and having done that, be diligent in making it known to perishing souls around.

Before I finish this history, I will add that little more than three months after the death of John Wesley, good Lady Huntingdon was called away. She died at the age of 84, on the 17th of June, saying, “My work is done; I have nothing to do but to go to my Father.” She, too, had traveled about from one end of the land to the other, for many years, taking with her preachers who were much used by God. Two only of our old friends remained, though, as you know there were many, very many, Methodist preachers of whom I have not given you the history. Our two old friends were good Mr. Berridge, and Rowland Hill. Mr. Berridge lived nearly two years after the death of John Wesley. He died at Everton. A friend who was with him, said to him, “Jesus will soon call you up higher.” He replied, “Ay, ay, ay, higher, higher, higher. Yes, and my children too will shout and sing, ‘Here comes our father!’” With these words, John Berridge fell asleep. He meant, as you know, by his children, those who had been saved by his preaching.

There was a part of the churchyard where only people were buried, who had been hanged or had killed themselves. For this reason nobody liked to bury their friends there. Mr. Berridge thought this was a pity, and therefore desired to be buried there himself, that he might “consecrate” it, as he said. I will tell you his epitaph, written by himself, for it is worth your attention.

“Here lie the earthly remains of John Berridge, late Vicar of Everton, and an itinerant servant of Jesus Christ; who loved his Master and His work, and after running on His errands many years, was called up to wait on Him above.
“Reader, Art thou born again?”

“No salvation without a new birth!

“I was born in sin, Feb. 1716.
“Remained ignorant of my fallen state till 1730.
“Lived proudly on Faith and Works for Salvation till 1754.
“Admitted to Everton Vicarage, 1755.
“Fled to Jesus alone for refuge, 1756.
“Fell asleep in Christ, Jan. 22, 1793.”

Do not forget the epitaph of John Berridge.

Rowland Hill lived to be nearly 90. He died in 1833. It would indeed be a blessed thing if all who read this little history of the Methodists would, like the good men of whom I have told you, “flee to Jesus,” as John Berridge said, to be saved by him alone; and being saved, seek earnestly to learn the whole revealed will of God, to learn His truth, and to know Christ. This can only be by the teaching of the Spirit out of God’s written Word. And lastly, having learned from the Word, and being guided by the Spirit, would that all such would then make Christ known as God gives them the ability and the opportunity, remembering that as Christ was sent into the world to reveal the Father, so is every servant of God now sent into the world that Christ, by the Spirit, may shine forth through him, and that he may show forth Christ by word and work all day and every day. Our time, and all that we are and have, is just as much the Lord’s as were the time and the talents of John Wesley. Our work may be different, but let us see to it that it is no less done in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by Him.

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The Story of John Wesley