The life and times of the Rev. John Wesley, M.A., founder of the Methodists. Vol. 3 (of 3)

Only two months of Wesley’s eventful life are left unnarrated. The following letters, belonging to this period, will be read with interest.

The first was addressed to Adam Clarke, who, in Dublin, had buried his eldest daughter, and was himself dangerously afflicted with rheumatic affection in the head.⁠[768]

The next has not before been published. It was written to Thomas Taylor, then in the Hull circuit. Dr. King was made archbishop of Dublin in 1702, and died in 1729. He was author of “De Origine Mali,” written to prove, that the existence of natural and moral evil is not incompatible with the power and goodness of the Deity, and may be accounted for without the supposition of an evil principle.

The next letter, addressed to Miss Bolton of Witney, contains an important reference to Wesley’s state of health.

The following was addressed to the wife of Adam Clarke, and refers to her husband’s serious affliction, as well as to the loss of their daughter.

John Booth was now assistant in Keighley circuit, and to him was addressed the following.

Miss Cambridge was an Irish Methodist, twenty-nine years of age, and had established meetings in various parts of the town of Bandon, at which she prayed and occasionally exhorted. She had also held similar meetings at Kinsale, Youghal, and other places. Many of the Methodists, and some of the Methodist preachers, pronounced her public addresses to be entirely irregular, and what ought not to be tolerated in the Christian church. She wrote to Wesley for advice; and received the following reply,—Wesley’s last utterance on female preaching.

Ezekiel Cooper was the son of an officer in the army of the American revolution, and was now twenty-eight years of age, and a Methodist preacher at Annapolis. He was a man of great mental vigour and versatility, almost unequalled in debate, and was called, by the American Methodists, Lycurgus, in reference to his profound wisdom. He was a diligent student, and a close observer of men and things, lived a long life of celibacy, was frugal to a fault, left behind him an estate of about fifty thousand dollars, and died in 1847, the oldest Methodist preacher in the world. When he entered the ministry in 1783, the American Methodists numbered eighty-three preachers, and fifteen thousand members; when he died, their ministry numbered five thousand, and their membership above a million.⁠[775] To him Wesley wrote the last letter which he posted to America.

Such was Wesley’s dying legacy to the transatlantic Methodists.

The next is brief, but full of interest. For many years Wesley had been accustomed to leave London, on, or about, the 1st of March, for what he was accustomed to call his long journey, to the north, or to Ireland. Though so aged and feeble, he fully intended to do the same again; and Henry Moore relates, that, in reference to this, he actually sent his chaise and his horses before him to Bristol, and took places for himself and his friends in the Bath coach; but, almost on the very day when he purposed to begin afresh his “long journey” on earth, the venerable pilgrim left earth for heaven.

The letter was addressed to Mr. York, of Stourport; but was not sent. At the bottom of it is the last line that Wesley ever wrote.

In a letter, given on page 622, Mr. Thomas Roberts was directed, in an emergency, to leave Bristol for Haverfordwest circuit. He went, and had to encounter difficulties. Wesley now wrote to him as follows.

The original, from which this is copied, was written by an amanuensis, but is signed in Wesley’s own tremulous handwriting.

We have already seen that Adam Clarke had been dangerously ill in Dublin. In fact, it was reported in England that he was dead; and William Stevens actually preached his funeral sermon in the isle of Jersey. He was now slowly recovering, had entered himself a medical student in Trinity college, Dublin, and had founded a “Strangers’ Friend Society,” like those already instituted in London, and in Bristol.⁠[778] To him Wesley now addressed the following.

Wesley was quite ready to “cross seas,” as he had already done so often, in his Master’s service; but he might well doubt his ability. Exactly three weeks after writing thus to Adam Clarke, he crossed the dark river of death.

For sixty-five years, Wesley had been an earnest, laborious, self denying, and unceasing preacher of “the glorious gospel of the blessed God”; and, notwithstanding his extreme age and feebleness, he continued in his beloved employ until within seven days of his decease. The following was his last week of public labour.

On Thursday, February 17, he preached at Lambeth, then a thriving suburban village, from the text, “Labour not for the meat which perisheth; but for that which endureth to everlasting life.” Returning home, he seemed to be unwell, and said he had taken cold.

Friday the 18th, he read and wrote as usual, dined at Mr. Urling’s, and preached at Chelsea, in the evening, from the words, “The king’s business requireth haste.” Once or twice he was obliged to stop, and to tell the people that his cold so affected his voice as to prevent his speaking without these necessary pauses. He had, as usual, arranged to meet the classes for the renewal of their tickets; but was persuaded to leave this part of his work to his companions, James Rogers, and Joseph Bradford.

Saturday, the 19th, was principally employed in reading and writing. The following was addressed to Mrs. Susanna Knapp, of Worcester, and shows his unquenchable Christian ardour.

On the same day, Wesley went out to dinner, at Mrs. Griffith’s, Islington, and, while there, desired a friend to read to him the fourth and three following chapters of the book of Job, containing the speech of Eliphaz, and the answer of Job, and strikingly appropriate to the case of a dying man. After dinner, he purposed to meet the penitents at City Road, but was prevailed on to allow Mr. Brackenbury to take his place.

Next morning (Sunday) he rose, at his usual hour, but was utterly unfit for the sabbath services. At seven o’clock, he was obliged to lie down again; and slept for above three hours. In the afternoon, he had again to go to bed; had another sleep; and then, after two of his own sermons had been read to him, came downstairs to supper.

On Monday, the 21st, he seemed better, and, despite persuasion, would fulfil an engagement he had made to dine at Twickenham. His niece, Miss Sarah Wesley, and Miss Ritchie, went with him. On the way he called upon Lady Mary Fitzgerald, and conversed and prayed most sweetly.

Tuesday, the 22nd, he proceeded with his usual work; dined at Mr. Horton’s, Islington; and preached in City Road chapel, from, “We through the Spirit wait for the hope of righteousness by faith.” After this, he met the leaders.

Wednesday, February 23, he arose at four a.m., as he also did the day following, and, accompanied by Mr. Rogers, set out to Leatherhead, eighteen miles from London, to visit a magistrate, in whose dining room he preached, from “Seek ye the Lord while He may be found; call upon Him while He is near.” This was Wesley’s last sermon.

Thursday, February 24, he spent with his old friend, Mr. Wolff, at Balham, where he was cheerful, and seemed nearly as well as usual.⁠[781]

During the day, he wrote his last letter, which was addressed to Wilberforce, who had brought before parliament the question, which Wesley was one of the first to advocate, the abolition of slavery.

Friday, February 25, Mr. Wolff having brought him home, to City Road, Wesley went upstairs, and requested that, for half an hour, he should be left alone. When the time expired, faithful Joseph Bradford found him so unwell, that he sent for Dr. Whitehead. “Doctor,” said the dying patriarch, “they are more afraid than hurt.”

Saturday, February 26, was principally passed in drowsiness and sleep.

Sunday morning, February 27, he seemed better, got up, sat in his chair, looked cheerful, and repeated, from one of his brother’s hymns,⁠—

And then, soon after, with marked emphasis, he said, “Our friend Lazarus sleepeth.” His niece, Miss Wesley, and Miss Ritchie prayed with him. “When at Bristol,” said he, alluding to his illness there in 1753, “my words were,

Miss Ritchie asked, “Is that your language now?” “Yes,” said he. “Christ is all! He is all!” He then dozed, and sometimes wandered; but, in his wanderings, was always preaching or meeting classes.

On Monday, February 28, his weakness increased. Dr. Whitehead wished for further assistance. Wesley replied: “Dr. Whitehead knows my constitution better than any one. I am quite satisfied, and will have no one else.”⁠[783] Most of the day was spent in sleep. He seldom spoke; but, once, in a wakeful interval, was heard saying, in a low, distinct voice, “There is no way into the holiest, but by the blood of Jesus.” Then referring to the text, “Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich,” etc., he remarked, with solemn emphasis, “That is the foundation, the only foundation, there is no other.” It was now evident to all, that he was beginning to sleep his last sleep. His friends were intensely anxious and alarmed. Poor, broken hearted, Joseph Bradford despatched notes to the preachers, asking their prayers, in the following terms.

All was unavailing. Wesley’s work was ended. On Tuesday, March 1, after a restless night, being asked if he suffered pain, he answered, “No,” and began singing,⁠—

Here, while breathing faith and universal benevolence, his strength failed. “I want to write,” said he. A pen was put into his hand, and paper was placed before him. His hand had forgot its cunning. “I cannot,” said the dying man. “Let me write for you,” remarked Miss Ritchie: “tell me what you wish to say.” “Nothing,” he replied, “but that God is with us.”

“I will get up,” said he; and, while his friends were arranging his clothes, the happy old man again began singing,⁠—

Once more seated in his chair, he, in a weak voice, said: “Lord, Thou givest strength to those that can speak, and to those that cannot. Speak, Lord, to all our hearts, and let them know that Thou loosest tongues.” And again he began to sing, what proved to be his last song on earth:

But here his voice failed, and, after gasping for breath, he said: “Now we have done. Let us all go.”

Full of happiness, but utterly exhausted, he was put to bed, where, after a short but quiet sleep, he opened his eyes, and, addressing the weeping watchers who stood around him, said, “Pray, and praise!” and, of course, they at once complied. Then he asked Joseph Bradford about the key and contents of his bureau, remarking, “I would have all things ready for my executors. Let me be buried in nothing but what is woollen, and let my corpse be carried in my coffin into the chapel.” And then, as if no other earthly matters required his attention, he again called out, “Pray and praise!” Down fell his friends upon their knees, and fervent were the dying patriarch’s responses, especially to John Broadbent’s prayer, that God would still bless the system of doctrine and discipline, which Wesley had been the means of establishing. On rising, from prayer, each watcher drew near to the bed of the expiring saint, and, with affectionate solicitude, awaited the coming of the shining ones to conduct him home. With the utmost placidity, he saluted each one present, shook hands, and said, “Farewell! farewell!”

Conflict there was none. The scene was the peaceful setting of a glorious sun, undisturbed by the slightest soughing wind, undimmed by the smallest intervening cloud.

He tried to speak; but his friends found it difficult to make out what he meant, except that he wished his sermon on “The Love of God to Fallen Man,” founded on the text, “Not as the offence, so also is the free gift,” to be “scattered abroad, and given to everybody.”⁠[785] Seeing that those around him were at a loss to understand what he tried to say, the grand old Christian gladiator paused; and, summoning, for a final effort, all the little strength he had remaining, he exclaimed, in a tone well-nigh supernatural, “The best of all is, God is with us!” And then, after another pause, and while lifting his arm in grateful triumph, he emphatically reiterated, “The best of all is, God is with us!”

Nature was once more exhausted. Some one wetted his parched lips. “It will not do,” said he; “we must take the consequence. Never mind the poor carcase.”

James Rogers and Thomas Rankin were standing by his bed; but his sight was so nearly gone, that he was unable to recognise their features. “Who are these?” he asked. “Sir,” said Mr. Rogers, “we are come to rejoice with you; you are going to receive your crown.” “It is the Lord’s doing,” replied Wesley, “and it is marvellous in our eyes.”

Being told that his brother’s widow had come to see him, he thanked her, affectionately endeavoured to kiss her, and remarked, “He giveth His servants rest.” She wet his lips; on which he repeated his constant thanksgiving after meals: “We thank Thee, O Lord, for these and all Thy mercies. Bless the Church and king, and grant us truth and peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord, for ever and ever!” Then, pausing a little, he cried, “The clouds drop fatness.” After another pause, “The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge! Pray and praise!” And again his friends fell upon their knees.

During the night, he scores of times repeated the words, “I’ll praise. I’ll praise!” but could say nothing more. Next morning, Wednesday, March 2, Joseph Bradford prayed with him. It was a few minutes before ten o’clock. Around the bed there knelt his niece, Miss Sarah Wesley; one of his executors, Mr. Horton; his medical attendant, Dr. Whitehead; his book steward, George Whitfield; the present occupants of his house, James and Hester Ann Rogers, and their little boy; and his friends and visitors, Robert Carr Brackenbury, and Elizabeth Ritchie,—eleven persons altogether. Bradford, so long Wesley’s faithful friend and travelling companion, was the mouthpiece of the other ten. “Farewell!” cried Wesley,—the last word he uttered; and then, as Joseph Bradford was saying, “Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and this heir of glory shall come in!” Wesley gathered up his feet in the presence of his brethren; and, without a groan and without a sigh, was gone. He died about ten o’clock a.m., on Wednesday, March 2, 1791.⁠[786]

What followed? “Children!” said John Wesley’s mother, “as soon as I am dead, sing a song of praise!” As soon as Wesley himself died, his friends, standing about his corpse, sang:

And then they knelt down, and prayed, that the mantle of the ascended Elijah might rest upon his followers.⁠[787]

Wesley’s remains were interred, behind the chapel in City Road, on the 9th of March. Such was the excitement created by his death, that, within twelve hours only before the funeral took place, it was determined, in order to prevent the assembling of an inconvenient crowd, that the funereal solemnities should be performed at the early hour of five a.m. The notice to his friends was short; but hundreds attended; and to each one was given a biscuit, in an envelope, engraven with a beautifully executed portrait of the departed, dressed in canonicals, surmounted by a halo and a crown.

Much remains unsaid; but our space is gone. Whilst the present pages are passing through the press, we learn, that “a most eligible site, in Westminster Abbey, has been courteously offered,” by the dean of that noble edifice, for the erection of a “public monument” to Wesley and his brother Charles; and that arrangements are being made to secure the services of “a first class sculptor,” at the cost of about £800. Thus the wheel turns round. One hundred and thirty years ago, Wesley was shut out of every church in England; now marble medallion profiles of himself and his brother, accompanied with suitable inscriptions, are deemed deserving of a niche in England’s grandest cathedral. The man who, a century since, was the best abused man in the British isles, is now hardly ever mentioned but with affectionate respect. In the literature of the age; in its lectures and debates; in chapels and in churches; in synods, congresses, and all sorts of conferences; by the highest lords and the most illustrious commoners, the once persecuted Methodist is now extolled; and the judgment of Southey, in a letter to Wilberforce, is tacitly confirmed: “I consider Wesley as the most influential mind of the last century,—the man who will have produced the greatest effects, centuries, or perhaps millenniums hence, if the present race of men should continue so long.”

In person, Wesley was rather below the middle size, but beautifully proportioned, without an atom of superfluous flesh, yet muscular and strong; with a forehead clear and smooth, a bright, penetrating eye, and a lovely face, which retained the freshness of its complexion to the latest period of his life.

In general scholarship and knowledge, he had few superiors; whilst such was his acquaintance with the New Testament, that, when at a loss to repeat a text in the words of the authorised translation, he was never at a loss to quote it in the original Greek.

As an author, the chief characteristics of his style are brevity, perspicuity, and strength. He abhorred verboseness, and constantly endeavoured to say everything in the fewest words possible. “I never think,” said he, “of my style at all, but just set down the words that come first. Only when I transcribe anything for the press, then I think it my duty to see that every phrase be clear, pure, proper, and easy. Conciseness, which is now as it were natural to me, brings quantum sufficit of strength.” Not for want of genius, but for want of time, and for want of disposition to make it otherwise, his style is one of naked and self dependent strength, unaccompanied with gaudy colouring, and equally undiluted with the pretentious puerilities of weak and little minds. It is impossible to abridge his writings without omitting thoughts as well as words. Who can abridge Euclid’s Elements without maiming them? And who can take from the works of Wesley without reducing their specific gravity?

In the pulpit, Wesley’s attitude was graceful and easy; his action calm, natural, pleasing, and expressive; and his voice, not loud, but clear and manly. Whitefield was the greater orator; Wesley the better divine. Wesley’s preaching was without Whitefield’s Demosthenic eloquence; but it had the accuracy of a scholar, the authority of an ambassador, the unction of a saint, the power of God. It was always searching; but not often terrible and severe, except when addressed to congregations rich, respectable, and polite. “Sir,” said a friend to him, after he had preached to a genteel audience from the words, “Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?” “Sir,” said Wesley’s offended hearer, “such a sermon would have been suitable in Billingsgate; but it was highly improper here”; to whom Wesley quietly, but significantly, remarked: “If I had been in Billingsgate, my text should have been, ‘Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.’” The poor need to be told the terribleness of their danger, and the rich more; but, unfortunately, the poor hear most of this, and the rich least. Wesley was a faithful minister to both.

In social life, Wesley was a Christian gentleman, and, with perfect ease, accommodated himself to both the high and low, the rich and poor. Placid, benevolent, and full of anecdote, wit, and wisdom, his conversation was not often equalled; and was generally concluded with two or three verses of a hymn, applicable to what had just been spoken. Though never trifling, he was always cheerful; sometimes saying, “I dare no more fret than curse or swear.” His sprightliness among his friends never left him; but was as conspicuous at eighty-seven as at seventeen. He was at home in mansions, and equally in cottages; courteous to all, and especially to the young, often remarking, “I reverence the young, because they may be useful after I am dead.”

Of his piety nothing need be said. “His modesty,” writes Bradburn, “prevented him saying much concerning his own religious feelings. In public, he hardly ever spoke of the state of his own soul; but, in 1781, he told me that his experience might almost at any time be expressed in the following lines:

His industry is almost without a parallel. In many things, he was gentle and easy to be entreated; but, in his earnestness in redeeming time, he was decisive and inexorable. While kept waiting for his carriage, on one occasion, he passionately exclaimed, “I have lost ten minutes for ever!” “You have no need to be in a hurry!” said a friend: “Hurry,” he replied, “I have no time to be in a hurry.” It has been calculated, that, during the fifty years of his itinerant ministry, he travelled a quarter of a million of miles, and preached more than forty thousand sermons. In these volumes, we have seen him rising with the lark, travelling with the sun, preaching throughout the three kingdoms, and always acting in harmony with his own well known utterance, “The world is my parish!” Looking at his travelling, the marvel is how he found time to write; and, looking at his books, the marvel is how he found time to preach. His hands were always full; but his action was never fluttered. He was always moving, and yet, in the midst of his ceaseless toils, betraying no more bustle than a planet in its course. His mission was too great to allow time for trifles.

Was Wesley without faults? Not so; no man but “the Man Christ Jesus” ever was. Wesley, for instance, was naturally irritable; but even that was better than being apathetic. “Tommy,” said Wesley once, “touch that!” pointing to a dock. The itinerant did so. “Do you feel anything?” asked Wesley. “No,” replied his friend. “Touch that!” continued Wesley, pointing to a nettle. His companion obeyed, and, in consequence, was stung. “Now, Tommy,” remarked Wesley, “some men are like docks; say what you will to them, they are stupid and insensible. Others are like nettles; touch them, and they resent it. Tommy, you are a nettle; and, for my part, I would rather have to do with a nettle than a dock.”

Numberless instances of Wesley’s wit and repartee might easily be given. “Stop that man from speaking!” exclaimed Charles Wesley at one of the early conferences, when a preacher rose up, and, full of the love of Christ and irrepressible emotion, began to relate his religious experience. “Stop that man from speaking!” said Charles; “let us attend to business!” but still the good man proceeded. “Unless he stops, I’ll leave the conference,” continued Charles. Wesley himself, revelling in the itinerant’s religious recital, effectually cooled the warmth of his brother’s temper by quietly remarking, “Reach him his hat!”

On another occasion, when about to dine with a rich Methodist, one of his preachers, who was present, with more piety than politeness, cried out: “O sir, what a sumptuous dinner! Things are very different to what they were formerly! There is now but little self denial amongst the Methodists!” Wesley pointed to the abundantly furnished table, and then silenced the preacher’s untimely eloquence by saying, “My brother, there is a fine opportunity for self denial now.”

Thus was Wesley always “instant in season, and out of season.” Always and everywhere he was ready to turn passing incidents to practical account. “Pray, sir, let us go,” said one of his friends, whilst two women, near Billingsgate market, were quarrelling most furiously, and using language far more forceful than pious: “Pray, sir, let us go; I cannot stand it.” “Stay, Sammy,” replied Wesley, as he looked at the viragoes, who were evidently inspired, though not from heaven. “Stay, Sammy,” answered the man who had eyes for everything; “stay, and learn how to preach!”

We must close. Taking him altogether, Wesley is a man sui generis. He stands alone: he has had no successor; no one like him went before; no contemporary was a coequal. There was a wholeness about the man, such as is rarely seen. His physique, his genius, his wit, his penetration, his judgment, his memory, his beneficence, his religion, his diligence, his conversation, his courteousness, his manners, and his dress,—made him as perfect as we ever expect man to be on this side heaven. “A greater poet may rise than Homer or Milton,” writes Dr. Dobbin, “a greater theologian than Calvin, a greater philosopher than Bacon, a greater dramatist than any of ancient or modern fame; but a more distinguished revivalist of the churches than John Wesley, never.” “He was a man,” says Lord Macaulay, “whose eloquence and logical acuteness might have rendered him eminent in literature; whose genius for government was not inferior to that of Richelieu; and who devoted all his powers, in defiance of obloquy and derision, to what he sincerely considered the highest good of his species.”

But, in the case of a man like Wesley, panegyric is out of place. He is one of the very few, whose memory can afford to do without it. His well won and world wide fame requires no inscription on his monumental marble,—whether in England or in America, in Westminster or in Washington,—more elaborate than this:

JOHN WESLEY,
Born, A.D. 1703.
Died, A.D. 1791.