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A LIFE'S MOTTO.




LIFE'S MOTTO.
ILLUSTRATED BY
" WHATSOEVER THY HAND FINDETH TO DO, DO IT WITH THY MIGHT;
for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the
grave, whither THOU goest."
BY THE
iN,;.'P'1(O)M AS   1li.,1t-4 A N'I )A II;.  M  A.
RECTOR OF ST. VEDAST WITH ST. MICHAEL,
AND LATE FELLOW OF SIDNEY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
WITH A:FR ONTISPIECE BY 7. D. [  A TSOIV.
N.Ii 1W ~ ) 1yO   I:K
VIRTUE AND YORSTON, PUBLISHERS,








CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION-THlE ~MOTTO EXPLAINED..              9
AUGUSTINE, BISHOP OF HIPPO.
-Faith's great Victory over Heathenism..
BIRTH and parentage-His mother Monica-Domestic incidents in her life-Childhood-Youth-Confessions-Augustine falls into sin-Monica's remarkable dream-Manicheanism
-Removes secretly to Rome-The chair of rhetoric at Milan
-St. Ambrose-Wonderful conversion-Death of MonicaAugustine's sorrow-Returns to Africa-The good old bishopAugustine ordained presbyter and bishop-His clergy-house
at Hippo-Ecclesiastical and literary labours-His death.21
BERNARD, THE MONK.
Faith amidst the dark Clouds of -Medieval Superstition.
His birth at a remarkable period-His parentage —His
mother Alyth-Remarkable incident at her death-Appears




iv                        Contents.
PAGE
to her sons-Cistercian austerities —Bernard's brothers-A
day in a monastery-Bernard's profession as a monk-Himself an abbot-Hard times-Mliracles-B13ernard's sicknessThe schism  in the papacy-The Pope visits ClairvauxGuido's death-Controversy with Abelard —Preaches the
second Crusader-Works miracles —Death of Archbishop
Malachy —Bernard's last days and death..       61
WESLEY, -THE METHODIST.
Faith Carousi)?g the slumbering Chur ch.
BIRTn at Epworth Parsonage-The parsonage on fire-The
goblin at the parsonage-School-life-Wesley at Oxford-The
Methodists-George Whitefield- Meets with the Moravians
-Vovage to America-Sophia Causton-Returns to England
- Good resolutions — Conversion —The beginnings of the
Society of Methodists-Strange manifestations-The Kingswood colliers and field-preaching-Wesley at Bristol-Further
consolidation of his system —His mother's death-Meets
Nash at Bath-Mob-violence —Marries —Separation from his
wife-His opinion of schism-Long life, last days, and death. 105
JOHN NEWTON, THE CONVERTED SLAVEDR1VER.
Faith victorious over blaspheming Atheism.
HIrs pious mother —Early religious impressions -Youthful
resolutions and relapses-Mary Catlett-Remarkable dream



Contents.                       v
PAGE
Coast of Africa-The prodigal in distress, and rescued-The
storm  at sea-Repents, and is converted — Marriage with
Mary Catlett-Ordination-Is curate of Olney —Rectory of
St. Miary Woolnoth-Death of his wife-His old age and
death-Estimate of his character.161
CHARLES SIMEON: THE DESPISED EXALTED.
F.aith patient in Well-doing.
BIRTH-Education at Eton and King's College, Cambridge
-Foibles and singularities-The solitary undergraduateMinistry at St. Edward's-At Trinity Church, CambridgeSpiritual life in the Church of England-Undergraduate
disturbances-" Sims"-His disinterestedness-His love and
care for the students-The concluding hours of his life-His
leave-taking of his friends.. 191
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Faith not striving lawfully.
PARENTAGE —Early years and literary efforts-His great
diligence and perseverance-His poems attract the attention
of Southey- Endeavours to enter Cambridge —Disappointment-Conversion-Enters Cambridge-His excessive study,
and consequent failure of health-His early death..  217




vi                       Contents.
EDWARD IRVING, THE ENTHUSIAST.
FCaith in Credulity.
PAGE
His parentage and childhood-Narrow escape from drowning-Edinburgh University-The divinity-student and his
schools-Severe discipline-Is admitted a candidate-Slender
success as a preacher-The Glasgow poor and Irving's ministrations-The infidel cobbler-Receives a call from the. Caledonian Church-Settles in London-Popularity as a preacher
-The missionary sermon-Birth of his eldest child-The
school of the prophets-The first clouds-The opinion of
Chalmers-Accident at Kirkaldy Church-Prophetic speculations-The gift of "tongues" —Miraculous cures —The
"tongues" manifested in the congregation-Their peculiar
character-What were the tongues?-A solution suggestedIrving deposed-The Church in Gray's-Inn Lane and Newman Street-The clouds gather deeper-Failing healthConfidence in the prophets-The end approaches-The last
conflict-Estimate of his character.. 235
HENRY MARTYN AND CHARLES FREDERICK
MACKENZIE, THE MARTYR MISSIONARIES.
Faith loving not Life unto Death.
MARTYN'S birth and parentage-Enters at St. John's College,
Cambridge - Conversion - Mathematical honours - Determines to forsake all-Offers himself as a missionary-Sails to




Contents.                       vii
PAGE
India-Diligence as a translator of the Holy Scriptures into
the vernacular languages of India-Death among strangers. 293
Mackenzie-Early life and arithmetical talent-Enters at
St. John's College-Migrates to Caius-MIathematical honours
-Offers to go to India, because no others can be found-Appointed Archdeacon of Natal-The archdeacon and sea-sick
passengers-Durban-Sunday labours —The colonial clergyman's life-Return to England-Chosen to head the Central
African Mission-Consecrated bishop at Cape Town-African
fever, and adventures-Journey down the river-DeathParallel between the lives of these two men of God    e   e 308
AN EPILOGUE OF CONTRASTS  a.   343








INTRODUCTION.
" Nor is it only at the close of the pilgrimage that the hope full
of immortality is a pearl of great price. Without it, life is so
transient, that every invention is a melancholy plaything, and the
vastest acquirements are a laborious futility. But the student who
toils for immortality need never want a motive in his work; and,
however sad some of his discoveries may be, the sage who knows
the Saviour will always have in his knowledge an overplus ofjoy."JAMES HAIILnUTON: The Royal Preacher.




" Go thy way, then; eat with pleasure thy bread, and drink thy
wine with joyful heart, if at this present God prospers thy work. In
every season (if thou canst), put on the garment of rejoicing, and do
not restrain the expression of thy gladness. Enjoy to the utmost
thy life, in companionship with her whom thou lovest-all the days
of thy transitory life which may be granted thee in this hot, work-day
world; for this is all thou canst have as thy portion in life, and in
all that toil thyself art toiling at in this hot, work-day world. All
that thy power enables thee to do, do it with all thy strength; for
there is neither work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in
Hades; and that is whither THOU art going." -Ecc. ix. 7-10,
parap hrased.




A LIFE'S MOTTO.
INTRO D UCTI oMz
HE life's motto of our title-page has been
diversely understood. As ordinarily quoted,
and apart from its context, it has been regarded as a simple exhortation to diligence: "' Do what you have to do in earnest," and
be successful; and, so understoodl, it is, in its way,
a very good motto. But it is more than doubtful if this is what the writer had in view.  When
we come to examine the context, we perceive that
he is rather underyaluing diligence than otherwise.
He takes immediate occasion to remind his auditors
that "the race is not always to the swift, nor the
battle to the strong, nor the bread to the wise, nor
wealth to the prudent;" while, again, the reason he
gives for beimn  so diligent in what one's hand finds




12                 Introdztction.
to do, is about the last one would have expected, if
attainment of success had been the object in view.
To tell a man to work hard because in this manner
much may be accomplished, is one thing; but to tell
him to work hard because there is so little time in
which to work, is something very different. Yet this is
what we have here; diligence is recommended, not
because it is needed to command success, but because
there is so very little time to do any thing at all.
Thus it happens that some have been inclined to
read the passage in the sense of the Epicurean motto:
" A short life and a merry one."  Others would put
the passage in inverted commas, and look upon it as a
quotation-the words of a sceptic, cited for refutation.
Others, again, seeing plainly that the whole sermon
is an intensely earnest exhortation to a godly life, have
characterised such passages as this as "; the fitful
meditations of one who knows better."
The true solution of this difficulty is to be found
in the character of the book itself, which is a sermon
full of paradoxes. These paradoxes allure into attention by their strange and enigmatical utterances,
and then strike into the conscience when the listener
is thus taken off his guard. The writer is a consummate master of spiritual sarcasm- one who
wields, with amazing dexterity, the two-edged sword
of the Spirit, and cuts you sharp with its back edge.
You think the blow has passed you, or even been
taken at random, and, lo! it whirls round, and cuts




Introduzction.              13
you to the quick.  And our motto will, when we
come to examine it, be found to be one of these backhanded blows.  A superficial reading might lead you
to suppose that it sets forth diligence in this life because this life is all; really, it bids you look altogether
beyond it.
Let us suppose, then, that a hearer of the sermon,
inclined to scepticism, but not quite comfortable in
his scepticism,-as few are,-took this passage home
with him, as a crumb of comfort in favour of his
views; he might surely meditate upon it thus: The
advice to live happily is, as hulan nature goes, with
one's very few opportunities of following it, somewhat
sarcastic. To tell one to enjoy at all times what only
a few can enjoy seldom,-and many not at all,-is like
the advice which physicians have been known to give,
when some over-worked son of toil-poisoned by the
noisomeness of his own trade, and who must either
work or starve —comes to them for medicine.  They
tell him  medicine will do no good, that he must
have perfect rest, and the delights of a country retreat.  There is a mocking undertone of "; If you
can," in such advice.  Then, again, the preacher
harps continually on the transitoriness of life, even
in the midst of his vivid description of its pleasures.
In this banquet, the skeleton is so very prominent,the passage is a kind of Dance of Death. By dexterous
word-painting, it leads us on, through the description
of the feast, in order to land us in the darkness of the




14                JImPotldc nlt?2,i
grave. True, the preacher enjoins haste and diligence;
but what is it to end in?  Not in success-he says
nothing about that; he really intimates that the time
is so short, and the end so near, that at the best there
will hardly be time for enjoyment at all.  Yes, we
may imagine our sceptic saying to himself, it's just
what you might expect from a preacher. He feigns to
join in the mirth, that he may improve the occasion.
Hie speaks about the joys of life, only to introduce
allusions to its shortness; and tells you to enjoy
yourself to the utmost, only to make you feel the
more keenly the black, dark disappointment such a
life is altogether,-to remind you that, under the sun
of this hot world of toil, there is no work of which
you can have any lasting profit,i-no device which
will give you any permanent advantage,-no knowledge by which you may prolong life,-no wisdom
by which you may postpone your entrance into that
world of forgetfulness whither you are hastening.
The truth, then, really is, that these words teach
just the very reverse of what a careless and superficial
reading would draw from them.  They are enigmatical, no-doubt, but not so enigmatical but that they
may be readily understood.  After all, they are only
the Apostle's caution, to "1 use this world as not abusing it, for the fashion of this world passeth away,"
— written  in  character a little ornamented  and
flourished withal, but only just so difficult of decipherment as to enhance the impression the aphorism




lRtrodlction.              15
is intended to produce.  It is, in cipher-form, the
great maxim of the divine life: The time is short,live for the higher existence.  It is a prelude intended
to work up to that which is to be tihe conclusion of
the whole matter: "' Fear God, and keep His commandments; for this is the whole duty of man."
Keeping this in view, it will be a matter of
no surprise that the biographical illustrations which
follow are not the annals of men who, simply diligent,
were successful; nor do we think there is much need
of such biographies, least of all in an age like ours,
where success often succeeds far bettelr than principle.
What will be found here are examples of mlen who
were indeed eminently successful, but not in the
worldly sense of that word, —men who did what they
did with all their might, because they knew that the
grave, and its forgetfulness, were only the limits of
the worldly life under the sun, and not at all the
limits of the spiritual existence. It is true that, in
a sense, all Christian men are such as these; but the
success of those men whose lives are here set forth,
arose not so much from  the earnestness of their
labours, as from  the depth of their convictions.
The key-note is struck in the first biography, that
of Augustine. In his Confessions, we have a selfanalysis, by one of the greatest masters of human
thought, of the process and progress of the great
change, as it occurred in his own heart, and within the
range ofhis own experience. Fewmen, before their con



16                 Introduction.
version, have loved tile world more,-few men, after
it, have loved the world less, and done more for it. All
the other biographies tell a similar tale. They are the
histories of men who had all gone through the same
experiences, and had the same kind of success.  In a
word, they were first converted themselves, and then
began to convert others; except, indeed, Kirke White,
who died before his time, destroyed by his own overhaste in the path of duty, and who is added to illustrate the truth, that " the race is not always to the
swift, nor the battle to the strong."  But in them all
we canl trace the operation of the Spirit of God; and,
in consequenece, there is a certain strikiing sameness
in these biographies.  The men all thlink alike, speak
alike, and, in the same circumstances, act alike.
Unity of faith and hope begets unity of thought and
life.  They are all brethren; and there is a nmarvellous family likeness amongst these sons of God.
The principal modern biographies have all been
drawn from one school of religious thoulght: not that
by doing this tlhe author would be supposed to intimate
that in this school alone are to be found high illustrations of the true principles of religious life, btUt because
thus, without departing from the main object he had in
view, he could throw light upon an important period
in the history of our Church. It is much to be wished
that some calm, impartial, and well-read writer would
now undertake a history of the Evangelical revival of
the last century. The force of that revival is no doubt




Intlroduction.              17
spent, and the Church is at present stirred with new
modes of thought; the great river of truth, in its course
from beneath the temple, has in our time made a
visible bend: but this is the period when a review
mnay be taken of the progress already made, before the
new vista comes into sight. To contribute towards a
page of this history seemed to be just now important.
No one can doubt that these men, whose biographies
are here set forth, were the spiritual fathers of the
present generation of religious thinkers.  Whether
they know it or not, there is something of the Wesleyan and Simeonite about them all. Wesley woke
up the Church of England to a sense of its duties and
its position. The leading preachers of the last generation were in methods and topics, if not by direct instruction," Sims."* The great doctrines which sounded
novel in their days, and which they spent their lives
in enforcing, were: Christ's death upon the cross, the
only satisfaction for man's sin; and the universal necessity for conversion to be evidenced by holiness of
life. But these doctrines are not novel now; they sound
out from almost every pulpit in the land. If, then, the
force of this revival be spent, it is because the work
these men of God had to do is so far done; not because
these doctrines are effete, or have lost their power,that is impossible; they are founded on the everlasting
hills, and will endure as long. If other doctrines now
need to be enforced, it can only be by way of addition,
* The term is explained at page 200.
B




'18                 h]:0troduction.
and not of substitution, by bringing into prominence
side by side with tlhese, and without obscuring them,
what in that age were either less necessary, or were
overlooked.  When, also, it is seen how much alike
Augustine and Wesley and Simeon are in principles
and practice, it will bd perceived that these two last
are not so deficient in "d Catholic principles" as some
nowadays seem to imagine.
That these men of God sometimes erred, is not denied.  That they preached the whole counsel of God,
without undue exaltation of one side or the other;
that all topics were handled with equal skill, or enforced with equal fervour; or that their'theological
system was so perfect as to leave nothing to be desired,
-can only be true of those who wrote by direct inspiration of the Spirit of God, and therefore not of these..No, they were men, uninspired men, and with all the
fanlts of men; and in this circumstance is -to be discovered one of the most consolatory of lessons: it
shows the power of grace to perfect and sanctify characters which nevertheless remained to the very end
the same. The writer of such a biography has no
occasion to make his heroes too excellent or faultless;
indeed, all biographies which conceal the man's faults
are as fictitious as novels, without the advantage of a
plot or catastrophe; but religious biographies so written give an impression altogether false.  The power
of grace is shown, not by the destruction of the individuality of its subject, but by his improvement and




Introduction.                19
progressive sanctification.  The religion of Augustine
and Monica-beautiful and genuine as it is-is,
nevertheless, not without a taint of superstition; yet,
as their Christian characters mature, they rise more and
more conspicuously above the weaknesses of their age.
Beneath the cowl of Bernard, where some would only
expect to find a, dry, self-torturing asceticism, is as
genuine a Christianity as the world ever witnessed.
Wesley was self-opinionated and fond of power, and
Simeon self-conscious and vain; but they both of them
loved the Gospel which theypreaelhed. Theywere none
the better for these failings; they introduced, in consequence, a corrupt leaven into their work, which produced so far evil results. But this must be the history
of every religious movement. -This leaven must be
hid in the three measures ofnmeal, or they will never
become tasty loaves, fit for the festive table; but the
great Head of the Church knows when the corruption
has proceeded far enough, and arrests it at the proper
moment, so bringing good out of evil.  In every age,
more or less of human error has been mixed with the
divine work,-and no doubt the Evangelical revival was
no exception; but it had preeminently hold of those
great central truthls of which we have spoken, and
which constituted the secret of its power-a power
which is retained undiminished to this moment, as
mighty in the nineteenth century as in the first; for
not more certain is it that the darkness of night
disappears before the rising of the sun, than that the




20                  Iztroduction.
darkness of infidelity or indifferentism will be dispersed, and an awakening to new religious life occur,
wherever and however is faithfully preached repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord Jesus
Christ.




AUGUSTINE, BISHOP OF HIPPO.
Failh's great Victory over Heathenism.
"The great cement which holds these several discourses together
is one main design which they jointly drive at, and which, I think,
is confessedly generous and important-the knowledge of true happiness, so far as reason can cut her way through those darknesses and
difficulties one is incumbered with in this life."-HENRY MORE.








LIFE OF AUG US TINE, B.ISHOP OF HItPPO.
URELIUS AUGUSTINUS-or, as he is
usually calledl Augustinee —was born at
Tagaste, in Numidia, November 13th, A.D.
353.  Hiis father, Patricius Augustinus,
was a pagan, a man of strong  passions and violent
temper. His mother, Monica, was a Christian maiden,
only just of marriageable age when she was united to
Patricius.
The married life of Moniia, though happy in
the main, was, as might be expected, not without
its trials.  Patricius, in the earlier period of their
married life, proved but an indifferent husband. 3Much
of his time was spent with his heathen companions,
from whose society lie would often return in a temper,
only to find fault with and storm at his gentle wife. He
was unfaithful, and sometimes cruel; on occasion, it
appears, he would even strike her. Her true, earnest,




24      L~fe of Augustine, Bishop of Ivi-po.
and persevering piety enabled her to find a remedy
for all this. She learned, when reviled, not to answer
again; but if her husband stormed, she would remain
silent, until, in calmer moments, he could listen to
reason, when she would with loving gentleness win
him by her pleadings. She was also careful never to
complain; but where other matrons, with less cause
than she had, would angrily proclaim their wrongs,
she kept faithfully the secret of her husband's unkindnesses.  She would win him  over by patient
submissiveness and unfailing love. This, joined with
earnest prayer for his conversion, she maintained
during the whole of their married life; and she succeeded.  Patricius at length became a convert to that
Christianity which shone out in such bright and loving
characters in his wife's life. The year before his death,
he enrolled himself among the catechumens, and made
public profession of the Christian faith by baptism.
Another domestic trial was found in the peevish
and irritable temper of the mother of Patricius, who
was an inmate of Monica's household, and disturbed
the peace of the family by listening to, and disseminating, idle and scandalous tales of her daughter-in-law.
Monica, on her side, met this by such persevering
endurance and meekness, that she succeeded in converting a suspicious enemy into a dear and attached
friend, -so that they henceforth lived together in
remarkable sweetness and mutual kindness.
Monica is, in her quiet, womanly way, a brilliant




His Mlother,.               25
example of unvarying and persevering faith-an instance both of a devoted woman and a woman of devotion.  For thirty years, day and night, often with
strong supplication and tears, strong in faith, she held
on, praying for the conversion of her son.  Yet all
this time she never despaired, never complained or
murmured against God, assured that these prayers
would one day be answered.  Nor was she disappointed.  In due time, mother-in-law, husband, children were granted to her, until she had lived just long
enough to see them all earnest and devoted Christians.
A picturesque incident in the life of Monica gives
us a curious insight into the domestic relations of a
Christian family of those times.  Monica, as we
have already noticed, was brought up by Christian
parents.  It was not, however, so much by her
mother's teachlling, as through that of an aged servant, that she learned her lessons of piety and selfcontrol.  The old woman had, when quite a girl,
carried Monica's father " as big girls use to do who
carry the little ones on their backs," says Augustine.
This long-standing attachment, begun in childhood.
together with her now great age and godly conversation, caused her to be greatly honoured by her
master and mistress, so that to her was committed the
care of the children.  To this she gave diligent heed,
restraining them earnestly with a holy severity when
that was necessary, and teaching them always with
grave sobriety.  Perhaps, indeed, according to our




26      Life of Augulstine, Bishop oIf H9i)lpo.
modern notions, she may have been a little overstrict; for, except at those times when they were
furnished with the very temperate allowance of wine
permitted at their parents' table, she would not allow
them, though very thirsty, to drink even water, guarding against an evil habit, and adding this wholesome
advice: "' You drink water now," said she,%'" because
you cannot get wine.  When you are married, and
come to have cellars and cupboards of your own,
you will despise water; but the habit of drinking will
remain."  Instructing them  in this manner, and
using her authority,, she restrained the greediness
of childhood, and so forlned in these girls such excellent habits of moderation, that they would of their
own accord take no more than they ought.
Nevertheless, Monica was in danger of falling
into the evil habit of clrinkin g; for when she was
sent, as often happened, to the cellar to draw wine,
being regarded by her parents as a sober maiden, she
would sometimes treat herself to a little sip before she
poured the wine into the flagon: at first a very little
sip, -for she was too honest to take much, and acted
rather through childish thoughtlessness than from allny
desire to drink.  The evil habit, as may be anticipated, grew with indulgence.  By degrees learning
to take a little more, she at length fell into the habit
of greedily swallowing a cup almost brimful of wine.
A maid-servant,  with whom  she used to go to the
c(llar, happening to have a quarrel with her, taunted




C/ild/Iood.                97
her, when they were alone, with this fiult, calling ler
little mistress, in a very insulting way, a tippler. This
taunt stunlg her to the quick.  She acknowledged her
fault, and never repeated it.
Such, then, was the character of the parents by
whom Augustine was brought up. As an infant, lihe
seems to have been passionate, squalling lustily if
he could not have his own way; as a boy, quick
and clever, but often in trouble on account of his
idleness and love of play.  This brought on the
punishment of the rod; of this punishment he was
in great terror, and would sometimes pray that he
might be delivered from  it.  Speaking of this part
of his life, he somewhat naively observes, that the
teachers are often quite as much to blame as the
pupils; for the same things which in children are
sins against tutors and masters, about nuts and balls
and sparrows, are in maturer years transformed into
sins against magistrates and kings, about gold, estates, and slaves. According, then, to his own showing, we may say that he was a rather naughty boy
than otherwise; yet not without some sense of the
religion which he had been taught, and some boyish
prayers and strivings after better things.
As he grew older, he certainly did not grow better.
At the age of sixteen he fell into dissolute habits,
which he describes thus: " I foamed out, a miserable
creature, in the tide of my own passions, having forsaken Thee, 0 God, and overpassed'all the bounds




28      Life of Augutstine, Bishop of Hippo.
which Thou hast set.  Yet I did not escape Thy
scourges: for who of mortals canll?  Yet Thou wer~t
ever present, mercifully wratlhful, with very bitter
checks dashing those unlawful pleasures of mine, so
that I might rather seek those that were without
alloy.  But where to find such pleasures I could not
discover, save in Thee, 0 Lord; in Thee, who makest
our grief serve for our instruction; who woundest in
order to heal, and killest us lest we should die to
Thee."  Never, then, was he without a sense of remorse.  And there was this present advantage in his
mother's early teaching,-it had awakened his conscience.  If he sinned, he never could sin comfortably.
A fruitful cause of his fall, as he confesses, was
idleness. At this time his studies were intermitted.
He had returned from Madura, whither he had gone
to learn grammar and rhetoric, and was waiting until
the means could be furnished for a residence at Carthage, where he might have the greater advantages
which a capital city could provide in the way of education.  His father, being but a poor freeman of Tagaste, could only with difficulty provide the requisite
money, " by his resolution rather than his means." He
seems, however, to have, in this respect, thoroughly
done his duty by his boy.  Being a heathen, he
thought but little of his son's irregularities; for lihe
could easily look over any thing of this kind, if only
he might at lengthl see him rising to eminence as a




Yout-lful Sins.             29
first-rate speaker.  He spoke of them lightly, almost
approvingly, to Monica, as displaying a free and
energetic spirit.  She was now, however, a deep
Christian —  the foundation of God's holy temple already begun in her heart;" and Augustine's sins filled
her with anxiety and foreboding.  She remonstrated
tenderly and earnestly with him on the wrong he was
doing; but at that time, as he confesses, to no purpose:
he despised such remonstrances as womanish.  Surrounded by wicked companions, he would even appear
worse than he really was,-thus glorying in his
shame. IHe mentions with especial regret, as one of
the sins of his youth, a theft of which he was guilty
at this period of his life.  Near the house was a
garden, in which was a pear-tree, the fruit of
which was of a comparatively worthless kind. Augustine and some of his companions made a raid
upon this tree in the night; but as they did not really
care for the fruit, they threw it to the pigs. 3Many
would have considered this circumstance in the light
of a palliation, and looked upon the matter as a mere
boyish freak.  Not so Augustine: he seems to have
been deeply impressed with remorse for this sin, as
especially heinous by reason of its gratuitous character.
" Behold, O God, my heart, which Thou pitiest when
in.the lowest depth.  Let that heart say to Thee, Behold my heart. What did it seek there, that I should
be gratuitously evil, having no motive for evil except
the evil itself? It was foul, and yet I loved it, loved to




30      Lije of Augustine, Bishop of tHippo.
perish, loved not that on account of which I committed
the fault, but the fault itself.  Foul soul, falling from
Thy heaven into utter destruction, not seeking sometling by meanls of disgrace, but the disgrace itself!"
Must we not say, when we calmly consider the real
bearing of such sins, that Augustine is right in this
very severe judgrment of them?
At the age of seventeen he went to Cartilage,
where he formed a secret and illicit connection.  He
confesses that these sweet, stolen waters were dashed
with gall and wormwood, and gave him  no real
pleasure.  " I was scourged," he says, "with the
burning iron rods of jealousy, and suspicion, and
fears, and angers, and quarrels."  About this time
his father died.  I-Is mother, it appears, was left
with sufficient means to continue his allowance at
Carthage, and so enable him to go on with his studies.
7He determined to become a rhetorician, at that time
considered, as we do the bar at the present day,
an honourable and lucrative profession.  He was
a diligent and industrious student, at his nineteenth
year attaining the honour of being the first in the
rhetoric-school.
At this period he met with a work of Cicero's,
now unfortunately lost, entitled Iilortensius.  By this
book, though that of a heathen, a more serious turn
was given to his thoughts than heretofore, so that
from the perusal of this work he traces the beginning
of those deeper convictions which at length resulted




3ifc-ciclhectiisnm.           31
in his conversion.  HIe now resolved to turn his mind
to the study of Holy Scripture; but the style of Scripture, so utterly different from the artificial and flowing
periods of Cicero, displeased him  by its very simplicity.  He was not yet in a frame of mind to relish
a study into which one must enter as a little child, if
alny profit is to be received; but " I," says he, " clisdained to be a little one; and, swollen with pride, took
myself to be a great one."
Yet one brought up as Augustine was, and with a
mind so powerful as his, must have some system in
which to rest.  He craved certainty in the midst of
his doubts; and, to this end, he adopted that philosophy which in his day promised to make plain that
which revelation hath left mysterious.   He joined
himself, accordingly, to the sect of the M3anicheans.
At that time, ilanicheanism was an enemy to orthodox truth as powerful and dangerous as any the
Church has ever contended against; though now so
utterly dead and effete, that it is difficult to give the
modern English reader even a notion of its peculiar
tenets.  To us it appears as a farrago of crude speculations on the divine nature and the origin of evil,
joined with an absurd species of asceticism, which
relapsed, with more than the ordinary rapidity of
such asceticism, into utter licentiousness.  It made,
however, as these so-called philosophic systems are
wont to do, loud promises of certainty to those who
would adopt its teachings, professing to clear up t hat




32      Life of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo.
which previous philosophies had left doubtful, or divine
revelation had passed over in silence. Then, again,
it contained certain Pantheistic and Necessitarian doctrines, which, as they virtually implied a denial of
human responsibility, so also implied a palliation of
human sin; and such tenets are necessarily pleasing
to those who, like Augustine at this time, are living
a life morally below that standard which conscience
prescribes to them.
To his mother, Monica, this relapse into absolute
heresy was an awful grief: she looked upon it as
a kind of spiritual dceath; she wept for him more than
mothers weep the bodily deaths of their children. But
her old resource of earnest prayer did not fail her.
She wept and prayed so earnestly, that the ground on
which she stood was wet with tears. Dearly as she loved
him, she doubted whether she ought, even in his case,
though her own son, to admit him to her house, or bid
him God-speed, or, much as she delighted in his society,
to eat bread with him at the same table. She was much
comforted in her sorrow, however, by a dream.  She
saw herself standing upon a wooden measuring-rule,
overwhelmed with grief and anxiety on account of her
son, when a shining youth approached her, cheerful
and smiling.  He came up to her, and asked, as
angels do who come to comfort, why she wept. She
answered, that she was bewailing her son's loss.  He
bade her rest contented; and told her to look and see
that, where she was, there was her son also.  She




Tlhe aged Bishop's Advice.       33
looked, and saw Augustine standing at her side. Her
simple faith regarded this dream as a divine intimation
that all would yet be well; and she held fast hold of her
persuasion, even when Augustine eavilled, and observed
that the dream might just as well imply that she, on her
part, should come over to his opinions.
She also entreated a good and learned bishop of her
acqiuaintance to'reason and expostulate with Augustine;
but, although he was ready to argue with those whom
he considered of a teachable disposition, he declinecl
to do this in the case of her son; for he said that he
was yet unteachable, being puffed up with the novelty
of his heresy, and had perplexed divers unskilful persons with captious questions.  " But let him alone,"
said he,  and only pray to the Lord for him, and he
will some day find out for himself how great his error
is, and what a wicked system he has adopted."  He
told her, also, that when he was young he had himself
been consigned to the teaching of the Manicheans by
his mother, who was a pervert to their doctrines, and
that he had read and copied out most of their books;
but, without any arguments, he had seen the falsehood
of their system, and had left it.  M[onica was not
satisfied with this, and still continued her importunity;
when the old bishop got a little out of patience, and
said: " Go thy way, and the Lord be with thee. It
is not possible that the son of so many prayers can
perish."  She took this answer as a message sent
from heaven.
/m




34       Life of August^ine,  Bishop of 1Fdlipo.
Augustine continued a ~Manichean up  to  his
eight-and-twentieth year; following, with some success, his profession of a rhetorician.  About this
time, an event occurred which impressed him  much.
This was the death of a very clear friend, who had
been both his schoolmate and playmate, and the companion of his studies, and in part a convert, through
his influence, to Manichean opinions. This young man
fell sick of a fever; and, as he lay quite insensible,
was baptised by his friends, who despaired of his
recovery.  Augustine imagined, naturally enough,
that, should reason be restored, he would be more
influenced by his arguments than by an act of which
he was himself unconscious.  The event proved quite
otherwise; for, on his recovery from the fever, as
soon as he was able to be spoken to, Augustine
essayed to jest with him on the subject of his baptism.
But his sick friend shrunk from Augustine as from
an enemy; and, with a boldness and -'reedom as unexpected as it was unusual, bade him, if he would?ontinue to be his friend, forbear such topics for the
future. A few days after, his friend had a relapse,
and died. Augustine's sorrow was deep and excessive
-he had no hope.  He then realised that a Saviour
who was a phantoimi  was no Saviour for hours of
sorrow, and that a philosophical system  would as
* A doctrine of the Manicheans was, that the Lord who died on
the cross was not really a maln, but only the image or phantom of
one.




A ]f1anichean B'islwop.          35
little comfort mourners as save sinners.  This shock
apparently weakened his confldence in 3Manicheanism,
though as yet it did not bring him to the truth.
Another circumstance occurred about a year after
this, which also shook his confidence in the tenets he
then held. Faustus, a bishop of the Mlanicheans, and
greatly celebrated among his own sect, came to Carthage. Augustine was most anxious for an interview,
expecting to obtain, from one of so great reputation, a
solution of certain  difficulties which  he had encountered, and which appear to have arisen with
regard to certain arithmetical or astronomical calculations which Augustine considered erroneous. The
desired interview revealed to him  that Faustus, aithough eloquent and pleasing in  nanner, was wholly
deficient in real learning, and altogether a man of
inferior capacity.  He candidly told Augustine that
he could not solve his difficulties, and confessed his
entire ignorance of mathematics.  Augustine, who
had joined the sect in hopes of certainty, was proportionately disappointed at such a result.
About this time, Augustine determined to remove to
Rome.  The metropolis was a wider field, and would
give more scope to his ambition than a provincial
capital such as Carthage. IHis principal reason, however, was, that he hoped at Rome to avoid a set of
noisy pupils, who at Carthage were accustomed to
disturb the classes.  HIis mother, no doubt fearing,
fresh temptation, was averse to his departure, and




36      Life of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo.
endeavoureld to persuade him not to go, or, if otherwise, to allow her to accompany him. Augustine
determined to go alone; and when Monica, suspecting his intention, insisted on going down to the
shore with him, he persuaded her to enter a chapel
near to the place of departure, and, while she was
praying there, went on board secretly at night, and
set sail.  His mother was frantic with grief when she
found herself alone and deserted. He thus affectingly
describes this scene: " The wind blew, and filled our
sails, and withdrew the shore from our sight; but
there was she on the morrow frantic with sorrow,
and with complainings and with groans filled Thy
ears, O Lord, who despisest these groans; whilst
Thou, by means of my lusts, wast hurrying me away,
in order that Thou mightest take away these lusts.
M3-eanwhile, Thou chastenest with the just punishment
of her griefs what was carnal in her affection for me:
for she loved to have me with her, as mothers are
wont to do, and much more than most mothers; and
she knew not how great joys Thou wert about to work
out for her by my absence.  She knew not, and
therefore did she weep. And yet, after accusing my
treachery and hard-heartedness, she betook herself to
intercede with Thee for me,-went to her wonted
place, and I to Rome."
At Rome he was seized with fever, which brought
him to the very jaws of death.  Had he departed, it
would have been, as he intimates, an awful parting




St. Ambrose.               37
for ever; but he was spared to his mother's prayers.
He recovered; and, though he still continued a Manichean, and did not break off with his evil practices, he
was now approaching that great change which was
to exert so deep an influence on himself and others.
He becamte more and more dissatisfied with the tenets
he had embraced, though as yet he made no open
abjuration of them.
About this time, application was made to the
Prefect of Rome to send to Milan, at the public
expense, a reader in rhetoric. Augustine applied for
the vacant chair, and, through the interest of some
BManichean friends, obtained the appointment.
Here he met the celebrated Ambrose, Bishop of
Milan, who received him with great kindness. Augustine had heard the eloquence of Ambrose highly spoken
of, and attended his sermons, in order that he might
judge for himself as to his merits as a speaker, but without at that time any intention of joining the Church.
Hie was delighted with discourses which, while less winning and harmonious than those of Faustus, were far
deeper and more earnest. By degrees this eloquence
won upon himn, until he became more and more impressed with the truth of what was spoken. At length
he renounced his Manichean principles, and became a
catechumen in the Catholic Church. His mother had
now joined him, strong in her faith, following her son
over land and sea, and in all her perils-for she narrowly
escaped shipwreck —firmly trusting in her God. Au



38      Life of Autgustine, Bisihop of HEippo.
gustine met her with the tidings that he was now no
longer a ianichllean, though not as yet a Catholie Christian. She expressed no surprise at the intelligence, but
calmly replied: " I believe in Christ that, before I
depart, I shall see thee a faithfil Catholic."  Nevertheless, she did not neglect to pray very earnestly
for a speedy completion of the good workl begun
in him.  A warm  friendship speedily sprung np betwixt hersclf and Ambrose,-she naturally regarding
him  as the means through which was accomplished
her son's conversion; he, on his side, attracted by
her deep and unfeigned piety.  He would, indeed,
frequently burst iforth into her praises to Augustine
congratulating him that he had such a mother.
Nevertheless, neitlher Ambrose nor Augustine knew
much as yet of the other's inner life. The cares of an
important diocese left Ambrose but little leisure; andI
on that little Augustine was diffident of intrudinig.
Had he obtained, howoev.er, the private interview he
desired, it is not likely that he vwould have been much
benefited; for, as he confesses at this time, he was
more anxious for disputation than conviction; beside
whiclh, he was still enslaved by passion.  He panted
after distinction, riches, marrlage, but found nothing
but disappointment. He confesses even to have envied
the jollity of a half-drunken beggar, who for a while
could steep the cares of his poverty in forgetfulness,
-so uneasy and unhappy was he under the stings of a
justly accusing conscience.




Con2version of Victorizus.         39
M3onica especially desired to have him  married,
hoping thus to wean him from his irregular life.  He
was in consequence betrothed, chiefly through his
mother's exertions, to a young maiden; but, as she
wtas under age: it was judged expedient that two years
should elapse before the marriage.  In prospect of
this, Augustine dismissed his concubine, who left him
entirely, and afterwards led a strictly virtuous life.
By her he had a son, Adeodatus, a lad of great
promise, who remained with his father.  Yet so great
a slave was Augustine to passion, that soon after he
took another concubine; but, as his Colfessions reveal, not without strong compunctious visitings of
conscience caused by his sin.
The critical event of his life was now drawing
near, in his complete conversion and devotion to a
religious life.   He went to Simplicianus, an old
Christian, whom he calls the father of Anmbrose,-and
to him he explained his spiritual state.  Simplicianus
related the account of the conversion of Vietorinus, a
Roman rhetorician, and a very learned mllan, skilled in
the liberal sciences, and who had read and weighed
the works of many philosophers.  In his old age he
was converted to Christianity, at first in secret.  One
day, he said privately to Simplicianus, " Know that
I am  already a Christian."  Simplicianus answered,
"1 I shall not believe it, nor rank you among Christians, till I see you in the Church of Christ."  But
lie, smiling, said, " Do walls make Christians?"




40      Life of Augulstine, Bishop o IHippo.
This kind of dialogue was frequently repeated between them; for Victorinus feared to offend his
fi'iends-men of rank and dignity-and he dreaded
the loss of reputation.  But, after some further study
of the Scriptures, and prayer, he said suddenly and
unexpectedly to Simplicianus, " Let us go to church;
I wish to be made a Christian."  When the time
came for formally making his profession, he was
asked whether he would not rather wish to do so
privately.  Victorinus declared that he would not
shrink from  a public profession.  Accordingly, he
stood, as the catechumens were wont to do, in an
elevated place, and, in the sight of the assembled
faithful, pronounced, with a clear and distinct voice,
the form  of words appointed.  As he appeared,
there was a low murmur of' Victorinus! Victorinlus!"
for he was well known to them all; and then a silence,
as he began the words. The Church, as might be anticipatedc, was greatly delighted and edified with such
a spectacle.
Augustine was fired by so brilliant an example of
one of his own country-Victorinus was an African
— and profession; but the flesh still lusted against
the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh.  He even
prayed to be quit of his sin, but with a mental reservation; answering, as it were, to the divine call
through  his conscience, " Presently, presently;"
"' Leave me a little;"; Convert -me, but not yet."
But he could not rest; amid increasing anxiety, he




Remaqrlkable Conversion.         41
was doing his daily work, in the intervals of which
he sought relief in religious services.  " I attended,"
he confesses, " Thy church, whenever free from the
burden of business under which I groaned;" but he
could find no rest even there.  The sanctuary itself is
no sanctuary to one sinning against light and conscience; he must take the decisive step in order to
find peace.
We need not wonder that apparently very slighllt
impulses produce oftentimes great and unexpected
changes. The cliff, undermined by waves and showers,
is at length brought down by the mere falling of a
boulder; or the pile of combustible material, slowly
gathered, is kindled at length into a vast conflagration
by a single spark. And so is it also in morals.  The
impulse which gives the final direction to a soul mayin itself be very slight. Thus was it with Augustine:
a very trifling circumstance sufficed to lead him to
the great, decided change on which, in a sense, his
whole future life turned, and with it the whole
fortunes of the Church of God.
This circumstance was a call, apparently, of mere
friendship, made without any special design. One day,
when Nebridius was absent, and Augustine and Alypius
iwere together, an African acquaintance named Poontianus, a person of consideration about the emperor's
court, called to see them.  While the friends were conversing on ordinary topics, a book, lying on a table
set for some game, caught the eye of Pontianus, wholl




42       Life of Augustine, Bislop oJ Ii21,)o.
casually tookl it up, expecting to find some treatise on
rhetoric.  It was the Epistles of St. Paul.  Pontianus, who was ain earnest Christian, expressed his
surprise and joy at finding such a boolk in the possession of Augustine.  The latter informed him that
for some time past he had studied the Scriptures. The
conversation then took a turn; and Augustine heard,
for the first time, of Anthony, the Egyptian monk,
wlho, going into a churchll accidentally, and hlearing
the words of Scripture, " Go, sell all that thou lhast,
and give to the poor," took it as a message to hirlmself;
and, divesting himself of all property, went to live in
the desert.  In the course of his narrative, Pontianus
related how that himself and three friends, all attendants on the emperor, were walking together.  It so
happened that, in the course of their walk, they separated into pairs.  The other two came accidentally
to a cottage, inhabited by some poor Christians: here
they chanced to fall in with a Life of Anthony.  One
of them began to read, and was so impressed, that he
determined to retire altogether from court.  He said,
as he was reading to his friend, " What are we seeking and fighting for, in all these labours of ours? Can
our hope rise higher than to be the emperor's favourites? and how very full of trials is this position, even
if we attain to it! I will enrol myself as a friend of
God.  If thou art willing, do the same; but, at any
rate, do not oppose me."  His friend declared he
would cleave to him, "; to partake in the glorious re



Coiaversiono               43
ward of so glorious a service."  Pontianus and his
companion, who had walked in another direction,
came in search of their two friends, and reminded
them that the day was far spent, and that it was time
to return.  They declared their intention of remaining; and begged them, if they would not join them,
not to molest them.  Pontianus and his -friend could
not make up their minds to this, although they left
them with regret that they could not share their higher
lot.
All the time Pontianus was speaking, Augulstine's
conscience grievously smote himl: he knew lie had
been living in sin.' What," he declares, " said I
not against myself! with what scourges of condemnnation lashed I not my soul, that it might follow me, as
I was striving to go after Thee!-yet it drew back,
refused, but excused not itself."  As soon as Pontianus had left, Augustine turned to Alypius, and said:
~ Why are we allowing this?  What is this now
which you have heard?  The unlearned take heaven
by force; and we, with all our learning, without
heart, are wallowing-is it not so?-in the filth of
sin."  Alypius, seeing how deeply he was moved,
looked on in silence.  Augustine then went into the
garden which belonged to the house in which they
lodged, in order to be alone; Alypius following hint at
a little distance.  Here he was in great conflict of
mind: he knew lie oughti to break off his sins, and
especially those in which he was at that time living;




44      Ljyfe of Agustine, Bisllop qf IIippo.
but, as he savs,   They did retard me, so that I hesitated to burst away, shake myself free from them,
and spring over whither I was called —a violent habit
saying to me, Thinkest thou that thou canst live without them?"
While he was thus meditating, and in deep distress, he heard the voice of a child, in a neigahbouring
hlouse, chanting the words over and over again, " Take
an;d read, take and read."  This altered the current
of his tlloughts: he remembered how Anthonyr had
been impressed with the words, 1" Sell all that thou
hast;"' and so returning, and hastily taking up the
book he had laid down, —which, it will be remembered,
was St. Paul's Epistles, —he read; and( the first words
w hich met his eye were: " Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chamnbering and wantonness, not in strifb
and envying;... and makl-e not provision for thle
flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof."  This oracle of God
-for such he esteemed it —brought peace to his soul:
it was the response he wanted; and, as he tells us, he
needed to read no more.  His friend Alypius was
ready to join him; and thus they both went to Monica.  She rejoiced exceedingly at the tidings that
thev had determined to surrender all for Christ, considering that thus her prayers had been answered
altogether beyond her hopes.
The greatness of Augustine dates entirely fromn
after his conversion.  His deep learning and unusual
natural enldowvmentts do not seem to have hitllerto




Resigns the Readership of Rhetor ic.   45
served him much; for, though he struggled hard, and
panted for fame, he was, as he himself confosses, disappointed.  The proximate cause no doubt was, that
he could not put out his full strength.  He was not
single-minded: he knew, in the midst of all his
struggles for fame, that there was something higher
and better than all this.  His deeper convictions,
therefore, ever held him back. When once, however,
the higher motives had entire possession, and his
ministry became all in all, then he made rapid progress, alnd that, too, almost against his will; for his
idea at first was to seek religious retirement rather
tlhan religious work. Again, though he never became
more than bishop of an inconsiderable see, yet he
rose, almost against his will, to be the acknowledged
leader of the African Church, and even of the Westernl
Church generally.
He now determined to renounce the profession of
rhetoric, and devote himself entirely to the Lord's
work; but, however enthusiastic he might be, he was
careful to think of others as well as himself.  He
therefore continued to occupy the rhetoric-reader's
chair until the autumnn vacation afforded a suitable
point at which to break off his labours. M[oreover, at
this time he began to be troubled with a disease of
the lungs, which rendered speaking difficult, and demanded rest.  He was not sorry to have so valid a
reason for giving up a position which had now become, in his mind, questionable; for he doubted




46      Lije oq Augustine, Bisitop ojf Hip)o.
whether he ought to promote an art so often perverted
to making the worse appear the better cause.  Some
over-zeallous friends advised him to give up at once
the k" chair of lies;" but though he had himself some
qualms, he surely judged rightly in determining to
fulfil to the utmost existing engagements with his
pupils.
In the retirement which intervened between his
baptism  and the resignation of his professorship, he
spent his time in the study of the Psalms, which he
perused with great fervour.  The following Easter,
he was baptised by Ambrose, in the church at Milhan.
With him w as also baptised his friend Alypius, and
his natural son Acleodatus, a youth of' great piety and.
]ighl promise, but early taken.  It is said that on this
occasion Ambrose comlposed the Te Deum.
lIe now determined to return. to Africa; and accordingly he journeyec  with his mother and a Christian
friend named Euocdius to Ostia, the seaport of Rome.
There they remained awhile, to refresh themselves,
before taking the long and dangerous voyage-as ii
those days it was rightly accounted-to Africa.  But
}Monica was now destined Gor a better home than
her native land: her earthly pilgrimage, although at
that moment they bad no suspicion of it, was rapidly
cdrawing to a close.  It happened, while they were at
Ostia, that Monica and her son —now doubly hers,
both in: the flesh and in the spirit-were discoursilng
of their heavenly hopes; they seemed in spirit already




lonzica's Conversation.          47
to have reached those glorious pastures where "4 God
feeds Israel."  They dwelt upon tlhe entire happiness
it would be if, all other sights abstracted and sounds
hushed, they could gaze upon Himr, and hear His
voice, feeling tllhat but one moment of such communion would be itself bliss, the perpetual continuance of it the joy of the Lord.  Thus speaking,
MIonica gazed out of a window on the closing shadows
of evening, and a joyful presentiment came upon her
that her work was over in this world, and that the
haven of her rest drew near.' Son:" she said,  for
my part, I have no furtlher delight in any thing of
this life.  What I do here, and wherefore I remain,
I know not, seeing that all my hopes are accomplished.
One thing I desired,-and that was, to tarry for a while
in this life, tlat I might see thee a Catholic Christian
before I died.  My God hath done this for me more
abundantly than I could ask or think, in tllat I see
thee now despising earthly happiness, and becoming
His servant.  What, then, do I here?"  A few days
after this, she suddenly sickenedl with fever: in the
access of the disease, she became one night altogether
insensible, and Augustine and his friends hastened to
her bedside.  After a while, she returned to consciousness, saying, "1 Where was I?" andl then, looking fixedly on the weeping ones around, said,; Here
you shall bury your mother."  "; I,"- says AAugustilne,
"' held my peace, and refrained froma weeping."  His
brother Navigius said somethinrg to the effect that




18      Life of Autgustinze, Bishop of Hippo.
he hoped, as a happier lot, that she might be buried
among her own people.  She looked anxiously at
him,  checking him with her eyes that he savoured
such things," and, turning to Augustine, said, " See
what he says;" and then, after the pause of a moment, to both of them: " Lay this body any where;
do you have no care about that.  All I ask you to do
is this,-wherever you are, commemorate me at the
altar of God." She was then silent, overcome by the severity of the disease. Augustine dwells upon this scene
as something remarkable, as indeed it was.  Neither
he nor his mother was quite free from those supeirstitions of their times —then comparatively harmless —
which were gathering around the sepulchres of the
martyrs, to culminate at length in the utterly unscriptural and unprimitive fables of purgatory and saintly
protections and invocations.  Monica had, during
the greater part of her life, expressed considerable
anxiety about her place of burial, and had strongly
expressed a wish that her bones might, if possible, rest
near those of her husband Patricius; for, as she said,
they had dearly loved one another in life, and in
death would not be divided.  But latterly that longing had, through the fulness of the Lord's goodness,
begun to cease in her heart; and, in that last memorable conversation in the window, there appeared
no desire of dying in her own country. Another day,
also, when Augustine was not present, Monica was
speaking confidentially to a female friend about the




His Mother's Deathl.           49
better life, and the blessedness of death.  On being
asked, " Are you not afraid to leave your body so
far from your own city?" she answered: " Nothing
is far from  God; nor is there any fear lest at
the end of the world He should not know where to
raise me up."' So was she able, in the integrity and
singleness of her faith, to rise above those carnal notions which, in one form or another, are so apt to lay
hold of the best and holiest of men.  In this firm
faithl then, that holy and religious soul was freed from
the body, departing towards sunrise, on the ninth
day of her sickness, in the fifty-sixth year of her age,
and the thirty-third of Augustine's.
He closed her eyes, and- then there flowed in upon
his soul a mighty sorrow, ready to find a vent in tears;
but he restrained himself. The boy Adeodatus burst
out into a loud lament; but the others checked him:
for they did not think it right that such a funeral
should be solemnised with tearful laments and sighings, "because they who do this seem to lament
either the misery of the departed, or that they are
altogether lost; but she was neither unhappy in her
death, nor yet altogether dead: of this they were
assured on good grounds-the testimony of her good
conscience and her faith unfeigned."
Meanwhile, while they whose office it was made
ready the corpse for burial, Euodius took up the
Psalter, and began to sing,-the whole house joining
with the words, I I will sing of mercy and judgment;
D




50       Life of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo.
unto thee, O Lord, will I sing."   Hearing what they
were doing, a number of religious men and women came
together; and Augustine, taking such as desired it apart,
discoursed with apparent calmness upon something fitting for the occasion-l-and in touching the hearts of his
auditory, he felt a balm to his own bruised spirit.  The
corpse was, carried to the burial, and they went and
returned without tears; Augustine sternly repressed
all signs of emotion even at the funeral service.  He
seemed to think there was something; carnal as well
as natural in his sorrow, and secretly prayed for
relief.  He tells us, also, that be sought in a bath
for a mitigation of the feverishness which his emotion
caused, but without effect. At length, sleep came
to his relief; and then, awaking, he remembered the
hymn of Ambrose,:
"'Creator, God of all,
Who rules the turning heaven,
Who decks the day with pleasant light,
And gentle sleep to night hath given,
That so the tired limbs:
For toil may be refreshed;,
That so may wearied hearts be eased,
And carlring cares may sink to rest."
Then at last he allowed. himself to weep, and confesses that by these 1" natural tears"-which yet, for
one in whom  the " sure and certain hlope" was so
lively, he seems to regard as an exhibition, of weakness
almost sinful —he was mucl. refreshed.




Return to Africa~.            51
At this point in his history, the Co6zfessions end;
and we no further possess, as our source of information, this most touching autobiography.
In consequence of his mother's death, Angusti;ne
changed his plans, and returned with his friends to
Rome.  Here, like his great predecessor St. Paul, he
preached the faith which once he destroyed, engaging
chiefly in controversy with the 3anicheans.  Towards
the autumn of the year 388, he sailed again to his
native Africa.  Here he lived, in retirement from the
world, at a country house,. which he had inherited from
his father. He determined now to sell all that he had,
and give to the poor, retaining only just sufficient for
the moderate support of himself and some friends likeminded, who were, after the manner of the primitive
Chureh, to have all things in common. One of these,
who was named Innocentius, had recently been delivered
in a remarkable way from a painful disorder. He had
already undergone operations more than once, it was
hoped successfully; but the painful symptoms returned,
and he was informed that he must submit yet again to
the knife.  His sufferings were so great, and the
treatment caused such dreadful agony, that he told his
friends he was sure he shoulcl die under the operation,
if it were attempted.  He therefore besought them to
come to his house, and pray with him that he might
have strength to bear it.  They did so, and at length
he determined again to submit to be operated on; but
great was the joy of himself and his friends to find




52      Life of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo.
that their prayers had been wonderfully answered.
On the next day, when all was ready, the surgeons
found that nature had anticipated them, and there
was no need of their art.  The friends lived together
in prayer, study, and meditation-frequently interrupted, however, by the inhabitants of the city coming to them to take counsel and advice on matters
both spiritual and temporal.  During this happy
period of rest, Augustine wrote several of his most
important works.
At the end- of three years, he visited Hippo,-a
seaport in Numidia, now called Bona,-at the request
of a person of consequence.  Here he was ordained
under somewhat peculiar circumstances.  Valerius,
the Bishop of Hippo, was preaching a sermon, in which
he remarked that the Church needed a presbyter, and
that he had frequently prayed the Lord to send him
one who could supply his own lack of service, caused
by age, and an imperfect acquaintance with Latin, —for
he was by birth a Greek.  The people, with one consent, desired him to ordain Augustine. Valerius gave
thanks that his prayers had been heard, and exhorted
him to undertake the office.  Augustine, taken by
surprise, resisted even to tears, saying that no office
was so easy and pleasant as that of a bishop, priest, or
deacon, if performed perfunctorily, and with hope of
human praise; but, then, nothing was more awful than
in such a spirit to undertake it. Feeling, however, that
it was a divine call, he was, after a short return to his




Ordained Presbyter.           53
former retreat, which was spent in meditation and
special prayer, ordained by Valerius at Hippo.
His relations with the good old bishop were very
pleasant.  Valerius showed not the slightest envy
of a colleague who was intellectually so much his
superior, but allowed the great gifts of Augustine
free play for the benefit of the Church, calling on him
frequently to preach when he himself was present-a
custom till that time unknown in Africa.  Here his
ministry was especially useful in the instruction and
edification of the heathen, and also in the defeat of
various heresies; and his fame began to spread gradually throughout the Western World. After a while,
Valerius, with the consent of the Bishop of Carthage,
made him coadjutor-bishop, that thus, when his own
course should be finished, he might preserve to his
beloved Church of Hippo the services of one who had
proved so able. At the end of three years, Valerius
died; and Augustine was now sole Bishop of Hippo,
and remained so to the day of his death.
The episcopal residence at Hippo was a model of
Christian simplicity and piety. Choosing to remain
single himself, although by no means blaming marriage in others, Augustine dwelt with his clergy in
common. The diet, furniture, and dwelling were all
plain and simple, but good and sufficient; and that
there might be no undue preference, no one was allowed to have more than another, not even the bishop
himself:  Ie was most anxious that the conversation




54      Life of Augustine, Bishop of tIippo.
should be serious and edifying, but above all that
there should be no tale-bearing or backbiting.  On
his table was written a couplet to the following effect:
"Whoever loves with slanderous word the absent to disgrace,
Should know that he beside this board can find no welcome place."
Nor did he allow this to be forgotten:; for one day,
when certain bishops, his intimate friends, were with
him, and the conversation took this turn, he remained
silent, evidently much disturbed; at length lie mildly
pointed to the couplet on the table, and told them that
he must either have the lines erased, or else leave the
table himself.  His household thus became a fruitful
nursery of worthy ministers,-several bishops, eminent alike for both learning and piety, having been
originally members of the clergy-house at Hippo.
He was conscientiously attentive to the wants of
the poor, and in times of very severe distress scrupled
not to sell the sacred vessels of the Church in order to
obtain the means of alleviating it. He set a noble example in respect of offerings and legacies to tlhe Church;
he would not receive them, if he thought they were
incompatible with the family claims of the donors, —
being assured that no blessing would come with property acquired at the expense of those who ought
rightfully to possess it.  His own moderation we have
seen already: what he had was for the Church, and
the Church only; he accepted nothing for himself.
He voluntarily adopted the single life, abstaining from




Thle City of God.             55
the society of the other sex with a rigidity which we
should think unnecessary, but which, considering
what his earlier life was, must be considered an additional proof, if any were -needed, of his religious
sincerity and earnestness.
As a preacher, he was justly celebrated.  His sermons, though in form strange to our modern ideas of
what a sermon ought to be, are still justly regarded as a
storehouse of very rich material for those who know
how to use them.  In his explanation of Scripture,although, as he was but slenderly acquainted with
Greek, and not at all with Hebrew, he is not always
reliable as an expositor of the sacred words, —-lihe
abounds in the development of theological and religious
tlhoughts, even where he evidently misses the natural
meaning of the passage, or loses himself, as he sometimes does, in far-fetched allegorical fancies.
The most renowned work  of Augustine is the
treatise concerning the City of God.  It was no less
than thirteen years in progress; having been begun in
A.D. 413, and completed in the seventy-second year of
his life. The object of the work is to defend Christianity and the Church in the face of the approaching
fall of the old Roman Empire.  A strange argument
against Christianity had been used. The capture of
Rome by Alaric, and the consequent miseries to the
empire, had opened the mouths of pagans, who accused
Christianity as the cause of the decline. Augustine, in
his zeal for the city of his God, gives a genial and




56      Life of Augustine, Bishop of HijppIo.
noble answer to the calumny.  He first of all shows
that the downfall of the Roman kingdoms, which was
then taking place, was as well a call to repentance to
the heathen, as a powerful and salutary discipline to
the Christians. He thence turns to the contemplation
of the divine kingdom, the city of God, which,
founded on the everlasting hills by Christ Himself, can
never be destroyed; but, out of all the changes and
revolutions of time, must rise again with new power
and energy, and, after the fulfilment of her earthly
mission, shall —separated even from  external cominunion with the wicked world-enter into the sabbath
of eternal rest and spiritual repose.
The other most precious work of Augustine is
the Confessions, so often referred to already, which
forms a kind of autobiography.  It is written, as its
title indicates, in the form  of an address to God;
containing a confession of sin, and the methods by
which the divine Providence called him to repentance.
Its value is very great, because it shows at once his
firm and ardent faith as well as his tender and loving
spirit. In style it is, indeed, often over-rhetorical, involved, and interspersed with playing upon words,
which sometimes obscures the sense; and, though this
was no doubt considered a beauty in a declining age
of literature, and so rendered the work specially acceptable to those for whom it was intended, it is really
a defect, and one which appears more or less in all
Augustine's writings; yet the deep piety and tender




Literary Labozirs.            5 7
pathos which pervade the whole render it impossible
to read it without emotion.
The rest of the long life of Augustine is a record
of literary labour and ministerial usefulness.   His
vast influence on religious thought is made manifest
by the fact that, though Hippo was but an inconsiderable town, and its bishop likely, under ordinary circumstances, to play but an insignificant part in the
affairs of the Church, Augustine was the acknowledged leader of orthodox Christianity in Africa, and
even the Western Church generally. But the highest
testimony of all to his genius and piety is the estimation in which he is now  held.   The utmnost
extremes of modern Christianity, Romanist and Protestant, Ultramontanist and Dissenter, are agreed, if in
nothing else, in their veneration of this great father;
and thus his reputation survives with undiminished
lustre to the present time. Yet, as so constantly may
be observed in ecclesiastical history, the immediate
effects of his ministry were not destined to have any
continuance at all. Ere he died, the clouds of that
darkest of all political storms had begun to gather
thickly round, and were about to burst on a devoted
Christendom, in the fall of the Roman Empire.  The
Vandal King Gesneric, with 50,000 warriors, had
crossed over from Spain to Africa, and had commenced
a war which spared neither age nor sex.   These
barbarians raged like wild beasts, reducing towns and
villages to ashes, and carrying torture and desolation




58      Life of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo.
every where.  They were especially severe against
the orthodox clergy,-being themselves Arians.  It
was therefore a time of deepest distress to the Church,
and Augustine's heart was rent with the sufferings.
He was not daunted, however, but knew his duty in
the awful crisis. He remained with his flock; " for,"
said he, "whoever flees so that the Church is not
deprived of the necessary ministrations, he does what
God commands or permits.  But whoever so -flees that
the flock of Christ is left without the nourishment by
which it spiritually lives, he is a hireling, who seeth
the wolf coming, and fleeth, because he careth not for
the sheep."   After a while, Boniface, the IRoman,
general, having been worsted by the Vandals, was
compelled to retire into Hippo, which was soon invested
by the enemy, and closely besieged.  All this time
Augustine was indefatigable, and preached continually;
thus supporting his people under their trials. Daily the
conflict grew more serious, and he had to witness one
after another of his flock taken by death.  His friend
Possiclonius and other bishops were with him  at this
trying time; to them he said: c" What I pray to God
for is, either that He will deliver this city from the
enemy; or, if He have determined otherwise, that He
will strengthen His servant for his sufferings; or, which
I would rather, that He would call me out of this work
to Himself."  His prayer was granted; at the end of a
week from this time, he was seized with a fever, which
from the first he hailed as the messenger sent to call




Death.                   59
him home.  He continued his duties notwithstanding, until the extreme pressure of sickness compelled
him to retire entirely to his chamber.  There he directed the seven Penitential Psalms to be hung up at
his bedside, that he might meditate upon them; and
desired to be left much alone, that he might, except
at certain intervals, give himself wholly to devotion:
and in this way he surrendered his soul; sinking to
his rest in the seventy-sixth year of his age, after having
been presbyter and bishop forty years. His library
and writings he bequeathed to the Church.  Other
property he had none to leave. At the end of fourteen months, Hippo fell, and with it all Africa.  But
the writings of Augustine escaped the wreck: so
that he, being dead, through these yet speaketh.








BERNARD, THE MONK.
Faith amidst the dark Clouds of Medieval Superstition.
"He had imbibed most of the errors of his time which were not
directly subversive of the Gospel; and the monastic characterwhich, according to the spirit of the age, appeared to be his
greatest glory-seems much to have eclipsed his real virtues. But
if we strip him of this ascetic vest, and consider his interior endowments, he will appear to be no mean or ordinary character." —
JoSEn PHI ILNER.








LIFE OF BERNARD,  THIiE HONlEK.
F in the life of Augustine we have a history
of a great spirit, who moulded into form.
the principal doctrines of the Church just at
that critical period when the ancient world
was on the point of dissolution, and modern civilisation,
as we behold it, was about to emerge from the ruin;
so in Bernard we have another of those moving minds
which give a definite direction to the thought of the
age in which they live.  There was this, also, in addition, that the period in which Bernard's lot was cast
was one of the most eventful in medieval history. He
witnessed the first and second Crusades; he beheldc in
the rising liberties of the communes, the dawn of that
political fireedom which we look upon. as so happily
developed in our own representative institutions. He
may be said, in his contests with Abelard, to have
felt the first risings of free thought, and assisted,




634         life of Berzard, the Mblok.
though unconsciously, the development of scholasticism  into what was afterward to become modern
scientific method. As a monk, he, moreover, represents the spirit of monasticism at its best; as a churchman, he influences the destinies of the Western Church
when at the very summit of her power; above all, as
a true, earnest Christian, he is, notwithstanding some
superstitions incident to his times, a worthy successor
of saints before him, and a bright example to such
as are desirous of continuing the great work of the
reformation of the world.
Bernard was born at Fontaines, in Burguncldy,
A.D. 1091.  His father, Tesselin, was a brave knight,
a vassal and friend of the Duke of Burgundy.  Notwithstanding his high and undoubted courage, lie was
of a gentle disposition; but, better than all, he was an
earnest Christian. Though a warrior, he was yet a
peacemaker; for, having been drawn into a quarrel
with an adversary relative to some matter of very
considerable importance, the dispute was, according to
the custom of those times, to be decided by single
combat.  The day was fixed, and all was ready,-and,
as Tesselin was much the stronger of the two, the
chances were very greatly in his favour; but his
Christianity enabled him to rise above the prejudices
of his age. He felt that such a method of settling a
dispute was not in accordance with the principles of
the Gospel, and accordingly, before the fight came
off, he offered to compromise the matter, proposing such




Parentage.                   65
terms as he knew beforehand would be accepted, and
thus avoided the strife.
Chaucer's description of a knight"And though that he was worthy, he was wise,
And of his port as meek as is a maid;
He never yet no villany ne said
In all his life, unto no manner wight;
He was a very perfect, gentle knight"dmnalght very well hlave served for Tesselin.
I-Is wife was Alyth, or Elizabeth.  According
to some of her biographers, she intended to enter a
convent, but, at the early age of fifteen, was induced
to become the wife of Tesselin.  As she was really a
devout and earnest woman, it is exceedingly probable
that she would greatly wish thus to devote herself to
a religious life; for we must remember that, in those
days, the monastic life was regarded as the very
highest form  of Christian devotedness.   Called to
another lot, she nevertheless spent much of her time
in austerities and devotions, which were monastic in
all but in name.  She was not wanting also in other,
and what we should regard as better, evidence of real
piety. Active benevolence was joined with personal
austerity, and the Lady of Fontaines might often be
seen with her own hands ministering in the cottages
of her poor and by the bedsides of her sick dependants.
It is especially necessary to observe the form
which religious fervour took in that age, if we would
estimate aright the character of Bernard. To these
PI




66          Life of Berznard, the Molk.
rude warriors, religion seemned hardly worthy of thle
name, unless it partook something of the character of
single combat with evil.  The shield of faith and the
sword of tle Spirit must be almost tangible, and
wielded accordinog to the rules of a kind of spiritual
knighthood.  The flesh was to them this visible body
of ours; and hence, wrhat method of mortification of it
so simple and effectual as to stint it in the Imatter of
food and rest?  M4edieval Christians, moreover, were
taught, equally with their modern successors, that
they were to forsake the world; and, again, what
more obvious way of doinlg this was there than to
enter a monastery, and so, by a life of devotion, cut
oneself off bodily from the snares and temptations of
every-day life? and, in the ervour of their piety, men
did this.  It was a subsequent discovery, forced on
the Church by repeated filures and attempted reformations of the monastic rule, that the world, the
flesll, and even the devil, could find quite as ready
access to souls within the walls of a monastery as on
the outside.  It is no blot, then, on tlhe character of
Bernard or of Alyth, that they practised austerities
which we look upon as grotesque or absurd.  They
could not be expected to rise above their age.  It was
their method of expressing that fervency of spirit
with which they served the Lord.
Nor, again, must we be startled at finding the
miraculous largely mingling in their biographies. *No
doubt the age of Bernard was excessively credulous,




2Medieval.Miracles.            67
and ours, in which a hard, dry scepticism. is prevalent, has but little sympathy with it.  But it may
well be doubted whether the childish faith of the medieval saint, ever ready to discover a miracle where one
was not, were not preferable to that cold theology which
never recognises the hand of God in human affairs, but
would. rather speak exclusively of fixed laws of nature.
Bernard's age, unlike that in which we live, was always
o1n the look-out for marvellous and sudden interferences
in the current of human life. The spirits of good and
evil were not only believed to be in contact with our
spirits, but often in sensible manifestations to make
themselves heard and felt.  The root of the matter,
which is faitlh they had,-tlley realised. the divine
presence with themselves; but the highest kind of
faith they had not: this is seeing Him who is invisible; they craved ever for visible and sensible manifestations of that presence: and their very austerities
lent force to the illusion.  A man who has fasted and
meditated for many hours, is just in tLe condition to
confound inner emotions with external impressions; he
will likely enough thiInk he sees visions, as he will most
certainly dream dreams.  If the reader will bear this
in mind, he will be readily able to separate the chaff of
fable from the wheat of instruction; and because some
things are incredible, he need not fear frauds, either
pious or profane, in narratives which were evidently
composed in perfect good faitll, nor be surprised that
such legends could really edify those who heard them.




68         Life of Bernard, the Monk.
The circumstances attending the death of Alyth
illustrate this fact.  She was accustomed to celebrate
the feast of St. Ambrose, the patron saint of Fontaines,
with great magnificence, on which occasion she always gave a banquet to the clergy. A special revelation was vouchsafed to her, that she should die on the
day of the feast. She calmly announced the fact to her
assembled household, who utterly refused to believe
the prediction.  Nevertheless, on the vigil of St.
Ambrose, she was attacked with a violent fever,
which obliged her to keep her bed on the morrow's
festival. She'desired to partake of the holy eucharist; after which, feeling strengthened, she insisted
that the guests should sit down to the banquet, as
usual.  After a while, she sent her eldest son, Guido,
into the banquet-hall, and told him to summon, so
soon as the feast should be ended, all the clergy to
her chamber.  She informed them with perfect calmness that her hour was come, and asked their prayers.
They began the Litany; as they uttered the words,
"s By Thy cross and passion," she raised her hand to
make the sacred sign, and expired. After death, her
hand remained fixed in the position she had assumed.
We are also assured that, after her decease, she
was wont to appear to her sons; and that she
exhorted Bernard especially to continue the good
work he had begun, when he resolved to become a
monk. But who that knows any thing of the wonderfully vivid images which devoted affection conjures




The Abbey of Citeaux.           69
up after years of separation-and Bernard was evidently one of the most affectionate of men —can wonder at all that it should have been so? Alyth's children were wrong in nothing but the desire for visible
manifestations of that of which otherwise, in the region
of faith, they had most infallible proofs.
To such a nature as Bernard's, then, the monastery was, in those days, the only possible destination.
He had certainly two courses open to him: he might
be a knight or a monk, and enter upon the career
either of a soldier or of a saint; but he was too delicate
and fragile for a soldier, and too brave and too
earnest to be any thing but a saint.  Some of his
family thought that something of a compromise might
be adopted.  He had made rapid progress in the
learning of the times, and might thus become a doctor in theology, deeply learned in its hard questions,victorious, therefore, in those tournaments of intellect,
the dialectic contests of the schools.  But he determined not to be ensnared with the perilous temptations such a life would produce.  The most rigid
rules of self-devotion were alone agreeable to his temperaiment, and hence he determined to become a
Cistercian monk.
The abbey of Citeaux had been founded, about
fifteen years before, by Stephen Harding, an Englishman, originally from Sherborne, in Dorsetshire. He
had introduced a much more severe discipline than at
thattime prevailed in other monasteries; his object being 




70          Lije of Bernardncl  thle iMonlk.
to restore tle rule of Benedict to its original strictness. The luxurious living, therefore, of other monasteries was to be entirely eschewed.  The Cistercians
were to eat but one meal a day; they had risen twelve
hours from their beds, and sung psalms, and worked
in the fields, before they got even that one.  It
consisted of a round of the coarsest bread, and two
dishes of different sorts of vegetables, boiled without
fat.  Their drink was thle sour wine of the country,
their beer, or a decoction of herbs, called sapa-apparently a kind of vegetable soup; fish and eggs, which
were always considered a suitable diet for monks,
were rigidly excluded.  They were to have but three
garments, and those of the coarsest materials.  They
were bound, as all monkis were, by the three vows of
obedience, poverty, and chastity.  The world was by
them to be forsaken, even forgotten.
No sooner had Bernard determined to enter the
monastery, than he sought to persuade others to join
him.  The first convert in his own family was his
uncle Galdric, who was a man of consideration and
power, and the lord of the castle of Fouillon..His
two younger brothers, Bartholomew and Andrew,the latter having been only just made a knight,resisted his illlmportunities; but one clay Andrew
said suddenly to Bernard, " I have seen mly mother,"
who, says his biographer, had appeared to him, and
congratulated him onl becoming' a monk.
With Guido, his eldest brother, he had more dif



?e'rncard's B rohlcrs,.        71
ficulty: he was married, and had children, and very
naturally-we should say, very properly-objected to
leave his wife and daughters. At leng'th he agreed to
dco so, if his wife would, on her side, give consent.
This she refused to do, and Bernard tried in vain to
persuade her; but, soon after, she was " visited with
a heavy infirmity:" whereupon she sent for Bernard,
asked his forgiveness for her obduracy, and became
earnest for a religious separation.
The second in age after Guido was Gerard; he
treated the matter somewhat lightly, looking upon his
brother as an amiable enthusiast. But Bernard, with
fiery faith and fraternal charity,-so says his medieval
biographer,-addressed hin thus: " I know —yes, I
know  that nothing but tribulation will give thee
understanding."  And then placing his finger on his
side, he said, " The day will come, and come soon,
when a lance will pierce this side, and male a way
to thy heart for that counsel of salvation thou dost
now despise."  A few days after, Gerard was surrounded by enemies, and wounded in the very spot
where Bernar&d had put his finger.  Being taken
prisoner, and expecting nothing  but instant dealth
he cried out, 1" I am a molnk, a Cistercian."  In his
captivity he sent a nmessenger to Bernard, entreating
hii to come and see him. Bernard refused. " I knew
and predicted that you would find it hard to kick
against the pricks.  This wound, however, is not
unto death, but unto life."  And so it happened; for




72           iffe of Bernard, tihe 3~Molik.
Gerard soon after unexpectedly obtained his liberty.
He did not-as but too often happens —forget, in his
prosperity, vows made in the hour of fear and trial,
but immediately joined the Cistercians.
At length, when all arrangements were complete,
Bernard and his companions — amounting to some
thirty in all —entered the monastery of Citeaux.  It
will be convenient, at this point, to give the reader
an idea of what life in a monastery was like.  The
following, then, was the ordinary routine of a Cistercian monk's day.  At two in the morning, the
great bell was rung, and the brethren arose from
their beds, and hastened in solemn silence from tile
dormitory to the church. After a short, silent prayer,
they began 3Matins, which lasted about two hours.
The next service, called Lauds, did not commence
till dawn; this, therefore, was the time most at the
monk's disposal, which he might employ in reading,
writing, or meditation-it would vary in length, according to the season.  After Lands, he devoted himself
to various religious exercises until nine, when he went
forth to work in the fields; at two, he dined; at nightfall, he assembled with the brethren to Vespers; at six
or eight o'clock, according to the season, finished the day
with Compline; and then went to rest in the dormitory.
In summer, when the labours of the field were more
onerous, the monks were allowed supper —and then a
portion of the day's food was reserved for this meal,
but not otherwise.  In Lent, as might be expected,




A Day in a Montstery.           73
the fasts were more severe, and the daily meal later.
Rules of silence were rigidly enforced, as well as of
strict and unquestioning obedience to the superior.
" Put down on paper," says one of its greatest admirers of modern times, "1 it appears a dead letter of
outward observances: the spirit of obedience, humility, and chastity, which actuated the whole, cannot
be described in words."  This is so.  If the great
body of the monks were fervent, a little more or less
strictness in the rule did not matter; when they
ceased to be really in earnest, and worldly-minded
men came in amongst them, then it was found that
the strictest rule in name was compatible with the
utmost indulgence in fact.
At that time, however, there is no doubt that
the rule was observed by all with great strictness.
Stephen, the abbot, was accustomed to say-and no
doubt his rule corresponded with his words —" If
you enter here, leave your bodies behind you; let the
spirit alone enter: the flesh profiteth nothing."  Indeed, to our ideas, such a life appears to contain quite
as much of devotion andl abstinence as is healthful for
either body or soul.  But it is an inherent disadvantage in a religion which finds its expression in
this way, that it can never go far enough.  Bernard,
not content with self-denial, went on to well-nigh
self-destruction.  He so stinted himself in food, that
at length he almost lost the sense of taste; the hours
devoted to sleep, he looked upon as lost, and passed




74          Life of Bernard, the Mlfonk.
most of his time in a kind of ecstatic contemplation,
insensible to external objects —  a trance, with his eyes
open."  At length he lost all desire for food, and only
ate to prevent himself from fainting; but outraged
nature rebelled- tlese excessive austerities injured his
health.  Food produced violent pain and nausea; he
could scarcely retain any aliment; and what little he
did retain, seemed rather to defer death than to sustain life.  It is, however, but just to his memory to
observe tlhat, in maturer years, he himself condemned
these austerities as excessive, and confessed that he
had done wrong in thus depriving the Church he
served of that  bodily strength which was granted him
for her and her Master's service.
His ardent spirit by no means allowed him to
make sicklness an excuse for avoiding his share of the
manual labour which devolved on the brethlren.  Unfit for hard work, he would beg that he might be set
to do the most menial offices, that he might make
up in humility what he could not give in strength.
Stephen also soon discovered how valuable a fellowhelper he possessed in Bernard, and interposed his
authority in order to prevent him firom undertaking
labours which were beyond his strength.  Reaping
at harvest-time was found to be too laborious, and lihe
too little used to it for him to succeed in performing
it.  Accordingly, he was enjoined to remain idle
while the rest of the brethren were at this laboun
He obeyed, but it was a sore trial to him; andcl he




lThe  lfo0ilc's Prqfe8oss-o,.      75
wept and prayed earnestly for strength.  From that
day, and forward, says his biographer, he became a
most expert reaper.  The narrative may be believed,
without supposing more of a miracle than singleness
of purpose is able to accomplish.
Citeaux-which, up to the period of Bernard's
arrival, had been but poor and struggling-now began at once to grow in numbers and in usefulness.
At first, the strict rule was despised by the careless,
and defamed by the self-indulgent.  To the earnest
and devoted, the strictness and austerity of the rulproved an irresistible attraction.  Nay, more; some
who originally came as scoffers, only to mock and criticise, remained as brethren.  Thus it happened that tlhe
little monastery, which hitherto had seen only an1 occasional novice enter its gates, was now in a position to
send out colonies, in order to found other and affiliated
abbeys.
But the year of Belrnard's novitiate had now passed
over, and he was to be fully professed.  This ceremony is thus described.  The novice was called into
the chapter, and before all the brethren made disposal of his worldly goods.  His head was shorn, and
his hair burnt.  Going to the steps of the presbytery,
he then read the form  of profession, and made the
sign of the cross; and, inclining his body, approached
the altar.  He placed the profession onl tlle right side
of it, which he kissed.  The abbot, standling at the
same side of the altar, removed from  it the parch



476        Life of Be7rznard, the Monlk.
ment; while the novice, on his hands and knees,
implored pardon, repeating three times the words,
" PReceive me, O Lord." The whole convent answered
with the Gloria Patrhi, and the cantor began the
Psalm, "' Have mercy upon me, 0 God;" which was
sulg by the two choirs alternately.  The novice then
rose up, prostrated himself at the abbot's feet, and
then afterwards at the feet of the prior and all the
brethren in succession.  Towards the end of the
P'salm, the abbot approached with his crosier, and.
bade him rise; a cowl was blessed, and sprinkled
with holy water; and the abbot, removing from the
novice his secular garments, replaced them with the
monastic dress.  The Credo was then said; and the
novice, now a monk, took his seat with the rest in
the choir.
Two colonies had already been sent out; and by
the time that Bernard had been a monk a year, a
third was to be despatched.  Stephen made choice of
Bernard as the head of the new community, —he was
but twenty-five at the time,-and some marvelled that
Stephen should choose so young a man; but Stephen
had already gauged the depth and earnestness of
Bernard's character.
The ceremony of departure was both simple and
touching.  They assembled in the church; the abbot
thein placed a cross in Bernard's hand; he and his
twelve molnks who were to go with him rose up and
bade farewell to the assembled brethren, who on their




Bernard aen Abbot.             77
side responded with psalms and prayers.  He then
left the church, and the brethren followed him to the
gate, and thence on the road, until they reached the
limit of their own land; here they parted, amid the
regrets of all: for Bernard had, even in this short
time, wound himself around their hearts.
Bernard and his monks struck away to the northward.  About four miles from La Ferte was a valley
with a stream running through it, at that time a wild
and desolate place.  Here, in this Valley of Wormwood, as it was called, Bernard and his monks took
up their abode, and raised up a rude shelter against
the approaching winter.  It consisted of a single
building, which contained both clurch and dwelling.
Its floor was the native earth.  The windows were
narrow, scarcely wider than a man's hand.  Above
the refectory was the dormitory, which was reached
by a ladder.  The monks slept in boxes, or bunks,
strewn with cllaf and dried leaves.  The abbot's cell
was at the top of the ladder,-aln incommodious little
cupboard, with a sloping roof, dark and low; but
apparently well ventilated,-for gaps in the woodwork admitted only too readily the blasts of winter
and the heat of summer.  If this, then, was what the
Apostle meant by's enduring hardness as good soldiers
of Jesus Christ," Bernard and his monks had ample
opportunity to prove their valour.
Indeed, their patience was sorely tried. They had
already to subsist on a mixture of beech-leaves and




78          Lifje of Bernard, the I iZ-o~)cz.
coarse grain, while beech-nuts and roots were to be
their food during the winter.  Then their clothes and
shoes began to wear out; and as the severer weather
drew on, the brethren suffered seriously.  In their
distress, their hopes began to fail.  In vain did Bernard dwell with fervour on0 the hilgher life, the power
of faith, and the love of Gods,-the half-starved brethren would not listen; and some declared they would
remain no longer, but would return to Citeaux. Bernard, seeing that expostulation was useless, betook
himself to prayer.  A voice was hearcl from heaven,
saying, "1 Thy prayer is granted thee."   " What,"
said the monks, " didst thou ask the Lord?"  " Wait,
and ye shall see, 0 ye of little faith," said Bernard.
That day a stranger called, and brought them  ten
livres.  Another day they had no salt.  Bernard said
to Brother Guibert, ~ Guibert, my son, saddle the ass,
and go to the market and buy some salt."  Guibert
replied, " Where is the money?"' Believe me,"
said Bernard,C  I do not know the time when I had
gold or silver, but HE is above wh-o has my wallet
and my treasure in His hand."  The other smiled
and said, " I shall return as empty-handed as I am
going."   " Fear not," said Bernard, "C but go in
confidence; for He who has our treasures, as I said
to thee, will be with thee in thy way, and will provide
thee all for which I send thee." And so it turned out.
Guibert, on his way, met a priest, who aslked himl
whither he was going.  Hie told his questioner of his




79
errand, and the sad state they were in at the monastery; and the priest was so touched with the narrative,
that lhe gave him a bushel of salt, and fifty solidi as well.
On his return, Bernard said, 4 I told thee so.  There
is nothing so necessary to all Christians as faith." Bernard was right; yet it may be doubted if the expectation of a miracle be the highest kind of faith.  After
tlhis, we are told that the words of Bernard were held
in greater reverence tlhain they had been before. And
no wonder; doubtless these trials brought out into
relief the best parts of his character, and shlowed the
gentleness of his disposition united to his iron will.
In the mean time, he was solemnly consecrated Abbot of Clairvaux-the " Beautiful Valley," as lie called
his monastery.  His diocesan, the Bishop of Langres,
— fbr in his diocese the monastery was situatedc-was
accidentally absent; and William, Bishop of Chalons,
acted as substitute.  This laid the foundation of a
friendship which endured through life. William often
visited Clairvaux; and the example of the venerable
Bishop of Chalons tended much to induce others to
enter upon friendly relations with Bernard.  So, in
abundant offerings, and under -the patronage of tle goorl
and noble, brighter times soon dawned upon Clairvaux.
But now  the infant comimunity seemed to be
tlhreatened with a still greater misfortune than it
had yet endured.  Bernard's health, never strong,
worn out by labour and'anxiety, began to fail, so that
his friend William declares he lost all sense of taste,




80          Life of Bernard, the 1Mon0k.
and was known to have eaten raw blood, which, by
mistake, was given him instead of butter; and that
he one day drank oil, thinking it to be water: though
how such gross mistakes could have been made by his
attendants does not appear. At this juncture, William
came to visit him, and was justly alarmed at the state
of his health.  He had, however, the good sense to
see what was really required, and obtained authority
from Stephen to take the direction of Bernard upon
himself. Hitherto Bernard had adhered to the diet
and hours of thile monastery, as far as practicable; and
on being remonstrated with by the brethren, and
petitioned to allow himself some indulgence in consideration of his health, he steadily refused. When,
however, he was authoritatively put under William,
be was as obedient as he had before been refractory.
His friend at once enjoined entire cessation from the
cares of his office, and commanded that neither his
food nor his drink should be regulated by monastic
rules.  This wise treatment had the desired effect;
and by rest and a more nutritious diet was Bernard's
health in due time restored.
This wholesome interposition of Stephen's authority
was an example of a peculiarity he introduced into his
monastic rule.  St. Benedict had originally provided for the government of an individual monastery,
which was not only to be isolated from the world,
but had no necessary relation with any other similar
institution. The result of this was, that the monastery




The Cistercian Rule.            81
depended too exclusively on the personal character of
its abbot.  A few years under a weak or wicked head
would rapidly deteriorate even the best of monasteries,
and a high character for piety and earnestness would
be lost in utter worldliness. Stephen Harding sought
to remedy this by means of a union of all Cistercian
monasteries.  A general chapter of the abbots of all
affiliated monasteries was to meet every September,
and to last five clays.  All must be present; or, in
case of illness or other very urgent cause preventing
attendance, a substitute must be sent.  Over this
chapter the Abbot of Citeaux presided; but, great as
were his powers,-for to whichever of thle affiliated
monasteries he came, the abbot abdicated in his favour,
so long as he remained there, —e was, nevertheless,
only the head in a limited monarchy. The four abbots
of La Ferte, Pontigny, Clairvaux, and 3Morimond
could. admionish him if he erred; and, if he persisted,
could call a chapter of the order, and solemnly depose
him.  The Abbot of Citeaux was to visit all under
him, and these abbots, in their turn, the affiliated
monasteries, reporting any leviation from the rules
of the order: "1 so that, if any abbot should be found
too lukewarm, or too intent on worldly matters, or in
any way reprehensible, he should be accused publicly
in the chapter, should ask for pardon, and undergo
peniance commensurate with the fault."  In this way
Stephen hoped that the religious spirit would be preserved in perpetuity.  It was a vain hope.  As the
F




82           Life of Bezarcd, the lfon2jik.
abbeys became riclih, tley attracted into them, and
especially into the highest places, men who were worldly
and insincere; and thus these houses of prayer became
at length, by the usual process, dens of thieves.
Bernard at this time began his literary labours.
His letters are especially valuable, revealing, as they
do so completely, the character of thle man. In these,
genuine humility and Christian love constantly appear;
and if sometimes he writes with ain earnestness which
approaches to harshness, this is but an occasional
fault, and must be attributed rather to the prejudices
of his age tbhal to any want either of Christian love or
of sound judgment in himself.  He was a monk with
all his soul, and a monastic reformer beside; and he
naturally regarded monastic laxity and self- indulgence as the most nauseous of all kinds of religious
lukewarmness. A characteristic letter was called forth
by the defection of his kinsman Robert, one of the
thirty who originally entered the monastery with him,
but who was seduced to forsalke the austerities of
Clairvaux for the milder discipline and more luxurious living of Cluny. It appears that at Cluny a feastday meant a feast, and a very good one too; while
such enormities were allowed as pepper, ginger, and
other condiments, and also mornilng slumbers.  Such
a defection, especially on the part of a kinsman, was
a real trouble to Bernard; and he writes to Robert to
expostulate with h:i,-at tat that tile, indeed, in vain;
for Robert remained at Cllny a long time, until Peter




Letter, to F]zle.            83
the Venerable became abbot, when this really good
man, —who truly deserved the name of Venerable, —
being essentially a peacemaker, and always ready to do
what was kind, sent him back again. Bernard's letter
shows tllat he had ino idea of any one being a monk by
halves; to him this removal, even to another monastery
less ascetic than his own, was a guilty looking back
from the plough.
Another instance of the same kind was that of
a young mall named Fulk.  This young man had
originally been adopted by a rich uncle, whom he
had left in order to become a regular canon.  Fulk's
uncle, naturally enough, wished his nephew to come
baek, and eventually succeeded in persuading him to
do so. This roused Bernard's indignation; he looked
upon it that botll Fulk and his uncle were on the high
road to perdition, and expostulated with the young
man on the heinousness of his offence.  Bernard's
letter to Fulk is written in a sarcastic, strain, and
filrnishes a marvellous instance of how men are able
to blind themselves to what is really just, when
led away by zeal in the main praisewortlhy.  IHe
represents the uncle as saying: "  Woe is me! What
do I hear? How blighted are my hopes! Is it right,
lawful, just, or reasonable, that one whom  I have
brought up from a child should now, when a man,
be the profit of others?  MBy hair is white. Alas, I
shall pass the remainder of my life in sorrow, now
that the staff of my ol(1 age has forsalken me!  If




84          Life of Bernarqd, thze Molzk.
my soul were demancded of me this night, whose
would my hoarded treasures be??"  And then, after
a good deal 1more to the same effect, the uncle is
represented as saying: " I will recall him, if I call;
even tle lad's sense of shame [at forsaking his vocation] had better suffer, than my loneliness should be
continued."  It never seems to strike Bernard that
Fulk might have waited until his uncle, in the course of
nature, was taken away; but tllat at any rate, till then
it was his duty to show piety at home, and requite one
who had been to him as a parent.  Yet, possibly, it
may be a palliation of Bernard's excessive zeal in this
behalf, that he felt the old priest's house, notwithstanding his sacred office, was not the place where
Fulk would have before him  the best example of
Christian self-denial and unworldliness.
Bernard was, however, not less strict with those
he loved best.  One day his sister Humbeline, who
was now married, came to the gate of the monastery,
attenclded by a retinue, and in great state, in order to
visit her brotlers; but not one of them would even
come out to speak to her: she was spurned from the
gate as a woman wiho was a sinner.  Hurt at her
brother's unkindness, she mwept, and said meekly:
1" If I am a sinner, I am one of those for whom Christ
died, anid have the greater need of my brother's kindly
counsel. Command; I am ready to obey."  Bernard
was mnoved.  He could not separate her from  her
husband; but he adjured her to renounce her worldly




tHis Sister IIunmbelne.         85
pomp.  IIumbeline obeyed, devoted herself to prayer
and fasting, and at last entered a convent and became
a nun.  We think it would have been better had lihe
advised her to fulfil her duties as a wife and mother
in the world; but he and his contemporaries must be
judged by the light that was in them.
We have, of course, in Bernard's biography a
plentiful stock of miracles.  We have already stated
our opinion as to the manner in which they should be
regarded by those who would understand aright the
history of the middle ages.  One or two may be
given: they will at least serve to show the esteem
in which he was held by his contemporaries.  On
one occasion, we are told, the flies came into the
church in such numbers that the brethren were quite
disturbed during their devotions.;; I excommunicate
them," said Bernard.  The next morning, they were
all found dead upon the floor of the church, and had
to be removed by shovelfuls.  On another occasion,
Bernard was visiting a friend, and discoursing to her
and the company, as his manner was, upon some improving topic.  On her lap was her infant of three
monltls old.  The child stretched out its hand to
grasp that of Bernard, and kissed it with respectful
attention.
In the discharge of his duties as Abbot of Clairvaux, Bernard had now reached his thirty-ninth year.
At this period, much against his will, he was drawn
from his retirement, as simple Abbot of Clairvaux, to




8           fLiyfe of Beln;zar-d, the IMo)tk.
become the arbiter of tile destinies of the Western
Church.
There was a schism in the papacy. Honorius, the
pope, was dying; and an anxious expectant of the
vacant chair was Peter Leonis.  He had secured a
large following amongst the cardinals-his enemies
declared, by bribery. Anotlher party, adverse to his
claims, had determined that, whoever might be pope,
it should not be Leo; they therefore assembled immediately on the death of Honorius, and the same
evening proclaimed Cardinal Gregory of St. Angelo
as pope, under the name of Innocent II.  Not to be
outdone, the party of Leo went tlrough the form
of election, and proclaimed him pope, under the title
of Anacletus II.
There were now two popes, each anathematising
tile other; but, beside the spiritual weapons of excommunication, they had recourse to more carnal
and worldly methods of adjusting their claims, and
Rome speedily became filled with contending factions.
Innocent's party was worsted; and he was glad to
escape to Pisa, and thence sailed to France.  The
northern nations principally espoused the cause of
Innocent.  The Abbot of Cluny sent sixty horses,
loaded with every thing a pope could want, to conduct him to the monastery.  This recognition of his
claims was all the more valuable to Innocent, as
Anacletus had been a monk of Cluny.  While there,
the pope consecrated the new church,-a most magni



Sc7tism in thle Pp2acy.          87
ficent structure  the woilnder of its age, —remaining
at the monastery eleven days. All the French abbots
and bishops were not equally decided as to the claims
of the rival popes, and the necessity for action in
th!e matter became pressing.  A schism in the papacy
meaznt, in those days, that in most abbeys two abbots,
and in most dioceses two bishops, were contending
for the mastery,-one side favouring Innocent, and the
other Anacletus,-each anathlematising the other.  A
council was therefore called by Louis at Etalmpes. To
this council Bernard was summoned in an especial
manner, and the whole matter referred to him as 4 a
man of God."  After fasting and prayer, Bernard
gave his decision, which wras listened to by the council
as though it were the voice of the Holy Spirit.  He
declared unhesitatingly in favour of Innocent.
Innocent, on tlis, made a progress through France;
and many monasteries enjoyed the high, but somewhat
costly, honour of entertalning  the pope.  Clairvaux
was not forgotten.  Here he was met by a tattered
flock of Christ's poor; the monks followed in procession, preceded by a cross, with downcast looks,
and withoute noise or tumult.  Innocent marvelled
at the wonderful self-restraint they put. upon tthemselves du-ring his visit: there were no curious gazings,.
no pushing one before another, —nothing but silent
earnestness; above all, the hardness of their farethis abstinence seeimed most wonderful of all.  With
tlhis abstemiousness it seems probable that their visitors




88          Life of Bernard, the /lon2k.
were more edified than pleased.  They were certainly
not very sumptuously entertained; for only the pope
had fish, if there was any. The stay of Innocent here
was but short; and no wonder!
Innocent visited Cluny a second time, where, as
we have seen, the fare was considerably better than
at Clairvaux, ancl no doubt it was a much pleasanter
place for visitors. Nevertheless, Citeaux was not forgotten.  Innocent, by a letter from  Cluny bearing
date February 18, 1132, granted considerable immunities to the Cistercians-amongst others, freedom
from episcopal control, and also from tithe. As Cluny
held tithes payable by some of the Cistercian monasteries, this was felt to be somewhat an act offavouritism;
and Peter and his monks remonstrated, but without
obtaining any redress.  Peter, however, was, even
under this provocation from a rival monastery, true
to his character-he would not quarrel; and though
in medieval times these exemptions were fruitful causes
of the bitterest disputes, it (lid not destroy the friendship which subsisted between himself and Bernard.
Bernard, besides his vast influence as a man, was
most successful as a preacher.  At the command of
the pope and others, he preached before various
audiences; but, whatever his audience, high or low,
rich or poor, he was wont to make a great impression.  At some of his sermons, marvellous instances of
conversion were witnessed: men of high station and
great wealth gave up all, and voluntarily embraced




Gerard's Deatli.             89
the privations of Clairvaux.  But all this success inl
that which was his special vocation, as well as the
estimation he was held in by popes and princes, did
not destroy that Christian humility which was one.oL
his most striking characteristics.  He steadily refused
any higher office than that which he held as head of
his owin monastery; and, though he could make and
unmake bishops, and even popes, —though he was
admitted to courts and palaces,-he would never be
more himself than simple Abbot of Clairvaux.
To his beloved monks, after these intervals of
labour on behalf of the Church, he ever returned with
affectionate regard; to him, Clairvaux was always the
haven of his rest.  Here, if any where, he enjoyed
peace; but even here he was not without trials.  His
brother Gerard died. The ceremonies with which the
Cistercians surrounded the departure of a brother to
the world of spirits were solemn and affecting. When
one of the community was very ill, the bell was rung,
and the brethren assembled as speedily as possible in
the choir.  They then went in procession into the
infirmary, where extreme unction and the eucharist
were administered.  When his end appeared to draw
near, the dying monk was placed on. a serge cloth,
under which ashes, which had been previously blessed,
were strewn in the form of a cross, together with
some straw, or other soft material. The bell was then
rung four times, and the whole community hastened
to the infirmary.  There they knelt around their




D90        LE;,Le of Berncard, the 3Ionlk.
dying brother, and responded to the prayers which
were said by the abbot. Commonly, he suanki away to
his rest amid the prayers of his bretllren; if life still
lingered, the muonks retired, leaving a lighted candle,
a cross, and holy water.
It was thus Gerard died.  Bernard, unmoved apparently, performed the funeral service, while the others
could not restrain their weeping.  He then mounted
the pulpit, and essayed to preach them  an1 ordinary
sermon, takingr his text from the Canticles-the next
in a series of sermons on this book to his monks;
but here his spirit failed: he could not keep away
from the subject which was nearest to his heart; and,
leaving scriptural explanation for the time, he broke
forth into touching and eloquent laments, speaking
of their and his deep loss.  We love him the more for
it.  It showed that the man and the brother were not
altogether swallowed up in the monk and the abbot,
and that his austerity and self-restraint arose from
earnestness, and not from want of feeling.
Again Bernard was called from his cell to defend
the orthodox faith-this time against heresy, as before
against schism.
Peter Abelard, his opponent on this occasion,
was born in Brittany, in the year 1079.  He was
a man of great genius, industry, and learning, a
renowned disputant in the schools, and well acquainted with the sciences then held in so great estination, viz. grammar, rhetoric, and dialectics.  His




Peter Abelard.               91
opinion of himself was quite equal to that which his
companions held of him, which was, however, deservedly high. Not content with the human sciences,
he determined to devote himself to the study of
tleology, which he regarded in the light of a science.
Scripture, he declared, was easily mastered by any
one of common sense.  " Give me," said he on one
occasion to his scholars, " any book you please, and
allow me a single comlmentator, and I am ready to
expound it."  The Book of Ezekiel, as being one of
the most difficult, was mentioned.  Hie studied it that
night; and the next morning declarecl his readiness to
expound it:'I For it is not by leisure, but by energy
of genius," said he, Ad that I undertake to master the
sciences;" and and accordingly he lectured on it to the
admiration of his audience.  With Abelard, however,
Scripture was but a science, and not a rule of life.
His moral character will not bear inspection.  We
must draw a veil over the story of his wickedness, and the revolting details of the retribution
which came upon him.  It is not at all wonderful
that the writings of such a man should be received
with Suspicion.  fulch of what he taught was what the
Church in all ages has condemned as false and pernicious; and even the maxims of free inquiry, in
which we might possibly coneur, would be looked
upon with especial disflvour in an age when authority
was paramount, and men had not learned to think for
themselves.  It was, indeed, the first breaking out of




~52 -LaiLe of ]Bere~nard, the Monlk.
that controversy which rages so fiercely in our own
times, and which hs wrought so miuch both of good
and evil in the Church, namely, that which concerns
the relative claims of faith and reason.  Had, then,
the speculations of Abelard come in a far less questionable shape than they did, hardly any other treatment
could be expected for them than authoritative suppression.
Indeed, Abelardc had already been condemned by
the Council ot Soissons before he came into contact witlh
Bernard at all. IHe had been charged with Tritheism,
and with having asserted that God the Father was
alone almighty. He was ordered to burn his volumes,
and recite the Athanasian Creed. He complied; and,
after a short confinement, was set at liberty.  It was
seventeen years after this, A.D. 1139, that William,
Abbot of St. Thierry, wrote to Bernardl, entreating
him to defend the Christian faith against the alarming
progress of Abelard's errors.  At the same time, he
sent him a work entitled the Theology of Peter Abelaced.
Bernard read the book, and returned answer that, after
Lent, he should have, as he anticipated, more time, and
would then make himself better acquainted with the
subject.  He did so; and the result was a private
meeting with Abelard, at which the questionable
doctrines were discussed; and great hopes were entertained that the matter would be amicably settled,
and that Abelard would retract.  At first he seemed
inclined to do so; but, after a little time, he continued




Controversy zwith Abelaccd.       93
to disseminate his principles, which became day by
day more widely circulated.
Bernard wrote to Pope Innocent, begging him to
interfere., He assured him that both faith and morals
were in danger; and intimated that, if Peter Leonis
was the roaring lion, Peter Abelard was the devouring dragon.  In the same strain he writes to one
of the cardinals: 6 The dragon has been silent many
days; but, when he was silent in Britain" (alluding
to the Pelagian heresy, which originated in the British
Pelagius),   he conceived iniquity in France.  The
mnan boasts that he hath infected the court of Rome
with the poison of his novelty...  May God defend
the Church for which Christ died!"  Other cardinals
and bishops were addressed in similar language.
Abelard now determined, on his side, to act upon
the offensive. At the archiepiscopal city of Sens, there
was to take place an1 exhibition of sacred relies to
the eyes and adoration of the multitude.  King Louis
VII., Count Theobald, and a large number of bishops,
abbots, and nobles, were to take part in the ceremony,
which was to be of unusual solemnity. Abelard challenged Bernard to make good his charge of heresy
before this august and solemn assemblage.  At first,
Bernard hesitated.   I," he said, alluding to his own
inexperience in such contests, and the acknowledged
skill of his adversary, " was but a youth, and he a
man of war from  his youth.  Besides, I judged it
improper to commit the measures of divine faith,




94          Life of Berzard, tAze 1fGo).
which rested on the foundations of eternal truth, to
the petty reasonings of the schools.  I said that his
own writings were sufficient to accuse him; and that
it was not my concern, but that of the bishops, to
decide concerning his tenets."  Abelard was proportionately elated at this hesitation on the part of
Bernard, and spoke to his friends as though assured
of victory. Bernard, urged on his side by his firiends,
felt that he ought not to hold back when the cause of
truth was at stake; and accordingly he proceeded to
Sens.
The first day of the council was occupied by tlhe
display and adoration of the sacred relics; on the
second, the great intellectual tournament was to take
place.  The scene was a magnificent one.  The king,
surrounded by his feudal lords, and the Archbishop of
Sens, with his suffragans, were assembled in the church
of St. Stephen. Bernard mounted the pulpit, and confronted Abelard, who stood in the centre of the building; a crowd of priests, monkls, and warriors standing
on either side.  Bernard proceeded to read the passages he had marked for explanation and condemnation; but he had hardly begun, when Abelard rose up,
and said that he refused to answer, but appealed to
Rome, and thereupon left tle assembly. Allwere taken
by surprise.  Bernard's friends declared that the cause
of this sudden determination was, that Abelard knew
that his strength had suddenly departed from himthat he could not answer because he f-elt a horror and




Abelard's Opiinzions codzclemned.  95
darkness come upon him, so that, afflicted with a kind
of moral judicial blindness, he was altogether at a loss.
Moderns have seen rather, in this appeal, indications
of a dexterous party-move.  Pope Innocent could
hardly feel very angry with one who, befiore such
an audience, supported the claim  of the papacy to
decide appeals at a time when such a claimn  was
questionable. The council, moreover, was clearly with
Bernard.  Abelard was, indeed, suffered to go free,
out of respect to Rome; but his book was condemned
officially by tile council; and a letter was drawn up,
requesting the pope to mark such opinions with perpetual condemnation, and to visit with condign punishment all who defended them.
A. somewhat difierent turn is given to this proceeding by Abelard's friends.  It is said that the
assembled prelates adjourned to dinner, at which a
good deal was both eaten and drunk.  After dinner,
Abelard's book was brought in and read; but tle
audience grew sleepy, and gave only languid attention: some snored, one rested on his elbows, another
got a pillow, another slept with his head between his
knees. When the reader came upon some " thornbush in Peter's field," he said: " Do you condemn
this?"  Some answered with a drowsy " We condemn
it;" others, roused by the sound, clipped the word to
its final syllable, and feebly answered, ";'emn it."*
Abelard's appeal to the pope met with the usual
* Lat. Damnamlus, contracted to'na;alus.




96          Life of Berniard, the Monk.
delays incident to such matters, and for a long time
passed unnoticed. He accordingly proceeded towards
Rome, with the intention of personally pressing his
claim.  On his way thither, he entered the monastery of Cluny.  He was suffering both in mind and
body, being depressed in spirit and out of health.
The good, kindc-hearted Peter received the poor,
broken -down scholar with his usual benevolence,
wrote to the pope in his favour, and sought to console him during his remaining days, which he saw
were not likely to be prolonged. The result of Peter's
intercession was, that Abelard was suffered to remain
in peace at Cluny as a monk. His health now rapidly
declined, and he became more than usually afflicted.
Peter, with a kindly solicitude, had him transferred
to Chalons, as the most salubrious spot in which the
monastery had possessions, and there supplied him
with books, as a solace to his suffering.  " He spent
his time there," says Peter, "in prayer and study;
and so the Divine Visitor found him, not sleeping, as
He does many, but on the watch."
Bernard, it appears, entered upon these contests
reluctantly.  He was no controversialist by nature,
and was, for the most part, when fighting the battles
of the Church, kind and peaceable-a fair and courteous antagonist.  In the case of Abelardl, he at once
abandoned all furthler opposition so soon as the latter
professed his adhesion to the doctrines of the Catholic
faith. What Bernard desired most was to be left with




Preaches the second Critsade.      97
his monks in peace at Clairvaux, and to seek their
edification and his own by earnest prayer and study
of the Scriptures.  His ideal of a religious life was
that of a recluse; but he never realised it.  Again
he was compelled to go forth from his retirement:
Europe was convulsed with the second Crusade.
The aggressive character of Mahometanism could
hardly have failed, under any circumstances, and at
any period of the world's history, to raise up a strong
feeling of antagonism; and the twelfth century was
less likely to endure aggression of this kind than
most. The fanaticism of the East awoke the fanaticism  of the West.  A  desperate struggle for the
possession of the Holy Places ensued, in which Jerusalem was literally trodden down by the contending
armies of the Gentiles.  At this time, Christians had
possession, and the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem was
still subsisting; but the fall of Edessa, which indicated
that the scale was about to turn, was looked upon as a
European calamity, and ajust punishment for Christian
sins. Our space does not permit us to give even a
sketch of this most interesting history, which is,
indeed, readily accessible elsewhere; what we have
to do is to delineate the character of Bernard.
Louis VII. had been under sentence of excommunication, but now wished to prove the genuineness of
his repentance. He could adopt no better method in
that day than to head a Crusade. He was celebrating
Christimas at Bourges with more than usual splendour.
G




98          Life of Bernard, the Monk.
Godfrey, Bishop of Langres, who had just returned
from Edessa, made a speech, in which he detailed to
the king and nobles present the terrible sufferings of
the Christians at the hands of the Turks.  Louis was
so worked upon, that he applied to Bernard for advice.
He declined, on his own responsibility, to give advice;
but sent to consult Pope Eugenius III., who had
been a monk of Clairvaux, and thus a spiritual son of
Bernard. The pope returned answer, exhorting to the
good work of stopping the progress of the infidels;
and appointed Bernard to preach the Crusade.
The first meeting had been appointed by the king
to take place at Vezelai: here Bernard preached, and
with telling power.   His noble form  and figure
emaciated with fasting, his wonderful eloquence, his
sweet voice, and, above all, the depth of his own
convictions, as he exhorted to love and self-sacrifice,
so inspired his audience, that they were no longer
masters of themselves.- There had been erected for
him a wooden pulpit, on the top of a hill, and the
people stood around in vast concourse-all able to
see, if too far off to hear. As he preached, a murmur
arose, which rapidly became a shout, of "1 Crosses!
crosses!" A large sheaf of them was scattered among
the crowd; but this did not suffice for the multitudes
who desired to enlist in the sacred army. Bernard tore
his cowl into shreds of the sacred form, and threw
them broadcast.  All the time he was in the town, he
did nothing else but make crosses for those pressing




IVorks M1Iiracles.            99
in to become soldiers of the cross.  At Chalons, a
similar meeting was held, at which it was proposed
to make Bernard commander-in-chief.  Bernard, enthusiast tlough he might be, was too wise to accept an
office for which he knew himself wholly incompetent.
To him  was assigned  the more suitable task of
preaclhing the Crusade in North-eastern France and
Germany.
During his progress there, the same success attended his preaching as in other parts; but, besides, he
is declared by his friends, who were eye-witnesses, to
have worked many miracles. Several blind persons are
said to have received their sight; and those who saw
this expressly tell us in their accounts that they
themselves made the necessary investigations, in order
to be assured that there was no deception. That they
write in perfect good faith is sufficiently evident,
and they fully credited such accounts as the following:
A little girl, who had never walked, was suddenly
healed by imposition of Bernard's hands. Her mother,
who brought her, bounded with joy when she saw
her little one, for the first time, standing and walking.
On. another occasion, a man was brought in a wagon,
being too sick to walk, and apparently drawing near
to his end.  Bernard placed his hands upon him, and
immediately he was seen by a number of citizens and
soldiers to walk without difficulty. It is alleged that
as many as thirty-six such cures were performed in a
single day.  But the most remarkable point of all is,




100         Life of Bernard, the Monk.
that Bernard seems fully to have believed in his
own powers.  His friends ascribed this power to his
superior sanctity; but Bernard was himself far too
humble a Christian to admit such a solution of the
marvel.  He remarked that, though he could not
doubt the truth of these occurrences, lie would nevertheless not believe that it was any thing in himself
but rather that he was permitted to do these things
for the edification of others.  That he was himself
deceived, we are compelled to admit; the more so,
when we remember that the Crusade in favour of
which these miracles were supposed to have been
worked, turned out a most disastrous failure.  We
must, however, entirely acquit him and his friends of
any intention to deceive: at that time, all was confidence-as it proved, vain confidence; but the result
of the expedition was not then known.  The admiration of his friends amounted almost to infatuation;
and, certainly, the hurry and excitement of a preaching-tour were not favourable to calm. investigation,
and would open the door to profitable fraud on the
part of those who had, as they averred, been healed
by the popular saint.
The Crusade went forth, and a more fatal and
fruitless expedition never has been recorded in the
history of religious wars. After two or three years
of almost uninterrupted disaster, a miserable remnant
of survivors returned to relate their misfortunes, and
to marvel at their discomfiture.  In the interim, Ber



Malac7ly of Arnmah.           101
nard was engaged again in religious controversy: but
now thick clouds began to darken round his life.
His old friend Malachy, Archbishop of Armah,
visited Clairvaux, on his way to Rome. Nine years
before had he come to them on a visit, but this time
he was to leave them no more.  He had not been at
the abbey more than four or five clays, when he was
seized with a fever. All that skill and care could do
was done, and earnest were the prayers of the brethren
for the recovery of their guest-but in vain; he continued to grow worse, and at length his end visibly
drew near. On the festival of All Saints, he was
plainly dying. He called the brethren round his bed,
and, looking up into their sorrowful faces, said:
" Greatly have I desired to eat of this passover with
you; thanks be to God, I have had my desire."
Then, placing his hands on each one, he bade them
go to rest, for that his hour was not yet come. They
went. Towards midnight, the great change took place:
as they sang around his bed, he fell asleep-but so
quietly and calmly, that none could say when his
spirit left him.  In him, death was so gentle, had in
it so little of the terrible, that sobs and grief were
hushed; faith triumphed: and, with a subdued and
holy joy, the brethren buried him  in their abbeychurch.
But now the failure of the Crusade became known;
and with the evil tidings came a deeper trial upon
Bernard.  Men were astonished at the results; it




102         Life of Benmard, the M1onk.
seemed as though the Lord had forsaken His Church,
and had allowed the cause of infidelity to triumph.
Bernard shared in the dismay. He had had no doubt
of the righteousness of the cause; he had prophesied
its success; and now it seemed as if this was a prophecy
out of his own heart, when he had seen nothing.
And then those who had been enthusiastically with
him, turned against him.  Had he not preached,
prophesied, worked even miracles?  His name, so
popular, was held up to reproach as the author of the
mischief. This, however, probably little affeeted him:
what men thought of himself, he cared not; but he
had, it may be, given the enemlies of the Lord occasion
to blaspheme.  He could not account for the result,
save by attributing it to thle sins of those who took
part in the expedition; and certainly they were bad
enough. He confesses that his own faith was greatly
stumbled.  Yet we, who live at a distance, can see
not only that he was over-confident, and that what
he mistook for faith was only presumption, but that
the Christian cause was not nearly so good as lie
inagined it to be, and, further, that the success of
the Crusade would really have been detrimental to
the cause of true religion.  Yet this, no doubt, overshadowed his declining years.' The judgments of
the Lord," he says, " are righteous, as every one
knows; but this one is an abyss so deep, that I dare
to pronounce him blessed whosoever is not stumbled
at it."




Last Mlll]oments.           103
Beside this trial, Bernard lost many friends, —
Sugar, Abbot of St. Denis, died; then Count Theobald; then Eugenius III., his friend and pupil: and
he had no wish to survive them. Then, again,,his
health was failing.  The disease in his stomach assumed an aggravated form: he could eat nothing
solid; and sleep almost entirely forsook him. Clearly,
and he knew it himnself, he could not long survive.
His friends prayed earnestly for him; and a slight,
partial recovery seemed, to his simple faith, an
answer to their prayers. But this was transient. His
brethren, in the delirium  of their grief, prayed the
more earnestly that they might not lose him. Nay,
they besought him, as though his life were in his
own hands, to remain with them yet a little longer.
He was, like the Apostle, inl a strait: to depart was
far better than to remain in the flesh.  Which to
choose, he knew not: liftilg up his dove-like eyes, he
said, " The Lord's will be done."  And it was done;
for he fell asleep.
Such was the account of his friendsc; but a letter of
his own gives us a different, and yet a higher, appreciation, considered in its genuine Christian humility, of
the state of mind in which he met the last enemy.
In the midst of these afflictions," alluding to his
sickness, lie writes to a friend, " that I may hide nothing from you,-I speak as an ordinary person, —the
spirit is ready, though the flesh is weak. Pray ye to
the Saviour, who willeth not the death of a sinner,




104        Life of Bernard, the lMonk.
that He would not delay my timely exit, but that He
would guard it. Fortify with your prayers a poor,
unworthy creature, that the enemy, who lies in wait,
may find no place where he may fix his tooth, or
inflict a wound."  Such genuine, unfeigned, and
humble faith is the real victory by which death is
vanquished.




WESLEY, THIE METHODIST.
iCaiith arousing tle slumzberin.g Chturch.
"This is the only perfection of men: to know themselves imperfect."'-JEROIE.








LIFEt OF JOHIN WTES'LEfY THE
METO DIST.
OHN WESLEY, the founder of Metllodism,
was born at Epwortlh, in Lincolnshire,-a
marlket- town, at t hat time containing
about 2000 inhabitants,-on June 17th,
1703.  His father, Samuel Wesley, rector of the
parish, was a man  of considerable learning and
talent.  His mother was Susannah, daughter of Dr.
Annesley, one of the ejected ministers.  Both of
them had, been brought up Dissenters, but became
from conviction members of the Church of England.
They had, in all, nineteen children; of whom only
six, three boys and three girls, survived to grow up.
The names of those who appear in the history of
Wesleyanism are Samuel, John, and Charles.  The
girls were Susannah MrLehetabel gMartha, Emilia, and
EKeziahl.
It is a remarkable circumstance that the two




108     Life of Jolin Wesley, the Methodist.
founders of Methodism should, in early life, have both
been in the utmost danger of an untimely death.
The elder Wesley found his parishioners in a profligate state, and zealously discharged his duty in
admonishing them of their sins. This caused so much
resentment on the side of those who refused to listen,
that they determined to set his house on fire.  Two
attempts were made, both of them unsuccessful; but
at the third, they accomplished their diabolical purpose. The family were raised at midnight by falling
timbers, and had to escape for their lives. John,
who was six years old, and Charles, a feeble infant,
were, with three other children, sleeping in  the
nursery. His father burst into the room, and, awaking the maid, bid her escape; she caught up the
infant, and told the rest of the children to follow her:
but, in the hurry, John was forgotten, and he slept
so soundly that all the noise and confusion did not
awake him.  When the street-door was burst open,
a strong north-east wind drove in the flames, so that,
the increased draught adding fury to the fire, in a
short time the staircase was burnt away. At that
moment, John's voice was heard crying out.  The
light had awakened him; he imagined it was day,
and called to the nurse to take him up. Opening his
curtains, he saw streaks of fire upon the top of the
room; and, escape by the door being impossible, he
climbed upon a chest which stood near the window,
in which position he was seen by some who stood in




The Parsonage on fire.         109
the yard outside.  There was no time to procure a
ladder, but one man was hoisted upon the shoulders
of another, and in this manner he was lifted through
the window. Immediately after, tile roof fell inwards;
had it fallen outwards, they must all have been crushed
together. His mother had already escaped by wading
through the fire, ancl  was burnt, but only slightly.
When Johlm, who was thus the last delivered from
the danger, was taken to the house in which his
parents were, his father cried out: i Come, neighbours, let us kneel down; let us give thanks to God.
He has given me all my eight children: let the house
go; I am rich enough."  It is in allusion to this
circumstance of his early life, that Wesley describes
himself as a brand plucked from the burning.
Samuel Wesley, John's elder brother, was eleven
years his senior.  He had distinguished himself at
Westminster School, and afterwards at Christ Church,
Oxford, by his classical attainments.  He was of
sound judgment and good sense; and he so far influenced the destinies of Methodism, that to him, when
afterwards an usher in Westminster School, Charles
Wesley was sent.  John was placed at Charterhouse
School, where he appears to have been unmercifully
fagged. At that time, the elder boys used to rob
the younger ones of their meat; so that John was
obliged, for a considerable period, to be content with
a small portion of bread only, which served him as
his daily food.  But this rough treatment rittiler




110      Life of John Wesleye, the YMethodist.
injured his health nor broke his spirit.  He was a
diligent and successful scholar.  Possibly, indeed, it
was one of those hard lessons, early learnt, which
contributed to his future success. Thus early inured to
privations, he was the better able, in after life, to
bear the fatigues and hardships incident to the prosecution of his plans.
While John was at school, an event happened in
his family which seemed to border on the supernatural,-this was the occurrence of mysterious groans,
knockings, and other strange noises, at the parsonage,
which were heard, with the exception of the master
of tlhe house himself, by all the family.  The elder
WVesley, therefore, was as long as possible kept in
ignorance of the occurrence, from a superstitious notion that such sounds bode ill to those members of the
family to whom they are inaudible.  At length the
disturbance became so serious, that it could no longer
be concealed from him; besides, the noises increased,
so as to be heard as loud rumblings, footsteps on
the stairs, but, most frequently, knockings about the
beds at night.  When iMr. Wesley came to hear
tllhem   he was inclined to propose strictly natural
causes as an explanation of the mystery-he suggested
rats or weasels; he hinted that late hours on the
part of the young ladies, or even visitors to them,
might have something to do with it. This made them
hope that he might hear something of the noise himseKI, anld they were speedily gratified; for on the next




Household Goblin.            111
night, a little after midnight, he was awakened by nine
loud and distinct knocks.  He rose to see if he could
discover the cause, but could find nothing. Thinking
it might be something out of doors, he went out,
taking a large mastiff with him; but the dog, who
h:lad barked at first, now showed the most evident
signs of fear, and ever afterwards howled with terror
at the sound, and would crouch down for protection
near some of the family.
As Mlr. Wesley now himself heard the noises, the
family had no further fears on his account, but fancied
that one of the sons-they fixed especially on Samuel
-had met with a violent death.  On the next occasion when the sound was heard, Mr. Wesley conjured
the apparition to spealk, and tell him why it troubled
his house.  He was answered with three distinct
knocks.  He questioned it if it were his son Samuel;
and if it could not speak, bade it answer by knocking:
but no further sound was heard that night.  As, in a
short time after, the family heard that Samuel, John,
and Charles were well, they ceased to be alarmed,
and the children would stamp and knock for amusement, when the goblin would reply by knocking in
return.  Emilia Wesley gave it the name of Old
Jeffrey; and, for a while, Old Jeffrey was recognised
as a regular inhabitant of the parsonage, until at last
he finally disappeared of his own accord.  The whole
family, as is evident from  their letters, were more
or less impressed with the supernatural character of




112     Life of Jorhon TVesley, the Methodist.
their visitor.  Thus, one of the sisters relllonstrated
on the means Mrs. Wesley took to get rid of the an1noyance.  This was blowing a horn.  She had heard
that rats could be frightened away by the sound of a
horn about the house, and accordingly sent for one.
But the goblin resented this horn-blowing, and was
more outrageous than ever; and, indeed, generally
showed a special dislike to any one proposing, as a
cause, rats or any tling natural.  Hitherto, he had
only been heard at night; but after this, he commenced operations in the day-time.  He never went
near Mr. Wesley's study, until he called him a deaf
and dunmb devil; but after that, he became a frequent visitor. These circumstances, and a clue given
in a letter of Emilia's, furnish us, we think, with a
conjecture as to the true cause of the apparition. She
writes to her brother Samuel: " If you should know
my opinion of the reason of this, I shall briefly tell
you. I believe it to be witchcraft, for these reasons:
about a year since, there was a disturbance at a town
near us: that was undoubtedly witches; and if so near,
why may they not reach us? My father had, for several
Sundays before its coming, preached warmly against
consulting those that are called cunning men, which
our people are given to, and it had a particular spite
at my father."  Now, all these circumstances appear
to point one way. The noises were such as might
have been produced, without much difficulty, by some
one who had access to the house, as a servant or




7The Ghost accounted for.       113
otherwise, and wished to alarm the inmates. At first,
the goblin kept out of the master's way, probably for
fear of detection; afterwards, when the family had
been sufficiently worked upon, bolder tactics would be
both safe and profitable. Naturally, the goblin would
be especially angry at any attempt to refer its manifestations to natural means; while a sufficient motive
for undertaking this can be found in the hope of profit
by those cunning men of whom Emilia writes.  Nothing could better serve their purpose than a ghost at
the parsonage. If they could beguile-no very difficult matter —the simple, earnest-hearted family at
Epworth Parsonage, the rector's sermons would be
a source of absolute profit; they would be like an
advertisement, and would no doubt promote a brisk
trade in the fortune-telling line.  When, however,
the trick grew stale, and Old Jeffiey was beginning
to be in contempt, as a children's plaything, there
was equal inducement to continue the matter no further; and then the goblin departs of its own accord.
But the family themselves were deeply impressed.
Even Samuel Wesley the younger, who was not superstitious, and had by far the most common sense
of the party, was not disposed to treat the occurrence
lightly; and, as the matter was never satisfactorily
cleared up, the elder Wesley, with several of his most
intelligent neighbours, both clerical and lay, was
satisfied of the supernatural character of the occurrence.
Ea




114     Ljfe of Jo/hn Wesley, thie lifethodist.
The matter is of importance, as bearing on the
early training of the brothers Wesley.  It is true
that they were absent from home at the time, and so,
directly, the excitement caused by the parsonage ghost
would have had little influence upon them.  But we
can understand what kind of early impressions they
would imbibe at home.  John, in after years, showed
considerable credulity in matters where, from his otherwise sound sense and sense andjudgment we might have expected
something different. Early impressions may have had
something to do with this; at any rate, the continual
looking for supernatural manifestations and tokens,
rather than an ever - present, superintending Providence, was a habit of mind which modified the
system he founded, and has indirectly influenced the
current of religious thought even up to the present
moment.
At the age of seventeen, Wesley removed from
Charterhouse to Christ Church, Oxford.  At college
he continued his studies with all diligence, and was
steady and hard-working.  Some of his biographers
consider that at this time he fell into a state of religious indifference; but this is probably a too hard
judgment: for, when the time arrived for entering
holy orders, he began to reflect seriously upon the
importance of the ministerial office.  He wrote to
both his father and mother on the subject for advice,
detailing the scruples that he felt.  Both answered
him as Christian parents should.  His father hinted




Wesley at Oxford.           115
a present delay; his mother advised him  to proceed, because she hoped orders might induce him
to study still more diligently practical divinity; she
wrote, entreating him, in good, earnest resolve, to
make religion the business of his life, and to examine
himself whether he had a reasonable hope of salvation
by Jesus Christ. He took their advice, and diligently
prepared himself by prayer, study, and reading.
Amongst other books, those which at this time seem
to have impressed him most were Thomas /[ Kempis's
Imnitation of Clirist, and Jeremy Taylor's Ioly Living
and Dying.  He was ordained deacon in September
1725; and, in the spring of 1726, he was elected
fellow of Lincoln College.  He now changed his
manner of life entirely; he took advantage of his
removal to another college to break off with all uncongenial companions, and determined to have no
friends but such as truly loved and feared God; he
communicated every week, and began to pray earnestly for that personal holiness which.Bishop Taylor
so strongly urged as necessary to a Christian man.
Eight months after his election, he was appointed to
be Greek lecturer and moderator of classics in his
college,-an appointment which testified no small appreciation of his diligence and powers by the college
authorities; in February 1727 he was ordained priest,
and became his father's curate in August 1727. He
did not long remain so, being recalled by the rector
of Lincoln College, in order to take office. On his




11G     Life of Joi,7 W esley, the 1M1etlzodist.
return to Oxfordl  he presided as moderator in the
disputations-learned exercises, held six times a week
in the college-hall.  This proved a most useful discipline, sharpening his logical faculties, and giving him
great keenness in argument.
His brother Charles had arrived at Oxford before
John left: he was a regular and diligent student;
but when his brother pressed upon him the necessity
for more austere habits, and greater earnestness of devotion, he said that he would not become a saint.
While John was away from Oxford, a change came
over him, which he ascribed to his mother's prayers.
He now, in company with some otlher undergraduates
like-minded, lived by rule, read the Scriptures diligently, prayed often, and went to communion weekly.
The usual results followedl: Charles and his friends
attracted the notice of their young companions by the
singularity of their principles and demeanour.  To a
certain extent this must be inevitable, when any set of
earnest men endeavour to live more strictly than those
around them; but very possibly they were, after the
manner of young men, inclined to glory a little in
tlheir singularity, as well as to be zealous in their faith.
Accordingly, they were called, in derision, sacramnentarians, Bible-bigots, or Bible-moths.  Methodist
was another and less opprobrious name than these,
and, as Charles and his fellows lived by rule, much
more suitable.  It obtained currency, and, now applied to all who live strictly, whether from  good




Tlhe first IlMetlhodists."      117
nmotives or bad, more especially denotes that kind of
strictness which Wesley taught.
When John returned to Oxford, the little society
gladly placed themselves Lunder his direction.  His
talents andi his university standing naturally commandled respect.  The names of tile first members
were, John Wesley, fellow of Lincoln; Charles Wesley, student of Christ Church; M[organ, commoner of
Christ Church; and Kirkman, commoner of Merton.
Their object was primarily the study of the Greek
Testament; but the society soon extended its operations to other good works besides study of the Scriptures.
lMorgan was the most ascetic of the party; his
fasts were rigorous.  He died early of consumption;
and it is possible that his austerities might have
shortened his life.  But active benevolence was not
wanting.  He was indefatigable in deeds of charity
and benevolence; andt what he denied himself, he'freely gave to tle needy.  In these active works the
others joined him; and thus tlley established a customl of visiting the prisoners in Oxford Gaol, and the
poor and sick in those parishes where the parochial
clergy did not object. Another distinguished member
of this society was George Whitefield: he was born at
the Bell Inn, in the city of Gloucester, in the year
1714.  His father died when he was two years old;
but he was carefully and tenderly brought up by his
mother, who sent him to the school of St. Mary-le



118      Life of Joln WVesley, the Methodist.
Crypt.  When he was about ten years old, she married again.  This proved an unfortunate step; and,
amidst other distresses, his mother's business fell off,
entailing on the family straitened circumstances.  At
this time, his brother used to read aloud Bishop Ken's
Iattuctal form Winchester Scholars.  Soon afterwards,
George was chosen to recite one ofthe speeches delivered
at the annual visitation of the Corporation of Gloucester
to the school, on which occasion he received the usual
present of prize-money given to the speaker on that
occasion.  With this he purchased for himself the
alicznual, which he diligently studied.  lHe had made
some progress in classical learning; but his mother
needing help, he assisted her in her business in the
public-house, anld put on the blue apron, doing all
the menial work of a conmmon barman.  This continued for about a year, when the inn was given over to
a married brother.  George still continued his occupation for a while, but could not agree with his sisterin-law, and so left altogether.  It happened about
this time that a servitor of Pembroke College called
on his mother, and told her that, after all expenses of
his Oxford course were paid, he had received a penny.; That," said she, "; will do for my son;" and, calling
to himn, she said, " George, will you go to Oxford?"
Interest was made without delay, and a servitorship
promised.  George, on this, returned to school, and,
working very diligently, madcle good progress.
He did not, while at school, neglect to put in prac



George Wliitefieid.          119
tice the lessons of the good bishop, as set forth in the
llizamtal.  Hie declares that, before this, he was utterly wicked, even appropriating his mother's moneys
from the till to his own use; but now he broke away
from all evil courses, prayed and fasted often, and
communicated monthly.  He was even enabled to
promote, by his influence, some refbrmation among
his schoolfellows.  At the age of eighteen, he was
admitted a servitor of Pembroke College.  In those
days, servitors actually performed certain menial offices, and were altogether in an1 inferior social position.
This circumstance, which would be equally galling
and disadvantageous to most, was an advantage to
Whitefield: his skill in domestic duties, learnt in the
public-house, led many to seek his services; and,
withl the income derived firom  this source, sundry
presents, and a loan of 101. to defray the expenses
of entering college, he contrived to get through tile
whole of his Oxford course without incurring debt
beyond the amount of 241.  His greatest trial was
found from  his room-mates, who were noisy and
riotous, and wished him to adopt their idle and careless mode of life; but he steadily resisted them, remaining for hours alone in the study, benumbed with
cold, rather than take part in their vain and frivolous
conversation.  At length they left him  entirely to
himself.
He longed greatly to join the society of Wesley
and his friends, but was deterred by a feeling of in



120     Life oj John Wesleyl the  etlhodist.
feriority.  At length lie obtained an introduction. A
woman had attempted suicide; Whitefield sent a message to inform Charles Wesley, in order that he might
administer spiritual medicine to her, but desired that
his own name might not be mentioned; his messenger,
however, revealed his name to Charles Wesley, who,
knowing something of his character, asked him next
morning to breakfast.  Whitefield thus obtained an
introduction, joined the little band, and speedily became a leading spirit in it.
They were now about fifteen in number.  When
they first began to meet, they read divinity only on
Sundays, and classics on other evenings; but religion
soon became the sole object of the society.  They regularly visited the prisons and sick, communicated
once a week, and fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays.
They also drew up a system of self-examination, to
assist them in this duty, and also, by means of prayer
and meditation, towards attaining simplicity and the
love of God.  There was much of real earnestness
amongst these young men; but with it was joined a certain singularity of manner and demeanour, which they
rather affected than avoided.  This not only, as we
have already noticed, brought on them the ridicule of
the younger members of the university, but also the
disapproval of wiser heads, who looked upon their
proceedings as likely to lead towards fanaticism and
extravagance. But when was zeal, and especially
youthful zeal, ever perfectly free from extravagance,




Wesley's early Aseeticism.      121
or altogether guided by discretion?  A triflinginncident may supply a wholesome admonition, very necessary for these times.  John Wesley would not be at
the expense of having his hair dressed, in order, as he
said, that the money which would otherwise be employed on this vile fashion might be given to the
poor.  His mother wrote to him on the subject: she
imagined that his long hair was prejudicial to his
health, as he was often ill, and advised him to have it
shortened; but he declined, on the same grounds of
expense.  At length the common sense of Samuel hit
upon a solution of the difficulty.  Could not John
have his hair cut so as at once to avoid the singularity of his appearance and, at the same time,
economise in dressing?  This happy expedient was,
it seems, adopted.  A more serious matter was the
excessive austerities practised by the members, by
which the health of several was seriously endangered.  Samuel Wesley, on his arrival in Oxford,
was shocked to find that Morgan was already far advanced in consumption; his brother John was in
such an alarming state, that he spat blood; Whitefield
had, on one occasion, so weakened himself with fasting as to be scarcely able to creep.  Morgan died
early; but John was induced to put himself -nder
proper medical direction, and soon entirely recovered.
His father was now far advanced in years, and
exceedingly anxious, upon several grounds, about the
succession to the living of Epworth.  He knew that,




122     Life of Jbln tWedee,  the iMethodist.
unless he could procure the presentation for one likeminded, his probable successor was not a man who
would continue his work.  He naturally desired,
also, that some provision should be made for his
widow and daughters.  He urged John, therefore, to
take the living, if he could procure it for him.  John
resolutely declined: he said he was persuaded that
he could better cultivate his own soul at Oxford;
and determined, in spite of the entreaties of his
family, to remain there.  Soon afterwards, his father
died.
At this time, the trustees of what was then the
new colony of Georgia, in North America, wished to
send out some clergymen; and, hearing of Wesley
andcl his associates, proposed that some of them should
go. At first Wesley peremptorily refused, alleging,
as one reason, that he could not bear to leave his
widowed mother, who was now dependent on him.
When, however, she was applied to, and her consent
asked, she answered, like the noble Christian she was,
" Had I twenty sons, I should rejoice that they were
all so employed, though I should never see them
more."  After some hesitation, he determined to go.
There seemed to open to him  a noble prospect of
Christian usefulness in the conversion of the heathen.
tIis brother Charles accompanied him: he had, before
this, dreaded to take orders, intending to spend his
days at Oxford as tutor.  Now he was ordained.
Their companions were Charles Delamotte and Ben



Voyage to Georgia.           123
jamin Inngham, who was also one of the Oxford society.  They embarked at Gravesend, October 14,
1735.  On board, they met a party of Germans,
twenty-six in number, 5Moravians, under the charge
of David Nitschmann, going out to join a party of
their brethren, sent from Herrnhut in the previous
year.  They were exceedingly impressed with the
simple and placid piety of these shipmates; and this
acquaintance had, no doubt, considerable influence
upon Wesley's religious opinions, and the subsequent
discipline of the society he founded.
During their voyage out, they gave their asceticism
full play; they abstained from meat and wine, and
confined themselves wholly to vegetable food.  John
Wesley and Delamotte ate bread only, and slept on
the floor of their cabins.  They were all of them untiring in their exertions for the good ol the souls oithose who sailed with them, both in public and private
ministrations.
At its first arrival in Georgia, it seemed as if: the
band were to find a successful and edifying opening for
their labours; but this was not realised in the result.
Wesley was settled at Savannah, where he attained
some popularity as a preacher, and an orderly and attentive congregation waited on his ministry; but his
success stirred up the hostility of the world. The church
was fhll, and the ball-room empty; and this made some
angry.:Nor was Wesley careful not to give offence.
He is said, perhaps with truth, to have intermeddled




124     Ljfe of John Wesley, the Y2fethodist.
in matters with which he had no concern, and so
to have occasioncci quarrels.  He was very strict in
carrying out the rubric of the Church of England.
He insisted on baptising the infants by immersion,
refusing to administer this sacrament at all unless
the parents would consent to this form  of acldministration.   He would(  not admit a Dissenter to
the communion, unless rebaptised; and refused to
bury another, for similar reasons.  He divided the
church services, having  MIorning  Prayer at one
time, and Communion at another.  The colonists
looked upon these changes as unauthorised novelties;
and resented them, as the iltroduction of a new and
strange religion. Possibly these disagreements might
soon have been got over; but they were, no doubt,
aggravated by a personal incident.
Sophia Causton, the niece of the chief magistrate
of Savannah, fixed her eyes on John Wesley.  She
was a woman of fine person, elegant manners, and
cultivated mind; and was introduced to him  as an
inquirer after the way of eternal life. She adopted the
usual feminine arts to ingratiate herself with him;
she dressed with great simplicity, became his pupil,
and nursed him  during an access of fever which
seized on him at that time.  In his presence, indeed,
she was, in sobriety, all that could be desired; but, when
away from him, she relapsed at once into the gaieties
of the world. On meeting her again, Wesley expostulated with her on this defection. She took his reproof




resley in Am9erzica.           125
in ill. part, and declared her intention of sailing for
England.  He dissuaded her from this, and they returned together to Savannah.  In a short time, she
seemed to have recovered all the ground she had lost,
and every thing appeared to be progressing satisfactorily. But Wesley's friend, Delamotte, had reason to
doubt the young lady's sincerity, and asked him if he
meant to marry her. He was startled at this, and evaded
a reply, but consulted the Moravian bishop, who replied
to tile effect that thle matter required consideration.
Wesley, in doubt how to act, propounded the whole
case to the Moravian elders, at a sitting apparently
expressly convened for the purpose of deliberating on
this matter.  They asked him  if lhe would abide by
their decision; he answered, thlat he would.  Then
said they, " We advise you to proceed no furtller in
this business."  He answered, " The will of the Lord.
be done."  After this, he broke off all intimacy with
Miss Causton.  Entries in his private journal show
that this step cost him considerable pain.  Soon after
this, Miss Causton married a Mr. Williamson; and
now her conduct was such, that Wesley thought it his
duty to deny her the holy communion. Mr. Williamson resented tlis, andc brought against Wesley an
action for defamation of his wife's character; and for
a time Wesley was annoyed with vexatious legal proceedings.  The upshot of the whole of this most unfortunate business was, that Wesley determined to
leave the colony.  It is difficult to estimate, at this




126     Life of Johln Wesley, the Methodist.
distance of time, the real amount of blame attaching
to either side.  Was Miss Causton really attached to
Wesley, or only amusing herself with him?  His
biographers declare that she was set on, by thlose who
disliked his religious zeal, to play the part of a Delilah
to this spiritual Samson; but this seems hardly
likely.  Most probably she liked the mana better than
his religion, with which she had little real sympathy.
He, on his side, seems certainly to hoave been iinjudicious.  His own judgment of himself at this time
was, that he was not converted.  HI-e writes thus:
"4 And now it is upwards of two years since I left
my native country; but what have I learned myself?  Why, what I least expected, that I, who went
to America to convert others, was never converted
myself."
On his passage to England, he had ample time for
self-examination; and the conclusion he came to was,
that as yet the great saving change had not passed
over himself.  " The faith I want," he writ-es, " is a
sure trust and confidence in God that, through the
merits of Christ, my sins are forgiven me, aud I reconciled to the favour of God;" and this, he says, he
had not yet. Nevertheless, his efforts for the spiritual
good of those with whom he sailed were unremitting,
speaking not only publicly in his ministry, but privately with every individual in the ship.  On Wednesday, February 1, 1738, he landed at Deal, passing
in sight of an outward-bound ship, on which was




Peter BoeiZ-ler.            127
George Whitefield, though neither was aware of the
vicinity of the other. Reaching London, lie preached
on the text, " If any man be in Christ, he is a new
creature;" but his doctrine sounded so strange, and
appeared so novel, in the ears of a generation accustomed to mere moral essays, that the clergy were
afriaid, and refused him their pulpits.  In  London, he
met some Moravians,  amongst these was Peter
Boehler, a man of powerful mind, and who exercised
very great influence over Wesley, and, no doubt, did
much towards the formation of his opinions. Charles
Wesley had also returned to England, and was now
at Oxford. After a time, an urgent message was
sent to John, informing him  that his brother was
dying of pleurisy; he hastened to Oxford, to find that
Peter Boehler was there already before him, that the
crisis of his brother's disease was over, and Charles
recovering.  When in Oxford, the singularity of his
and Boehler's appearance attracted some attention,
provoking ridicule on the part of the undergraduates.
Wesley was annoyed at this, especially on behalf of
his friend; but Boehler was more philosophical.  He
said, L"My brother, it does not even stick to our
clothes. "   The conversations with Boehler tendecl
still further to the conviction that he was not converted.  He even doubted whether he ought not to
leave off preaching altogether; but his friend said,
" No.  Preach faith until you have faith; and then,
because you have it, you will preach faith."




128    Life of John We8ley, the JIetthodist.
At this time, he wrote down tlhe following resolutions:
1. To use absolute openness ancd unreserve with
all he should converse with.
2. To labour after continual seriousness; not wil
linglly indulging in any the least levity, or in laughter
-no, not for a moment.
3. To speak no word which did not tend to the
glory of God, not a tittle of worldly things: others
may —nay, must; but what is that to me?
4. To take no pleasure that did not tend to the
glory of God; thanking God every moment for all
lhe took, and, therefore, rejecting every sort and
degree of it which he felt he could not thank Him
in and for.
Now, none can doubt the earnestness of a man
who not only made such rules, but attempted, with
some success, also to keep them.  This real devotion
to God's service could have been nothing else than a
fruit of the Spirit; yet he was himself, up to a given
day, altogether doubtful of his Christian state, and
then became so entirely assured of it as to aiterwards
have no further fears on the subject.
For it was a given day and hour —Wednesday,
Mlay 4, 1738.  "At five in  the morning," he
writes, "I opened my [Greek] Testament, at the
words:'There are given unto you exceeding great
and precious promises, even that ye should be partakers of the divine nature' (2 Pet. i. 4).  Just




Ilistory of his Coi'zversiono    i29
as I went out again, I opened it oin the words,'Thou
art not far from the kingdom of God.' In the afternoon, I was asked to go to St. Paul's: the anthem
was,'Out of the deep' (Ps. cxxx. 1-4).  In the
evening, I went very unwillingly to a society in
Aldersgate Street, where one was reading Luther's
Preface to the Epistle to the Romans. About a quarter
before nine, while he was describing the change God
works in the heart tlrough faith in Christ, I felt my
heart strangely warmed; I felt I did trust 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."
ZNow that we can look back calmly on the whole
events of Wesley's life, and from outside of his peculiar
system, we can understand why it was that Wesley
should lay so much stress upon the experiences of a
single day, and so little on those other evidences of
the working of God's Spirit within him which were
manifested previously.  5Wesley's character and early
impressions would all tend this way.  There is a
striking resemblance between him and Bernard; only
in Bernard there was a little more of superstition,
and a little less of self-confidence: but both expected
visible interpositions of God's power, manifest to the
eye of sense.  Bernard:. looked continually for direct
and visible intimations of divine power, and believed
that he himself workedl miracles in the world of
matter; as that he could restore sight to tle blind, and
I




130     Life of Johlnz Weslejy the Methodist.
heal the sick. Wesley was, no doubt, better taugTht 
nevertheless, he too was continually on the look-out
for special providences, and believed not only that
the world of spirits was in contact with this world,
but, as in the case of his own household goblin, might
very easily trespass upon it.  He thus came to overrate the value and significance of religious enmotion.
He held, in common with all Christian men that a
great change takes place in the soul when it passes
from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan
to God. But he held, also, that the man in whom
this change had taken place must himself be at once
fully conscious of the fact; though this not even all
his own followers could be persuaded to admit: some
declaring that they knew they had been enlightened
— but so gradually, that they could not say exactly
when. He was self-confildent; and also, when once
he had made up his mind, was little troubled with
doubts or regrets afterwards, but acted on his determination, whatever it might be. Now, all this would
naturally cause him to underrate that early teaching
of the Divine Spirit which had led him all his life
through, and to fsten rather upon some special
moment of his religious history when devotion was
rising to fever-heat.  Such a moment was that fron
which he dates his conversion.  It was at the end of
a day of sixteen hours, spent almost entirely in selfinspection, that at length he found the assurance for
which lie had been seeking; as 1be says, " Then, for the




rS-ehIa e  Godesio             13bly  may hav
first time, he saw the Lord."  It possibly may have
been so; but, even if it were, how came his heart
so often to burn within hinm before? and whence those
strivings after holiness in himself, and that desire to
see it in others, which moved him to his labours? Because surely his Lord was walking with him, even when
his eyes were holden —if, indeed, they were holden;
and. this crisis, therefore9 was rather the moment of enliglhtenment, than of the first visit' of grace to his soul.
Unfortunately, however, that which was at best but
a personal experience, bid fair to harden almost into
an article of faith with himself and his followers, and
thus the doctrine of sudden conversion rises into
undue importance in his religious system.  A proof
of this is found in the epitaph of his mother.  If ever
holy life bore life-long testimony to lively faitlh if
ever there was an aged widow who came up to the
Apostle's qualifications of one who was worthy to be
written anlon gst the Church's roll of her worthies as
a widow indeed, Susannah Wesley was such a one;
and yet so blinded are men by their own notions, that
her sons —who owed to her, humanly speaking, their
spiritual as well as their natural birth —chose to date
her conversion from a communion at which she ex
perieneed a peculiar fervour, and described this holy
woman's life, up to this point, as a " legal night of
sevenity years."
Another reason why Wesley should lay so much
stress on a sudden conversion was to be found in




132     Life of Jolhn W esley, the Metlodist.
the general neglect in which the great central truth
of the Gospel, the necessity of a change of heart, was
practically held. The eighteenth century was really
the dark age of vital godliness; and when mankind
are spiritually asleep in an age of religious lethargy
and coldness, it is no marvel if conversion takes the
form  of a sudden awakening.  It was particularly
easy, therefore, at that time, to confound two propositions totally distinct, and to believe that what wellnigh always happened, ought to happen always.
This impression of a great change occurring suddenly, and followed immediately by the full assurance
of faith, was still further strengtlhened by a visit to
the MIoravian settlement of Herrnhut. It was, indeed,
but natural that Wesley should seek to know more of a
system which had had so great influence on himself.
Our limits forbid us to enter into any details of the
peculiar tenets of the M[oravian body; but at Herrnhut Wesley found practically displayed that simple,
earnest, placid piety,-mixed, possibly, with a little of
what we should consider sentimentalism,- so characteristic of the German people.  Doctrinally, he
and they were at one.  One of the United Brethren,
for by that name they delighted to call themselves,
gave him this definition of the full assurance of faith:
"' Repose in the blood of Christ; a firm confidence in
God, and persuasion of His favour; serene peace,
and steadfast tranquillity of mind, with a deliverance
from carnal desire, alid every outward and inward




2'lze Ulzited Brethlen.        133
sin.  In a word," he added, as the result of his own
experience, " the heart, which before was like a
troubled sea, was still, quiet, and in a sweet calm."
A blessed experience, truly, if it could be generally
realised; but, alas, only a faithful, quiet spirit, here
and there, attains to something like it. Yet, after all,
no doubt remains that the United Brethren did display
a very real and earnest godliness.
"Here," says Wesley, "I  would gladly have
spent my life; but, my M3aster calling me to another
part of His vineyard, I was constrained to take my
leave of this happy place." After a fortnight's stay,
he departed on foot, as he came, and returned to
England.
On Sept. 17, 1738, he arrived in London.  It was
still his desire to preach in the churches, but these were
generally refused him. Nor was the blame altogether
on the side of the clergy.  Clearly, the doctrine of
assurance, as he and his companions expounded it,
would be likely to lead to Antinomianism. Mien might
trust to this assurance, and cease to lead godly lives;
and that this danger was real, subsequent experience
has proved.  At this time, they waited on the Archbishop of Canterbury; and from  this prelate they
received nothing but kindness.   He affectionately
advised them  not to give more umbrage than was
necessary for their own defence, to forbear exceptional phrases, and to keep to the d(octrines of the
Church.  It was probably at this time tlhat words




134      L'fe of Jolh  Wesley, the _lietzlodhst.
subsequently quoted by Wesley as occurring in conversation with Archbishop  Potter formed part of
the admonition-:    If you desire," said lie,   to be
extensively useful, do not spend your strength in
contending for or against such things as are of a
disputable nature; but in testifying against open,
notorious vice, and  in  promoting  real, essential
holiness."
Wesley was at this time in no humour to take
such advice: " God deliver me, and all that love
Him  in sincerity, from  what the world calls Christian prudence!"  He was just, in the full fervour of
his zeal, and not much disposed to give up any
of his own crotchets in order to conciliate.  Afterwards, when lie waxed stronger and riper in his
ministry, he appreciated better the advice of the good
archbishop, and speaks gratefully of his kindness.
That lie was at all times disposed too muclh to look
for visible manifestations, and to overrate the value of
religious emotion, is apparent throughout his history;
and the accessories of his religious system were likely
to promote this.
The principal place of mleetig of the, society, now
gradually taking settled form and organisationr, was in
Fetter Lane. Here they held their love-feasts: at which
they ate bread and drank water inl the intervals of
praying and singing.  " On the first night of tlhe
new year," says Wesley, " Messrs. HIall, Kiinchin,
Ingham, Whitefield, and IHutchins, and my brother




Whlitefield's Preaclhiig.      135
Charles, were present at our love-feast, with about
sixty of our brethren.  About three in the morning,
as we were continuing instant in prayer, the power
of God came mightily upon us; insomuch that many
cried out with exceeding joy, and many fell to the
ground.  As soon as we were recovered a little from
that awe and amazement at the presence of His
majesty, we broke out with one voice,'We praise
Thee, 0 God; we aelknowledlge Thee to be the Lord.'";; It was," says the ardent WThitefield, " a Pentecost
season indeed; sometimes, whole nights were spent in
prayer: and often I have seen them  overwhelmed
with the divine presence, and cry out:' Will God
indeed dwell with men upon earth? How dreadful is
this place! this is no other than the house of God,
and the gate of heaven!'"
That the careless and indifferent should scoff at
such manifestations was no more than might be
expected; and the age, both clerical and lay, was
careless and indifferent enough: but many who were
thoroughly in earnest were scandalised at the want
of discretion and prudence displayed. Accordingly,
there were very few amongst the clergy who would
admit such men to their pulpits; and most churches
were closed against them.  This led to the adoption
of field-preaching —another startling novelty at that
time —which increased the prejudice against them.
At Kingswood, near Bristol, is one of the smaller
English coal-fields.  Spiritually and morally, the




13 6     Life of Jolin 1 Tesley, -t1e lletlodist.
colliers were a neglected race; they were scattered
over an extensive district, formerly a royal forest, il
clusters of cottages surrounding the pits' moutls.
Nominally, Kingswood belonged to the out-parish of
St. Philip and St. Jacob; but the colliers, if the y
had been disposed to traverse tle long distances
separating them from their parish-church, which was
not likely, would hardly have found, amidst tle
suburban congregation, either space or instruction
suited to their need.  They were, therefore, just as
heathen as were the Indians of Georgia. Whitefield's
fervent soul burned within him to minister to these
sheep not having a shepherd.  HIe had no churcll
here to preach in; but he was not deterred by this.
On Sunday, Feb. 17, 1739, he preached from a
mount, in a place called Rose Green.  No notice had
been given, and only about two hundred were present, who listened to the sermon in something like
stolid wonder. But a change speedily took place, and
on the next occasion about two thousand were present;
and his hearers increased so rapidly, that as many
as twenty thousand attended, listening with rapt
attention. Whitefielcd knew how to touch their hearts.
As they listened, tears mighlt be seen running down
their clheeks, until a white channel was formed in tle
surrounding sootiness.  As the matter then stood,
and considering the special circumstances of the case,
the ecclesiastical authorities, if they did not see their
way to sanction Whitefield's field-preaching, might




SthX-friae iManifestations.     137
well have connived; but, unfortunately, those thllelln at
the head of affairs could not discern the value of all
agency which has since become general; and the
Chancellor of Bristol sent for Whitefield, and threatened
him with ecclesiastical censure.  Whitefield was one
of those spirits that would have courted martyrdom,
rather than have shunned it; but the days were
passed at which a movement. of this kind could be
opposed by force; and Whitefield was suffered to proceed unmolested.
In the mean time, the cause progressed in London,
and with strange manifestations and sudden conversions.  Wesley visited a woman who was above
measure enraged at the new way, and zealous in
opposing it.  He argued with her; he besought her
to pray with him.  In a few minutes, she fell into an
extreme agony of mind and body; and soon after
cried out, witl the utmost earnestness: "' Now I knowi
I am forgiven, for Christ's sake." NMany other words
she uttered to the same effect; witnessing a hope full
of immortality.  The change, though sudden, was
permanent; ever afterwards she continued steadfastly
to declare the faith which once she had persecuted.
These kind of ecstasies, or paroxysmus,-and the
history of all religious movements aboundis in them, —
have been treated with incredulity, and pronounced
to be fraudulent as well as fanatical.  But there is
no reason whatever to doubt the good faith of Wesley
or his followers. They were certainly over-credulous,




138      Life of Johln tWesley, the lletlhodist.
at this time especially, and over-estimated the value
of these outward signs as evidences of conversion.
As to tile charge of fanaticism, it may well be admitted.  Earnest men are apt to be a little fanatical on
their favourite topics; and why should religious ear-,nestness be an exception?  Far better is it to make
too much of religious emotions, than to be without
emotion, because there is no religion either.
Whitefield urged Wesley to come to Bristol without delay, and take up the great work, which his:ret;urn to Georgia forbade hinself to prosecute. Wesley
hesitated; Charles wished his brother not to go: he
had an unaccouintable fear that in some way thle
journey would prove fatal to him.  He onfly desisted
from his persuasions whein, on opening his Bible, lihe
fouind the text: " Son of imana, behold I take fioni
thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke; and yet
shalt thou not mourn nor weep, neither shall thy
tears run down."  He looked upon this as a special
message to himself, enjoining submission.  But the
other brethren were not satisfied; and they agreed to
east lots, to determine whether Wesley should go or
not. The lot was favourable to his going. Thley then
exanmined  Scripture, to determine what the issue
should be, judging by the texts they found; but these
were not satisfactory-as, indeed, how should they
be? for tlus to consult the Bible, is to degrade it to
a mere fortuile-telling book. We see, howeverl  what
great influence chance texts lhad upon Wesley.  He




Wesley at Bristol.            139
and his friends looked upon it as consulting the
oracles of God; but there is no intimation in Scripture
that, so consulted, will men find their duty plain, or
the concealed future  opened to them.  But this
method of searching Scripture was congenial to that
turn of mind which Wesley. exhibited throughoutthe desire for immediate and sensible manifestations
of the divine will.
Tho fears of the brethren on the part of Wesley
proved to be entirely groundless; he was eminently
successful at Bristol, and encountered no very serious
opposition.  But the same kind of paroxysms which
had  been  witnessed  in  London  were  displayed
amongst his hearers at Bristol, and many sudden
conversions took place.  Some relapsed again into
sill and worldliness; but there can be no doubt that,
in numerous instances, the effect was permanent,
resulting in a real change of life and conversation,
consistently maintained to the end.  IHis brother
Samuel, hearing of these things, wrote, with characteristic good sense, to remonstrate; but John
answered: " 3By dear brother, t.he whole question
turns on a matter of fact.  You deny that God does
work these effects-at least, that He works them in
such a manner.  I affirm both, because I have heard
those facts with my ears, and have seen them with
my eyes. I have seen, as far as it can be seen, many
persons changed in a moment from the spirit of fear,
horror, and despair, to the spirit of hope, joy, and




140     Life oj John Wesley, thle Metlhodist.
peace; and from sinful desires, till then reigning over
thlem  to a pure desire of doing the will of God."  Of
coarse, holding these views, Wesley would encourage,
rather than subdue, such exhibitions as the following.
As he was preaching in Nicholas Street, almost as
soon as he had begun, he was interrupted by the cries
of one who was pricked to the heart.  Another
dropped down on the floor, and then another.  A
man, by name Thomas Maxfield, fixed his eyes upon
a little boy who had thus fallen, and began to roar
out, and beat himself against the ground, so that six
men could hardly hold him.  " I never," writes
Wesley, " saw one so torn by the evil one.  Meanwhile, others began to cry out to the Saviour of all,
so that all the house, and, indeed, all the street, for
some space, was in an uproar.  But we continued in
prayer; and, before ten, the greater part found rest
to their souls."
But Wesley, notwithstanding his enthusiasm, was
a xvise admlinistrator.  He was well aware that first
fervour, however genuine, will burn out speedily,
unless it be fed and tended; and accordingly he
introduced at Bristol the discipline which he had
found so useful in London, and of which we may
conveniently give a sketch here.  This discipline was
founded on the model of what he had observed amongst
the Moravians. MIale and female Bands were formed,
that the members might meet together weekly, under
the following regulations: 1. They were to confess




1Ictlhodisit O#zan2isation.    141
their faults one to another, and to pray one for
another. 2. These bands were to consist of not fewer
-than five, or more than ten, persons.  3. Every one
was to speak as freely, plainly, and concisely as possible, as to tle real state of his heart, temptations,
anld deliverances.  4. These exercises were to take
place on a fixed night in the week, with singing and
prayer.  5. Any who were admitted, were asked if
they would be open in speech and would conform to
the rules.  6. When any member was proposed, the
others were to speak freely any objections concerning
him.  7. After a short probation, the candidate was
to be admitted.  8. There were to be days set apart
for intercession and (9) for love-feasts. 10. The penalty
for non-observance of the rules was to be a threefold
admonition; terminating in expulsion, if the irregularity were persisted in.
Another and important step was the building of
a large meeting-house.  Wesley, at the aclvice of his
friends, kept the freehold of this building in his own
hainds: a very prudent measure; as otherwise, if
it had been in the hands of trustees, as Wesley at
first proposed, they might, if they had become dissatisfied with his doctrine, have ousted him altogether.
For that disagreements of this kind were possible,
the experience of Methodism had already made manifest.  Hitherto, the Moravians and Methodists in
London had formed one body; but the placid Germans were somewhat startled by the vehemence of




1422    Life of John Wesley, the Mlethodist.
their English friends, and differences arose between
them.  In opposing Wesley's errors, the Mloravians,
as often happens, fell into the opposite extreme, and
taughl that there are no degrees of faith short of
full assurance; and that the way to attain this is to
wait for Christ, and not to use means of grace —as
private prayer, fasting, communion, or the like.
This great divergence on points of doctrine so vital
and important led to many conferences and discussions, but all without producing any substantial
agreement.  These tenets, however, obtained favour
amongst the London brethren, so that Wesley, on his
return from  Bristol, found them greatly estranged
from him.  Hte looked upon it that this was a real
departure from the faith; and accordingly, having
preached one Sunday from the text,;; Stand in the
way; ask for the old paths," after sermon he read a
paper to the following effect: -  I believe these assertions to be contrary to the Word of God.  I haive
wamrned you hereof again and again, and besought
you to turn back to the law and to the testimony.  I
hlave borne with you long, hoping you would turn;
but, as I find you more and more confirmed in the
error of your ways, nothing now remains but that I
should give you up to God. You that are of the
sanme judgment, follow me."  When he had thus
spoken, he withdrew-as did eighteen or nineteen
members of the society.  This breach with his former
friends was never healed, although both sides made




Sep~arcation of tWesley and Wlitefield.  143
efforts for a reconciliation.  Wesley and his friends
moved  from  Fetter Lane to a meeting-house in
Moorfields, whicll was usually called the Foundry, as
it had originally been used as a foundry for cannon.
Another separation also took place.  Whitefield
had embraced high Calvinistic doctrines of election,
and its counterpart, reprobation.  Wesley, on the
contrary, as the very basis of his system, preached
free grace to all.  The sepai'ation caused considerable
pain to both, but it was inevitable.  It was utterly
opposed to the genius of Methodism-with its lovefeasts, classes, and other methods of attracting adherents firom  the ranks of the world-to damp the
ardour of the young converts by insisting that they
had no choice in the matter, but that their salvation
or  perdition  was preordained by an  irreversible
decree.  This separation, however, did not destroy
the friendship which existed between Whitefielcd and
Wesley, after the first irritation of the controversy
had subsided.
Notwiithstanding these defections, the cause of
M ethodism  made good progress, andl began to take
consistent shape; and that not by a code of rules
drawn up, butt by internal development, determined
by apparently trivial circumst-ances.  Wesley had
made himself responsible for the expenses attending
the erection of the meeting-house at Bristol.  Money
ran short, and it was necessary to raise more.  It
was proposed, as a way to meet t'his difficulty, that




144      LfJ oqf John Wesley, the Miethoc1is t.
every member should contribute a pennyi  a week.  It
was objected that some were too poor even for this.
" Then " said Wesley, "put clown eleven of the
poorest with me; and if they can give any thing, well,
-I will call on them weelly; and if they can give nothing, I will give for them, as well as for myself.
And. each of you- call on eleven of your neighbours
weekly, receive what they give, and make up what is
wanting."   The contribultion of class-money thus
began; and the same accidental circumstance led. to
the system of inspection by class-leaders.  On calling
for the subscription, the leaders sometimes found that
some of the members were walking disorderly. Wesley at once saw the use that might be made of this
agency; a thorough and intimate knowledge of every
member might be secured by an organised plan of
regular inspection,-and the leaders were an agency
ready to his hand.
The business of leader was to see every person
in his class, at least once a week; to inquire how
their souls prospered; to reprove, console, or exhort,
as occasion might require; and to take charge of any
contribution they might be willing to make-either
for the poor, or for the expenses incident to conducting the society.  In the first instance, the leaders
used to visit the members at their own homes; but
this proving inconvenient, as many were servants,
and the exhortations must be given often in the
presence of third parties, not members, the class met




Itizeraney.              145
together at an appointed place weekly.  The leaders,
in their turn, met the minister, informed him of any
who were sick or disorderly, and paid over their collections to the steward.  " It can scarcely be conceived," says Wesley, " what advantages have been
reaped from this little prudential regulation.  Many
now happily experienced that Christian fellowship of
which they had not so much as an idea before. They
began to bear one another's burdens, and naturally
care for one another.  Evil men were detected and
reproved; they were borne with for a season: if they
forsook their sins, we received them gladly; if they
obstinately persisted therein, it was openly declared
that they were not of us. The rest mourned and
prayed for them-and yet rejoiced that, as far as in
us lay, the scandal was rolled away fiom the society."
The practice of itinerancy was also taken up; not
from forethought, but as a natural consequence of the
course in which Wesley was now engaged. At first it
was hoped that the converts which Wesley made would
be built up in the faith by the regularly appointed
ministrations of the Church; but the extravagance
which attended the progress of Methodism had alienated even the more earnest of the clergy, who looked
upon these converts with suspicion.  Accordingly,
there was great danger that they would relapse again
into their former state of indifference. What, then,
was to be done?  Wesley could think of no other
expedient than that one " who was upright in heart,
K




146     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
and of sound judgment in the things of God," should
meet the rest, and inform them in the ways of God,
either by reading to them, or by prayer and exhortation. In the capacity of readers, he appointed Cennick to reside at Kingswood, and left Thomas Maxfield in charge in London.  From  expounding to
preaching was an easy step, and it was soon taken.
Wesley, who foresaw all the evil such a step would
produce, was greatly averse to his converts becoming
preachers, and did all he could to prevent it. Seeing
the apparent good that was done, he was at length
more satisfied, and set himself to control what he
could not altogether prevent. With characteristic
prudence, he admitted these preachers to serve him as
" sons in the Gospel;" but only on the condition that
they should labour where he appointed, because otherwise " they would have stood in each other's way."
It is quite clear that in doing this Wesley had no idea
of separation from the Church of England; nor did he
foresee that he had now fairly planted the seeds of a
schism. Neither was the blame of the schism which
has since occurred wholly on his side. The authorities
of the Church of England failed to perceive that an
agency had been created which was working to the
reform of the lives of a vast number of those who,
humanly speaking, would otherwise have remained
in ignorance and sin; and that the fanaticism which
accompanied it was but an excrescence, which a
generous forbearance might soon have purged away,




Death of Mars. Wesley.         147
But the golden opportunity was suffered to pass —
not, we trust, never to return.
About this time, Mrs. Wesley died. Wesley was
recalled from one of his journeys to find her on the
borders of eternity. Three days afterwards, her soul
was set at liberty, calmly and without a struggle.
He performed her funeral service, speaking on the
text: "I saw a great white throne."  Wesley has
been accused of want of feeling,; but this is too hard
a judgment,-for that tenderest and most affectionate
of sons, Augustine, did the like. But with both of
them  the motive was the same-an overwhelming
sense of the unseen, which taught them not to
sorrow as those that have no hope. In the like
manner, when refused admission to the pulpit of
Epworth, Wesley preached in the churchyard from
his father's tomb.  He knew  that the solemnity
of the occasion, and the associations which it would
engender, would lend force to his words; and so it
proved: his congregation-as well they might-lifted
up their voices and wept. The one great object of his
life-to save sinners-absorbed all other considerations. His love for his mother was hardly as deep
and warm as that of Augustine for Monica; but, had
it been deeper, he would have preached all the same.
Soon after his mother's death, there broke out
against Methodism some of those popular disturbances
so often observed at the rise of a religious movement,
and provoked more by its novelty than by any con



148     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
sideration of the real tendency of its doctrines or
practices. In many instances, the good sense of the
magistrates was able to moderate the violence of the
crowd before any mischief was done.  Thus, near
Epworth, some of the people, in their zeal for the
old ways, brought a whole wagon-load of Methodists
before a magistrate. He asked, " What have they done
wrong?" This was a puzzling question. At length one
said: "Why, they pretend to be better than other
people; and, besides, they prayed from morning till
night." The magistrate asked if they had done nothing
else. " Yes, sir," said an old man; " an't please
your worship, they convarted my wife. Till she went
among them, she had such a tongue! and now she is
as quiet as a lamb."'" Carry them back —carry them
back," said his worship; 6' and let them convert all
the scolds in the town."
At Bath, Wesley met the celebrated Beau Nash,
who came into the room where Wesley was preaching,
and demanded by what authority he was preaching
there.  He answered: "By that of Jesus Christ,
conveyed to me by the present Archbishop of Canterbury when he laid hands on me and said,' Take thou
authority to preach the Gospel.'"  Nash then affirmed
that he was acting contrary to the law. " Besides,"
said he, " your preaching frightens people out of their
wits."    Sir," said Wesley, "1 did you ever hear me
preach?"'N No," said the master of the ceremonies.
" How, then, can you judge of what you never




Mob-violence.             149
heard?"  Nash answered: "By common report."
4' Sir,' said Wesley, "is not your name Nash?  I
dare not judge you by common report. I do not
think it enough to judge by."  When Nash desired
to know what the people came there for, one of the
congregation cried out: "; Let an old woman answer
you. You, iMr. Nash, take care of your body; we
take care of our souls and for the food of our souls
we come here." Nash found it a very different thing
to give the law to a fashionable assembly in the
pump-room, and to hold his own in a Methodist
meeting; and thought it best to withdraw.
But more serious opposition was in store. At
Bristol and in London, the place of meeting was
mobbed; and mischiefmight have ensued, had not the
magistrates put down the disturbances with commendable firmness. In all places, however, the magistrates
were not so ready to perform their duty; and some
were found who, in place of using their authority to
keep the peace, even incited the mobs.to violence. At
Wednesbury, in Staffordshire, Wesley preached without molestation.  The colliers of that neighbourhood
listened to him patiently; and between three and four
hundred persons formed themselves into a society.
Mr. Eggington, the clergyman of the town, was at
first well pleased with the movement; but offence was
given him by some indiscretion; and from that time
he opposed the Methodists by the most outrageous
means. The magistrates most culpably stirred up




150     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
the passions of the mobs, when the usual scenes
witnessed in such cases followed. Windows were
smashed, houses broken open and rifled, men and
women assaulted, and some of the latter especially
brutally and seriously hurt.  These disturbances continued some months. When Wesley arrived at Birmingham, on his way to Newcastle he came at once,
with great courage, to Wednesbury, and preached to a
large audience without encountering disturbance of
any kind.  But, in the evening, the mob beset the
house, crying: "1We will have the minister! We
will have the minister!" Wesley, who never lost
his self-possession, desired one of his friends to bring
the leader of the mob into his house.  The man
speedily became calm as Wesley spoke to him, and
desired him to bring in one or two more of his most
angry companions. The result was the same, and
they also became quite calm. Wesley then went out,
called for a chair, and, standing on it, said to the
mob: A" What do any of you want with me?"  Some
cried out: "We want you to go with us to the
justice." Wesley replied: " I will go with all my
heart."  He then spoke a few serious words-which,
as he says, God applied; and upon this the mob cried
out: "I The gentleman is an honest gentleman; and
we will spill our blood in his defence." Wesley
asked: " Shall we go to the justice to-night, or in
the morning?"  The mob answered: "To-nightto-night!"  He went, accompanied by a crowd of




A Stafordshire Riot.         151
some 300 persons. On the way it rained heavily.
Mr. Lane, the justice, lived two miles from Wednesbury. One or two ran before, to say they had brought
Mr. Wesley; bhut Mr. Lane said: " What have I to
do with Mr. Wesley?  Carry him back again."  In
a little while, the main body arrived; but were told
that Mr. Lane was in bed. His son, however, came
out, and asked what was the matter. One of the
mob answered: " Why, and please your worship,
they sing psalms all day, and make folk rise out of
their beds at five in the morning. And what would
your worship advise us to do?" " To go home," said
Mr. Lane, "and be quiet."  The mob were now at a
stand-still; but one advised to go to Justice Peasehouse,
at Walsall. All agreed. They hastened on, and arrived
about seven o'clock. A message was sent out that the
justice was in bed; on which they agreed that the best
thing they could do was to go home. Here the matter
might have ended; but, on their return, they met a
mob from Walsall, and a fight between the two parties
commenced, those with Wesley fighting in his defence.
But his friends, already weary with their long
walk, were outnumbered considerably by the Walsall
mob, who carried all before them. For a while, the
confusion was too great to admit of his voice being
heard; but, after a while, he succeeded in inducing
them to give him a hearing.  " Are you willing," he
cried, " to hear me speak?" Some called out:' No,
no; knock his brains out! Down with him! Kill him




152     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
at once!" Others said: " Nay; but we will hear him
first."  He asked: " What evil have I done? Which
of you have I wronged in word or deed?" He spoke
for a quarter of an hour, when his voice suddenly
failed; and the crowd began again to vociferate. His
voice suddenly came to him again, and he broke out into
prayer; when the man who had just before headed the
mob against him said: " Sir, I will spend my life for
you. Follow me, and not one soul shall touch a hair
of your head."  Two or three of those with this man
then closed round him to protect him; and a gentleman cried out: " For shame! for shame! Let him
go."  The mob then fell back; and, though the crowd
continued, there was no further violence; and Wesley,
about ten o'clock, arrived in Wednesbury, with only
the loss of a flap of his waistcoat, and a little skin
grazed off his hands. At other places, disturbances of
the same kind took place. The Methodists were pelted
with rotten eggs; and some of the women who attended the meeting were so ill-treated, that they never
thoroughly recovered the effects; but, as so constantly
happens, these riotous proceedings rather helped than
hindered the cause. The preachers, also, who were
naturally the objects of this kind of persecution, displayed on every occasion an unflinching courage and
fearlessness, which made even their enemies respect
them. At length, however, the authorities began to
bestir themselves. A few ringleaders were prosecuted;
but the Methodists showed a Christian and forbearing




Wesley's Martiage.          153
spirit, and would not press legal proceedings where they
could obtain a promise that the offence should not be
renewed; and thus were these riotous disturbances
put down.
Methodism had now taken form and organisation.
The kingdom was divided into regular circuits, to
which preachers were appointed. These preachers
met Wesley from time to time in a general gathering
called a conference. In due time, legal form was
given to this conference by deed of association; and
it has now become the well-known body which forms
the Methodist parliament or convocation, and by which
the business of the society is transacted.
Although Wesley lived many years after these
events, there remains very little more to record. He
spent his time in consolidating his system, which had
now taken root; the work proceeding regularly, without much variation, and the numbers and extent of
the society gradually increasing. His time was spent in
journeys and preachings, and such-like useful, though
in the recording of them monotonous, labours.
Up to middle life, he had remained single; but
now he began to think of matrimony.  His brother
Charles had married a Miss Sarah Gwynne, and
settled down as a family-man, contented to perform
the duties and enjoy the comforts of domestic life.
Possibly the example of his brother, who was fortyone at the time, disposed him to take this step,-at the
risk, indeed, of a charge of inconsistency; for he had




154     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
some time before published Thloughts on a Single Life,
in which he advised all who were able to receive it to
follow the Apostle, and remain single for the kingdom
of heaven's sake. The choice he made was unfortunate.
The lady was a widow, by name Vizelle, with four
children and an independent fortune. Her fortune he
settled upon herself, and declined to have any power
over it. It was agreed that on no account was the
marriage to interfere with his labours; but that he
was not to preach one sermon or travel one mile
the less because of it. At first, his wife used to
travel with him; but her zeal and her affection
both speedily burnt out. She became exceedingly
jealous of him; and had been known to travel as
much as a hundred miles, in order that she might
watch from a window to see who was with him in his
carriage when he entered a town. She searched his
pockets, opened his letters, put his papers into the
hands of enemies, in hopes of doing him harm; and
even laid violent hands upon him, and tore his hair.
She frequently left his house, but, on his earnest
entreaty, returned again. At length, when he was
on a journey, she seized on some of his papers and
journals, which were never returned, and departed,
leaving word that she would never live with him
again. She survived ten years after this separation,
which appears to have been final; and died at Cainberwell, and was buried in the churchyard there. Her
epitaph declares that she was a woman of exemplary




Wesley and the Church of England.    155
piety, a tender parent, and an attached friend; but is
discreetly silent as to her conduct as a wife.
At this period of Wesley's life, when his system was
completely matured, it will be convenient to consider
the relationship his society had to the Church, of which,
to the last, he was an attached member, and from
which he was never formally expelled. That a schism
might be the result, some had already predicted; and,
in the first conference, the question was formally proposed: " Do you not entail a schism on the Church?
Is it not probable that your hearers, after your death,
will be scattered into all sects and parties, or that
they will form themselves into a distinct sect?" The
answer was: " We are persuaded that the body of
our hearers will, even after our death, remain in
the Church, unless they be thrust out. We do, and
will do, all we can to prevent those consequences which
are supposed to be likely to happen after our death; but
we cannot with a good conscience neglect the present
opportunity of saving souls while we live, for fear of
consequences which may possibly or probably happen
after we are dead."  In subsequent conferences, the
preachers were exhorted to the same effect. They
were on no account to allow themselves to be called
Dissenters.  They were to be preachers, but not
ministers; and their chapels were to be called, not
meeting-houses, but plain preaching-houses.  Yet
even then a leaven of ill-will was working against the
Church of England, and many of his preachers wished




156     Life of John Wesley, the Methodist.
not only to become ministers, but even to celebrate
holy communion.  This Wesley strenuously resisted.
"' Lay preaching," says he, "I tolerate, because I
conceive there is an absolute necessity for it; inasmuch as, were it not permitted, thousands of souls
would perish everlastingly. Yet I do not tolerate lay
administration, because I do not conceive that there
is any such necessity for it, seeing it does not appear
that one soul would perish for the want of it."
The reasoning, however, in these passages is more
specious than true.  Wesley was no doubt doing a
great spiritual work, and he was quite right not to be
easily deterred from doing it: but then, on the other
hand, if it were really a duty to respect the organisation
of the Church, not even the sight of perishing souls
should have induced him to swerve from it. Even in
so great a matter as this, it is not right to do evil that
good may come,-and a higher faith would doubtless
have done all, and more than all, that Wesley did,
without entailing something like a schism on the
Church.  But every religious movement has its
dark side, and Wesley's was no exception.  He was
credulous to a fault; he was wilfully blind to the real
character of some of those manifestations of feeling
which did, no doubt, disgrace the earlier history of Methodism. He ascribes the visions, trances, ecstasies,
which, in the vehemence of their religious excitement,
some of his converts manifested, to spiritual influences,
when really they were the result either of overwrought




The true Success of Methodism.    157
devotion, or, in a few cases, no doubt, of absolute fraud.
Nor did he ever get quite clear of this delusion. " The
danger was," he says, speaking of the earlier period of
his work, " to regard extraordinary circumstances too
much, such as outcries, visions, convulsions, trances,
as if these were essential to the inward work, so that
it could not go on without them.   Perhaps the
danger is to regard them too little, to condemn them
altogether, to imagine they had nothing of good in
them, and were a hindrance to the work." But, say
what we will, these visions and ecstasies, which are
unlike real prophetic inspiration, in that they are
certainly undistinguishable from —some say identical
with-mere religious excitement, were a hindrance
to the movement; they gave occasion-not altogether
unjustly-to the enemies of God to blaspheme. On the
other hand, the opponents of Methodism did not observe
that which was its real triumph, the certain proof that
its conversions were the work of the Spirit, —and this
was the amendedlives of its followers. Wesley did effect
a real religious reformation: and the good results of
this were felt in a religious awakening which extended
far beyond his own immediate followers. He not only
founded Methodism, —a questionable good, and belonging to the dark side of his movement, —but he
awoke the Church in England from her stupor. Yet
we must not marvel that there is a dark side: when
the wheat springs up, then are visible the tares also,
Wesley was undoubtedly self-willed and self-sufficient;




158     Life of John Wesley, the Methocldist.
however he might deceive himself, love' of power was
his besetting sin; he was credulous; he was apt unduly to value emotions.  In his zeal for the doctrine
of free grace, he was in danger of Antinomianism,
and his fervour often touched on the border of fanaticism; and so the result was, that the awakening
of the Church was accompanied with another breach
of apostolical discipline, and another schism of the
Church of God. But the Church of England, by
her lukewarmness, deserved the chastisement.  A
higher spirituality on either side would have resulted, no doubt, in a triumph of brotherly love; and
Wesleyans would have now been working within,
instead of without, the Church of England, to the no
small advantage of both. But as things then were,
such a union would, after all, have been a doubtful
blessing. An accession of strength to a lukewarm
Church is only likely to attract into her still more of
the worldly spirit than she already displays.  Sad as
the spectacle is of zeal kept alive by open controversy and schism, it is far preferable to that of a
powerful corporation wielding the authority and
prerogatives of the Church in the interests of the world.
The former is, indeed, unchristian disunion; the
latter has a fearful resemblance. to the autocracy of
Antichrist. The union again of Methodism and the
Church of England —which all who love their Saviour,
and through Him their brethren, must hope and pray
for-will be consummated by an increasing earnest



Closing Years.              159
ness in both. Peace will be to those who love the Lord
Jesus Christ in sincerity, and in proportion to the
sincerity of their love.
The life of Wesley was prolonged far beyond the
Psalmist's limit of threescore years and ten; and such
was his strength of constitution, that the labour and
sorrow of the concluding years were in his case but
light and easy. One sorrow he necessarily had, which
was to see most of his older friends leave the world
before him; but, like Moses, his natural force was
hardly abated at fourscore years.  His face was
remarkably fine, his complexion fresh to the last year
of his life, his eye quick, keen, and active. He rose
every morning at four, and travelled from thirty to
seventy miles a day, preaching sometimes as many as
five sermons in one day. One of his biographers considers this so marvellous, that he calls it a new thing in
the earth. At eighty-five, he had what would probably
have been to a young person a slight derangement;
but he never quite recovered his full strength. At
eighty-six, still further signs of the tottering, declining tabernacle became apparent in weakened
sight and stiffening limbs and a decay of memory.
He even then did not lay aside his labours, which
were, all through life, diligent and earnest, such
as very few men indeed have attained to. His last
text was: a Seek ye the Lord while He may be
found," preached at Leatherhead on February 23,
1791. After this he gradually sank, and died of old




1(60      Life of Jo/hn Wesley, the Methodist.
age on Tuesday, the 29th, in the eighty-eighth year
of his age.
Almost his last words were:
"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."
And when he could no longer articulate distinctly,
the first words repeated over and over again showed
the direction of his thoughts. Thus, with the accents
of praise lingering on his lips, he departed.




JOHN NEWTON, THE CONVERTED
SLAVE-DRIVER.
Faith victorious over blaspheming Atheism.
" Woe to the soul which presumed, if it should depart from Thee,
that it should find any thing better. I turned on every side, and
allthings were hard; and Thou alone wast my rest.  And, lo!
Thou comest and freest us from our miserable delusions, and placest
us in Thy way, and sayest,' Run, and I will bear you; I will carry
you through and bear you still.'"-AUGUSTINE: Confessions.








LIFE OF JOHN NEWTON, THE CONVER TED SLA VE-DRIVER.
OIN NEWTON was born in London, onil
the 24th of July 1725. His father was master of a ship in the Mediterranean trade; a
respectable and good man, but making no
special religious profession.  His mother was a Dissenter; a pious woman, and member of her Church.
She was of weak health, consumptive, and, in consequence, fond of quiet and retirement, which she spent
in the endeavour to bring up her boy in the " nurture
and admonition of the Lord." John was her only child.
Her desire was that he should become a minister; and,she hoped, when he should be old enough, to send him
toSt. Andrew's. But she died early, when he was seven
years old: not, however, before the good seed had been
effectually sown,-though it was long indeed, and only
after many vicissitudes, before it came to maturity.
He was, as a child, a docile and willing scholar;




164           Life of Joh/n laTewton.
and had, before he was six years old, learned to read,
could repeat all the answers to the questions in the
shorter Assembly's Catechism, with the proofs, and
all Dr. Watts's Hymns for Children.  His father
soon married again; but his new mother was of a
very different spirit to her he had lost. She was
kind to her step-son, but had no deep sense of religious truth; and, after a year or two, the birth of a
son so far absorbed her attention, that John was
allowed to do pretty much as he liked, and, being
permitted to play in the streets, mingled with idle
boys, and soon learned their ways. At eight years old,
he was sent to a boarding-sehool in Essex, where he
made but slender progress, under the care of a harsh
schoolmaster, who seemed to have little appreciation
of the natural ability of his pupil; and this was not
much mended by an usher, who helped him with his
Latin, in which he took considerable interest; but,
being ill-grounded and superficial, he soon forgot all
he had learned.  On his eleventh birthday, he went
on board his father's ship, and made with him five
voyages to the Mediterranean. His father, who had
been brought up in a Jesuit College in Spain, was
very strict, and, in his presence, John's appearance
was sober and demure enough; but, away from him,
he was ready to indulge in all the vices and follies of
boys of his age. When he was about fifteen, his
father received for him an advantageous offer firom a
merchant at Alicant, with whom he stayed a little




Early Convictions.           165
time; but, though he might have done very well had he
behaved himself, he soon had to leave, in consequence
of misconduct,-only remaining a few months.  He
would now curse and swear, and was rapidly going
down the broad road that leadeth to destruction.
Nevertheless, he could not forget altogether his
mother's early lessons; and often had very serious
visitations of conscience, during which he determined
to break off his evil career. Falling in, when about
fifteen, with Barnet's Christian Oratory,-although he
understood little of its meaning, —he was so struck
with the advantage of a religious life, that he began
to read the Scriptures, keep a diary, and pray. But
he soon wearied in well-doing, and relapsed into a
worse and more careless state than before; and yet to
wake again.  When he was about sixteen, he determined to make a complete reform. He spent the
greater part of every day in reading the Scriptures, in
meditation, and prayer; he fasted often, even abstaining from all animal food for three months; he would
hardly answer a question, for fear of speaking an idle
word; he bemoaned his early backslidings very earnestly, even with tears; he endeavoured, as far as his
situation admitted it, to renounce society, that he
might avoid temptation. And this continued for more
than two years.  But, as he himself declares, 4 It
was a poor religion; it left me, in many respects,
under the power of sin, and, so far as it prevailed,
only tended to make me gloomy, stupid, unsociable,




166           Life of Jokn Newton.
and useless." Nevertheless, that itwas genuine we cannot doubt; it was an instance of the wonderful working of God's grace in a human soul. It may, indeed,
square better with the views of a certain religious
system to underrate these first strivings of grace, but
we ought to look upon them as examples of those
wonderful methods by which God deals with human
souls, and draws them to Himself.
But another temptation took him, and again for a
while destroyed this hopeful seed: he fell in with Tlhe
Charvctcteristics qf Shiaftesbury; and read Tlhe Rhapsody
with great diligence, until he knew it almost by heart.
This slowly undermined his belief in the very truth
of revelation itself.  Another advantageous offer was
made to him. A Liverpool correspondent of his father
offered to send him to Jamaica, and take charge of
his future welfare. He was to sail the following week;
and, in the interim, he was sent by his father into
Kent.  Near Chatham resided some distant relatives
of his mother, named Catlett, to whom, in her lifetime, she was greatly attached, and inl whose house
she died.  The second marriage of YMr. Newton had
caused an estrangement between the families, and
they had ceased for some time to hold any communication.  John obtained permission to visit the family,
who received -him most kindly. Mary Catlett, the
elder daughter, was only fourteen at the time; but it
appears that these children's mothers, as they fondled.
each other's infants, had dreamed over a project that




M-ary Catlett.            167
they should be man and wife. These dreams are seldom realised; but, in this case, a romantic attachment sprang up between them; and, though the visit
was only intended to last a day or two, John was so
desperately in love, that he could not bear the thoughts
of going away to Jamaica, and determined that the
ship should sail without him. He stayed three weeks
in Kent, until the ship had sailed, and then returned
to London. His father was highly displeased, but
forgave him; and he now sailed with a friend of his
father's to Venice. This voyage he went as a common sailor. His religious principles were not strong
enough to resist the bad companionship with which he
was surrounded, and he sank gradually back into his
former evil habits, though not without convictions
and remonstrances of conscience.
About this time, he had a very remarkable dream,
which made a great impression upon him.  "1 I
imagined," said he, 1' that I was in the harbour at
Venice; it was night, and my watch upon the deck.
As I was walking to and fro by myself, a person
came to me, and brought me a ring, with an express
charge to keep it carefully; assuring me that, while I
possessed this ring, I should be successful, but that, if
I lost or parted with it, I must expect nothing but
misery.  I accepted it willingly, not in the least
doubting my own care to preserve it, and highly
satisfied to have my happiness in my own keeping.
While I was engaged in these thoughts, another per



168           Life of John Newloln.
son came to me, and, observing the ring on my
finger, took occasion to ask me some questions concerning it. I readily told him its virtues; and his
answer expressed a surprise at my weakness in expecting such effects from a ring. I think he reasoned
with me some time upon the impossibility of the
thing; and at length urged me, in direct terms, to
throw it away. At first I was shocked at the proposal, but his insinuations prevailed.  I began to
reason and to doubt; and at last plucked it off my
finger, and dropped it over the ship's side into the
water, which it had no sooner touched than I saw, at
the same instant, a terrible fire burst out of the Alps,
which appeared at some distance behind the city of
Venice.  I saw the hills as distinct as if awake, and
that they were all in flames. I perceived too late my
folly; and my tempter, with an air of insult, informed me that all the mercy God had in reserve for
me was comprised in that ring, which I had wilfully
thrown away. I understood that I must now go with
him to the burning mountains, and that all the flames
I saw were kindled on my account. I trembled, and
was in great agony; and when I thought myself upon
the point of a constrained departure, and stood self-condemned, without plea or hope, suddenly either a third
person, or the same who brought me the ring at first (I
am not certain which), came to me, and demanded the
cause of my grief. I told him the plain cause, confessing that I had ruined myself wilfllly, and deserved




His Dream.                169
no pity. He blamed _my rashness; and asked if I
should be wiser, supposing I had my ring again.  I
could hardly answer to this, for I thought it was gone
beyond recall.  I believe, indeed, I had not time to
answer, before I saw this unexpected friend go down
under the water, just on the spot where I had dropped
it; and he soon returned, bringing the ring with him.
The moment he came on board, the flames in the
mountains were extinguished, and my seducer left
me. Then was the prey taken from the hand of the
mighty, and the lawful captive delivered.  My fears
were at an end, and, with joy and gratitude, I approached my kind deliverer, to receive the ring again;
but he refused to return it, and spoke to this effect:
If you should be intrusted with this ring again, you
would very soon bring yourself into the same distress.
You are not able to keep it; but I will preserve it for?ou, and, whenever it is needful, will produce it in
your behalf."' The effect of this dream was such,
that he could hardly eat, or sleep, or do any thing, for
two or three days; but the impression soon wore off,
and was in a while totally forgotten.
He returned home in December 1743, and visited
Mary Catlett, again staying beyond the appointed
time, to the great disappointment of his father. He
was impressed, and taken on board the Hlartvichl manof-war. Through his father's influence, hle was made
a midshipman; and might have obtained promotion,
but that he was so unsettled, and behaved so indiffer



170           Life of Johln Neewton.
ently, as to alienate all his friends.  In December
1744, the Iarwzich was in the Downs: the captain
gave Newton leave to go on shore; lie immediately
started off for Chatham, exceeding his leave, and returned to his ship on New-year's Day.  The captain
was so highly displeased with him, that he showed him
no favour afterwards.
His ship, after some rough weather, put in at
Plymouth.  Iearing that his father was at Torbay,
he wished to see him, hoping that he might, through
his influence, be able to exchange into some service
more to his mind than the long and uncertain voyage
to the East Indies.  He was sent in a boat to prevent
others deserting, and at once deserted himself; but
was retaken, and severely punished, —being flogged,
and degraded from his rank as midshipman.  The
captain also showed his displeasure on many occasions,
and altogether he was thoroughly miserable; but the
worst pang of all was, that he wais tortured with the
thought that he should never see Mary Catlett again,
and, even if he did, he could hardly expect to return
in a position such that he should be able to marry her.
He had dark thoughts of self-destruction; he even
meditated the death of the captain, whom he regarded
as his principal enemy; and all this time his conscience was so dead, that he felt no remorse, nor even
fear; he became a sceptic, utterly disbelieving in a
future state. The only redeeming point in his character was his love for Mary Catlett; for, though now




Enters the Slave-trade.       171
he neither feared God nor regarded man, he could not
bear that she should think meanly of him,-and so he
was preserved by her memory, as the only light amidst
the blackness of despair.
His ship arrived at Madeira; and here he was
exchanged into a merchant-vessel, bound for Sierra
Leone. The commander happened to know his father, and was disposed to befriend him; but his wayward conduct alienated him, as it had done others.
For some fancied slight, he held him up to the ridicule of his crew. The captain, however, died on the
coast of Africa, and the mate took the command.
With him he was on no better terms. He was afraid,
therefore, if he went to the West Indies, —the destination of the ship,-that he should again be exchanged
into a man-of-war. To avoid this, he determined to
remain on the coast of Africa.
Here lie entered into the slave-trade, attracted
into it by the success of a man he met on board, who
had gained a considerable sum  of money by this
traffic.  He imprudently made no terms with this
man, and received nothing but a bill on the owners
in England, which, in consequence of their subsequent
bankruptcy, was never paid. He thus found himself
on the coast of Africa, with little more than the
clothes upon his back to call his own. And now, for
two years, he was literally and actually in the condition of the prodigal in the parable. The man with
whom he was associated, and whom he was obliged




172           Life of John Newzon.
to serve in a capacity not at all above that of a slave,
was under the influence of a black woman, with whom
he lived as his wife. This woman very soon became
greatly prejudiced against John Newton. He had fallen
sick, and had been at first tended by her with some
natural woman's kindness; but, after a little time, she
became tired of her charge, and treated him with
neglect and contumely. He could not, though parched
with fever, obtain sometimes even a drink of water.
His bed was a mat spread upon a board or chest,
and a log was his pillow. As he got better, his appetite returned, and indeed he suffered dreadfully from
hunger; but his mistress, although revelling in plenty,
would not allow him sufficient to appease his appetite.
When in an unusually good humour, she would send
him victuals in her own plate, after she had dined;
and so low was he reduced, that he was only too glad
to receive them. On one occasion, he dropped the
plate from weakness; but, though the table was covered
with dishes, she only laughed at him, and refused
to let him have more. He was even reduced to eat
raw plantains, which he secretly pulled up at night:
and which, in their uncooked state, proved very unwholesome.  Sometimes even the slaves brought him
food secretly,-for they dared not do it openly,-to
such a depth had he sunk in want and degradation.
On his recovery, he went a voyage with his master.
He was falsely accused to him of a theft-the only
crime, he says, of which he was never guilty-and




The Prodigal Son.             173
was, in consequence, treated like a prisoner. He was
not allowed to leave the deck; his food was a pint of
rice, and such fish as he was able to catch. It was
only during slack tide that fishing was practicable.
If lucky enough to catch one, this fish, broiled, or
rather half-burnt, without sauce, salt, or l)read, served
as his meal, which, in his starved condition, he looked
upon as delicious; if he failed, he must sleep away
his hunger as he best could until the next tide.  He
had brought ashore with him the only book he possessed, a copy of Euclid's Elements; and, during this
miserable period, he lost for a while, in the contemplation of lines and angles, the sense of his
wretchedness, and in this way made himself master
of the first six books.
He lived thus for about a twelvemonth, during
which time he wrote several times to his father, describing his abject condition. His father applied to a
friend at Liverpool, who gave orders to one of his
captains, at that time fitting out for Sierra Leone,
to inquire after him.
But now his circumstances began to improve a
little: he went to another trader, who treated him
much better.  To him  Newton proved a valuable
assistant. The trader gave him a share of the business;
and they settled near a river which runs parallel to
the coast for many miles, so as to be seldom more than
three miles from the sea, and often much nearer. Newton now became so far assimilated to the natives and




174           Life of Jo7ln Xewton.
their mode of life, as to partake in the ceremonies of their
heathenism, and even partly to believe in the efficacy
of their charms and amulets, becoming almost one of
themselves; and, indeed, he might perhaps have become
so altogether, had not the memory of Mlary Catlettthe good genius of his life-still kept up a lingering
connection with European civilisation and faith.  He
was at this time a profane swearer; and, not content
with the ordinary oaths, he would invent novelties in
blasphemy, so horrible as to shock the not over-sensitive consciences of his slave-driving companions.
The captain from Liverpool arrived out, and made
inquiry for him along the coast, but without success.
Newton had gone up the river above mentioned nearly
a hundred miles. In consequence of its peculiar formation, he was at no great distance from the coast;
and, happening to be in want of some necessaries,
went to look out for a passilig ship, from which he
anticipated that, by means of barter, he would be
able to supply himself. A ship passed, saw his signals, and put in. It turned out to be the very ship
in search of him; but he was now so prosperous, that
he hardly cared to return. The captain of the ship, not
wishing to go back without him, told Newton that he
had had a legacy of the value of 4001. a year bequeathed
to him by a relative. This was untrue, being a pure
invention on the part of the captain; but Newton
was thus induced to return to England, as it opened a
prospect to him of marrying Mary Catlett, —although,




Disastrous Voyage.           175
as he confesses, the sense of duty to his father-who had
taken so much pains about him, and had directed no
expense to be spared in order to obtain his releasewould have been altogether powerless.
During the voyage home, which was a long and
disastrous one, and the weather bad, he showed
tolerably clearly what sort of person he was.  The
captain declared that Newton was like a Jonah in the
ship, and that all the troubles and disasters he encountered arose from taking him into his vessel. On
board the vessel were but few books,-one of them was
Stanhope's Thomas a Kemepis.  Newton took this up
carelessly, in order to beguile the time; but, as he was
reading, the thought one day struck him, what if it were
true?  He shut the book, for he could not bear the inference; and he closed it for that time with the reflection that, any way, his choice was made. But though
this was, to all appearance, a passing thought, undistinguishable from other like compunctious visitings,
it proved to be in reality the first movings of that
divine grace by which he was to be finally rescued
from his life of sin.
That night, he was awoke by a heavy sea bursting
over the vessel: he rushed up from his berth, to find
the ship filling fast, and the upper timbers a complete
wreck. They went to work with the pumps; and
these proving insufficient to gain upon the leak, the
whole crew were set to bailing; and, indeed, had not
it been that the cargo was of such specifically light




176           Life of John Newton.
materials as wood and beeswax, the ship must inevitably have sunk. At daybreak the storm abated a
little, and they expended most of their clothes and
bedding in stopping the leaks.
All this time, Newton was working hard and courageously: he even observed to one of his companions,
that in a few days the matter would furnish a subject of
conversation over a glass of wine; but his companion,
in more serious mood, replied that it was too late
now. About nine o'clock in the morning, Newton,
almost spent with labour, went to speak to the captain
-apparently about performing some nautical manceuvre -and as he was returning, he said, almost
without meaning, " If this will not do, the Lord have
mercy upon us."  The words, however, smote home;
he reflected, as he said them, ~ What mercy is there
for me?" He was, however, obliged to return to the
pumps; and continued working at them till noon, when
he became so exhausted as to be compelled to lie down
for about an hour, not knowing, as the ship laboured
amidst the waves, and from time to time settled down
in the trough of the sea, whether she would ever right
herself again. He then got up, and, being too much
exhausted to pump, went to the helm to steer, and
continued at this work till midnight. Here he had
more time for reflection, and began to think of his religious professions and resolutions, followed, as they had
been, by his licentious conversation and railings against
the Gospel history; and at first it seemed to him as




Doubts acld Fears.           177
though, thus off'ending against light and knowledge,
he had sinned too deeply to be forgiven.  But as the
situation of the ship became less precarious, and there
seemed some hope that tllhey would be saved, it appeared as though the hand of God was put forth in
his favour, and he began to pray.
But he was now the victim of doubts and fears:
he rather wished that Christianitv were true, than
fully believed that it was so;;" for," says he,;; I
began to feel my own sinfulness, and longed to find
some way out of it.  This the Gospel seemed to promise; but on every other side was I surrounded with
black, unfathomable despair."
The next day, the wind went down, and the
weather continued fair.  The ship's company imagined that they must be about 300 miles from the
north-west of Ireland, though in reality the distance
was much greater.  The damaged part of the vessel
had to be kept to windward, if there were the least sea
on; and as they had but few sails, and these old and
weak, their progress was necessarily very slow.  This,
continued about four or five days, when the watch
awoke them  one morning with the cry of "; Land
ahead!" and they fancied they descried the outline of
the coast of Ireland, for which they were making.
As the morning dawned, the land proved to be
but a bank of clouds; and the next day a gale
sprang up, which drove them out of their course, towards the western islands of Scotland.  Their prom.,




17T8           eifge:of John Newton.
visions now began to run short, and they were in
great danger of starvation; beside which, the incessant labour at the pumps exhausted their strength;
and one of the crew died, in consequence of the hardships from which he suffered. The captain, also, was
continually reproaching Newton with being the cause
of the calamity.  He was confident that the only way
to save the ship would be to throw him overboard;
and, though he had no real intention of making the
experiment, Newton could not but feel that he at least
deserved that thus the hand of God should find him
out in his wickedness. But the winld changed, and
continued unexpectedly fair; and, in a few days, land
was really in sight. This proved to be the island of
Tory; and the next day, April 8, they anchored in
Lough Swilly, but not a day too soon. Their last
meal was cooking when they arrived; and, not'two
hours afterwards, a gale arose, which must, in all probability, had they encountered it, have destroyed their
vessel. " But," says Newton,;" about this time I
began to know that there is a God that hears and
answers prayers."
After this crisis in his life, Newton became a reformed character: he entirely gave up the habit of
swearing, which had previously seemed almost a second
nature; and was no longer an infidel, but was sincerely touched with a sense of the undeserved mercies
he had received. That he had still much to learn, is
not to be wondered at; but he grew in grace and the




PIirst Communion.           179
knowledge of God. At this time he had no religious
friends, but was only occasionally in the society of
those who thought seriously; being, for the next
six years, almost entirely shut off from the means
of grace, still in the midst of his former complanions, and exposed to the same evil influence and
example as before.
While the ship was refitting at Lough Swilly, Newton proceeded to Londonderry. Here he determined
to receive the communion, and prepared himself with
great fervency and earnestness for it. Here was another step in his spiritual life; and though this first
fervour, which was real and genuine, did not continue,
he felt a peace and satisfaction in his holy service to
which he had hitherto been a stranger.
While in Ireland, he wrote home.  His father,
who had no expectation of hearing of him again,-for
tnhe vessel in which he sailed had been given up as
lost,-was on the point of departure for Hudson's
Bay.  He had intended to take his son with him
on his return to England, but he died at Hudson's
Bay; and. thus Newton never saw him again. Before
he left England, the elder Mir. Newton paid a visit
to the Catletts, and gave his consent to his son's
marriage with Mary.
Newton arrived in Liverpool just at the time his
father sailed from the Nore. Here he met with the
gentleman whose ship had brought him home, who behaved with the greatest kindness, and promised him all




180            L./, of Johlz iYewton.
the assist-ance in his power,-a promise whTllih le nobly
kept.  He even offered Newton the comrliancl of a
ship, which Ilewton declined at tlhat time, on the
ground that he had been hitherto so careless and unsettled, that he bad rather not take so responsible a
position till he had learned obedience and sometlhilg
more of business: a remarkable instance, truly, of the
change which real religion produces in tlhose who are
subject to its influence.  Hitherto, no argumlents nor
persuasions, no views of his own interest nor regard
to the future, could have restrained him within the
bounds even of common prudence; and now he was
so humble and diffident of his own powers as to take
voluntarily a subordinate position.  The mate of the
vessel in which he came home was made captain, and
he was engaged to go as first mate unlder him.
Nevertheless, he relaxed a little in his religious
life; he became careless, and his conversation light
and frivolous, though not profane.  He neither prayed
nor read the Scriptures as before, but relapsed by
degrees into his old ways.  This conltinued about
a month, when an attack of fever alarmed him; and
he recollected how sadly he had forgotten the vows
and resolutions he had formerly made in his distress
and penitence.  In his despair, he almost wished
he had sunk in the ocean at tlie time when he had
prayed on board the labouring g ship.   But he had
learned something of his own frailty, and thenceforward he trusted less to good resolves, and more to




M-1[arr iage.              181
God's grace; and  after tllis  lie  never relapsedc
into any thing like apostasy again.  He now walled
according to the light that was in him; and though
the comlpany of slavers certainly did not prove eclifying, and lie would sblletimes, after a morning of
earnliest prayer, voluntarily spend the evening in very
indifferent company, lie kept from what lie knew was
sinful. He did not break with the world at onlce; he by
degrees gave up first one thing, and then  another,
as he perceived it to be questionable and dlangerous,
if not sinfull -and thus lie manifested his ligrowth in
grace and in the knowleclge of God.
In clue course, lie arrived in Liverpool; and as soon
as the ship's affairs were settled, lie came to London,
and paid another visit to Kent.  2More than seven
years had now elapsed since his first visit, anld its
memorable train of consequences; but now there was
no obstacle to a union with his beloved one, to whoml
lie bad remained trueL with an unflinching constancy
during all his wanderings. Aceording!ly o011 February
1i  1750, they were married, and lived together for
more than forty years in mutual love and tenderness
-the husband no less attached than the lover had
been.  IHe confesses, however, that he was more
absorbed in the delights of his new state than he ought
to have been, and was, to a certain extent, less religious after his marriage taian before.
The young couple could not be allowed a very
long time in each other's society.  It was necessary




182           LZf/e of John NewvtonZ.
that Newton should undertake another voyage; and
accordingly, in August, he sailed from Liverpool as
commander of a good ship in the African trade.  His
crew consisted of thirty persons, to whom he endeavoured to set a good example.  He established service
on board twice every Sunday, and treated them all
with kindness and consideration. He devoted his leisure.to the study of Latin. On a former voyage, he had
made some progress with the language.  On that occasion, his books consisted of a Delphin Horace, with
all old English translation, and Castalio's Latin Bible
-very indifferent helps, it must be allowed. He had
no dictionary; but he was not easily daunted by difficulties; and he was able, by means of the index, to
trace the words as they occurred from plaece to place.
In this way, he made real progress-perhaps all the
more solid from the very labour of the process.  This
voyage, he took a dictionary with him, and added
Juvenal to Horace; for prose authors, he had Livy,
Caesar, and Sallust. He took especial pains with Livy,
the most difficult of the three; and working very
diligently during two or three voyages, he not only
mastered these authors, but read, in addition, Terence,
Virgil, certain writings of Cicero, and two or three
modern writers, besides making some essays towards
Latin composition.
He used to write constantly to his wife-keeping a
kind of journal, which he sent home as opportunity
occurred.  His wife replied in the same way.  It




Thle Conveert to Evil.       183
happened on one occasion that these letters were to be
sent to St. Christopher; but, by some error, the packet
was forwarded to Antigua.  Knowing how punctual
a correspondent Mirs. Newton was, and feeling sure
that she would have written if alive, he concluded she
must be dead. The anxiety was so great, that for
days he could scarcely eat or sleep. After some distressing weeks of suspense, he thought of sending a
small vessel to Antigua to make inquiry, and was
relieved by receiving several packets of letters.
On his third voyage to Guinea, he took with him
a young man who had formerly been his companion
as a midshipman on board the HIarwuich.  He was
then a steady lad; but Newton had done his best to
infect him with his own lax and sceptical principles,
and with only too great success.  They met again at
Liverpool, and renewed their former acquaintance.
Newton gave him an account of his own change of
sentiment, and how it had been brought about. But
his companion refused to listen, saying that Newton
was the first person who had given him an idea of
his liberty. That there might be time and opportunity for bringing him to a better mind, Newton
took him with him on his next voyage. All was to
no purpose; for he not only refused to listen, but
acted as a kind of apostle of evil amongst the crew.
He was also exceedingly insubordinate, so that it
required all the forbearance and prudence of which
Newton was master, to keep him  at all in check.




184            Lf/e of Johnz ATewlon.
At length an opportunity offered of buying a small
vessel, which Newton supplied witlh a cargo from his
own ship, gave this young man the command of it,
and sent him  away to trade on the ship's account.
But now under no restraint, he gave the rein to his
own inclinations; and the excessive irregularities of his
mode of living laid him open to an attack of fever,
which proved fatal.  Commonly men die as they live:
without remorse; but his ease was an exception  conviction came, but not contrition; and he died despairing, but not repentant.   On this voyage, Newton
himself was in great danger from  a fever; but to
him  the near approach of death proved a salutary
influence, increasing alike the clearness of his convictions and the fervour of his faith.  On his arrival at
St. Christopher, he met with a man like-minded —a
captain of a ship from London.  For about a month,
they spent every evening together on board eaclh
other's ship alternately. Newton's soul drank in what
to him were the new-found delights of Christian communion. He arrived in Liverpool in Angust 1754, and
had not intended to remain long in England; but, as
he was preparing for another voyage,  he was suddenly seized with an attack of apoplexy. He speedily
recovered; but, not being considered in a fit state of
health to proceed to Africa, hle resigned his command
the very day before the ship sailed.  It is instructive
to observe, that hitherto Newton had hadc little scruple
about being engaged in the slave-trade.  it n;ever
cpn ZD     th 11-1)c~zue




Leca'te the Slarie-t'rade.       18 
seems to have occurred to him tfhat a traffic in slaves
-w1hich, to the disgrace of our country, was tlhen not
forbidden by its laws-was inconsistent with Christianity, and altogether contrary to its spirit.  iHe
wished, indeed, for many reasons, for a change.  The
protracted separations from  his beloved Mary wsere
painful; he longed to be able to enjoy the benefits of
Christiain worship.and communion; and, though he did
all in his power, even at considerable self-sacrifice, to
make less odious the inhuman occupation in which
he was engaged, lie could not but feel an increasing
irepugnance to a business so conversant with bolts and
shackles as his necessarily was.  I-e had, indeed,
oftRe  prayed for deliverance, and thus was the deliverance brought about.  But now a fresh trial came
upon him.  The shock to his wife's nerves, caused by
his sudden attack, proved so serious as to threaten
her life.  Without apparent cause, she wasted away,
and medicine afforded no relief. At the same tiime, it
was urgently necessary that Newton should find some
employment; and he left home hardly expecting
ever again to see her alive.  But his fears on both
scores were speedily relieved: he received an appointment as tide-surveyor in Liverpool, which afforded
him a competency; and his wife gained strength so
fist, that in two months he was able to meet her at
Stone.
Ie now commenced the study of Greek, in order
that lie migilt read the Greek Testament, and then




186           Life of John iVezwtoi?.
proceeded to learn Hebrew and Syriac.  HEe had some
idea of entering the ministry, but it was faint and distant, and hardly received a definite shape until some
friends advised him to take this step, one of whom
offered him a title to orders in the diocese of York.
The archbishop declined to ordain him, and he
modestly refrained from pushing himself forwards,preferring, as he says, to wait. In this resolve he was
further strengthened by the counsel of his wife, who
dissuaded him from an idea he entertained of joining
one of the Nonconformist bodies.
In the year 1764, he accepted the curacy of Olney,
and was ordained deacon at Buckden by Dr. Green,
Bishop of Lincoln. His vicar, who had an expensive
family, was non-resident, and he continued curate of
Olney for nearly sixteen years.  Here he became
intimate with two men whose names stand out in
remarkable prominence in the Christianity of that time
— John Thornton, and Cowper the poet.  The former
made him  an allowance, enabling him  to fulfil
adequately the duties of his ministry at Olney, which
the slender stipend of a curate would hardly have
allowed him to do.
In the year 1799, he was presented by Mr. Thornton to the benefice of St. Mary Woolnoth and St.
Mary Woolchurch Haw, in Lombard Street, City of
London. The City was at that time very different from
what it has now become, and several of the bankers of
Lombard Street then inhabited residences situate over




Death of ]Nis Wtfe.          187
their banking-premises.  He was thus in the: very
centre of London, in an opulent neighbourhood; and
the change from the country curacy of Olney to the
rectory of St. Mary was great indeed.  Nevertheless,
there is now very little to record, save that he was
known far and wide as an earnest, genial clergyman,
preaching the Gospel at a time when there was still remaining a sad deadness and coldness in many churches,
-though, no doubt, there was a very great improvement upon what had been witnessed in the previous
half-century, when Wesley began his labours. But such
a life affords little material for the biographer: its very
usefulness depends on its want of exciting scenes; for,
after all, the evangelisation of the world must in the
main proceed, not by awakenings and startling revivals,
but by the plain, earnest, persistent maintenance of
religious teaching, accompanied with religious life.
The gardens of the Lord are watered best by perennial springs, which make particular spots to flourish,
rather than by floods of the spiritual waters,-which
may, indeed, when t,.hey retire, leave a rich deposit
for the future nourishment of the good seed; but,
during the time of their irruption, sadly displace the
ancient landmarks of the Church.
In the year 1790, after a union which  had
endured for forty years, he lost his wife.  He was
attached to her, as we know, in no ordinary degree;
and during her illness, which arose from cancer, he
fasted, wept, and prayed for her. Yet he preached her




188             Lfe of Johln Newton.
fineral sermon the Sunday after her death.  Every
one of those whose biography we have yet recorded
did the like: Augustine for his mother, Bernlard for
his brother, Wesley for his mother, and Newton for
his wife. Nor is the reason of this far to seek. It is a
practical instance of the triumph of faith,   Augustine
understands so literally the )rohibition not to sorrow
as those that have no hope, that he seems to doubt
whether it be not a sin even to weep.   The others
know and feel that thus'they slhall set forthl the great
topic which alone can comfort their own souls, and
that the very effort of ministering to others will bring
before themselves, in strongest relief, those consolations which can alone render their stroke bearable.
The power to preach such a sermon is the sign, not of
a cold heart, but of a strong will.  The skilful selfanalysis of Augustine shows how much pain the conflict between faith and sorrow, which raged all the
while within, caused him to endure.
After his wife's death, Newton was wont to observe
the anniversary of her decease as a day of seclusion.
I-Ie would on this occasion compose verses to her
memory.  But the time was not spent in unavailing
regrets.  There was patience and resignation in his
sorrow. He felt that, while alive, he had almost idolised
her.  He told a friend, after her decease, how that he
would walk from London to the top of Shooter's Hill,
in order to look towards the spot in which slhe lived:
not, indeed, that it was visible from the hill, for it was




The ayed J3ifister.           189
far beyondcl,-but it gave him a satisfaction even to gaze
in the direction in which she lived; and this he did, not
occasionally, but always once, and sometimes twice, a
week.  Nor cdid this affection die out with the romance
of courtshlip, but continued thlrough their married life.
Great, then, must have been the wrench when he parted
from one whom he loved so dearly.  But the good
old man's faith was proof even against this trial.  He
looked upon it that God who gave had rightfully taken
away, and showed himself as a practical instance of
submission to His will.
His life was prolonged beyond tlle usual limit
appointed to man.  He continued preaching until
he was more than eighty years of age; and though
his utterance and memory began to fail at this
period of his life, he was never clearer than iin
the pulpit.  Some of his friends wished him  to
desist from preaehillng but he declined.  " I cannot
stop," he said; and then, raising his voice, he added:
6 What! shall the old African blasphemer stop whilo
he can speak?"  But atlength he could not speak:
sight, hearing, and memory all failed; and his life became a blank, though easy and free from pain. But the
light, though to human sight dim and flickering, still
burnt on within; and what few words he could mumble
out were such as became a Christian soul. The sound —
nless of his faith, however, is not displayed by what lie
said upon his deathl-bed, but by the consistency of lis
godly life. He himself, and riglhtly, attached but little




190           Life of Jo7n NTewton.
importance, as such, to death-bed utterances; so that
when, in his hearing, inquiry was made as to the manner
in which believers left this world, he was wont to say:
"' Tell me not how the man died, but how he lived."
Sensible to the last, at length the feeble lamp went out,
and he sank to sleep, December 21, 1807, in the
eighty-second year of his age.  His body lies buried
in a vault of his churcl-ha fitting resting-place.
lRound his tomb roars and boils the tide of London
commercial life, amidst which, during his lifetime, it
was his especial delight to minister.
As a writer, Newton is clear and connected; but
being self-taught, and possessing but little of the
learning of the schools, we cannot expect to find either
deep erudition or expanded thought.  He continued
to be the plain, honest sailor, who, having been fully
convinced of the truth himself, laboured diligently
and uninterruptedly to convince others.  Good sense,
a kind heart, and earnest piety, make up a character
which commands both love and respect.  And though
he has no claim to be ranked in the same category of
usefulness as an Augustine or a Bernard, and has
nothing of the organising power of a Wesley, or the
eloquence of a Whitefield, his wonderful conversion and
earnest life entitle him  to a subordinate place in a
group which includes these great names as its principal figures.




CHARLES SIMEON: THE DESPISED
EXALTED.
Facitl patient in Well-doing.
" I intend neither to deny, dissemble, defend, nor excuse any
of his faults.'We have this treasure,' says the Apostle,'in
earthen vessels;' and he that shall endleavour to prove a pitcher of
clay to be a pot of gold, will take great pains to small purpose."FULLER.








LIFE OF CHARLES SIMiEON:
THE DESPISED EXALTED.
HARLES SIMEON was the fourth and
youngest son of Richard Simeon and Elizabeth Hutton.  His parents were of good
family, being descended from the Simeons
of Pyrton, in Oxfordshire. His brothers were Richard,
who died young; John, senior Master in Chancery,
and in 1815 created a baronet; and Edward, a merchant of London, and bank-director, who amassed a
large fortune.  Charles, the youngest, was born at
Reading, September 24, 1759.  Of his early history
little is known; he was educated at Eton, and was in
due course admitted on the foundation, and, when
nineteen years of age, succeeded to a scholarship at
King's College, Cambridge.  As a schoolboy, he
was remarkable for his energy and vigour.  Horsemanship was his favourite exercise,-few  persons
N




194           Lfe of Charles Simneon.
being better judges than he was, of the points of a good
horse, or more skilful ill the management of one.  In
feats of activity and strength, he was prenmiinent.
His old friend, Dr. Goodall, writes to him: " I doubt
if you could now snuff a candle with your feet, or
jump over half a dozen chairs in succession;" and then,
in Latin, follow these words.: C But why do I remind
you of these things? at seventy-three, we are admonished that we have something better to tlhink of."
He was not, however, a great favourite with his
school-fellows; for, as a boy especially, he exhibited
some peculiarities of temper which provoked their
ridicule. He was vain, impetuous, alnd self-conscious;
and these were faults which dimmed, to a certain
extent, his real excellences.  In after life, also, the
imperfections of his character are to be foundc in
the display of these same faults, or rather foibles;
but perhaps in this very circumstance is to be discerned the power of that Spirit which dwelt within
him.  Few men lived more consistent Christian lives
than he did, or more completely overcame defects of
character, which, nevertheless, remained apparent to
the very end of his life. He was irascible, also, and
would, in the heat of passion, say things which, in cooler
moments, he would retract; and, as too often happens,
these outbursts of temper were occasioned by the veriest
trifles.  But in this is manifest the power of his religious experience, that, as his character matured, he
became less subject to this fault, an-ld more and more




Rising Convictions.          195
displayed his kind and forgiving temper.  It might
have been expected that such a man would have been
sometimes excited to revenge,-and Simeon often
received very great provocation; but if he spoke
unadvisedly, he rarely or never acted unkindly.
He has left behind him an autobiography, in which
he speaks of his early life in language of strong reprobation: M" Ty vanity, my folly, my wiclkedness,"
he says, " God alone knoweth, or can bear to know."
But it does not appear, however just his judgment of
himself may be from the point of view which a Christian
will adopt in self-examination, that, judged of by the
standard a biographer must take, it can be admitted
without qualification. He was regarded by his masters
and school-fellows as steady and earnest; and though,
no doubt, not always rising superior to the temptations with which his boyish life was surrounded, his
general conduct was such as to merit the esteem of
his companions.
_His first rising convictions began at school. About
two years before he left, one of the fast-days on accont
of the American war was appointed to be observed. He
was particularly struck with the idea of a whole nation
uniting in fasting and prayer, and regarded himself
as one who more especially needed humiliation, on
account of his own sins. Accordingly, he spent the
day with unusual strictness; shutting himself up within
his study, and contenting himself, in the matter of
food, with a single hard-boiled egg.  " From  this




196          Life of Charles Simeon.
time," says a school-fellow, " his dress and manners
became more plain and unfashionable; he also kept
a small box, fitted with different compartments, into
one or other of which, when he had said or done any
thing he considered wrong, he would put money for the
poor." The existence of this box became known to his
school-fellows, who made a song about him, ridiculing
his strictness and devotion, the chorus of which contained an allusion to this box.  The ridicule so far
prevailed upon him, that he gave up something of his
strictness-he speaks in his autobiography as if entirely;
but this was hardly so. The good seed was about to
spring up and grow, and bear fruit to perfection.
On his arrival at King's College, he was informed
that he would be expected in about three weeks' time
to attend the holy communion. He considered himself sadly unfit for so sacred an ordinance, but at once
set himself to prepare.  He bought Tlhe TW7ole Duty
of Mann-the only religious book of the kind he knew
of, —and spent the three weeks in preparation se
earnest, that he made himself quite ill with reading
and fasting and prayer.  His first communion was
received in fear and trembling, under a deep sense
of his own unworthiness; but it was a blessed one,
nevertheless.  From that day forward, he never relapsed; and, before the Easter communion, he knew
somethling of the blessedness of a heart at peace with
God.
The service in his college-chapel was a great




King's Chapel.              197
source of comfort to him.  At that time there was
much to be desired in the way of reverent performance in this, as in other college-chapels in
Cambridge; and that most noble and magnificent
building —which none can behold without a feeling
of awe-was profaned by the carelessness of those
who were unworthy of the sanctuary in which they
ministered: but a devout heart can find spiritual
food in circumstances where others are only coldness
and deadness. Matters at King's College are now, and
have been for many years, in avery different state in this
respect; and the writer, remembering the many hoursof devotion spent in this chapel when his own was closed
in vacation-time, can fully indorse the sentiment of this
man of God, that, if we do not enjoy the Liturgy, it is
not from defects in it, but from our own want of earnestness,-for " no prayers in the world could be better
suited to our wants, or more delightful to our souls."
There was displayed in him that same desire to
benefit others which is so marked a characteristic of
earnest religious impressions. Those not conversant
with the habits of the University of Cambridge, need
to be told that the students are there waited on by
elderly female servants, known as "I bed-makers."  A
very stringent code of etiquette, which no student can
venture to neglect, regulates the relation between
bed-maker and undergraduate, and is found effectually to prevent any of the possible evils which
might otherwise arise.  Simeon's zeal and eariest



198          Life of C7iarles Simeon.
ness was able to overcome a difficulty which must
have been very great to one so sensitive.  He
formed a Bible-class among the bed-makers of the
college.  He says: "I adopted a measure which
must have appeared most singular to others, and
which perhaps a more matured judgment might have
disapproved; but I acted in the simplicity of my heart,
and I am persuaded God accepted it at my hands.  I
told my servant that, as she and the other servants
were prevented almost entirely from going to church,
I would do my best to instruct them on a Sunday
evening, if they chose to come to me for that purpose.
Several of them thankfully availed themselves of the
offer, and came to me."  His labours seem to have
been productive of little benefit to his hearers, but these
opportunities were not lost upon himself.
In the long vacation, —which at Cambridge extends -from-i June to October,-he went home.  He
was greatly desirous of introducing family prayers;
but, fearing that neither his father nor brother would
assent if he applied directly to them, he assembled
the servants for worship in his own room, leaving it
to his brother to join him or not, as he pleased. To
his great joy, his brother cordially seconded his efforts,
and his father made no objection: and thus this good
and pious custom was introduced into the household.
On Trinity Sunday, the 26th of May 1782, he
was ordained.  Being now a fellow of his college, he
needed no special cure; the college-title, as it is called,




Th'e Family of tlMe Venns.     199
being always deemed sufficient.  He was anxious,
however, to work to the utmost, and he served in
the church of St. Edwardcl, in the town of Cambridge, as curate.  He had attended regularly at
St. Edward's for some time, and, being the only
gownsman there, expected that Mr. Atkinson, tle
incumbent, would take some notice of him; but
he waited for a considerable time before the desired
opportunity occurred,-indeed, he had now been in
Cambridge three years, and had never found a
single friend like-minilded. At length M1r. Atkinson
asked him to come and drink tea with him, inviting
also a friend to meet him. The conversation did not
at that time take a serious turn, but the introduction
enabled Simeon to ask M1r. Atkinson in return; and
it so happened, from the unexpected absence of a
guest, that they were alone together.  Simeon took
the opportunity to give expression to his thoughtsspeaking of himself as a sinner. Mr. Atkinson was
struck by this. He had noticed the singular undergraduate of King's, and set him down as a pharisee;
but he now at once opened his heart to him; and the
next day he introduced him to John Venn, who became a most intimate friend.  John Venn introduced
Simeon to his father; and in this pious and aged
clergyman he found one to whom he could look up
for instruction and advice, and who had great influence
on his after life.
It appears that, during the early part of his career,




200          Lif  of Clharles Simeol.
Simeon lived a strangely isolated life.  The writer
entered the university only four years after his death,
and was at once introduced to those on whom his mantle
may be said to have descended. Several traditions were
then current as to what he had been in his undergraduate days. It was said that at one time he was so completely cut by his acquaintance, in consequence of his
religious views, that he had not a single friend even
in Cambridge, the place of all others where men form
friendships which often last through life.  He was
obliged, therefore, to take solitary walks; and it is
related that, meeting a gownsman who spoke to
him  in a friendly way, he burst into tears at a
circumstance so unusual, this being the first act of
kindness he had received for monthso  This may be
an exaggerated statement, and worth no more than
such stories commonly are; but its currency at that time
is significant.  His name, also, was contracted into a
term  of reproach; and the writer remembers that
" Sim" still lingered in the university as a designation of those more than usually serious and punctual
in attendance on chapel and other religious duties.
On one occasion, when the degrees were being conferred in the Senate-House, and when, as is well known
to Cambridge men, the undergraduates attending in
the gallery are wont to express themselves somewhat
freely and pointedly on men and things, a voice from
this gallery proposed " Three groans for the Sims."
"7 What is a Sim?" shouted another voice in reply.




St. Edward's, Cambridge.        201
"Qui simulat" —  He who simulates"-was the answer; and this ready repartee saved the poor Sims
from the groans called for, in the laughter which arose.
Having now become acquainted with Mr. Atkinson,
he undertook the care of his church during the long vacation. In the space of a month or six weeks, the church
became quite crowded,-a fact the more to be noticed,
as Cambridge is comparatively empty in the long
vacation.  On the very first day of his ministrations
at St. Edward's, a remarkable occurrence took place.
In returning from church, he was arrested by the loud
wrangling of a man and his wife, who lived in a narrow thoroughfare called St. Edward's Passage. The
door being open, he entered the house, and expostulated with them on the sin of absenting themselves
unnecessarily from the Lord's house, and disturbing
by their unseemly conduct those who had been there.
He then knelt down to pray for them; and persons
passing by, attracted by the novelty of the scene,
gradually collected, until the room was full.
His own family were, however, offended at his
zeal, and remonstrated with him; but his convictions
were too deep to be thus shaken; and in a while they
all became such as he himself was, won over by his
goodness.  His eldest brother was taken ill, and
Charles hastened to him. The others would have kept
him away at that time, fearing lest he should disturb
his mind; but Richard was comforted and edified by his
brother's ministrations, and departed in peace. His




202          Life of charles Simeon.
father was inconsolable during the progress of the last
illness; but, after his son's death, he too found comfort and resignation. It seemed desirable that Charles
should now reside with his father, and every thing
was arranged, so that he was on the point of leaving
Cambridge.  But just at that time the incumbent of
Trinity Churclh, Cambridge, died.  He asked his
father to make application to the Bishop of Ely, the
patron, for the presentation,-wbich he did.  The
parishioners wished for the appointment of a M1r.
Ham mond, who had been curate, whom they immediately appointed lecturer, and petitioned the bishop in
his favour.  The living, without the lectureship, was
not worth more than 501. per annum. The bishop,
considering that the parishioners had not done right
in filling up the lectureship before they petitioned him,
refused to present Mr. Hammond under any circumstances, and Simeon was appointed.  But the parish
were so angry, that for years he could make but little
way with them. No doubt, also, there was some fault
on the other side. His manner was peculiar,-and,
in those days, displays of fervour in the pulpit -were
not usual; but the faults were superficial, the religion
was deep.
In the year 1786, he preached before the university for the first time. His friends came, afraid lest
he should say something that would give offence; his
enemies, and there were many, were on the watch, to
find occasion against him. The gallery was crowded




G.reat St. 1fary'So          203
with undergraduates, some of whom came, it is said,
to serape —an unseemly interruption of the preacher, by
movements, apparently accidental, of the feet upon
the floor-at that period not unusual, but now altogether a thing of the past.  But, after a few opening
sentences, all were riveted by the earnestness of the
preacher and the clearness of his expression.  Of two
young men who had come as scoffers, one was heard
to say to tile other: " Well, Simeon is no fool, however."  " Fool'!" replied his companion; " did you
ever hear such a sermon before?"  This continued
opposition, however, was of great service to him-he
could even rejoice in it, as teaching him that humility
and self-abnegation which he was conscious he so
much needed. He had, indeed, a good deal to bear
beside the opposition from his parishioners before
spoken of —the undergraduates would often create a
disturbance in his church.  Simeon had introduced
an evening service; and this, though now so common,
was then regarded as a novelty, and supposed to savour
of Methodism. It was principally at this service that the
interruption took place. He used accordingly, immediately on the conclusion of the service, to go to the great
north door, and apprehend any gownsman who should
insult, as they sometimes did, members of the congregation as they left the church.  He would entreat
those who were inclined to resist not to make him
ask their names.  If they still proved obstinate, he
would direct them to call on him the next morning, —




204          Life of Clarles Simeon.
and no instance occurred of refusal.  On one occasion,
an undergraduate broke a window, and then immediately after entered the church.  This was an outrage
not to be suffered, and Simeon appealed to the vicechancellor of the university, who offered to proceed
with the culprit in any way that Simeon should desire.
To have sent him  away from  the university-the
usual punishment for a very serious offence-would
have been to blight all his prospects.  Simeon therefore insisted that the young man should read a written
apology publicly to the congregation for his bad conduct; and as, naturally, he did not read it very
distinctly, Simeon afterwards read it out himself.
This well-timed act of severity proved sufficiently
deterrent, and the congregation were not again
annoyed.
The record of Simeon's life is indeed a remarkable
illustration of our motto: it was an instance of what
might be accomplished by patient continuance in welldoing. Gradually, but unceasingly, did he win his
way to the end of a long life, until at length few men
were more respected and honoured than he. Yet the
road was an uphill one; and for years he met with
the most strenuous opposition from those who were of
a different school from himself. The truth was, that
a reform was much needed at that time within the
Church. Those who were called High Churchmen
then were very different indeed from those who bear
that name now; and, if opposed to the Evangelicals of




The Evangelical Revizal.        205
that time, they would certainly have had little more
sympathy with those whom we now call High Churchmen.  They were High Church, in a theoretical
attachment to the formularies of the Church; but did
very little indeed to carry out her principles into
practice. The services in the churches-at least, in
country churches-were, with some happy exceptions,
performed in a very slovenly manner. The vestments of
the Church were a surplice,-too often not over-clean,
— with hood, but without stole, and the academical
gown at the sermon. The hymnal was Brady and Tate,
sung to the monotonous notes of a grind-organ, or
the more elaborate, but hardly less artistic, performance of a village-choir. If an anthem was attempted,
"1 Vital Spark" was regarded as the highest expression
both of musical art and spiritual devotion. The rubric
before the Communion Service, which directs that it
be administered three times a year at least, was read as
though to be understood not much more often than three
times.  Such architectural deformities as whitewash,
sash-windows, and high deal pews, reigned every where
supreme. The writer, indeed, recollects being taken,
as a child, to what was then a fashionable church, in
a fashionable watering-place: the ecclesiastical arrangements were such as would, no doubt, be pronounced decidedly ~ low," by an Anglican of the
present day; but the spectacle of two clergymen, in
clean surplices, scarfs, and hoods, kneeling at a communion-table, covered with a bright crimson conmmunion



206           Life of Ctarles Simneon.
cloth, with the accessories of carpet, kneeling-stools,
and morocco-bound service-books, was to him an unwonted display of ritual magnificence. At the church
in which he was accustomed to attend, the Communion Service was invariably read from the desk, it
being alleged that the chancel was so blocked up with
pews and galleries, that'the service would have been
inaudible if read at its proper place.  The worship
was of a piece with its accessories. The prayers were
read in a perfunctory and slovenly way; the sermons
were written compositions, without life or unction;
and if sometimes possessing the merit of being short,
they were always afflicted with the defect of being
tedious.
It was.Simeon and his followers who were the
leaders of a reform in these matters; and they began
with the sermons.  This was but natural.  Simeon's
power was that of a preacher; and his peculiar excellence was a lucid arrangement of his matter, joined
with an earnest statement of evangelical truth. He
enjoyed special facilities for making his influene'e
felt.  His ministry was attended by those destined to
orders.  He for years, with increasing popularity and
usefulness, held meetings amongst the undergraduates,
with tle express object of preparation for the ministry.
There was, as he advanced in life, an energy and
sincerity of manner, which gave him  a more thian
fatherly authority over the young men who came up
from year to year.  He was perpetually engaged in




Tlhe Evangelical Candiclate.for Orders.   207
finding suitable curacies for those who were desirous
of entering the ministry.  He watched over those
newly ordained, and gave them most valuable suggestions as to voice, manner, and disposal of time.
He urged all to pursue diligently the studies of the
university; and thus many of those he sent forth
went to their work with all the advantages which
high academical distinction conferred.  No wonder, then, that he won his way. Yet it was uphill
work.  The prejudice against him  and his ministry
was very strong, as the following circumstance,
known to the writer, will testify. A young man
applied to a clergyman in the metropolis for his
curacy, with a title to orders.  His abilities were
even then known to be considerable; and he afterwards took a high position both as a preacher and
parochial clergyman.  IHis testimonials were of the
highest character; and all other arrangements being
satisfactorily concluded, a personal interview was asked,
and intending incumbent and curate were mutually
pleased with each other. The latter was about to leave
the room, when the former said, " I had forgotten to
ask one question: What church did you attend at
Cambridge?" is Trinity," was the reply. " Then, sir,
I regret to say that I must consider our negotiation
at an end."  But this opposition died slowly away;
and, not many years after this circumstance occurred,
there were few men who would not have listened with
respect to a recomlmendation -of Mfr. Simeon's.




208           Life of ClOarles Srimeon.
His personal kindness was great; and many were indebted to him for help towards their studies. Amongst
others, Henry Kirke White, the poet, whose biography
will be touched upon subsequently, was enabled to
enter the university, and largely experienced, during
his short course, the fatherly care, as he terms it, of
Simeon, who watched the rising talent and earnest
piety of the young genius.  David Brown, Henry
M3artyn, John Sergeant, Thomas Thomason, Bishop
Corrie, and others still living, of equal repute with
these, were happy to call themselves disciples of this
good man.
Simeon was a great promoter, and in part founder,
of the Church Missionary Society, the Bible Society,
and the Society for promoting Christianity among the
Jews. In this last he always took especial interest,
and was for many years its main stay. The peculiar
principles of all these societies are well known, as
they have now been long before the world; and that
they have done good service in the cause of Christ's
Gospel, no earnest Christian, whatever be his views,
can doubt. Simeon was always an attached member of
the Church to which he belonged.  It is quite true
that he gave some offence to the High Churchmen of
his day by preaching, when north of the Tweed, in
some of the Presbyterian sanctuaries, alleging that, as
the king attended service in Presbyterian churches,
the clergyman might do so too.  But it is a curious
incident in the history of religious party, and one




11is C]haracte~r.           209
which deserves careful consideration, that there were
high Presbyterians as well as high Episcopalians; and
these had sufficient influence to obtain the enactment
of a rule, by which Anglican clergymen are restrained
from  preaching in Presbyterian pulpits.  The rule,
indeed, was general; but it was felt that it was aimed
principally at Simeon.  The irregularities, however,
of which he was guilty, were not only slight and
excusable in themselves, but were confined to the
earlier years of his ministry. As an earnest man and
an honest man, he of course did all he could to forward
his own views; and thus he became the leader of the
modern Evangelical school of the Church of England.
How well that school did its work is evident in the
state of things we now behold, —multiplied services,
earnest congregations every where.  And if the followers of this good man —going, as followers are wont
to do, beyond the teachings of their master-have
seemed to underrate the value of the apostolical order
of their Church, then that High-Church revival we
are now witnessing will supply this lack, —and the
time will come, though not yet, when it too will be
contemplated from a distance sufficiently great to behold
its real proportions.  It will then be seen that the
Lord of the Church ever accepts what is really good
and scriptural in every Churclh movement, and purges
out the errors of those who take part in it, that thus
they may bring forth more fruit.
As Simeon rose into eminence, so does his life
To




n210          Lfe~ of Charles Simeon.
follow the law of biographies, and become less and less
eventful; but, in its way, it was, perhaps, one of the
most successful ever recorded.  "Contrast," writes
Bishop Wilson of Calcutta,  the commencement and
close of his course.  Hie stood for many years alone;
he was long opposed, ridiculed, shunned; his doctrines
were misrepresented, his little peculiarities of voice
and manner were satirised, disturbances were raised
in his church; he was a person not taken into account, nor  considered in  the light of a regular
clergyman in the Church.  Sad was the beginning of
things: but mark the close.  For the last portion of
his ministry, all was rapidly changing.  He was
invited repeatedly to take courses of sermons before
the university.  The same great principles that l he
preached  were avowed from  almost every pulpit
in Cambridge.  HIis church was crowded with students...  In 1835, the university went up to present an address to the king. The vice-chancellor wished
him  to attend; and when the members of the Senate
were assembled, he made public inquiry whether he
was present, that he might be presented to his majesty,
and publicly expressed his regret that illness had
prevented him from attending."
His aim, however, was as steady as his principles;
lie froim the first determined to sacrifice every thing
for the work's sake..He never married.  His labours were absolutely without emolument for half a
century.  -Ie refused all thle livings in the gift of




fits closil7 Lctbomus.         211
his college, which came to him in right of his fellowship,-some of them involving positions which almost
any other man would have taken as a matter of course.
loIe persuaded his elder brother not to leave him his
fortune, because, had he done so, he would have been
compelled to vacate his fellowship, andcl with it his post
of usefulness in the university.  He devoted all the
large property which he inherited, or made by the sale
of his writings, to the work in which lihe was engaged,
content to discharge the simple, unosteintatious duties
of a fellow resident in the university: the greatest
change in  his life being, apparently, removal to
another set of rooms in his college, a little more conveiient for his classes, and commandcling a little more
quiet for private devotion.
In this most useful life, he survived to the age of
seventy-eight.  He remained hale and strong almost
to the last; and thoughrl  as eternity drew into sight,
hl; thought more and more seriously on the great
chanige, there was no sensible diminution of animation
and energy in his sermons and lectures.  On Thursday evening, September 15, he preached as usual, and
again on1 Sunday; on Tuesday, he was in high health
and spirits, and talked of the journey he proposed to
take the niext day to Ely with great delight.  But
even now there was a presentimeint upon him that
his time was near at hand.  He had been appointed
select preacher for the Noveimber following, and lie
spoke as if lie knew that the labour of this duty would




212           Lif3 of Clharles Simeon.
in some measure exhaust his strength. Dr. Allen had
just been appointed Bishop ofEly, and Simeon was anxious to pay his respects to his new diocesan.  The day
fixed for this visit-Wecdnesday, September 21 —was
damp and chilly; and Simeon, trusting to his health and
vigour, was more tlhinly clad than usual. The bishop
received him with marked kindness and attention, and
proposed that they should go over the cathedral together.  They lingered too long, and Simeon took a
chill, which displayed itself the following day in a violent attack of rhelumatism.  He was unable to preach
as usual in the evening, for which service he had
prepared a discourse on the words, " Lord, teach us to
pray" (Luke xi. 1). This was the last subject he ever
prepared for the pulpit.
Saturday, September 24, was his birthday; he
had entered his seventy-eighth year.  He rose early,
and, though still very feeble, was better, and by degrees
so far recovered, that hopes were entertained that he
was convalescent.  But a relapse came on about the
middle of October, and lhe was again confined to his
bed; and on Friday, October 21, all hope of recovery
was taken away.  But he could still lay firm hold of
the hope which was in him.  He said, as his friends
spoke of the prospect before him, "; I have not a doubt
or fear.  I cannot have more peace."   A  large
unumber of persons were in  the  room, and he
said nothing more at that time; but when they were
gone, he spoke to the frienl whom he took chiefly into




IIis last llbness.           213
his confidence, and expressed his desire that he might,
when his last moments a rrived, be left alone.  He
was the more urgent, as it appeared to him that his
friends had come into the room expecting his immediate
dissolution.  He said: " I wish to be alone Nwith my
God, and to lie before Him as a poor, wretched, helldeserving sinner, —yes, as a poor, hell-deserviing sinner;
but I would also look to Him as my all-forgiving God,
as my all-sufficient God, as my all-atoning God, as my
covenant-keeping God.  There I would lie before
Him, as the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low,
and the poorest of the poor. lNow, this is what I have
to say,-I wish to be alone; don't let people come
round, to get up a scene."
But the end was not just yet.  On the following
day he rallied, and began to make preparations for
the November sermons.  On the Wednesday following, he was worse again; and this time he felt that
the messenger had come which was really to call him
to his rest.  " The decree has," he said, " gone forth;
from this hour, I am a dying man.  Death is far
sweeter than life, under such circumstances.  I will
wait patiently for my dismission."  His time was
spent in meditation on Scripture, especially during the
sleepless hours of night.  At this time, also, occurred
tlhe anniversary sermon for the Jews, and lhe dictated
a short address, to be read to the undergraduates at
their meeting, consisting principally of Scripture:
Ezek. xxxvi. 22-24, Jer. xxxii. 41, Zeph. iii. 17,




214           Life of Charles Simeoz.
Rom. xi. i. 28; and this was tlhe last public act of his
life.
He was naturally anxious about his flock at Trinity,
which he had tended for so many years, and accordingly he wrote to the bishop, asking for the presentation for one who, he believed, would carry on his own
good work.  The bishop assented in the very kindest
manner, intimating, at the same time, that, had no
such request been made, it had been his intention to
make the appointment Simeon suggested.
There was a rapid maturing of his character friom
the beginning of his illness, and a corresponding diminution of that haste and irritability which had often led
him  into unadvised, and perhaps unchristian, temper.
Amongst other instances, the following is characteristic.  A fellow of his own college, who had often
grieved him by acts of discourtesy, was lying upon
his death-bed, suffering acutely, and altogether in a
state so wretched and distressing as to deter his friends
from  visiting him.   Simeon sent to inquire after
him  every day, with some kind expression of sympathy.   He could not forbear observing, " ~Well,
Simeon does not forget me, but sends daily to inquire
after me, ill as he is."
During the last few days, he suffered greatly; but
these pains of death did not cause him to fall from
his hope.  d Do you," he asked of his friends, " see
any sting of death here?  No, it is all taken away.
Does not this prove that my principles are not founded




Deateth.               215
on fancies or enthusiasm, but that there is a reality
in them?-and I find them sufficient to support me
in death."
On Friday, November 11, several sympathising
friends stood beside him, lamenting his protracted
sufferings.  He was unable to speak; but being
lifted up from his bed, he clasped his hands together,
in the attitude of devout prayer; he then stretched
them  towards his friends, and thus took his final
leave.  The following day, he still lived, but was
unconscious; and at two o'clock on Sunday, when
the great bell at St. Mary's was tolling for the
university sermon, with a faint struggle, the spirit
departed.
WAT~








HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Faith notri srving lawfully.
"Read ye that run the awful truth
With iwhich I charge my page,A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age."
"'Tis the only discipline we are born for;
All studies else are but as circular lines,
And death the centre where they must all meet."
CowPEn and BIASSINGEn,
quoted by Southey.








L IF   0F H EiYR Y KIR KE  Wri TLo
E have already been introduced to thle
undergraduate of St. John's College who,
by the kindness of Simeon, is able to pursue his studies at the university.  We
propose now to give some details of his life. He
serves as an example of those who attend to the
injunction, " Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
do it with all thy might;" but he forgot that other
aphorism, " Be not over-wise," and so destroyed
himself.
Hen-ry Kirke White was born in Nottingham,
March 21, 1785.  His fither was John White, a
butcher in that town; and his mother, whose maiden
name was MIary Neville, was of a respectable Staffordshire family. At three years of age, he went to a
school kept by a Mlrs. Garrington.  Young as he was,
his good, kind-hearted schoolmistress perceived that
she had no common lchild to instruct, and prophesied




220            Life of Henz2'y Kirke Wtite.
his future eminence.  He thus describes his schoolexperience:
" Much did I grieve on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne.
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sighed;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.
[But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at my form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew;
And oft she strokled my head with fondl delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight,
And, as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talked of the honours of my future days."
These lines were written, probablyv, when he was about
fifteen, and  certainly justified  the complacent prophecies of his schoolmistress.  To her, indeed, in the
same poem, he ascribes his leaning towards poetry.
She would tell her pupils stories
1" of innocence foredoomed to bleed,
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed,
Of little children murdered as they slept;
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept.
Beloved moment! then'twas first I caught
The first foundation of romantic thought,
Then first I shed bold fancy's thrilling tear,
Then first that poesy charmed mine infant ear."
When about six, he was removed to the school




Early Edtzcation.            221
of the RPev. John Blanchard, the best in  Nottinghaml.
Here he learned writing, arithmetic, and French. At
seven years of age, he wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant,
which he gave to the servant. This girl was his pupil;
he wouldci quietly creep into the kitclhen, and teach her
to read and write.  When he was abont eleven, he
wrote a separate theme for every boy in his class, which
consisted of about twelve or fourteen.  The quality
was so superior to that usually producedl by the boys,
that the master expressed surprise, saying he had never
known them write so well on any subject before, His
genius, however, was but little appreciated at school;
and one of the ushers informed his mother that lie was
incorrigible, and that his teachers could do notlhing
with him. In consequence of some differences between
M[r. Blanchard and his father, he was removed; and,
had it not been that his next instructor judged more
favourably of him, he would probably have become,
what his father at that time wished to make him, a
butcher in Nottingham.
Henry had, during his school-time, to attend to
his father's business; and one whole day in each week
was spent in carrying tlle butcher's tray; but his
nature revolted from  such a calling; and, as an
alternative, he was, at the age of fourteen, placed
in a stocking-loom.  But he wanted some employment which would occupy his brain.  His father was
averse to this; but his mother listened sympalthisingly
to his complaints, and at length procured him  tlhe




222         l)ife of Henr?/ Kirke White.
situation of clerk in t;he office of  Iessrs. Coldhamn
and Enfield, solicitors and town-clerks of lottingham.
Here he was to serve two years before he was articled.
He was now advised to study thle Latin language.
His employers were in very large practice; and he
conscientiously allowed nothing to come between him
and his duty to them. Nevertheless, with the very little
leisure at his command, he contrived, in ten months,
to make such progress as to read Horace with tolerable
facility. He also began Greek; and, to save time, would
exercise himself in declining Greek nouns and verbs
as he went to and from the office; and thus, in hours
which others would have considered waste, he mastered
this most difficult part of the language.  From this
time he contracted the habit of employing his mind
in study during his walks, which he continued to the
end of his life.
His whole leisure was now devoted to intellectual
improvement. He had a little room given him, which
was called his study; and here he took his meals.
His mother began to be alarmed: she feared that
such severe and unremitting application would destroy
his health; but he refused to listen.  He certainly
made wonderful progress. The greater part of his time
was given to the duties of his profession,-in which
he speedily became so well qualified, as to be most
useful in his office, both in the knowledge and in the
practice of the law.  In addition, he studied Greek
and Latin.  He was a good Italian scholar, and




T/le NWottingjama Literary Society.  223
had acquired some knowledge of Spanish and Portuguese.  He had a respectable acquaintance with
chemistry and general physics.  Ile had given some
little practice to drawfing, and could play the piano
by ear; but the fine arts were made secondary, lest
they should interfere with more important objects.
There was a literary society in Nottingham at this
time, to which, soon after leaving school, he endeavoured to obtain admission; but he was rejected, on
the ground of youth. After repeated attempts and
repeated failures, he was elected a member, through
the interest of his friends. Soon after his election, he
proposed to give the society a lecture.  This proposal
was acceded to; but the society met far more to gratify
curiosity than in any expectation of an intellectual
feast.  He lectured upon Genzius for over two hours,
speaking extempore.  His audience were so charmed
with his discourse, that he received the unanimous
thanks of the society; and soon after, he was elected
professor of literature.
His diligence and earnestness in the profession of
the law remained unabated; but now lhe began to have
higher aspirations, and to cast his eyes with longing
toward the universities.  Hle had begun at an early
age to try his hand at literature.  A  periodical
called the Juve2nile Library offered from time to time
prizes for boys' essays on various subjects.  Henry
used to enter the lists; and he obtained a prize of a
silver medal for a translation from Horace at the age




224         Life oj Henry Kirke W/ite.
of fifteen; and, the year after, a pair of twelve-inch
globes, for an imaginary tour from London to Edinburgh.  He then became a correspondent of the
ifonthly Mirror; and this introduced him  to Bur.
Capel Lofft, and the proprietor, Mr. Hill.  They
encouraged him, about the close of the year 1802,
to prepare a little volume of poems for the press,hoping that this publication, either by the success
of its sale, or the notice it might excite, would enable
him to prosecute his studies at college, and so fit himself for orders.
It was considered desirable that lie should obtain
a patroness for his book, to whom it should be dedicated. This would give him a certain prestige, il
Nottingham  especially, which would doubtless be
of service to him  in the object which he had in
view.  The Countess of Derby was first applied to;
but she courteously and kindly declined,-sending,
however, two guineas, as a subscription to the work.
The Duchess of Devonshire was next solicited to act
as patroness to the young poet; and the manuscript
was left at Devonshire House, with a letter. No notice
was taken of it for some time; and poor Henry began
to fear lest he should not only fail in his request, but
lose his manuscript as well. His brother Neville then
went to Devonshire House, in hopes, if not of obtaining an interview, at least of recovering the papers. He
called several times, but in vain; and at length, after
waiting four hours, was able to get back from the ser



The  1 Mo]thly Reriae."          225
vants the precious manuscript, having tired out their
insolence by his own importunity.  The brothers had
now given up all thoughts of a dedication, whlen they
were urged to make one more trial.  Tlhey obtained a
letter of introduction to the Duchess, who granted an
interview, and gave consent to the volume being dedicatecl to her. In due course, the poems were printed;
and the Duchess received the usual presentation-copy,
bound in morocco,- of which no notice was ever
taken.
The poems were sent to all the existing reviews,
with a letter stating the object with which the poems
were printed.  The M6ntldy Reviewz took notice of
the poems, indeed; but only to condemn.  Henry
felt this bitterly, and wrote to remonstrate.  But the
criticism was not so disastrous as he expected it to be; on
the contrary, it incidentally proved a great benefit, —for
the review called forth no less a champion than Robert
Southey; who, seeing the real merit of the poems,
and commiserating with the young author, wrote to
offer his assistance, and afterwards became his biographer, and the editor of his posthumous works,
— moved to this " by the indignation which be felt
at perusing a criticism  at once so cruel and so
stupid."
The poems fell into the hands of several influential
friends, who endeavoured to forward his views; and
interest was made for him at Cambridge, in order to
obtain the necessary funds to enable him to enter the
P




226          Life of /Iemw Kirlke Wtlize.
university.  Hopes were lheld out to him of success,
and his employers gave him  a montll's leave of absence, for the benefit of uninterrupteci  study and
change of air.  He took a small lodging in the village of Wilfordcl, near Clifton Woods, on the banks of
the Trent,-a place which he had already immortalisedl in his poem of' Clifton Grove."  But at the end
of the month intelligence reached him tlhat the efforts
made in his behalf had entirely failed.  The disappointment was great.  He considered that he had lost
valuable time in his profession, and set himself with
greater zeal than  ever to  redeem  the time thus
wasted.  He now allowed himself no relaxation, and
scarcely any sleep.  He would read till one, two,
or three in the morning, and then rise again at, five.
His mother used every effort to dissuade him  from
exertions which had now passed all bounds of prudence, but in vain.  He would not listen; and his
disobedience in this respect was not long in bringing
its own punishment.  Yet, bitter as his disappointment was, he knew how to use it aright.  He touchingly sings the tale of his own sorrow:
"Come, Disappointment, come;
Though from Hope's summit hurled,
Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven;
For thou, severe, wert sent from heaven,
To wean me from the worldTo turn mine eye
From vanity,
And point to scenes of bliss which never die.




ThIe grdeat Change.            227
Come, Disappointment, come;
Thou art not stern to me;
Sad monitress, I own thy sway;
A votary sad, in early clday,
I bend my knee to thee.
-From sun to sun,
MY race will run:
I only bow, and say, my God, Thy will be done."
Hle had learned by this time where to go for consolation; although, like many others, his practice
was behind his principles.
Yet a great change ]had already come over Henry's
religious views and feelings. He had adoptedl deistical
opinions, and was careless about all religion. He had
a friend of the name of Almond, who afterwards became rector of St. Peter's, Nottingham.  It so happened that Mr. Almond, being accidentally present at
a death-bed, was so struck with what he there saw of
the power and influence of the Gospel, that he determined for the future to renounce all pursuits and
friendships which would not conduce to his spiritual
improvement. Amongst his friends, the one he dreaded
most to meet was Henry Kirke White, being particularly afraid of his raillery.  He anxiously shunned
his company, until HIenry -who would not suffer an
intimacy to be broken off, he knew not why-called
upon him, and asked him  for what cause he now
avoided himself and others of his acquaintance with
whom he had hitherto been intimate.  Mr. A]mond,
who was reluctantly persuaded to see hlim, told him




228         Lijf of Llenry Kirke White.
that his religious views were now altogether chlanged,
and intimated that he was a believer in revelation,
and that he was prepared to defend his opinions and
conduct, if Henry would allow the Bible to be the
word of truth and standard of appeal.  Henry answered, "C Good God! you surely regard me in a
worse light than I deserve."  His friend then pointed
out that he had said this because, having beard him
use some disparaging expression concerning the Scriptures, he imagined they could have no common
ground; and then proceeded further to unfold his
views. Henry, evidently ill at ease, was impressed. His
friend, instead of being assailed inll a tone of triumphant superiority, as he expected to be, found Henry
disposed to listen patiently to him; and they parted for
that time, his friend putting into his hands Scott's
Force oj Truth. This work produced little effect; but
conscience accomplished what argument failed to do.
He felt that there was no rest or happiness apart
from the Gospel; and the conviction gathered strength
from day to day. When fMr. Almond was about to enter
the University of Cambridge, on the evening before
his departure, Henry requested that he would come
up with him into his little study.  As soon as they
were alone, he burst into tears, and declared that his
anguish of mind was insupportable.  He entreated
his friend to kneel down and pray for him. They
prayed heartily together, mingling their tears and
supplications.  When his friend took leave, Henry




Thle Sizar of St. John's.       229
exclaimed, "I What must I do?  You are the only
friend to whom I canll apply in this agonising state,
and you are about to leave me.  My literary associates are a1 inclined to Deism, and I have no one
with whom I can communicate."
When Mr. Almond arrived in Cambridge, he endeavoured to interest some persons in Henry's behalf,
who might be able to help him in what was the great
object of his life,-tlhat of passing through the university, and taking holy orders.  At first, lhe was not
very successful; but Dr. Dealtry, the then mathemnatical lecturer of Trinity College, and Henry 3[artyn, who was at that time fellow of St. John's, interested themselves in his favour. Miartyn was but a few
years his senior, earnest and ardent, and took great
interest in himl; he entered his name on his own
college,-a college which has had the honour of
being preeminent in its efforts to assist poor men of
genius.  Just at this time there seemed to be a little
difficulty, but it was removed.  White came up with
an introduction to Mr. Simeon. At first, 3Mr. Simeon
was averse to see him; but an interview dispelled all
difficulty; and by his generosity, and that of an unknown friend, the means were supplied to enable him
to enter at college.
White was a sizar of St. John's College. In ancient times, the sizars at Cambridge, like the servitors
at Oxford, performed menial duties; but this has
long become obsolete,-and a sizar now experiences




230         Life of Henry Kirke Whiite.
no other disadvantages than those wllich necessarily
attach to limited means; and if he be known to be a man
likely to take a high place in any of the examinations
of the university, the open declaration of poverty,
which the acceptance of a sizarship implies, enables
him to avoid many expenses, without in any corresponding degree diminishing his social status.  Kirke
White was, therefore, now in the most favourable position possible for accomplishing the end in view, anld he
at once began to work with his accustomed assiduity.
Soon after he entered, a university scholarship was to
be competed for.  To obtain a university scholarship
is considered a higher honour than the attainment of
a college scholarship, because the competition, in such
a case, is amongst tile picked men of tle whole university.  lHe was advised, by those who knew his
powers, to sit for this scholarship, and accordingly he
set to work with such over-diligence, that, when the
time cane, his strength failedl, and he wa)s ralable to go
in to the examination. But this was not the only disadvantage: his college examination was impending, and
he had given his attention to the scholarship subjects;
and a failure at the annual college examination would
have had a very disastrous effect upon his future
prospects.  He had but a fortnight to prepare what
other men had been about for several months. Again
he read beyond his strength, and at the time of
examination went, with tears in his eyes, to his
tutor, Mr. Catton, to tell him that he could not go



~Excessive Stludy.           231
into the hall to be examined.  31r. Catton advisecl
him to hold on during the six days of examination,
and by the help of stronig medicines he did so, and
came out first; but the effort was made at the expense of his life.  His health was now completely
broken.  Possibly, had he rested entirely during the
long vacation, he mllight have recovered; but he still
continued his studies.' His college were so gratified
with his diligence, that they offered him  a private
tutor during the long vacation-a fatal gift, as this
only incited him  to exertions which his strength
could not bear.  To his own. relatives lhe continued
to write hopefully; but a letter to a friend reveals a
different tale: there he speaks of palpitations, and
nights of horror; how he could not bear to be alone,
but craved for society, which most of his friends,
reading men like himself, were too occupied to give
him.  At the end of the long vacation, he came to
London; but the excitement of the metropolis did him
harm, and he ivent back to college completely broken
dowin in health.  A few days after the commlencemnent of term, his brother was summoned to him; but
he was then delirious.  The dying student recognised
him but for a few moments, and sank into a stupor;
and on Sunday, October 19, 1806, his spirit departed.
Thus died, at the early age of twenty-one years,
the victim of his own excessive diligence, one of the
finest spirits that the University of Cambridge, rich
in a noble roll of men known to fame, ever received




232         Life of He2ny KIirke TVilie.
rnto her bosom.  Would that a more'discriminating
use of the noble talents committed to him had induced him to spare his strength! for had it been
more carefully husbanded, it may be the world and
the Church also should  have had more fruit of them.
But who can refrain from  sympathising with the
struggles of this brilliant and earnest man?  If White
were wrong in not listening to his mother's remonstrances,-and that he was wrong, none can doubt,
-still it was a disobedience which had in it something
noble and sublime.  A university scholarship is an
honour which conquering veterans in the walks of
literature or science look back upon as not tie least
worthy of their triumphs.  No wonder that White
pursued even too eagerly the glorious prize.  B3eside,
in his case, there was added to the inducements of
emulation strong enough to incite those to exertion
who have in wealth all that heart could wish, the
necessity of obtaining his daily subsistence.  In his
case, university distinction meant not only fame, but
bread.  He was swimming in deep waters, and he
strove so against the adverse stream  as to die of
exhaustion just as he reached the shore.  If he be a
w-arning to a few ardent spirits not to tax their strength
too far,-a warning sometimes needed,-to very many
he is an example of diligence which, if it were more
extensively imitated, tbough it might not make dunces
into poets, would transform miany idle students into
industrious scholars.




RHis Ckar'acter.            233
His character as a man and a Christian stood
deservedly high.  Indced, his patrons were such
more on the ground of his piety than of his talents.
From Mr. Simeon and his college tutor, Mr. Cattonl
he received fatherly kindness.  The latter, no doubt
unaware how dangerously his health had been broken
by excessive application, aggravated the mischief by
the offer of that help in his studies which would have
tended, under ordinary circumstances, to diminish his
burden.  Simeon, we may be sure, thought more of
the piety of his pupil than of his poetry, —andc rightly:
his poetry is like tlle immature bud or green fruit
which tells us what, had it ever been gathered, thle
harvest would have been; but his piety was already
mature.   Irritability and youthful pride had disappeared; it was impossible for man to be more tenderly patient of the faults of otllhers, more uniformly
meek, more unaffectedly humble, than he was; and
if lie subtracted unduly from  hours which would
have been more wisely given to recreation or sleep,
he never allowed his reading to trench on those given
to devotion.  If he did not obtain the earthly laurels,
because he did not strive lawfully, we cannot doubt
that faith unfeigned like his has entered into that
glory which is incorruptible, undefiled, and lfadetl
inot away.
The following  fragment appears to be almost the
last piece of poetry lie wrote-the subject being the
Saviour's life:




234           ~Lqffe of IHenry Kir6ke White.
" Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme;
With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I, in early days, have strung.
And now my spirit faints, and I have hung
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
On the dark cypress, and the strings which rung
With Jesu's praise; their harpings now are o'er,
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more.
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
O Thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little lapse suspend Thy last decree,I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I amn free."
This beautiful and touching fragment reveals to us
plainly the faith in which he died, though the overcloudings of delirium   prevented, at his velry  last
moments, any expression of it.  He was ready for his
dceparture; yet, as was natural in one called away so
young, he casts I" one long ing, lingering look behind."




EDWARD IRVING, THE ENTHUSIAST.
Fcait  in (fred6laity.
"If in so great variety of ways as the wit of man is easily able to
find out towards any purpose, and in so great liliing as all men
especially have unto those inventions whereby some one shall seem
to have been more enlightened from above than many thousands,
the Church did give every man license to follow what himself imagineth that God's Spirit doth reveal unto him, or what he supposeth
that God is likely to have revealed to some special person whose
virtues deserve to be highly esteemed, what other effect could
hereupon ensue but utter confusion in His Church, under pretence of
being taught, led, and guided by His Spirit?"-HooKEP,.Ecc.
Pol. v. 11.








LIFE OF ED TWARD JR VISG, THE
ENTJII USIAST.
N the little Scotch town of Annan, near the
Solway Firth, on the 4th of August 1792,
was born Edward Irving, the second son
of Gavin Irving and Mary his wife.  His
father was a tanner-a respectable, well-to-do man.
His mother, who was the ruling spirit of the household, was a fine, dark, high-spirited Scotchwoman,
whose handsome features survived, it is said, in the
person of her son.  Of his early childhood little is
recorded; and no event of interest occurred, except a
narrow escape from  drowning.  The Solway is a
broad arm of the sea at high water; but when the
tide is out, it meanders, diminished to a tenth of its
magnitude, through vast banks of sand.  The tide,
however, rises with dangerous rapidity, and accidents
to those who have strayed too far away from the
high-tide line are not infrequent.  It happened that




238    Life of Edward Irvingy, the Entkztsiast.
Edward and his elder brother John had gone down
with the intention of meeting their uncle, George
Lowther.  They began fishing for such sea-monsters
as frequent that shore, and in that interesting pursuit
forgot both their uncle and the rising tide.  While
thus occupied, a man came up to them, galloping at
full speed, who immediately seized on the astonished
boys, and, throwing them across the horse's neck,-for
he was a man of vast strength, — did not draw rein
until they reached tle shingle-bank; and then the
boys found that it was tleir uncle —who, pointing
back, showed them tlhat the waves were pouring over
the place where they had just before been standing.
At thirteen, Irving began his studies at Edinburgh University, accompanied by his brother John,
who was destined for the medical profession.  Nothing, it appears, can be more different than the
methods and modes of university life north and south
of the Tweed.  The Scotch universities are but a
mass of class-rooms, museums, and libraries; the
youths, or rather boys, who seek instruction in them
being under no university control or discipline whatever.  On the other hand, they are,-or, at least, in
Irving's time they were,-for the most part, really
4 poor scholars," who, with limitecld means, live
hard in their solitary lodgings, and look to their
learning as a means of livelihood, to be made available as speedily as possible: in many cases seeking, by
tuition or otherwise, to earn something which may




Edinburgh University.            239
serve as a help in the expense of their own education.
The Edinburgh session only lasts friom November
to May, leaving the whole summer free as a vacationtime; or, more probably, for the labours of the selfsupporting students, who thus are able to earn in
vacation enough to support them  during the months
devoted specially to study.  When these vacations
arrived, the boys would send their boxes home by the
carrier, and themselves walk, as the crow flies, across
country to their home. In after years, Irving greatly
delighted in such pedestrian excursions.  In these
walks, lie would stop at the cottages on his way,
and share with their poor inhabitants the potato or
porridge he he  ound thlere.  This was afterwards of
great service to him in his pastoral ministrations; lihe
could enter the houses of the poorer members of his
flock with a loving and lofty friendliness which gave
dignity as well as entrance to his message.
At seventeen, he took his degree; but in Scotland
the degree, in place of being, as in England, the passport to orders, is only the first stage. Four years are
spent ere the degree is earned; but, after this, another
four must be added, of special preparation for the
ministerial office: and from  four to six months in
each of these four years are devoted to theology, Hebrew, ecclesiastical history, and other kindred studies.
This very long and onerous course could not be borne
by the comparatively slender means of tile Irving




240    Life of Edward living, the Enthutsiast.
family, without some extraneous assistance; and
accordingly Edward did what almost all theological
students are accustomed to do-began to help himself onwards during the interval by teacling.  There
was about to be established at Haddington a new
school, called the " Mathematical;" and to this, with
recommendations from  Sir John Leslie, Irving was
appointed master.  He was then eighteen —a tall,
ruddy, robust, handsome youth, cheerfully and kindly
disposed. He soon won the confidence of his advanced
pupils, and was admitted into the best societv of the
town and neighbourhood.  As a schoolmaster, lie was
characteristically both severe and gentle: ruling with
a discipline somewhat stern in school; out of it, the
companion and friend of his scholars.  At Haddclington he remained two years.  Thence he removed to
Kirkalcly, a somewhat more important post, where he
was attended with the same success as before.  His
scholars were attached to him, and playfully called
themselves Irvingites-a name of very different import afterwards.  Yet it appears that the careless and
idle were treated with a little severity; sounds were
sometimes heard which roused the inclignant sympathy
of the neighbours.  It is said that, on one occasion, a
carpenter, a man of great strength, entered the schoolroom, and, with an axe on his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves turned up, ironically offered his assistance in
the punishment department, with the words: " Do
ye want a hand the day, Mr. Irving?"




'".H[ig7yi7eiers" aed ~ Cl iode,1as."'  241
One of his pupils at the school-for, according to
the Scotch plan, boys and girls were taught together
-was the eldest daughter of the parish-minister,
Isabella Martin.  Not long after she ceased to be a
pupil, le became engaged to her.  Her father, t1b
Rev. John Martin, was a man of deep piety, belonging to the religious school which in Scotland was then
called the " wild," or " highfliers," in opposition to
the " moderates;" a distinction apparently similar to
tbhat which obtained south of the Tweed between'"Evangelicals" and I"High Church:" the  minoderates" being, for the most part, so very moderate,
that there was little of earnestness or devotion among
them. There can be no doubt that the friendship with
the high-flying minister, and his intimacy at the manse,
had considerable influence in forming Irving's religious
opinions; and, though these friends did not sympathise
with him in those peculiar views which he held at the
latter part of his life, they remained, nevertheless, firm
friends to the last.
He hat.d now completed his necessary college exercises, and was admitted to what, in the technical
language of the Presbyterian Church, are called " trials
for license."  These endure half a year, and consist
of variotls literary exereises, and a circular letter of
inquiry into character, the object of which is to determine the candidate's fitness for the work of the
ministry; andc these proving satisfactory, he has a
license to preach, but is not ordained until he reQ




242   ELfJe of Ecdwaz d Ivi tng, tihe Enthtsiust.
ceives a call, and has a flock of his own to which he
ayv minister.
In this way, Irving' was admitted, in the early
part of the year 1815, to preach the Gospel; anld " he
exercised his gift.," as the Scotch say, in Kirkaldy
and other plaees, but with no great amount of suecesso
The popular verdict was, that he had 11 ower mnuckle
gran'ner."  The good people of rirkaldy had been
used to a more plain and moderate style of preaching;
and his lofty, and even turgid, eloquence flew over
their heads.  When, therefore, he officiated for Dr.
Mlartin, there was a visible thinning of the congregation, who little appreciated the depth of thought and
power of expression which tle young, preacher must
even then have displayed, and which, with maturer
judgment, and, it may be, deeper convictions, carried
him, in after years, to an amazing popularity, though
short-lived.
There is, indeed  no means of judging what was
the real state of his religious convictions at this
period of his life; and we cannot, therefore, affirm, though this is possible, that he failed to produce convictions in others, because, as yet, he had
tlhem notl himself. There is no such record existing in
his case, as we hrave found in other biographies, of
tlat critical nmoment of conversion which forms the
tumningf-peoiint of the life.  That in some way, and at
some time, it must have taken place, we cannot doubt;
but his was one of those s;potless and blameless lives



Dr. Clkallmers.             243
marred rather by defects of temper, and a certain lofty
pride, than by what the world, at least, would call gross
transgressions-a life in which there was no scope for
a great and sudden outward change. If we judge of his
opinions as they appear in his writings, we sh all probably
come to the conclusion that his spiritual life matured
slowly, and was personally of a high type; but that
this lofty spirituality and high idealism were combined
with a defective judgment and love of the mystical,
which would tend to leave him specially open to those
errors into which he afterwards fell, and by which the
closing scenes of his life were rendered so bitterly
tragical.
IIn 1818, he left Kirkaldy: teaching had become
irksome to him, and he was anxious for a settled
ministry of his own.  He spent the intervening time
in Edinburgh, attending upon the classes there.  He
had thoughts of taking up the missionary work of the
Church, and sailing westward, to carry the Gospel to
shores where it was as yet unknown.  It was while
his mind was in suspense that he was invited by Dr.
Andrews, minister of St. George's, Edinburgh, to
preach in his ehurch-the object being, apparently,
to reconmmend him  to the notice of Dr. Chalmers,
who was in need of an assistant in Glasgow.  He
preached accordingly, and not without some slight
success; but a co-nsiderable time elapsed, and he
heard nothing more of Dr. Chalmers.  In the interval, he again turned his t-houghts to missionary enter



2-44    Life cf Edward Irving, t7ie Ent7tlhsics:.
prise; but apparently with thle desire of further consideration, and  perhaps, also,  to  occupy himself
during a time of suspense and anxiety, he sailed in
a small coasting-vessel to Belfast.
His Irish tour was accomplished, like his Scotch,
on  foot; walking  as the crow  flies, and finding
shelter in the cabins of the peasantry.  While in
Irelalld, Dr. Chalmers wrote, inviting him  to go to
Glasgow: but the date of the letter, by the time it
reached Irving,' was some weeks back; and, moreover,
the object of the invitation was by no means distinct.
But it revived Irving's failing spirit; he at once
went to Glasgow, to find Dr. Chalmers absent, and
thus to endure a still further period of suspense.  Dr.
Chalmers, on his return to Glasgow, proposed that he
should become his assistant at St. John's.  Irving
assented, but, with characteristic humility, said: "; I
will preach to the people, if you think fit; but if they
bear my preaching, they will be the first people who
have borne with it."  Thus he was ready to give up
the position he so earnestly desired to fill, rather than
be, as Presbyterians express it, " intruded" on an
unwilling flock.   He was, however, generally well
liked; but some people thought him  rather flowery.
It was thus, with little confidence in himself, and
with somewhat careless indulgence on the part of his
hearers, that Irving first began a regular ministration; still, however, only as a candidate, or probationer,-for thle flock was not his own,




WT/ork at Glasgow.            245
At Glasgow, his success was rather tilat of a
parish-priest than a preacher.  The times were such
as were enough to try the mettle of a pastor, and
show clearly lwhat manner of man he was.  It was a
period of commercial depression; work was slack, and
there was much want.  The Glasgow work-people, in
their hunger, began to be seditious also, and( risings
were expected amongst them.  It was the work of
Chalmers andc Irving to relieve this distress; and it
was an especially favourable incident in the history
of the commercial metropolis of the North, that
it had the united  services of two such men, so
different and yet so at one, as Chalmers and Irving.
The former appears as the statesman who could
organise the machinery by which the destitution,
both moral and  spiritual, might be reached, the
practical man who knows how  to do it; the latter, his colleague, is not, and never could be, a
practical man at all.  He is an enthusiast; he is
ready, in the homes, not over-clean or savoury, of
the poor, starving mechanics of Glasgow, to minister
the Gospel of the grace of God; and he enters them
as a friend and a brother, with something of the lowliness of an equal, and yet with the lofty superiority
of one who felt himself to be a messenger of the King
of kings.  Yet, when  occasion  served, he could
command a certain noble craft, which, when men
were inclined to resist, would catch them wvith guile.
An instance is told of a radical and infidel cobbler,




246    Life of Ecdzoctard Irving, the E 2ntZtsi(tst.
whose family was amongst those committed to Irving's
special care.  From him, Irving could elicit no respouse beyond a sullen'1 humph" of implied contempt,
as he addressed his words to the trembling, almost
deprecating,  wife.  One day, however, a piece of
patent leather lying  upon  thle bench formed an
opening for discourse; Irving took it up, and remarked upon it;1n somewhat technical language.  At
first, the man worked on in sullen silence; but at
length, exasperated by this apparent display of knowledge, he contemptuously asked,    VbWhat do ye ken
about leather?"  But Irving knew hlis duty to malke
all his studies draw one way; and accordingly he at
once, as became a tanner's son, discoursed learnedly
about that mnaterial.  The shoemaker began to be
interested; and thus a practicable breach was opened,
at which, on a future occasion, other topics could be
introduced.  The man, also, was curious to hear how
one who knew so mnuch about leather could preach;
and on the following Sunday he made an appearance
at chlurch.  The next day, Irving met himn and they
walked together along the street in friendly converse.
The victory was complete: his children went to
school, his wife to kirk, in peace; andc he himself in a
suit of newly acquiredi "; Sunday blacks," soon became a regular and constant attendant.  His critique
upon his new-found friend was characteristic: G" He's
a sensil)le man yon, for he kens about leathl-er."
It must not be  supposed, however, that this




liirinisterial Tact.          247
knowledge of leather, and conversations about it, indicatecd that it was merely by earnest, cordial goodheartedness that the preacher won his way, discoursing of worldly things amidst his higher ministrations.
He was himself, and he showed others that he was,
deeply impressed with the solemnity of his office. As
lie entered a ho use, he would do so ever with the
apostolic benediction, "Peace be to  this house."
Thits was pronounced to be Cvery peculiar, a thing
nobody else did; it was impossible not to remark it,
out of the way as it was: but there was not one of
the agency [of visitors to the poor] who could mlake
an objection to it; it took the people's attention wonderfully."  And no marvel: it was no doubt felt to
be genuine.  The manl came with a blessing in his
heart, and so on his lips. In the same way, he would
pronounce a blessing on each child of the house, laying his hand upon his heacl, aind sayingr, 1 The Lord
bless thee and keep thee."  But though solemn hlie was
never cold; he would enter keenly into thle domestic
difficulties and sufferings of his people: lie would
give thanks over their homely 0are, and, in brotherly
fellowship, be not ashamed to partake of it.  He had,
inideed, little in his hand to give, but he gladly gave of
that little, allnd, it is said, spent an unexpected legacy
of some twen'rty pounds-it may lhave been a good
deal more —inii donations to -tlhose who needed amongst
his flock.  Thus it was, amidst the famishing multitudes of Glasgow, that lie mitigated thleir sufferings




248    Life of E'dzvard Irving, the Enthusiast,
with the bread of life.  Expressed in his own verbose
and laboureci eloquence, it was, 11 that such application
to the heart's ailments is there in our religion, and
such a hold in its promises, and such a pith of endurance in its noble examples, that when set forth by
our inexperienced tongue, with soft words and kindly
tones, they did never fail to drain the heart of the
sourness that calamity engenlders, and sweeten it with
the balm  of resignation; often enlarge it with cheerful hope, sometimes swell it high with the rejoicings
of a Christian triumph."
It was, then, thus ministered, that the Gospel obtained an entrance to the hearts of his people.  It;went from the heart to the heart, and in a measure
his success was great.  Yet only in a measure; for,
with his preaching, matters remained mnuch as before.
When lie had the duty, he would meet the disappointed crowds coming  out of the sanctuary with
disappointed looks, and the complaint,' It's no himsel'
the dav" —himself being Chalmers.  It is true that it
was no wonder that the substitute for Chalmersthen, perhaps, tle most popular preacher of the time
-should be coldly looked upon; and, though there
is a certain strange family likeness in their style, they
were, nevertheless, so different, that those who relished
the preaching of the one, Nyould hardly like that of
the other. There were a few, indeed, who already had
discovered that they had, if not a prophet, at least a
preacher, among them; as yet, it was but a few.




call to Lonzdon.              249
Naturally enough, also, Irving longed for a flock
of his own;  without this, he could not be an ordained
minister of his Church,-and to be ordained was
what he  most earnestly desired.   He was even
meditating anew the missionary field of work, when
the call came which opened tile way to the accomplishment of his desires.   This was from  the
Caledonian Church in Hatton Garden, London.  The
congregation was diminishing, the situation obscure;
but he was ready to take the charge; ancd he accordingly came up, the day before Christmas 1821, to
make trial of his gifts before the remnant of the congregation which still held together.  After various
delays, all was at length satisfactorily settled, and
Irving preached his firewell sermon at Glasgow.
Thence he proceeded to his father's house at Annan;
here his final "I trialS1" for ordination were to take place.
As he had been baptised in the church there, so did he
desire that there he should have conferred upon him
the solemn office of one of her ministers.  And with
bright hopes of future usefulness, and a determination to give scope to his aspirations after a higher
style of preaching,-or, as he said, "; to go deep into
the ocean of truth, "-he journeyed southwards to
his flock.
On the second  Sunday in  July 1822, Irving
began his labours in London.   The congregation
consisted of the fifty persons who had signed his call,
and their depe-dants; together with a few Scot]lumen




250    Life of Eczdward Irvvinz,  te Ent1htsizS
residing in London.  By degrees, however, the littlo
ehapel began to fill.  Soon after he was settled in his
new cure, Dr. Chalmers preached a sermon for h;is
late assistant, as is usual in thle Presbyterian Chur-c!,
commending him  to his flock.  The estimate of thiF;
great man is curious.' Bji. Irving, I left at Homerltonl" he writes to a friend; " and, as you are interested in him, I may say, ones for all, thLat he is
prospering in his new situation, and seems to feel as
if in that very station of command and cong'eniality
whereunto you have long known him  to aspire.  I
hope that he will 1ot hurt his usefulness by any kind
of eccentricity or imprudence."   Tbhe words were
almost prophetic; but at present there were no signs
of any dark cloud on the horizon of his hopes; all
was bright and clear before him: he was, for a while,
to have the success lie most desired.
e hadcl hardly been a year in Londlon, when his
chapel became crowded, and 1-that with some of the
most learned and noble personages of the day; who
came all the way from  the fashionable squares and
terraces of tlhe west to the dull precincts of Hatton
Garden, in order to listen, with rapt attention, to the
marvellous eloquence of the preacher.  TNo one who
reads his sermons will be surprised at this; they are
remarkable enough, even when regarded as written
compositions.  Albeit, we may notice, by the way,
that some of the sermo.ns which have commanded the
widest popularity cannot be read, andC, when apart




Difs Style as a Preac/her.       251
firom the living voice by which they were delivered,
seem utterly tame and commonplace.  But not so
with Irving; period after period of majestic and spiritmoving language flows on in one magnificent tide of
thought -and utterance.  The expression is verbose
and redundant, yet on that very. account attractive,
as each word adds a little to the thought.  Thus thle
listener has time to meditate as the mind of the
preacher unfolds; helped, rather than hindered, by the
very redundancy of the words. Every thing, moreover,
is expressed in the most lofty manner imaginable; the
most commnnonplace matters being set iorth in that
kind of high ideal portraiture which sculptors affect,
and by which thley make an ordinary face and figure
a colossal and majestic statue.  Irving, indeed, sueceeded in introducing the high style of preaching
which he had so long dreamed of and did plunge
deep, only too deep, into the mysteries of God.  He
preached, inoreover, to the learned and the critical;
and for once, at least, they confessed that they had
listened to sermons whiich were neither dull nor commonplace. To Irving himself, this was the realisation
of his dearest' hopes; he wished and desired to be
nothing more than he was.  He was bringing Ionme
a's he believed, to the great and learned of his people,
that which he alone reecgnised as the everlasting
wisdom; and he thankedl his Lord that He had conferred so great an Lonour on His unwortlhy servant,.
At this time lie published his first book, Orations,




252    Life of Eclward Irving, tbe Enthlusiast.
and the Argument for Justice to come, which rapidly
reached a third edition; and thus took his place as a
writer.  This, also, was the year of his marriage.  He
had been engaged to Isabella Martin eleven years;
and in September 1823 he left London for Kirkaldy.
His reception in Scotland was very different to what
it had been before; crowds now rushed to hear himl
preach: he was, indeed, fully and completely recognised as a pulpit-orator of no ordinary powers. With
this bright prospect of fame and usefulness before
him, and amidst mnuch that augured the fulfilment of
his highest hopes, he was united to his Isabella on the
13tlh of October, in the nianse of Kirkaldy.  Their
hands were joined by the grandfather of the bridefor, as became such a one as Irving, his wife was by
long descent a daughter of the sanctuary.
The bride and bridegroom hastened to their home
in London, after a short marriage-trip, to enter into
all the turmoil and excitement attendant on the life of
a preacher so popular as Irving; and all the literary
controversy which a writer so original, and at the
same time so egotistical, was sure to provoke.  But,
though not unassailed by the angry voice of criticislm,
his career was a success.  The little sanctuary in
Hatton Garden had become too strait bor so numerous
a congregation as now attended it, and it was in contemplation to build another, handsomer and more
commodious.  This was afterwards accomplished in
the erection of the church in Regent Square.




Tle Mlissionasry Sermon.          253
Ill 3May 1824, lie was requested to preach the
anniversary sermon of the London Missionary Society.  Such a request was itself a high tribute to
his popularity; and accordingly, not only the interest
of the subject and the occasion, but also the popularity
of the preacher, justified the expectation that a large
and successful gathering would greatly promote the
cause the Society had at heart.
Tottenham-Court-Road Chapel, originally erected
for Whitefield, was the building chosen for the sermon,
as possessing accommodation for a large audience. But
long before the appointed time of service, though the
day was wet and gloomy, the chapel was already
crowded, and it was deemed advisable to commence the
service a full hour sooner than had been originally intended. The sermon was inordinately long, lasting over
three hours; but this was, by comparison)  a small matter.
The topic was the missionary after the apostolic school;
and, in place of the prosaic details of an ordinary missionary sermon, thle preacher described, in glowing language, his ideal of what a missionary ought to bea man without scrip or purse, going, with burning
lips, unflinching faith, and spotless holiness, to proclaim  the message of salvation to a world which,
though lying in wickedness, would be startled out of
its iniquities by the very fervour and earnestness of
the spirit of those that preached to it.  The preacher
seemed to rate at a very low  estimate, alld spoke
almost contemptuously of, the modern machinery of




254    Life of Edwclard Irving, thle Entlhusiast.
missionary societies, with their calculating prudence
and committee-rules, their salaries and subscriptionlists, -these lesser efforts of modern times were but
sparks of divine grace, which he hoped might prove
to be the slender beginnings of better things.  " The
word of God," he said, " is at first a spark, then it is
a burning coal, at lengtlh it is a consuming fire, within
the hearts of His servants; and they are weary of forbearing, and cannot stay nor hold their peace; they
must speak, or they must die: anc though they should
die, they will speak then.  They have no.rest, but
hasten over land and sea, over rocks and trackless
deserts.  They cry aloud, and  spare not, and will
not be hindered.  In the prisons they lift up their
voices, and in the tempests of ocean they are not
silent; before awful councils and throned kings they
witness in behalf of the truth: nothing will quench
their voice but death.  And in the article of death,
ere yet the spiry flame and rolling smoke have sufoceated the organs of the soul, they speak, they pray,
they testify, they confess, they beseech, they warn,
and at length they bless the cruel people."   Such
was his description of the apostolic missionary; but it
seemed to his audience that, in mragnifying the ideal,
he had depreciated the actual; and that he had, to a
certain extent, inljured the cause he camena to advocate.
Accordingly, the religious world was in a state of
excitement.  The secretary of the society wrote Anl.Ex]postulcaotry Le-tter, w1hilch-r he pnubliished; anld Irving,




Thle ideal Mlissiolnary.         "
on his side, published his sermon, or rather thie beginiiing of a work of which this sermon formed'the
introduction, intending to set forth his idea of missionary enterprise.  The reasoning of this book is no
doubt defective; and the writer, while happy enough
in his expositions of those Scriptures which are on his
own side, fails to see the beariilng of others which do
what Scripture ever does, combine the noblest and
highest possible iceal of duty with the most perfect
adaptation to human weakness and infirmities.  But
we must admit, considering all things, that the fathers
of the London kbissionary Society, remembering the
character of the man with whom  they had to deal,
were a little unreasonable.  The preacher was certainly right in this, that a cold, calculating, moneygetting ag(e is just that which needs most to have set before it such a high and lofty ideal; and it was no doubt
a wholesome admonition vlwhic  he had prepared for
them, though perhaps a little out of season as an
anniversary sermon of the society.  This anniversary
is looked upon in thn   e light of a festival, and it was
perhaps ill-judged to take that opportunity to set
forth a portraiture of missionary zeal which must
have sounded a good deal like a depreciation of the
existing agencies.  But Irving was a mlaani of lofty
ideas: lie seldomn thought of tihe practical; and to him
it seemed strange that such a sermon should be received, as it was by his brelren,  withl distaste and
disalpproval




25G    Life, of Edaucrd Irving, the Ent7tsiastc.
While his work was in preparation, his eldest
child was born, on Junly 22, 1824, and baptisedl as
Edward by his great-grandftather, who on this occasion,
with all his famnily about him, saw  his children's
children, even four generations.  Little Edward was
the pride of his father, or, as he expressed it, his
excellency, and the beginning of his strength.  It
often happened that, in his walks with Mirs. Irving in
the streets of Pentonville, where tley now resided,
the tall Scotch clergyman might be seen with the boy
in his arms, not caring the least for thle laughter whichl
the strange spectacle sometimes excited in the bystanders. The ehild onlylived a year, and his death was
the first of those clouds which began to overshadow
that happy home; but at present all was bright. The
foundat'ion-stone of his new church in Regent Square
was laid, whilst his popularity and usefulness were
undiminished. Those who visited his house were many
of thlle  men of high literary eminence, whose converse
and friendship must have been especially delightful to
him; these all bore testimony to the earnestness of
his faitl, confessing that he was one who in his Lord
lived and ioved and had his being-that his cldwelling
was one where no act was done but in prayer, every
blessing was received with thanlksgiving to God, every
friend was dismissed with a parting benediction. Yet.
with all this, Ihe lost nothing of simplicity.
In the year 1825, he inet with Mr. Ho atley Frere,
a prophetic student, who, however, could obtain little




Prop1etic Studies.             257
audience for his deliverances on  that mysterious
subject.  Through this acquaintancee, Irving was introduced to Mr. Drummond, at whose residenceAlbury, in Surrey-he met with those who, froml their
studies in prophetic Scripture, were known as the
"1 Albury Prophets."  This is not the place in which
the writer can enter into anlly discussion on a topic so
important as the mannler in which prophetic Scripture
should be studied, and why it is that Irving and his
followers erred, as the writer believes them to have
done. Irving's book on the Revelation —which, published some time  afterwards, may be  considered
as containing his mature judgment on the subjecthas all the faults of his other writings, and less,
perhaps, of that eloquence and sublimity which we
find elsewhere.  He is not so happy in illustrating
and explaining the Scriptures on his own side; he
fails more than is his wont to see the force of
those that make against him. His treatise, moreover,
is inl the form of lectures delivered to a congregation.
Now  it is not too much to say that this is the most
unfavourable form  possible for such a work.  The
most minute and patient criticism  of every word is
necessary in order to understand a book which every
where alludes to, if it does not quote, earlier prophecies; and this Irving has not done-it was beside
his purpose to do it: and yet we venture to affirm
that without it not even the initial step can be taklen
in prophetic interpretation.  The introduction to Mr.
Pt




258    Lije of Edzoard r vivg, thlg e Ezt lWzsicst.
Frere was a turning-point in Irving's life, which
opened the way to those opinions that lie held afterwards, and which causecl  so great a stir in the
Church.
But we must return to his domestic life.  Little
Edward was seized with whooping-eough, and, late in
June, was taken by his mother —herself in delicate
health — to Kirkaldy, for change of air.  Irving
remained in town.  In the September, he went northward to join his wife, who was expecting the birth of
their second child.  The pleasant summer weather
had restored both rmother andc child; but with the
autumn  winds came a change.  The child sickened
again, and in a few weeks began visibly to draw near
his end.  Ten days after thle birth of his sister, who
was baptised Margaret, he died in the arms of his
father, to his great grief.  Yet he could write to a
friend anld member of his congregation: " I feel that
the Lorcl liath done well, that He hath afflicted me,
and that by His grace I shall be a more faithful
minister unto you, and unto all the flock committed
to my charge.  Now is my heart broken, now is its
hardness melted, and my pride is humbled, and my
spirit renewed.   The good name of the Lord be
praised i"  Thus we perceive that Irving had that
spirit of consolation which all God's servants possess.
The church in Regent Square was now complete,
and early in 1827 was opened, Chalmers preaching
the opening sermon.  Irving on this occasion, with




Decline inz Populacrity.       259
a characteristic want of tact, allowed the preliminary
services to extend to the length of an hour and a half.
This was hardly fair to Chalmers; for, though the
services of the Church of God are not so to be regulated
that popular preaehers may display their eloquenle, it
was clearly not to edification to keep people waiting so
lon1g.  Chalmers also notices that Irving preached on
"4his prophecies" for two hours and a half; and,
although very poweriful, yet the people were dropping
away.    I  feia,"  says hlie,   lest his prophecies, and
the excessive length and weariness *of his services,
may unship him  altogether; and I mean to write to
him seriously on the subject."
The great Scotch preacher was right.  This inordinate length of service was one cause which undermined Irving's popularity,-for about this time it
was evidenit that his popularity had begun to diminislh.
The church at Regent Square was opened, and, though
usually well filled, was no longer crowded.  If he had
indulged in visions of a ministry which should evrngelise all London, he was clearly about to be disabused
altogether,-he was the pastor of a large and imaportant congregation, and that was all.; Fashion,"
says a biographer, I  had gone her idle way."  There
is no reason, however, to believe that to Irving this was
a special disappointment, or that lie in any wise loved
his popularity for its own sake.  If he felt the difference at all, he would only feel it as a difference in
the amount of his usefulness, which, as lie must have




260)   Life of Edwazcrd i rviig, the EntlWsieist.
been well aware, depended principally onl his own
power as a preacher.  He never had, apparently,it was quite alien to his nature,-the design, or even
the desire, to organise a sect or party, even though in
the result there be one which is sometimes called by
his name.
t The truth is, that, notwithstanding their immense
power, his sermons suffer by the excessive preponderance of doctrinal statement.  Underneath can always
be discerned the beatings of the warm, earnest, loving
Christian heart; but above this are the coruscations
of an intellect which dazzles: and sometimes confounds,
by its array of metaphor and arguments.  His beautiful and touching sermons on the death of infants,
elicited from  him  by his own loss of his infant
3Mary, contain an elaborate statement of tile doctrine of baptismal regeneration.  With him, earnest
piety is wedded to what is termed, perhaps somewhat
disrespectfully, "1 Scotch metaphysics."  How, with
such topics as he discussed, he had a congregation at
all, is a mystery which is only partially explained by
the fact that its nucleus consisted of hard-headed
Scoeltcmen.   AnLd it was in this excessive love of
dogma  that his troubles commenced.   He  had
preached and published a series of sermons on the
Incarnation.  He was declared by his theological opponents to have stated in them the doctrine of Christ's
sinful human nature.  It appears that a Mr. Cole, a
Church-of-England. clergyman, was the first to lead




JFttal Accident at Kirkoatldy C/utrlCk.  261
the attack; and this was followed up by members of his
own community. TWho was right, and who was wrong,
in this controversy, can hardly be discussed in a work
like the present; but, as we shall see, the final result vwas
disastrous.  There can, indeed, be no doubt that, in
the main, the judgment of Chalmers was correct.
Speaking of a sermon, in a course of tweive upon the
Apocalypse, lie writes: " For the first time heard
Mr. Irvincg.  I have no hesitation in saying, it is
quite woful.  There is power and richness and gleams
of exquisite beauty,  but wTithal a mysterious and
extreme allegorisation, which I am sure must be pernicious to the general cause."   Prodigious crowds,
nevertheless, attended these lectures, although held at
tihe unseasonable hour of six in the morning, attracted
by these gleams of exquisite beauty; but they did no
permIanelt good to the cause —of Christ's Church.
An incident may here be related tending the same
wvay; thougl it could have no permanent effect on
his popularity.   He  had  gone northwards, and,
amongst other engagements,-one of which was the
Apocalyptic lectures referred to above, —agreed to
preacll in Kirkaldy Churchl on the Sunday evening
on which the communion was administered, and which
coincided with his own wedding-clay.  A prodigious
crowd gathered in Kirkaldy Church, and the galleries, not able to sustain the unusual weight, fell, just
before the service was about to begin. Only t*wo or three
persons were killed by the actual fall of the galierics,




262    Life of Tyedwarlc'd Iri, tlhe E jt7llsicSto
but a panic commenced in the crowded building.  As
many as twenty persons were killed by suffocation, or
were trodden to death in the rush that ensuedl. Irvingo
immediately took up his post under a window, and,
conspicuous for his great size and streng th, lifted
many down in his arms.  It is clearly no part of the
duty of a strainge preacher to test the strength of the
building in which he is about to officiate, and no possible blame could rest, upon Irving,  Nevertheless,
the public wanted its usual victimn, and seemed inclined
to fix upon Irving.  Hse, on his side, felt bitterly the
accident, happening, as it did, amidst the scenes of
his early friendship, in the church of his fatler-inlaw.  "1 God," he said,  bhath put nme to shame this
day before all the people."
WTe have already noticed, a.lso, Irving's acquaintance with MI3r. Drummniond and the Albury school of
prophets, of whose annual conference he was a diligent
"and honoured member; but it is easy to see that such
studies would do him no goocd.  There is much more
of the show of reason in Irving's works than the
reality. He could convince both himself and friends
by arguments apparently irref'utable, but which nevertheless often beg the whole question at issne. Accordingly, he persuaded himself that he had obtained a
complete insight into the mysteries of prophecyv
and that there lay, as it wetre, mapped out before him, a complete chart of the future of the
Church.  A mistake as to the meaning of an un_



SjF iritual GSts.             263
fulfilled propllccy might n u ot hlave been of great consequence, as tile event would vindicate the correct
interpretation; but the habit of speculation thus engendered was especially  dangerous  to a  man of
Irving's temperament.  He was thus ready, so soon
as they should be presented to him  in a sufficiently
specious form, to be misled by supposed manifestations from  the invisible world; and he was incapable
of exanmining into the evidence olf such manifestations
in a sufficiently impartial spirit.  The way in which
he became subject to this delusion forms a remarkable
chapter in the history of religious enthusiasm.
Since the  summer of 1828, 1\Yr. Alexander Scott,
who is described as a man of some considerable
powers, had been with him  as a fellow-labourer in
his Church, and exercised considerable influence over
him.  Irving, at this time, held tlhe opinion that
those spiritual gifts.whlich appertained to the primitive Church might be exercised in these days, were
there faith enough existing in the Church; but that,
tlrough this lack of taith, they were kept in abeyance, to be manifested again in the millennial Church.
MTr. Scott held a more questionable, but more consistent, doctrine —that such gifts were the possession of
the Church in all ages, and therefore might be expectecl
to be vouchsafecl at one% if' she were found acting up
to her privileges.  Irving, convinced by his friend's
arguments, came over to his views, though as yet,
he declares, " I was still little moved to seek myself,




2(34    L7i/fr of Edvard Irving, the Eiithtsiast.
or stir up my people to seek, these spiritual treasures."
Yet, he adds,:  I went forward to contend and to
instruct, whenever the subject came before me in
my public ministrations of reading and preaching
the Word, that the Holy Ghost ought to be manifested among us all, the same as ever He was in any
one of the primitive Churches."
That Irving was wrong is, we thinkl,  manifest
from the following considerations.  The miracle is
ever worked, not for the sake of the natural effect,
but as a sign to the Church; and the more reasonable
and Scriptural doctrine we believe to be, that such
manifestations are vouchsafed, not so much in regard to
the faith of the Church, but in regard to her needs; and
that the gifts of the Spirit which may be expected in
answer to prayer will be those which, at that time and in
those circumstances, will most conduce to edification
and advancement.  In other words, this expectation
of the miraculous was, on the part of Irving and
his followers, to a certain extent, a practical overlooking of the immediate providential presence of God
-an attempt, however little they might recognise it
as suich, to walk by sight, and not by faith.
At this time, also, Irving was involved still further
in the controversy to which we have already alluded
concerning our Lord's human nature. At present, he
was not the principal; qMr. Scott and Mr. Maclean,
who had been minister of the Scotch Church in
London Wall, were the first to fall under the charge




coommencement of1 t7he 1" Toigues.'9  265
of heresy.  5Mr. Scott had received a call to the
Church at Woolwich, and Mr. 3Maclean a presentation to a living in Ayrshire.  The necessary legal
formalities to which this change in their sphere of
ministrations gave rise afforded an opening for the
formal discussion of the doctrine which they held in
common with Irving; and the question of his and
their orthodoxy was thus formally brought before the
General Assembly.
While all this was proceeding, with the usual
bitterness attending theological controversy, —which,
it seems, loses none of its bitterness on the other
side of the Tweed,-and the consequent agitation of
mind on the part of Irving, who, with characteristic
one-sidedness, looked upon his own statement of the
doctrine of the Incarnation in a special form  as the
very essence of Christianity, there came tidings that
miraculous gifts had been manifested, in the person of a
3Mary Campbell, who lived at Fernicarry, at the head of
Gairloch. Isabella Campbell, the elder sister of 3iary,
who appears to hbave been a person of remarkable
earnestness and piety, had recently died.  During her
lifetime, she had been visited by the country round
almost as a medieval saint might have been; and,
now she was gone, her mantle seemed to have descended on her sister Mary.  Yet M3ary also seemed
to le about to follow her sister; for symptoms of
decline, the disease of which Isabella died, had already manifested themselves,-and she was, to all




266    Life of Edwacrd Irvifng, thle Enthlusiast.
appearance, drawing near her end. " It was," writes
Irving,  who describes the circumstance,    " on the
Lord's Day; and one of her sisters, together with a
female friend, who had come to the house for that
end, hald been spending tihe whole day in humiliation
and fasting and prayer, with a special respect to the
restoration of the gifts.  They had co-nme up ill th
evening to the sickl-chamber of their sister, who was
laid on a sofa, and, along with one or two others of
the household thlley were engaged in prayer together.
It was while in prayer together that lary Campbell
was constrained to spealk tit great length, and with
superhuman strength, in an unknown tongue."  It
was thus that the manifestation of the 4 tongues" began
-and began, no doubt, in good faith; but we must
not flil to notice tlhat the beginning  of these manifestations was after a long interval of fasting and prayer,
when an excitable person would be especially open to
that khind of religious impression, under the influence
of which she might well mistake emotion for inspiration.  So different this to the calm, self-possessed
manifestation of the Day of Pentecost,-iin which,
amongst other things, iwe ought thankfully to notice
the  apparently unimportant incident, that it took
place before the third hour of the day.  It is, indeed,
very necessary to look these facts in the face, in, order
that we may estimate aright the real nature of such a
moveaement, and the true character of those engaged in
it.  When once such a mallifestation had been ex



A.7-iaccle of l:ealilg.         26 7
perienced, and traced to a supernatural influence, it
would not be easy to discredit it.  The earnest would
deceive themlselves, as well as be deceived, and deal
as unflirly with their own reasonings as we shall see
they did with those of others.
But this was not all.  Mary Campbell still remained apparently in a cyin lg state; but was suddenly
cured, and that by a miracle.  On the opposite shore
of the Clyde, in Port Glasgow,, livedl two brothers,
James and Georgre Macdonald, ship-builders; men in
the position of ordinary workmen.  They hlad a sick
sister, who was the subject of this manlifestation.
At dinner-time, the brothers came home from work
as usnal.  The sister begged that they would pray at
that time for the manifestation of tlhe Spirit. Suddenly
James saidl: " I have it."  Heo then walked to his
sister's bed-side, and said: " Arise, and stand upright."  He said this again, tookli her by the hand,
and the young woman arose it is said, completely
cured.  On this, James MAfacdonald sent a letter to
Mary Campbell, then apparently approaching death,
conmmandincg   her also to arise.  On the receipt of'
the letter, she immediately arose from  her bed, and
declared herself cured  and, without any interval,
returned to an active life.  This stirange circumstance
attracted more attention than ever.  She iwas visited
by vast numlbers; and she entered into the career of
a gifted person, expounding and giv;ing utterances of
her power in crlowded assenmblies.




268    L'Jfe of Ecdwagrd Ir"ving, the Enzthusicast
The matter soon began to attract attention beyond
the limits of her village, and several clergymen and
persons of education began to inquire; even Chalmers
would not hastily condemn.  Irving, however, was
less cautious: he could not doubt of the piety and
earnestness of those in whom these gifts were manifested, and was ready to accept them as a real outpouringi of the Spirit.  Nor was this to be wondered
at.  His own teaching for a long time tended this
way; and, however wearkl his arguments may be, no
one can read his discourses without feeling that the
author is fully persuaded in his own mind. Harassed,
also, by tle doctrinal controversies around him, he
would hail such an occurrence as a precious gift of
consolation to a warring and suffering Church.
But, if Irving was deceived,  he was never a
deceiver —not even unconseiously, and in good faith.
None of these so-called miraculous gifts came to him.
His little daughter Miary at this time was evidently
dying; but no prophetic voice conveyed to him the
tidings of relief, no gifted person could seld letters
which should restore the infant's life.  The child died
late in the week; and there was no time to obtain
help for the Sunday.  Accordingly, he preached the
two sermons next Sunday on the I6 Death of Children;"
and elaborately reasons out, in the morning sermon,
the doctrinal use of such events to the Church.  In
the evening, the sermon was more of a personal
character, and the suffering fther is not altogether




TDie early Prayjer-mteeting.      269
out of sight; yet no one who simply reads the published sermons could possibly anticipate the real state
of the case.  It is said that Irving went tearless and
fasting all the day; and, coming in from his pulpit,
Arent straight to the little coffin, and, flinging himself
down, gave way to an agony of grief, mingled witlh
prayers to the Lord for faith and patience —thtat Lord
who had not, in his case, interposed to save.
In the mean time, the London Presbytery condemned his book; but Irving, considering that he
had been ordained in Scotland, refused to submit to
their jurisdiction.  In this determination lie was supported by his owln Kirkl Session.  Nevertheless, the
step he thua took virtually separated him  from  his
Church; aind he now stoodc alone, without the restraints
which such a character specially needed.
At tlhis time, the General Assembly of the Church
of Scotland was about to meet.  Irving instituted a
prayer-meeting, which met at half-past six in the
morning, for the express purpose of praying that the
Assembly might be guided aright in their decisions. It
is especially to be observed, that one of the deliverances of this Assembly was directed against Irving himself.  A motion was made and carried, that if at any
time the Rev. Edward Irving  should claim the privilege of a licentiate or minister of the Church of Scotland, the Presbytery of tlle bounds should be enjoined
to inquire whether lie were the author of certain works,
and that they should proceed thereafter as they should




2,70    Life of Edcward  rvbilg, tile EyntZusiast.
see fit.  At the same time, Scott and Maclean were
also dealt with.  This was the first authoritative censure pronouinecl upon him.
When the session of the Assembly was o-er,
the devout company of worshipers in the Scotch
Church determined to continue their prayer-nmeeting.
This time, they agreed to petition ior a renewal of
the gifts of the Spirit; and, to the apprehension of
those who supplicatedl this gift was at lengtll voucllsafed,-at first privately, then in the comparative
seclusion of the prayer-meeting, and last of all in
the public congregation.
Irvin2g was strongly prepossessed lwith the supernatural character of these manifestations.  He had,
as leader of the congregation, been earnestly praying
for these gifts of the Spirit; and, as he says, with
characteristic one-sided interpretation of Scripture, " I
dared not believe that, when we had asked bread, He
g-ave a stone; when we had asked fiSsT, He gave a
serpent:" thus assuming that his prayer, if granted,
must be granted in that very form  and manner in
which he, in his short-sighted ignorance, had presented his petition, and not, as might have been the
case, in invisible outpourings of the Spirit into the
hearts of the members of his flockl thus leading them
to greater enlighteinmenlt, deeper affection, and more
earnest lives,-for this, and not thle visible manifestation of an external.power, was most to be desired.
No doubt, in all sinerity, lie 1 tried the spirits;" but




The " iUnktnown Tongztces."       271
he was not in a frame of mind to come to a safe conclusion.  Honesty of purpose is not the only thing
requirecl in such investigations; one ought to have
soundness of judgment: but this was sadly lacking.
Had thlere been more of this, Irving might have
discerned that, like many before his time, he had
been led astray by mere spiritual emotion.
The form in which the "1 tongues" appeared was a
strange outburst or crash of sound, apparently without meaning, followed by words of exhortation in
English.  The person uttering these tongues was
usually observed - to be in a state of considerable excitement.  A  Mr. Pilkington-who was a diligent
attendant on these meetings, and at first a believer,
but who afterwards wrote a pamphlet, entitled, Tihe
Unknownz Tonwgues discovered to be Envglish, Spanish,
and Latin; and the Rev. Ed. Ir3vin/g proved to be
erroneous in att ributing their utterance to thle ilftuence of the Hfoly Spirit — has preserved some of
these utterances.  He was accused, indeed, of being
a needy man, who put his paper together in order to
catch the marlket at the time when the    tongues" were
producing a great popular excitement; but a careful
perusal of his and a similar pamphlet by Mr. Baxter
leads the author to the conviction that the matter can
be explained without any recourse to supernatural
agency at all.  An utterance which Mr. Pilkington
preserves is: "' Gthis dil enmma sumo."  Strange as
these words appear in this form, they are really only




272    Life oj Edcward Irving, thze Enthusiast.
broken Englislh.  They occurred at a meeting of the
gifted persons and th-eir followers, at which  Mr.
Pilkington was present; and at which the question
was under discussion, whether or no the Church
should allow these utterances in the general congregation. They were uttered by a gifted sister, whose
mouth shook and lips were stiffened with excitement.
They are, no doubt, part of the sentence, " This dilemma will assume-"   Another sitting may be
described a little more at length.  There was a sCrvice, with a psalm, paycer, and then a silence; a
gifted sister then suddenly uttered the words:  " Hozeghin alta stare;" and concluded, in English, that
the Spirit should speak in the congregation.  There
was then a silence. Another sister utteredc: "1 Htolemole
holif awthaw:" and finished, in English, to the same
effect as the other.  Then the first sister spoke again
in the tongue, " Hozellamenanostra;" and then said
in English, "c Jesus will take care of us."  The utterance of the second sister, Pilkington explains as
being the words: 1" Holy, most holy Father."  He
has recourse to the Latin and Spanish langutages,
however, to interpret the mysterious sounds uttered
by the first sister; but the words, " Jesus cannot
at all stray; Jesus, the Amen, has not strayed,"
uttered very rapidly, and with the mouth  openl
are far more probable explanations, especially as
there appears to be not the slightest evidence that
these ladies understood either Latin or Spanish.  Ac



TVlrt the Tongues veally were.      273
cording to his own account, this attempt on the part
of Pilkington to interpret was very coldly treated
indeed.  The gifted persons, perhaps for the very
reason that they were suspicious of tlemselves, rejected
the attempt to translate their utterances as being
imperfect recollections of known languages.  " How,"
they asked, begging the very question at issue," 1 could
the words of the Spirit be interpreted otherwise tlan
by the Spirit?"  Irving himself, who throughout appears the most sensible, as well as the most kind and
courteous, of the party, was inclined to listen to reason;
but the arguments of the others prevailed, and he
was easily convinced of that which he wished to be
true.  It must be admitted, however, that tlere can
be no suspicion of fraud.  The gifted persons were all
living holy and blameless lives, and had nothing to
gain, and every thing to lose, by the delusion; but of
their judgments we may very well doubt.  Besides,
there is something very soothing to the pride of human
nature in the conviction that one is exalted above
one's fellows by spiritual illumination —a kind of
spiritual pride which even an Apostle needed a special
"1 thorn in the flesh" to keep in subjection.  We need
not, then, doubt in the slightest degree of the earnestness and piety of Irving; but his judgment was very
defective.  Ideal and unpractical, he fell into the
snare; and the consequences of his error were not a
little disastrous both to himself and the Church he
served.
S




274    Life of Edwcard Irving, the Enthusiast.
While the tongues were confined to the prayer.
meetings, they caused little excitement outside.  But
the ease was very different when they first appeared
in the congregation.  This took place as follows: A
sister (we notice how constantly women were the
subjects of this influence), finding she was unable to
restrain herself, rushed into the vestry. "c The sudden
doleful and unintelligible sounds being heard by all
the congregation, produced the utmost confusion.
The act of standing up, the exertion to hear and see
antd understand, in a congregation of 1500 to 2000
persons, created a noise which may be easily conceived."  Irving, however, when order was restored,
explained the occurrence, which, lie said, was not new,
except in the congregation, where he had been for
some time considering the propriety of introducing
it, being afraid of dispersing his flock; but now, as it
was brought forward by God's will, he felt it his duty
to submit. He then changed the subject of his sermon,
expounding 1 Cor. xiv.  Thus the morning service
passed off. In the evening, a prodigious crowd was
assembled, with the usual proportion of roughs and
pickpockets to foment the disturbance, and profit by
it.  All was quiet until, at the end of the sermon, a
gifted brother cried out, with a crash of tongues:
" God is amongst us; and if you fly from Him now,
where will you fly in the day of judgment?"  This
caused a rush; but Irving had presence of mind enough
to still the multitude: and, though there was great




Inevitctble Separation.'2'75
danger, the people were induced to go away quietly
at length, and no harm was done.  During the week,
Irving hesitatedl, and declared that he would not
permit a repetition of the disturbance; but, himself
convincecl of the supernatural character of the tongues,
before the next Sunday le retracted, and allowed the
matter to take its course.  As an honest man, he
could hardly have done otherwise.
His friends and relations remonstrated with him,
but without effect; he was thoroughly persuaded that
these utterances were an immediate manifestation of
the power and presence of the Divine Spirit.  He
took order, also, for a pause in the services, that the
prophets might speak and edify the Church by their
ministrations. The trustees of the Church were, however, unconvinced, and considered it their duty to put
in action the clause in their trust-deed which gave them
an appeal to the Presbytery of London.  That this
should be the body charged with the decision of this
question was peculiarly unfortunate.  Irving had
denied their authority over him as a minister; and what
court was ever known to be lenient to those who
defied its authority?  But the result, whatever the
court of appeal, could hardly have been different. Thus
the shadows began to darken around him. All the
time, his own relatives plied him with arguments and
remonstrances, beseeching him to give up these unreasonable and dangerous doctrines, as they appeared
to them.  He answered,-and the answer displays at




276    Life of Ecdward Irvig, thle Eztlzusiast.
once the strength antd weakness of his character, —
"1 There is nothing which I would not surrender to
you, even to my life;" but he could not grant what
his friends so urgently desired.  He was convinced,
on very weak grounds, it is true, and with probably
sone —though quite unconscious-self-deception, that
these utterances were divine; and, being convinced,
his duty required that he should sacrifice all —and he
did not shrink. He was shut out of his pulpit, he was
excommunicated by his Church, his friends forsook
him.  He himself was never the subject of those
manifestations which he so confidently believed in
and ardently desired; but he never could be induced
to discredit, much less to silence, that voice which
he believed was the voice of GocL
3Matters rapidly proceeded to  extremity; the
trustees of the Church submitted an opinion to counsel as to the legality, under the powers conferred in
their deed, of permitting these utterances. The opinion
was against Irving; and a deputation of the trustees
was appointed to wait upon him, with the opinion in
their hands.  This is his answer: " I have read over
the opinion of Sir Ed. Sugden....  The principle
on which I have acted is to preserve the integrity of
my ministerial character unimpaired, and to fulfil my
office according to the word of God.  If the trustdeed do fetter me therein, I knew it not when the
trust-deed was drawn, and am sure that it never
was intended in the drawing of it; for certainly I




Trial before the Presbytery.     277
would not, to possess all the churches of this land,
bind myself one iota from obeying thle great Head'
and Bishop of the Church.  But if it be so tlat you,
the trustees, must act to prevent me and my flock
from  assembling to worship God according to the
word of God in the house committed into your trust,
we will look unto our God for preservation and safe
keeping.  Farewell! {Mavy the Lord have you in His
holy keeping!"
The controversy was, in fact, hopeless: the trustees
believed that Irving was under a delusion, andi could
only regard the tongues as a scandal and difficulty,
to be got rid of without delay from the Church of which
they were the trustees; Irving, on his side, believed
that he was only doing his simple duty as a minister
of the Gospel.  The trial before the Presbytery came
on in due course, and the result was just what  ightll
have been expected.  The real point at issue: though
necessarily to a great extent kept out of sight, was
whether these manifestations were what Irving believed them to be; and the court, in effect, decided
that they were not.  They were glad to avoid any
further question, for how otherwise could they escape
making an imputation of fraud in these gifted ones?
The decision was still furthler influenced by the
recantation of Mr. Robert Baxter.  That gentleman
had been one of the prophets, and had uttered predictions which had been falsified by the event.  He
was too honest a man not to be startled  by so




278    Life of Edwarc d Irvilg, tMhe Enthusiast.
suspicious a circumstance, and was led to suspect that
he had prophesied out of his own heart, when he had
seen nothing.  He came up the day before the trial
to London, in order to expose the delusion to which
he believed himself to be subject.  Such a testimony,
at such a juncture, was conclusive; and, to the writer's
mind, who has carefully read his narrative afterwards
published, decides the real question at issue.  Baxter,
indeed, does not deny spiritual influence in the matter,
and attributes his delusions to an express intervention
of the evil one.  That the devil had deceived him,
is apparent enough; but, after all, only by the ordinary enticements of spiritual pride and self-conceit.
Baxter was, for a time, a leader among the prophets themselves; his utterances much more definite
and precise than  theirs —which latter, certainly,
appear very like diluted and tautological amplifications of well-known scriptural denunciations: and he
was proportionately honloured for what seemed his
superior light, but was in reality his greater boldness
and self-assertion. Irving, however, was too infatuated
now to listen to the pleadings, however earnest, of his
former disciple; and Baxter had the mortification
of finding the most sincere recantation powerless to
enlighten those who had been deceived by a selfdeceiver: a circumstance too common in the history
of the Church,-for many a heresy has survived
after the heretic himself has most sincerely recanted.




Foundation of the new " C1hur2ch."  279
The public press sang paans of delight, the
worldly papers discussed the matter from  their
worldly point of view, the so-called religious ones
indulged in the usual amount of sanctimonious spite.
It so turned out that tile Sunday after the judgment
of the Presbytery was Communion-Sunday, and an
additional vexation to Irving must it have been to be
inhibited from his church on that very day; but the
trustees, possibly in some measure excused by tlle
legal exigencies of their position, at once proceeded
to prevent Irving from officiating, and the communion
announced and prepared for was never administered.
To this was added another blow. The inhibition was:
served on Thursday, and accommodation had to be
sought for that large number of members which still
adhered to Irving. No place was open to them except
a large room in Gray's-Inn Road, occupied in the
week-days by Robert Owen, the Socialist.  Nothing
could be more repugnant to the judgllnent, taste, and
feelings of the members, than the asylum to which
they were driven; "' a barn or a cow-shed would have
been preferable, but none such was to be obtained."  And so the believers in a present and immediate influence of supernatural manifestation in the
Church shared the room with sentimental unbelief.
The congregation, amounting to about 800 communicants, assembled on May 6th; and thus, in this
humble way, commenced the operations of the new
sect, —nost of them, we cannot doubt, firm believers




280.Life of Edward ]3Lvig, thhe.Enthltsiast.
in those gifts which, if indeed they had been what
they supposed them  to be, would have made the
room  in the dingy locality of Gray's-Inn Road of
more honour than the stateliest cathedral.
The year in which all this happened was a remarkable one in the history of England.  It was the
year of the Reform  Bill, which it was felt by all
would make, for good or ill, a vast change in the constitution of Englandcl,-as, in truth, has come to pass;
though we, in 1869, are almost as much in the dark
as to the final result as they were then.  At this
time, also, the country was visited by the first epidemic
outbreak of cholera.  This pestilence, always terrible
enough, was then strange and unknown, and great
was the consternation as it passed in its mysteriously
capricious way from street to street,-" one taken and
another left."  No wonder, then, that men's minds
were excited, and that some thought that they possessed visible intimations of that Advent which they
believed would immediately appear.
Irving was himself seized with the mysterious
complaint.  The attack, though severe, was not attended with the more fatal and exlhausting symptoms.
He, however, regarded sickness as mysteriously caused
by sin, and had recourse to none but spiritual reme-dies.  He determined to preach as usual, in firm
faith that he should be healed.  At first, as he confesses, the words dropped from  him  slowly, and in
great weakness; but the effort of will proved bene



Pr~. oplecies and PepTlexitlies.   281
ficial, and the paroxysm of the disease passed away.
To Irving this appeared something miraculous; yet it
contrasts strongly with really miraculous histories, in
which we find that the cure was complete, and
strength was at once given.  But he was, by this
time, too deeply involved in the toils of his own
enthusiasm  to escape, and invested with a specially
miraculous character an ordinary incident in the
history of disease.
Mieanwhile, the Church in Gray's-Inn Road received fresh revelations at the hands of its prophets;
and thus was ultimately developed a gorgeous and
elaborate ritual, as far distant from the severity of
Scotch Presbyterianism as can well be imagined. The
most important change, however,-a change which led
to great difficulties and perplexities,-was that which
substituted, in place of the law of the Church, the utterances, often fragmentary, of the prophets; and these
difficulties were further complicated by the fact that
evenl the members of the Church themselves were
unable in all cases to distinguish between the -Ltterance of false and true spirits.  Thus it came to pass
that sometimes b prophets" were at variance with
6 apostles," and that which was supposed, on apparently good ground, to be spoken in the " power," was
not only falsified by the event, but even divine commands communicated by prophets were forbidden to be
executed by some superior officer in the Church; it
being alleged that the prophets had, in reality, been




282    Life of EdTcwald Irving, tlhe Enltlasitast.
deceived by their own imaginings. Irving's positionif we may credit the accounts which have come down
to us-was not a happy one. He was too fervent and
simple-heartecl a believer to tamper with prophecies,
as his fellows were ready to do; and so it seems
that his faith unconsciously acted as a kind of reductio
ad absurcldn of his principles.  He was like a chemist
amongst alchemists,-his balance too delicate to be
deceived by their crude and hap-hazard experiments.
If all his fellows had been as honest as himself, it is
questionable if thle delusion would have proceeded;
for it is to be observed tlhat, though the chief Angel of
thle Church, he was never endowed with the gift,-as
he himself says, he was never found "worthy."
The Church of Scotland determined to cast out a.
man who now really belonged to her no more than
in name; and a request from the General Assembly
was sent to the Presbytery of Annan, to take order
in regard to Irving's book concerning the humanity
of our blessed Lord. Accordingly, Irving was cited
before that court, and ostensibly the decision turned
upon the doctrine as stated in the books entitled
The Orthoclox and Catholic Doctrine of oiur Lord's
thluman Naturce, T7le Day of Pentecost, and a paper in
Tlhe Mlorninzg WCTtch. The proceedings terminated in
tlhe unanimous decision of his judges that lie was
guilty of heresy, and he was accordingly deprived.
The concluding scene was characteristic.  The ~Moderator was about to proceed with the solemn duty of




_I5,l'bg deposel.           283
declaring the sentence, and, as a preliminary, requested
Mlr. Sloan, the senior member of the Presbytery, to
offer up a prayer to Almighty God; when a voice
was heard exclaiming: " Arise, depart! arise, depart!
Flee ye out! flee ye out of her!  Ye cannot pray!
How can ye pray? how can ye pray to Christ, whom
ye deny?  Ye cannot pray!  Depart, depart!  Flee,
flee!"  The words proceeded from a Mr. Dow, one
of the gifted persons.  IMr. Dow rose, anld with him
Irving,  who, with great vehemence, cried to the
crowd, who somewhat obstructed his passage: " Stand
forth! stand forth!  What! will ye not obey the
voice of the Holy Ghost?  As many as will obey the
voice of the Holy Ghost, let them depart."  Irving,
witlh his followers, then withdrew, and the sentence
was passed which separated him from  the Church
in which he had been baptised and ordainedl; and
this also in the very same sanctuary where he had
been before both baptised and ordained.
Irving returned to Newman Street.  Here he was
met with a message from a prophet speaking in the
4'power," prohibiting him from the exercise of any
priestly function.  It is said that he was forbidden
even to preach, except in those less sacred assemblies
of his Church at which the unbelieving were admitted.
Irving himself, it appears, accepted this prophecy with
the same unfeigned faith as he had accepted others, and
submitted at once to an arrangement which must have
gone far to destroy all his authority in his Church.




2S8-    Life of Edclwva'd I'vzing, thle Entltsiast.
For some montlhs, apparently, he exercised, with
all humility and patience, no higher office than that
of a deacon; when at length, by the concurrent action
in manifested supernatural power both of prophet and
apostle, he was ordained angel, or chief pastor, of the
flock assembled in Newman Street.  The apostle who
acted on this occasion was iMr. Cardale; and fronm htim
Irving accepted reordination. Whatever be the views
taken of this transaction, we cannot but admire the
unfeigned faith of the maln who could, in humble
obedience, be content to take thus the very lowest
room where he had heretofore been chief.
Again, also, was he tried in his own home.  A
child, named  Ebenezer, -no  doubt with mystic,
and, as he hoped, prophetic, intimation of what
he was hereafter to be to his parents,-was taken
from  them.  No divine word of power came on
this occasion to rescue the darling from the jaws of
death.' The Lord, in His severity and His goodness," Irving said, " had punished him for his sins,
and the sin of his flock."  Still his faith did not
sink; and he went on amidst, as it seems, many
difficulties, always springing from the same sourcethe strange, not to say unsatisfactory, deliverances of
the prophetic office.  The prophets prophesied in his
sanctuary; and their deliverances concerned not things
to be hereafter, but chiefly matters of ritual. On
these points, the judgment of Irving must have been
sorely tried.  These external arrangements com



TIe ~Ed drazs near.            285
manded in the sanctuary were said to be " figures
of the true,'" setting forth mystic meanings and higher
truths; but what strikes an observer most, who sees
them  in the form into which they have now developed, is a similarity to the ritual of that Church
which Irving had in other clays pronounced L accursed of God-the abomination which His soul
hateth." But he ever submitted his private judgment
to what he considered the voice of God; and thus his
troubled life went on.  "The apostles and prophets
have patience with him," so writes Mrs. Oliphant
in her most touching biography, ";when the light
breaks slowly through his troubled soul; and, mastering all the prejudices of his life, all the impulses of
his will, this martyr, into whose lingering agony nobody enters, still bends his head and obeys."
But his life was not to endure much longer.  He
hlad, early in 1834, been sent on a mission to Edinburgh; and here he caught a cold, which threatened
disease of the lungs.  Having returned from  his
mission, 3Mr. Cardale and M[r. Drummond proceeded to
Eldinburgh, to ordain the Angel of that Church; and
continued some time in the North, in order to make
other visits, withl similar objects.  During their absence, a command was given in the 1" power" to
ordain, it appears, certain evangelists — to which
commandl Irving imumediately proceeded to give effect.
The absent apostles heard of this, and wrote, declaring
the new arrangement to be a delusion, and rebuking




286    Life of Eydwlardcl Irqving, zie Enztlwzsiast.
both prophet and angel.  The prophet withdrew for a
time in anger; but Irving read the letter in the
Church, and confessed his error.  Yet there can be
no doubt that such difficulties as this circumstance
implied cldid try him  sorely.  He had looked for a
divine, unerring guidance-a really infallible Church;
and, behold! that which has a disagreeable likeness
to worldly pride and self-conceit. His health, also, was
declining; and he, the man who had been so strong
and athletic, ailing nothing, now experienced all the
lassitude and distress incident to the first stages of
that fatal complaint which was consuming him.  The
prophets, as his disease increased, and alarming symptoms appeared, promised, with more or less of distinctness, that he should be restored; or, at any rate,
such was tbe construction put upon a word spoken in
"; the power," that he was specially set apart to do a
great work in Scotland.  He went northwards, tle
disease increasing all the way, as he slowly journeyed
on horseback to his destination.  He tried the same
remedy as had proved efficacious in the case of cholera,
-that is, force of will, —and, wrestling in faitl, determined not to give way to the complaint. Consumption
was not to be so baffled: it could deceive its victim with
what seemed like gleams of returning strength and
vigour; but these passed away in their wonted manner, demonstrating to all, except the patient hiimself;
that he rose up iweaker from every fresh attack.
On the -/I enai Bridge, he got wet by the rising of




SumZmo2zs his WiTfe.          287
a sudden squall through the straits. Tle effect of this
was a fevered night; and, though he had strength to
ride on to Conway, and thence to Abergele, it was
with considerable pain and difficulty.  Then, a little
recovered again, he at length reached Liverpool.
Thence he sent a letter to his wife, asking her to come
to him without delay.  To her he writes with a presentiment of his coming end, which evidently his faith
in the prophets cannot altogether overcome- "C Now,
my dear, I have sought to serve God, and I do put
my trust in Him; therefore I am not afraid.  He
hath sore chastened me, but tie has not given me over
to death.  I shall yet live, and discover His wonderful works."   His wife obeyed the summons, not
afraid either; for she, too, put her confidence in that
word of " power," which spoke of his b)eing raised up
to do a great work. She arrivecl to findl him in a truly
alarming state; and, had she possessed eyes to see, it
might well have appalled her,-his strength considerably reduced, his pulse 100, and himself looking much
worse than when he left home.  A southern climate
was pronounced by competent medical authority as the
only hope, without recourse to which, it was affirmed,
he would not survive the winter; but neither husband
nor wife could be moved by human appearances, and
they went northwards to Greenock, and thence to
Glasgow: on arriving at which place, Irving lifted
up his hands in thanksgiving, as entering the scene of
a great and glorious work. To his friends, it was quito




288    Life of Edwlard Irving, tle Entl~usiast.
evident tllat he was sinking rapidly, under a deep
consumption. If they pitied his error, they could not
but admire his faith, which only breathed trust and
confidence in the good purposes of Him who was thus
afflicting him; both Irving and his wife being fully
persuaded that God, in due time, would renew his
strength.  Nor did the increase of his sickness open
their eyes at all,-a merciful dispensation,-as thus
Irving was spared, even to the very last, the terrible mental agony which, had he lived longer, would
almost certainly have awaited him, when he found
that the sign or the wonder in which he trusted had
not come to pass.  Nevertheless, as far as failing
strength admitted, he still laboured on, nothing of the
success promised attending his work.  No crowds
came to hear him, few were converted; there was
no movement towards the Gospel he preached, not
even like that which he himself had witnessed before,
in this very same place.  He was inducedl, however,
apparently as a last hope on the part of his friends, to
consult Dr. Stewart; but no aid from man was now
possible, and he returned to Glasgow, to the hlouse of
the disciple with whoum lie had taken up his abode.
In a few days more, there was no further strength left
to him; and he was obliged at last to take to his bed,
from which he never arose.  The medical attendant
who was called in recoginised the fatal sign with only
too vivid distinctness; and the patient himself admitted that, to all tiuman appearance, the hand of




Tlie closing Scene.         289
death was upon him. But he never seemed to doubt
that he should be raised up, even from beneath the
very hand of death itself, to do the work which he
believed was appointed for him.
Sometimes his friends had a gleam of hope, as the
worst symptoms seemed to relax a little; but these
proved to be only the delusive flickerings of the disease-the fever of consumption still raged on. On the
Thursday before he died, he began to wander. Up to
this point, Ilr. Taylor, in whose house he was, believed
that he would certainly recover; " his wife," we are
told, " never had a doubt of it:" but now even they
could deceive themselves no longer. Yet the wanderings of his delirium were such as became his life, and
showed that the current of his thoughts was to holy
things; they were earnest exhortations, heartfelt
prayers. He fancied, moreover, that he was with the
weakl and suffering of his flock; and made allusions to
their special difficulties, which his wife, who knew the
circumstances, was partly able to explain.  Once he
broke out into the strange utterances of what, to the
majority of the bystanders, was an unknown tongue.
" Jehovah rohi loa ahesar," were the words, which
Dr. 3Martyn, who was near the bed, at once recognised: this time, no broken English sounds, spoken
under the influence of excitement; no unkllnown
tongue, which, as a testimony vouchsafed to one
who was worthy, was to usher in a new revelation;
but yet most truly words of the Spirit, comforting a
T




290    L'yfe of Edwcard ]I)virg, thle Enthusiast.
dying soul.  They were tile original H-Iebrew of "1 The
Lord is imy Shepherd; I shall not wvant."  And as he
went on, speaking more clearly, under the influence
of the consoling words, his watcher joined in with the
dying man, as he uttered,' Though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me," —that ancient
oracle, which cheered them both.  As he grew more
feeble, he seemed as if arguing with himself the
question of his own death, which, even in t~he mlidst
of his delirium, he knew to be drawing near.  At
length it appeared as though this weighty argument
had come to a sufficient conclusion; and the last
audible words he uttered were, "c If I die, I die unto
thile Lord.  Amen."  Then,  as tihe evening of the
Lord's Dav drew on hlie sank to that rest for which
he had so ardently longed, —that rest of which he
had vainly sought to obtain a glimpse here,-but
which nevertheless,emainzeth for the people of God.
He was buried in the crypt of Glasgow Cathedral;
eand most of the clergy of the city, and a great concourse of devout and earnest men, —who, while they
could not but doubt of the soundness of his faith,
could not but admire the holiness of the man, —followed him to his grave; and all voices united to proclaim over him~, " Blessed are the dead which die in
the Lord."'  If he were deceived, it was his reason,
not his heart; if he erred, it was his understanding,
not his will,  Others might- have their spiritual mani



altse of his E ror.            291
festations, and, with a faith largely compounded of
self-conceit, might put a blind confidence in their
own utterances; but this noble character was of such
revelations never found " worthy."
How, it may be asked, did so good a man come
to be so deceivedl and to propagate his error?  The
answer is not far to seek.  It was another form  of
that same desire for a visible manifestation, whi-lch has
done so much mischief in the Church; and, however like faith such an expectation may seem, it is
really subversive of all faith, and substitutes something
quite different, and even alien from it.  It is only a
very superficial reading of the New Testament which
can induce us to believe that in tlie early Church
itself miraculous gifts were ever more than a sign,
altogether occasional in their character.  If men lhadl
a prophet to whom they might appeal in all cases of
difficulty, they need no longer search the Scripturesthey need no longer exercise faith by remaining in a
state of anxious expectation; tlhey would then be able,
to all intents and purposes, to see.  The invisible
would become thus, in effect, if not actually, visible,
and the veil which now lides it would be taken away.
But this is imlpossible; and the most keen-sighted fith
of mortal man never can penetrate the veil,-" No man
can see His face, and live:" all that can be hoped for,
expected, desired, is the Spirit of God in men's hearts.
And this is enough.  If there were more than this,if the Church were visibly directed by the external




292   Life of Edw(1vard Irving, the EYnthusicast.
manifestations of an infallible Spirit,-if, by any
methods or any gifts, the invisible world could be
made so tangible that men could, as it were, with
their bodily senses discern it,-then walking by faith
would become impossible, men would see with their
eyes, and the Apostle's words-his, be it recollected,
who saw deepest-could not be applied: A It doth
not yet appear what we shall be; but when He shall
appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as
He is."




HENRY 3MARTYN
AND
CHARLES FREDERICK MACKENZIE,
THE MARTYR MIISSIONARIES.
Faithl loving not Life unto Death.
"For ever with the Lord, —
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,-'Tis immortality."
IMONTGOBIERY.








LI VES OF HEYNR Y IAR T YYN
AND
CIIARLES RWE DERICIf JA CI ENZIEl
THE MART'YR MISSIONARIES.
ENHRY  M1[ARTYN was born at Truro, in
Cornwall, on February 18-th, 1781.  His
father, John  Iartyn, was a miner at
Gwenap, who, with no more education
than  such as a country readingl   - school afforded,
nevertheless, by persevering diligence, raised himself
from  his humble position  to be chief clerk in the
house of Mr. Daniel, a merchant of Truro wVhere he
enjoyed a tolerable coumpetency.
At thle age of seven, Henry was sent to the
granmmar-school in Truro.  Hiere his talent gave promise of future eminence; nevertheless, lie was somewhat idle. His temper, though generally cheer-ful, was




296           Life of Henry Ma~rtyn.
sometimes apt to be peevish and irascible.  This no
doubt arose partly from feeble health; for he was
never very strong.  He had not attained his fifteenth
year, when he was considered sufficiently advanced to
compete for a scholarship at Corpus-Christi College,
Oxford. This scholarship lie did not obtain, although
approaching very closely in merit to the successful
candidate.  Induced by the desire of being near a
valued school-friend, he ultimately entered at Cambridge, and commenced to reside at St. John's College in October 1797. Up to this period, he not only
had not displayed any special mathematical talent, butwvhat, considering the eminence he afterwards attained,
is still more remarkable-he even showed a dislike of
mathematical investigation. He confesses, also, that he
was not as industrious in his first term as he ought
to have been: yet he attained to the position of
second in the first class of his college examination.
At this time, also, though a well-conducted and dili-;gent student, he was not at all religious.  His old
school-friend, and a sister, were able to exert a
salutary influence upon him, and he promised the
latter that at Cambridge he would study the Bible;
but, as lhe confesses, Newton engaged all his thoughts.
The sudden death of his father was that which
gave the first impulse towards the higher life. Under
the impression produced by this great sorrow, he
began to read the Bible-at first, because religion
was suitable to such a solemn time, and withoutl




Senior TWV!cnler.             297
any vivid interest in, or deep consolation from, it; but
after a short time his understanding was opened,
and he wrote to his sister, telling her of the change
that had come over him, and thus cheering her in
the niidst of her sorrow with these glad tidings.
He soon became a diligenlt and earnest attendant
at Trinity Church, and his acquaintance with Simeon
in no small degree tended to his advancement in
the knowledge of divine things.  It is especially
to be observecd thlat as Miartyn grew  in  grace,
so also did he work at his studies more industriously, especially did he give himself up to mlathematics, and ultimately obtained the first place in
mathematical honours, —or, as it is termed at Cambridge, became senior wrangler.  He was elected
fellow of St. John's College in ]March 1802, thus
attaining to a position both of usefulness and comfort, and one especially agreeable to one to whom
the delights of literary study and intellectual companionship were peculiarly congenial.
But thus early, when the sweets of such1 a life
were in their first delightfulness, he had made up his
mind to forsake all for Christ's sake and the Gospel;
he determined to become a Christian missionary.
The immediate cause of this determination was a
remark of Simeon's on the benefit which had resulted
from  the services of a single missionary in India.
But it was not without a strong conflict with himself that he could come to such a resolution.  He




298           L~je oHre Tery llic ioyl.
was a man of deep affections; few could exceed him
in love for friends and oulntry.  H-Iis own health was
not strong; and so many of his family were delicate,
that to leave them was almost certainly to bid them
farewell for ever in this life.  HIe knew, thllt he
was forsaking all to follow  Christ; and writl this
purpose in his heart, he offered himself to the Society
for Missions to Africa and the East, ready to go
whithersoever they might send him.
Yet the real state of his mind, as evidenced in a
letter to his sister, was not what some miight deenm
likely as a moving cause for so great a sacrifice.  It
was not a highly wroughllt zeal, -which surrounded
the work h1e meditated with a lhalo of glory, concealicng the real difficulties and self-denials he would
have to encounter.  On the contrary, he speaks
rather of dejection and despondeney,-to one not
strong very natural,-and of the recoil from  tlie
roughness of such a life.  Hle writes thus: "The
dejection I soinetimes labour under seems not to arise
from  doubts of my acceptance with God, thouigh
it tends to produce them, nor from  desponding
views of my owin backwardness in the divine life,for I am  more prone to self-dependence and conceit,-but from the prospect of the difficulties I have
to encounter in the -wvhole of my future life.  The
thought that I must be unceasingly employed in the
same kind of work, amongst poor, ignorant people,
is what my proud spirit revolts at.  To be obliged to




.Delermzzioes to foscake all.    2 99
submit to a thousand uncomlfl0ortable t-ing's tChat must
happen to me, whether as a minister or missionary,
is what flesh cannot endure.  At these times, I feel
neither love to God nor love to man; and, in proportion as these graces of the spirit languish, my besettingn sils  pride and discontent, and unwillinlness
for every duty —make me miserable."
On 3MIonday, Oct. 22, 1803, IMartyn was ordained
deacon, and conmmenced to labour as a minister of
the Gospel in Trinity Churcl, C-ambridcle, as the
curate of 11r. Simeon; undertaking, likewise, tle
charge of the parish of Lolworth —a small village, at
no great distance from  the university.  The burdelns
and difficulties of his work lay heavily on his spirit;
he even complains that want of' private devotionai
reading, and shortness of prayer, tlhrough incessant
sermon-making, had  produced  much  strangeness
between God and his soul.  Yet his ministry was
most earnest and diligent-as, indeed, how should it
be otherwise?-for he gsave himself wholly to the work.
HIis success, however, as a preacher, w-as not great;
his delivery was bad, and there was a defect in his
enunciation.  He complains, in the course of his
journal, how often his preaching met with opposition,
especially from  amongst the sailors and offiers on
board the ship in which lie sailed to Indi, and laments this.  Yet no one who reads this journal can
fail to perceive how thoroughly he is penetrated with
the desire to save souls, accomnpanied with the deepest




300           Life of Henry IcMarzgyn.
appreciation of his own unworthiness. But this appears
very plainly: he was, perhaps in consequence of
his feeble health, desponding; and, self-conscious,
he often records the ebb and flow of his religious
experiences with a minuteness which is even painful,
and which, it appears, did not always conduce to his
religious peace.  But in this very tthing we have
another instance of the power of grace, which mlodifies and subdues the natural disposition by its sanctifyingr influence, but does not change it in such a sense as
would imply another character altogether.
In the early part of the year 1804, [Martyn
unexpectedly lost his small patrimony; his youngest
sister being involved in the same misfortune.  This
seemed to put an end, for the time, to his missionary
aspirations; for he rightly considered that he ought
not to leave his sister in distress.  The interval of
suspense which thus elapsed was employed in the
most self- devoted and earnest ministrations in his
Cambridge sphere, until the way to the missionary
work again opened in an appointment to a chaplaincy
under the East-India Company.  At this time he
visited Cornwall, with the feeling that he should see
it and his friends there no more.  He had become
deeply attached to a young lady in Cornwall: this
attachment he did not think he ought to declare;
but it gives us some idea of the sacrifice he was
making, when we find him writing in his journal
thus: b"Parted with L-       for ever in this life,




_ieaves  nygland.            301
with a sort of uncertain pain, which I knew would
increase to greater violence."  And so it did: his
mental agony on the evening of that day, and many
succeeding days, was very great; but he was not deterred from his purpose.  I-te bade themn all at home
farewell, and went forth to the service fiom which
he never returned.
He spent the interval between this visit and the
time he actually sailed at Cambridge, absorbed in his
pastoral and college duties.  Towards the end of
January, he received a summons to leave England
in ten days; but it was necessary that lie should be
in priests' orders. This gave him a short respite. He
was ordained priest in St. James's Chapel, London,
in March; and on April 3d lie preached his farewell
sermon at Cambridge.  The remainder of his time iIn
England was spent in acquiring Hindostanee-a most
necessary qualification for one who was to be an Indian
missionary. Ie-I joined his ship at Portsmouth, which
sailed 17th July 1805, in company with a large fleet,
ncder the command of Captain Byng.  The fleet put
in at Fahnouth; and thus M3artyn found himself unexpectedly once more amongst his friends.  He still,
however, held firm  in his determination, notwithstanding that he was summoned by an order to sail
from the very side of his loved one. He left instantly;
and in four hours he was under sail from England.
The fleet made little progress during the night; and
the next day the coast of Cornwall was still visible. On




302           Lif, of Heny Matyz.
Sunday, August 11  with the Miount and St. HTi!ary's
spire still above the horizon, he preachedl on the text:
" But now they desire a better country, that is, an
heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called
their God: for He hath prepared for them  a city"
(Heb. xi. 16).  At last, England disappeared; " and
wNit"hll it," he writes, " all my peace.  The pains of
memory were all I felt. Would I go back? Oh, no!
But how can I be supported?   ly faith fails: I amn
weak as water." Thus we perceive how great was the
sacrifice.
iartvn made efforts to induce those on board to
listen to his message of salvation, with no very marked
success.  The creyw, both men and officers, were careless and indifferent; but he comforted himself with
the thought that thus he was beoinninog his missionary
-wvork. Yet it is possible that his own very earnestness
v4Tas somethino in fault.  He could make,and had
made, great sacrifices for the truth's sake; yet it may
well be, on this very account, that he was unable to
enter into the wants of weaker souls: and hence it might
have seemed-suLch could not really have been the fact
-that his preachiug vwas deficient in love.  We shall
see that a brother in the work, who went on the same
errand of salvation, wol over, by kindliness of manner
and personal service, the whole ship's company witlh
which he sailed.  Yet he lacked that strong, persistent
zeal which Martyn possessed, and was, as he confesses,
too much, as M[artyn appears to have been too little,




Citplain act bDi2wpore..303
influenced by his companions. But the contrast is remarkable: it sh1ows how great is the power of grace.
On his arrival at the Cape, he witnessed a battle.
Here, on the field and in the hospital, he was able to
speak to the wounded and dying his glorious message.
At length, after a voyag-,e which had endured for
above nine mlonths his ship anchoredl in Madras
Roads, at sunrise, April 22cl; and on the 14th of
Mlay his long and wearisome journey concluded, and
he arrived in the country whIich was to be the scene
of his -iluture labours.
MBartyn was appoin-ted chaplain at Dinapore. Here
he set himself to establishl native schools, to attain
such a knowledge of Hindostanee as to enable bim to
preach in that language, and to prepare translations
and tracts Jfor dispersion amongst the people.  He
accordingly devoted himself to this workl with all his
might; and as Sanscrit forms a kind of parent language to these Oriental tongues, he entered also upon
that most difficult of all grammars.  He bad also his
duties as chaplain to the Europeans.  At first he was
received with almost chilling coldness.  Offence was
taken at his fervid style of preaching, which was
without book; and his flock intimated that they should
prefer written compositions.  WVith this request he
complied; for, he said, he would give them  a folio
sermon-book, if they would receive the word of God
on that account.  We neecl not wonder, however,
that M-Lartyn's plans for the evangelisation of the




304            Life of Henry lfctrtyn?.
heathen were coldly received by the Europeans; for
if his master, Simeon, was unpopular at home, the
disciple could hardly be expected to meet with much
better treatment abroad.  Nevertheless, his earnestness gathered round him a few souls from among his
own people, like-minded with himself. He never appears, however, to have obtained any great success
either with the natives or the Europeans.  His real
talent was that of a linguist and scholar; and in this he
found at once his greatest happiness and usefulness.
As a translator, he was eminently successful; the
occupation was delightful to him.  " The time fled
so imperceptibly," he says,' while delightfully engaged in translations; the days seem to have passed
like a moment."
While deeply occupied in this work, the tidings
came to him of the death of his eldest sister.  He had
already had intimations that her health was failing,
so that the blow was thus lightened; yet the affliction
to his loving and sensitive nature was very great;
but, characteristically, lie found in the translation
of tle Scriptures into Hindostanee at once his distraction and his solace. At this time, also, he was
solicited to remove from Calcutta; but the comparative solitude and repose of Dinapore, as compared
with a charge in the metropolis of India, induced
him to decline the offer, that thus he might have more
leisure for his work of translation.  He was not disappointed. At this place he completed his version of




JoumlZ1ey to Sidraz.         305
the New Testament in Hindostanee-only, however,
to undertake or superintend others in Arabic and
Persian, and to study still more closely the sacred
original.
About this time he was removed to Cawnpore, a
name since familiar to every European.  Here, however, his health began seriously to fail; and it was
suggested that he should travel into Arabia and Persia,
resting from his ministerial labours, so that thus his
strength might be restored, and, at thle same time, his
knowledge of both Arabic and Persian be improved,
and further, that the versions in these languageswhich were deemed not altogether suitable for general
distribution-mlight be rendered more idiomatic and
intelligible to the mass of the people. While at Cawnpore, he heard of the death of his youngest sister; so
that he was now almost without a relative in the world.
Thus, with all that was dear to him gone before, he
prepared to take that last journey of his life, which
ended in his death amongst strangers, in a strange
land.
The journey which he made to Shiraz is an interesting record of new scenes and discussions with the
different sects of Mahometans he encountered on
his journey.  No sooner had he reached Shirazthe celebrated seat of Persian literature-than he
began at once on his work of translation.  At Shiraz
he continued a year, when at length he pronounced the
word "; home," and set his face toward England. He
L'




306           Life of Henry lflartyn.
was to journey through Constantinople; and then, as
it was hoped, having recruited his health in his native
country, return again to his labours in India.  Not
only was the journey wearisome, but Martyn's health
became very feeble,and he suffered much from fever.
He travelled on, however, to reach Tocat, where the
plague was raging; and died either of the fever or the
plague,-it is hardly known which,-on  the 16th
October 1812, in the thirty-second year of his age.
His life is justly regarded as a signal instance of
Christian heroism. He gave np literally all for Christ;
and, moreover, the sacrifice produced, to all appearance, very trifling immediate results.  Other far inferior men than he have apparently done very much
more thlan he was enabled to- do for the cause of the
Gospel. He did not win many converts; his discussions
had no very great influence in leading his Mahometan
opponents to a better knowlelge; his success as a
preacher was but small; his chief works were his
translations.  Part of the Liturgy, the Parables, and
the whole of the New Testament, were translated into
Hindostanee, a language intelligible to many millions,
from Dellhi to Cape Cormorin.  By him, or through
his means, the Psalms and the New Testament were
translated into vernacular Persian. These labours are
but the promise of what he might have done, had his
life been spared to the service of God's Church.  His,
then, is a life which is a failure or a success, according
to the side on which it is viewed: a failure, regarded




Ai,'issioncay Ejfort.         307
from the worldly side,-for but little was accomplished;
a success, from  the spiritual side,-for few meln of
modern times have walked more closely with God, or
have given theimselves up more unreservedly to His
service.  The Church needs martyrs: she must have
continually before her those who are ready to surrender their lives for Christ; and at no time of the
Church's history, perhaps, has it been more necessary
that this should be set before her than at this present.
]Missionary effort is wont to be judged by the number
of converts made in a given time: a false estimate.
What is really needed is a demonstration of the
reality and the certainty of the higher life.  In these
last ages, devotion must play the part that miracle accomplished in the early Church.  The martyrdom  of
St. Stephen was quite as effective towards the spread of
the Gospel as the miracle of St. Paul.  And so, also,
the lives of such men as Martyn and Mackenzie
demonstrate, to an age which worships the material
and the sensible, the power and presence of tlo
invisible.




308     Life of Cliarles Frederick Miacken1Zie.
CHARLES  FREDERICK MACKENZIE was born at
Harcus Cottage, Portmore, Peebleshire, on the 10th
of April 1825.  I-e was the youngest of six brothers
and five sisters who survived the time of his birth. At
five years old, he was left an orphan; and his education devolved to a considerable extent upon his eldest
sister. His biography records very little of this godly
woman; but her good name, like precious ointment,
betrays itself in the course of the history; and we
discover that to her judicious training and loving
sisterly care was due, under God, that high, earnest
spirit which manifests itself in his after life. It is her
spirit which lives in her brother, and incites him to
deeds of Christian heroism.
On the death of his father, the family removed to
Edinburgh; and here the education of Charles was
carried on regularly till 1840 —first in a private
school, then in all academy.  As a schoolboy, he was
not noted for any particular cleverness, but rather
for great conscientiousness and simplicity of character.
When quite a childl, he had displayed some powers of
calculation; and generally he succeeded best in his
arithmetic.  As he grew  older, his mathematical
tastes developed.  In classics he was never ver3y
forward; nor had he much power of learning languages. Nevertheless, when quite a lad, he made
some little progress in Hebrew,-probably more with




MIackenzie at Cambride.        309
the view of entering holy orders than from any love of
the study; for from an early age he had determined to
devote himself to the ministry.
His mathematical talent indicated Cambridge as
a suitable destination; and in the year 1844 he
came into residence as a pensioner of St. John's
College.  His Scotch origin was at that time an
obstacle to his advancement at St. John's College.
Restrictions as to birthplace and country, the relics
of a very different state of things, existing ages ago,
-restrictions which, during the last few years, have
altogether been removed,-would have prevented his
obtaining a fellowship at St. John's College.. He
accordingly "'migrated" to Caius College. A man
who migrates into a college, especially if likely to
distinguish himself, is often looked upon with a little
jealousy by those already entered as members, because
their chance of success is thus diminished by the competition of a stranger; but Mackenzie rapidly became
a favourite in his college-as he deserved to be.
At Cambridge, Mackenzie was a sample of the
genial and religious reading man.  His chief occupation as an undergraduate was, as it ought to
have been, his mathematical studies; but he was
ready to take part in good works, so far as his
time allowed.  He accordingly, with the assistance
of one of the Cambridge clergy, visited in the Victoria Asylum, — an  almshouse for old men and
women, —to the inmates of which he used to read




310     Life of Caulares Frederick M1cktckenzie.
the Scriptures.  L-Ie thus describes his first visit, in a
letter to his eldest sister: " I had spent some hours
in preparation, before going there, on the two previous days, and on the Sunday itself; but when
I got there, though the number was small, in consequence  of all that could get to church having
gone there for the sacrament, yet I got quite red in
the face; and, after reading the chapter (John xiv.),
I went over it again, throwing in a few remarlks
where I could.  Then we knelt down, and we read
some of the collects and prayers from  the Prayerbook.  On the w'hole, I should have felt perfectly
miserable, if I had not remembered that, lame and
wretched as my endeavour had been, it was better
than nothing; for I had read the words of the Bible,
and used the prayers of holy men; and that, if I had
not gone, no one else would; so that I was not stepping
in any one's way."  This inducement, that no one else
woldcl, was that which prevailed with him to undertake his missionary work afterwards.  It is quite expressive of the character of the man.  In his case,
it was no overwrought and burning zeal, or, still
less, confidence in his own sufficiency, which made
him  take the lead.  If, when the question was proposed,'  1 Whom  shall we send, and who shall go for
us?"' he answered, H[-ere am  I-send me," it was
neither rashness nor self-sufficiency which prompted
him, but only because other labourers in the Lord's
vineyard could not be found.




His religious Life.           311
In January 1848, Mackenzie took his degree.
UIis place was second wrangler.  He failed, however, in obtaining that second honour, so prized of
Cambridge mathema ticians, the Smith's Prize, which
was adjudged to the fourth wrangler, Mr. Barry.
With this amount of success he was well satisfied;
and the more so, as Barry was a personal friend,
and the marks were nearly equal.  Mackenzie had
left Cambridge before the result of this last examination had been declared.  He asked a friend to telegraph this result to York, at which place he was to
call for the message.  The papers of himself and his
rival were so nearly of equal merit, that the examiners took additional time to decide; and he received
at York this message from his undergraduate friend,
who seems to have no doubt that Mackenzie ought to
have had the prize: I The muffs have taken time to
decide. Keep your tail up!" Thetelegraph-clerk could
not understanld the meaning of the strangre document;
but Maclienzie assured him that it was quite intelligible
to him. The account one of his contemporaries gives of
him at this time of his life is~, " that, though a religious
nlanu and thoughl the groundwork of a true character
was discoverable in his childlike simplicity, honesty,
and kindness of heart, yet his religion did not at that
time shine out with that clearness which was afterwards observable, or apparently influence his life in
a marked and predominate manner."  On the other
hand, his letters to his sister, to whom he writes in




312    Life of Charles Frlederick Mackenzie.
all the unreservedness of brotherly affection, show
what spirit he was of, —and these discover to us
that devotion to the service of God was the chief,
thle uppermost motive of his soul. Yet the earnestness of his character may well have been somewhat
concealed by his very gentleness.  Kind - hearted,
he would seldom provoke opposition; unassuming,
he would keep naturally in the backgroundl, if opposition arose. Very likely a more direct religious tone
might have been desirable in his words; but his life
was eloquent. " It was," says one who knew him intimately, "I scarcely possible to be in his society without
coming to the conclusion that he had found out the
secret of life, and that it would be well to be like him."
After taking his degree, ~Mackenzie became a fellow of his college; and made up his income, as is
usual at Cambridge, by taking private pupils. His
destination was, in his own mind, holy orders; and
for this he diligently prepared himself. Accordingly,
as a layman, he took part in such works of benevolence
as were likely to give him an insight into what was
to be his future duty.  Thus, he undertook the management of a Sunday-school, he was active in the
working of the Cambridge Mendicity Society, was
secretary of the Cambridge Board of Education, and
helped to carry on the Industrial School.  He was
not very methodical; and his friends used to tell him
that, amidst these many occupations, he had the
facility of getting into " gigantic messes."  Never



Ordination.               313
tlleless, by dint of earnestness and good humour, he
generally contrived to extricate himself from these
messes," and made a most efficient fellow-helper,
seldom  failing to accomplish somehow what he had
promised to do. At thle same time, he was diligent
in those special studies which should engage one who
was preparing for the ministry,-especially, it appears,
Hebrew and the Greek Testament.  His life at Cambridge was, like so many useful lives, uneventful.
He took considerable pains to obtain an influence
over the undergraduates: he was a diligent college
lecturer, a careful private tutor, a good oar in the
college boat, and a good bat in the cricket-field.
And the example of this simple life-of one who joined
in the sports of his juniors, a mentor but little older
than themselves, kind and genial, as well as religious
-ldisplayed and communicated good to all around.
In the year 1851, he was ordained deacon at the
Trinity-Sunday ordination by the Bishop of Ely. No
great and marked change was made in his life by this
event, save only that as, when a lay fellow of his
college, he had endeavoured to set an example to his
lay brethren, so now, as a clergyman, did he purpose that his college should be, for the present, his
parish, and that he would especially seek to do God's
work in it.  He soon, however, felt a desire for more
direct ministerial employment; and, on an assistantcuracy offering at Haslingfield,  a village near CaLnbridgoe,-and which yet did not take him away from




314    LLife of ClhcMrles Frederick MfackenziC.
his college-workl  -he accepted the offer; and used to
walk five and a half miles out andcl home every Sunday, finding, as might be expected, college and parish
workl combined very heavy indeed.  He says, in a
letter to his sister:   I have been reading Evans's.Bisliopric of Souls. He has given me a great longing
for a country parish, and nothing else to do; but I
believe I am more useful as I am.n"  Thel parish-work
was accompanied with a great deal of university-work.
Maeckenzie was successively Examiner, and then twice
Moderator, in the great mathematical examination of
Cambridge. To fulfil these important offices is a high
honour, but also a heavy charge.  The preparation of
the questions for this examination is only intrusted
to men of high mathematical standing, and requires
much pains and a long preparation.  The senior
Moderator, as he is called at Cambridge,  is the
head of a board of examliners, consisting of four
persons; and on him, above his colleagues, devolve
special responsibilities in conducting an examination
which endures for a week, and at which considerably over a hundred of the most diligent students
are examined.  Even MIackenzie, with his love of
being useful, and his elastic spirit, was almnost appalled
by such a work.  He writes to his sister, almost four
moilths before the examination:;" Then I never forget
that I have problems to make for January;" and he
complains to her that his parish has suffered in consequence.  On the 19th of September 1852, he was




Offers hlimself for the tWor7k.    315
ordained priest. No special reference is found in his
letters to this event. A probable reason of this silence
is that' as he went home almost immediately a-fterwards, he communicated with his beloved sister, face
to face, his aspirations, hopes, and fears.
In 18539 IMs duties as Mloderator took up so nmuch
timne, tlat he wisely obtained help for his parish; and
the Rev. W. Hutt, of Caius College, undertook his
duties, and, on his leavin(g England, became his successor.  Soon after his examination-work was completed, his thouglhts began to turn to that missionfield in which lie was to make his fame and lose his
life.  The immediate occasion of this was the Delhi
mission.  The Rev. J. S. Jackson, also a member of
Caius College, and three years his junior, was the
first missionary.  Jackson came to his own college
ill hopes to find there, if possible, one who would go
out withl him as a fellow-helper; and the example of
his devotion caused Mackenzie to reflect whether ihe
too might not offer himself.  He discusses the point
in a letter to his sister, describing how he "; broached
the matter to Jackson, and found him not indisposed
to have himself as a companion."  He observes, that
many were ready to say to him,  I; I wish I could filld
some one else to go with youn' but did not offer to go
themselves." Mackenzie also considered that he ought
hardly to say to the young men, "' You had better go
out to India,' when he was humgging himself in his
comfortable place at home."  Considerimg, then, the




316    /i/fe of Charles Frederick Mackenzie.
scarcity of labourers for this field of harvest, he
writes, in conclusion: " I took a long walk, and
thought it well over; and made up my mind that
God would approve of the change, that Christ would
approve, that the Holy Spirit would help me in it.  I
thought my dear mother would have smiled through
her tears at the plan, if she had still lived; and that
she would now rejoice without grief.  I thought you
would give me your solid and sober judgment upon
it, and I thought your judgment would be in favour."
And then, after some other points relative to his successor at Caius, and the way in which means might
be provided for the work, and other topics, he adds, as
reasons against the plan-: " I freely confess I can see
nothing against it except my own unfitness.  I am
rather afraid of my own instability and want of method
and perseverance, habits which have been increasing
with me of late.  I am rather afraid of their injuring
the cause I am going to undertake." Now, surely
nothing can be more in accordance with true Christian humility than this letter, intended, be it observed,
for no other eyes than those of the sister to whom it
is addressed; for he bids her keep his counsel. He
is ready to go as the second to a man three years his
junior, and sees no objection but his own unfitness.
He is ready, moreover, to offer himself, because others,
whom he thinks more worthy, would not volunteer. On
this occasion, however, the result was that he did not go
to India. His friends were averse to the plan, not be



Ofer' of the Bishlop of Nfatal.  317
cause they thought him unfit, but because they considered that he was so useful in his college life and work
thathe couldnotwvellbe spared. Anotherwas ultimately
found who went out in the place which he had wished
to occupy, and who died a martyr; for he was murdered at Delhi during the Indian mutiny. Mackenzie
returned to his useful, unobtrusive employments at
the university; but he did not give up tile idea of
missionary work, when he should be more easily
spared, and a more suitable post be found for him.
November 30, St. Andrew's Day, 1853, proved in
more ways than one to be a memorable day in the
history of the Church of England.  On that day were
consecrated, in the parish-church at Lambeth, the first
Bishops of Graham's Town and Natal.  The Bishops
of Cape Town and New Zealand had just returned to
England, and both set forth the claims of their vast
dioceses. The latter especially received a warm response in Cambridge, his own university; and his
eloquent and heart-stirring addresses, as well as his
noble example, moved many hearts to help in the
great work.  Bishop Colenso went out to Natal, and,
after a short sojourn there of ten weeks, returned, in
order to collect funds, and make arrangements for the
extension of the mission-work in that diocese.  The
Bishop of Natal-himself a member of St. John's
College, and who had obtained in his day the same
high mathematical honours as Mackenzie possessed —
proposed to the latter to go out with him as arch



318    Life of Chlcarles Frederick Mackenzie.
deacon.  This offer Iaacklenzie at first declined, apparently in deference to the wishes of his family; but,
having heard Bishop Selwyn's discourses in the university pulpit, setting forth the great need there
was of men ready to undertake the work of evangelisation in the colonies, he reconsidered his determination, and accepted the offer.  It was an act of
self-sacrifice. If he had thought of mere worldly
advancement, his high position at the university, had
he elected to remain there, would probably have led to
all he could desire.  But none of these things moved
him; neither counted he his life dear unto himself, that
he for Christ's sake might preach the Gospel of the
gr-ace of God, and that not with any high-flown zeal
oand enthusiasm, or any feeling of self-sufficiency, as
thoufh ho would do the work better than others, but
simply because labourers were needed for the harvest,
and no one else seemed ready to go.
On  i[ay 7th, 1855, the missionary party sailed,
and met with little adventure, except that we find
thle Venerable Archdeacon, who, though  sea-sick
himself, has fortunately no headache, waiting upon
the steerage-passenogers, who, very sea-sick, had both
heartache and headache.  For these he makes arrowroot, and to these administers brandy and raspberryvinegar, and other little comforts, very refreshing
to sea-sick passengers; and by this means establishes-and no wonder-a very friendly feeling between the diferent parts of the ship.  There was on




2finist'y at Dulrbian.        319
board a daily service morning and evening; this,
with reading the Scriptures, and working at the Zulu
language, formed the day's operations —very uneventful, almost commonplace, and yet how truly
apostolic and useful!  On May 20th, they were in
sight of land; and, after a most prosperous and
hap1PY  passage of seventy days, the missionary party
landed in the colony.  His sister, who took part in
his noble work, writing home an account of her brother, thus describes him:  H IHe is the life of the party,
the sunshine of the steerage, and the director of every
thing, from the boxes in the hold to the preaching
and teaching of all on board."
Mackenzie hIrad come out with the idea of being a
missionary. It was judged, however, desirable that he
should, at any rate for the present, settle down as
the parish-priest of the colonial town of Durban;
which, though against his own feeling and judgment, he did in deference to the wishes of his ecclesiastical superiors. It seemed to his' friends almost
like a waste of power to take him from the general
missionary work of the colony, and set him down as
the mere parish-priest of an inconsiderable whito
population.  His ministrations at Durban were apparently the least useful and successful of any.  It
was the bishop's wish to introduce the offertory, and
also the surplice for preaching; though he did not
authoritatively enjoin these observances.  Mackenzie,
on mentioning to one: of the churchwardens what was




320     Life of Charles Frederick Macke?:ie.
proposed, received as a reply: "You do not know
what a storm you will raise.  I, for my part, cannot
collect the offertory in defiance of the feelings of the
people."   Of course, the usual results followed; the
soul of this good, kind man was vexed with a squabble
-for, after all, it was nothing better-about a mere.
matter of ecclesiastical routine; and concession on
2Mackenzie's part, peacemaker though he were, failed
to soothe the rancour of the controversy. His ministry
in Durban continued a year anlid a half, d-uring which
time his life was embittered by the dissensions created,
and the troubles connected with them.  It is but just,
however, to both parties to say that, on Mackenzie's
return to Durban at a subsequent period, he was welcomed by all with the heartiness due to his simple
and truly liberal-minded Christianity.
In 1857, Mackenzie entered on another sphere
of work; this was the district of Umhlali. lHere he
was joined by another sister, Miss Alice Mackenzie,
who was a great addition to the strength of the party;
with great zeal and considerable success giving herself up to the missionary work amongst the natives.
He used playfully to call her, from the interest she
took in the native race, his 1"black sister."  Their
life here was both happy and useful.  They were,
indeed, far away from European luxuries, and fared,
considering that they had been used to all the appliances and comforts of an English home, somewhat
hardly.  But these were  only light self-denials.




A liard Stnmday.             321
Mackenzie himself workecl with apostolic diligence.
A sketch of a Sunday's occupation, communicated in a
letter by his sister, will illustrate this.  She writes:
"His Sunday labours are very intense.   He has
short, early Kaffir prayers, then breaklfast at half-past
sevenl, full service at the camp for the soldiers at
nine-it is about two miles off. As soon as he comes
back, the congregation is assembling here, and his
horse is saddled for him to mount as soon as tile service is over.  He has another service at Mount Moreland, about sixteen miles off, at three p.m. In coming
here, he showed us the spot where his horse always
knows that he may walk instead of trotting, to allow
him to eat his dinner of sandwiches.  The ride in
the sun  is very knocking  up both for him  and
his horse.  He told us he was in similar circumstances to Elijah, as the brook he used to drink from
is now dried up. His horse is again ready for him
when this service is over, and he rides to Verulameither four or six miles, I forget which-where he
has service at six p.m. in Mr. —'s house. He goes
to sup with a kind Dutch lady, and spends the night
with Mr. —....  He tells us that he may not always return home till Tuesday, but do parish-visiting
work at that end of his parish." A very tolerable
Sunday's work, surely; and this was relieved on weekdays with schools for the children, both white and
black, and popular lectures to the soldiers.  The
ladies of the family were as diligent as their brother,




322     Life of Cliarles Frederick Mackmezie.
and loved their work.' Is not this," writes a sister,
"a happy life?"   Truly, for it is more blessed to
give than to receive.  And, in this continual round
of Christian usefulness, the days and weeks passed
rapidly away.
Yet even this happy time was not without its trials.
His eldest sister was in failing health, and not expected to live; and the February mail, 1859, brought the
intelligence of her death.  But though the missionary
family sorrowed, it was with a chastened grief.  They
felt the parting was a short one; as, indeed in Miackenzie's own case, it proved to be but very short.
And so they lived on in undiminished faith  and
patience, and in increasilng usefulness.
Notwithstanding Mackenzie's great and incessant
labours, he was never seriously ill.  Once, indeed, a
sunstroke seemed to threaten; but timely rest recovered him in a few hours, and the weakness subsided in a week or two, leaving him able, at the end
of the time, to continue his work as before.
In April, rather unexpectedly, it was arranged
that he should return to England; and accordinglly
he arrived in July 1859.
England had just been startled and delighted with
an account of the wonderful discovery of Livincstone,
resulting in the solution of that long-sought mysteiry,
the sources of the Nile.  But Livarigstone was a
missionary; and he desired to make his discovery
subordinate to the great cause he had at heart, the




The I Missionary" Bishop.        323
cvangelisation of the country he had so wonderfully
opened up.  HTimself a Scotchman and a Presbyterian, he was liberal enough to rise superior to all
narrow provincial or sectarian jealousy, and dcletermined to appeal for help to the Universities of Oxford
and Cambridge.
On December the 4th, 1857, Dr. Livingstone
appeared in the Senate-House at Cambridge, for the
purpose of giving a lecture on his travels; Dr. Philpott, thenvice-chancellor and Master of St. Catherine's
College, now Bishop of Worcester, in tlle chair. The
reception was enthusiastic.  The concluding words
of the lecturer were: " I go back to Africa to try to
make an open path for commerce and Christianity.
Do you carry out the workl I have begun; I leave it
with you."  The idea which resulted was a happy
one: it was to plant a mission in Central Africa, and
so dry up the slave-trade at its source, by the combined influences of Christianity and the development
of legitimate trade.  A society was formed in Cambridge to carry this idea into practice.  The cooperation of the sister university was soughlt, and most
heartily given; and so was commenced 11 The Oxfordand-Cambridge  Mission to Central Africa." In 1858,
the Bishop of Cape Town arrived in England, with
somewhat similar objects,-to find, however, that the
mission-scheme had already takeln shape; and then,
unexpectedly, Mackenzie appeared upon the scene,
his own intention being simply to pay a shorlt visit in




324    Life of Cliarles Frederick Mslfacke)lezie.
Englandl and either go to the Zulu country, or back
to Natal, as might afterwards be arranged.
We may turn aside here for a moment to observe, that Mackenzie showed the same kind-hearted
attention on the return voyage as on the way out.
The steamer WTaldensian, in which he journeyed, was
crowded, and the weather rough. An American
missionary, and his wife and six children, were all
ill; Mackenzie waited on them, and dressed the
little ones.  The troubles of another family were
further intensified by the confinement of the mother.
When her hour came, she said no one could be of
any comfort except the archdeacon; he went at once
to her bedside, prayed with her, and then went to
superintend the getting her boxes out of the hold.
A few days after, he baptised the infant by the name
of Charles Frederick Mackenzie, at the special request of the parents; himself and sister acting as
sponsors.
Mackenzie was requested to become head of the
new mission, and he accepted the office at once; but
he knew what acceptance of the offer involved -it
was nothing less than the probable sacrifice of his
own life.  It is also to be observed that, at the time
when the proposal was made, the question whether
the head of the mission should be a bishop or
not had not been decided, so that he was not moved
by prospects of ecclesiastical advancement,-thouglm,
if he had been, it would have been a noble ambi



Thle African Fever.           325
tioll,-for that any presbyter should desire the higher
office, is indeed to desire a " good work;" and, in
this particular instance, surely the good work had
very few extraneous recommendations. It was, however, at length decided that he should be consecrated
bishop; but, in consequence of certain legal considerations, this consecration was arranged to take
place in Cape Town: whither he proceeded, in company with Rev. J. L. Procter; Rev. H. C. Scudamore; Mr. Horace Waller, lay superintendent; S. A.
Gamble, a carpenter; and Alfred Adams, an agricultural labourer. The sister who accompanied him
on his first voyage was also his companion on this
occasion. The Cambrian steamer carried the party;
and, after an uneventful voyage, they arrived at the
Cape on Nov. 12.  Here they were enthusiastically
received, and preparations were made for the consecration of the bishop.
The service on which the missionary party were
entering was one of difficulty and danger; not the
least danger is the deadly fever which lurks every
where on the coast of Africa, and which forms a
formidable barrier to intercourse with that great
country.  While at the Cape, news came that the
members of the gMakololo mission, under the London
Missionary Society, had already fallen victims to
fever.  But these dangers did not deter 3Maclkenzie
and his fellows. Alluding to what he calls most
truly "the sad destruction of life, and the loss of




326     Life of calrles Frederick Mi2ackevzie.
Christian energy and zeal, in the person of those who
have lately been cut off in the interior of the country,"
he says:'" It has been said that we who are going
up are not to be daunted by that.  No; rather it
should be the opposite-rather should we go up now
with a more firm  determination and intention, God
helping us, of carrying on the work.... It may be
that, in the course of years, we may become, what I
have sometimes thought we were, like the original
and early sprouts which rise from the seed in the
ground, and which serve but to give life and vigour
and energy to the shoots which rise above the ground
afterwards:" words which indeed proved prophetic;
but these were men who took their lives in their
hands for the sake of the Gospel, and lost them,-but
that loss is greatest gain.
The consecration of Mackenzie as missionary
bishop took place in the cathedral of Cape Town:
and thus went to his labours the first missionary bishop
sent out by the Church of England.  Mackenzie
regarded this as most important. " I am very thankful," he says, "that all has ended as we hoped.  I
have said several times, that if I was to go at the
head of this mission, as it was in any case the work
of a bishop, I ought not to be sent without the authority, and, still more, the grace of God given in
consecration.  Besides this, I feel strongly that it is
the righot course; and that, whether there be any
marked success in thlis mission or not, on the whole




W/iat a, Bishop ozgiht to be.    327
we may hope for more rapid, sound, and united
progress."
It was highly desirable that, if possible, interpreters should be fou found for the party, as the langLuages
amongst which they were going were quite strange
to them all. These were found in a coloured congregation at Cape Town, under the charge of an
English clergyman, Mir. Lightfoot. The congregation
consisted of liberated slaves-persons who had been
captured by British cruisers from  slave-vessels on
the east coast of Africa, and liberated at Cape Town.
Intercourse amongost themselves kept up their own
language; while many had acquired the English
tongue by long residence in the colony.  Mackenzie
preached to these black people one Sunday, and asked
who would volunteer to go with him on his errand
of mercy to their brethren. Not less than twelve
stood up; and several went with the party, and
proved of incalculable service to the mission.  So
was the slave-trade the means by which the providence of God worked to bring the knowledge of
the Gospel to those poor heathen who groaned under
its tyrannies.
These arrangements made,  Mackenzie and his
party sailed for the Shire Riiver, on the banks of
which it was proposed that he should settle.  What
the bishop's own visions of episcopal responsibilities
were, can be gathered from a conversation with his
sister as he parted with her.  She was speaking of




328     Life of Charles Frederick Mackenzie.
happiness; he said: " I have given up looking for
that altogether.  Tow till death my post is one of
unrest and care.  To be the sharer of every one's
sorrows, the comforter of every one's griefs, the
strengthener of every one's weakness,-to do this as
much as in me lies, is now my aim and object; for
you know, when the members suffer, the pain must
always fly to the head."
The voyage up the river was tedious and laborious;
and here the missionaries first became acquainted
with their deadliest enemy-that is, the African
fever. The earlier attacks of the fever were slight.
This proved unfortunate, as thereby they were all
too much disposed to underrate the danger incurred.
The details of this voyage, which has all the interest
of an exploring-party, cannot be given here; they
will be found at length in the beautiful memoir
by Dean Goodwin.  It may suffice to observe that
MIackenzie showed the same indefatigable good humour
and patient endurance as ever.  The bishop's hands,
on  one occasion, were sore with  the labour of
hauling the vessel off the sand-banks; he, too, was
always ready for a spell at cutting the wood used for
fuel under the boilers.  His great desire, however,
all through this long journey, was to get as speedily
as possible to the scene of his labours; and this
appears in all his letters: above all, there is continually before him the higher and better life.  Just
as he nears the ground, at the end of his laborious




Enigagement with Slave-captors.     329
river-voyage, he writes to a friend: ~ And if we
shall not soon, perhaps in some cases never, meet
our old friends on earth, we have a sure and certain
hope of a better meeting.  It is pleasant to look
forward to the one; it is life and joy to be sure of the
other."
On arriving at a point on the river Shire called
Chibisas, on July 8, the missionary party left tile
steamer, and proceeded on foot in search of a settlement.  The object was to find some high land, on
which they would be more free from  fever.  The
people amongst whom they were located are known
as Manlg-anja; they are a weak race, as compared
with their neighbours, the Ajawa. The whole district
is a slave-hunting and slave-dealing territory, and
the weaker races suffer most, but are themselves by
no means indisposed, when the opportunity occurs,
to engage in the horrible traffic.  Thus the question
at once arose as to the position the missionaries ought
to take in the quarrels and raids of these slave-hunters.  Could they try non-interventioll, and determine
under no circumstances to use their guns, except in
self-defence?   This strongly recommended itself as
the right course to MIackenzie.  Unfortunately, he
was unable to follow it; he was involved in one of
these quarrels even before he had encamped upon
the ground he had chosen for his settlement.  And
once, however reluctantly, having taken part in a
native quarrel, to withdraw would have subjected




330     Life of Cklarles'Frederick Mnackenzie.
him to a charge of either cowardice or indifference,
or both.
The missionaries were on their way to the station;
Mackenzie was sitting on a package, in the middle of
a village, with a companion, reading the Psalms of
the day, and chanting the doxologies, partly because
fond of music, partly that the natives might thus
perceive the errand on which their visitors had come.
On the Psalms being' ended, M3ackenzie, Procter,
and Seudamlore went downo to the stream to bathe.
They heard the sound of penny trumpets, and fancied
that Livingstone had been giving away presents.  It
appeared, however, that these trumpets, notwithstanding their ignominious character, had a most
serious meaning. A party of six men had entered the
village with eighty-four slaves. The men, finlding the
English in the village, had run away; the slaves were
free.  All the English guns were out, though these
conscience-stricken wretches had needed no firing to
hasten their flight.  The firing-party acted, it is
to be observed, under the direction of Dr. Livingstone;
so that, whatever be thought of the policy of the
affair, Maeclkenzie was in no way responsible for it.
In this way a large body of liberated captives were
suddenly placed at the disposal of the missionaries,
who could hardly do otherwise than take charge of
them.  But the consequences of this event were very
serious.   The missionaries had come t6 preach the
Gospel, but thus early in their career did they stand




Te MfVissioncry 1 Station.      331
before the country as slave-liberators.  They can
hardly be said to have taken the sword,-it was
thrust into their hands; but thus, nevertheless, they
were placed before the eyes of the natives in a very
different position from that which, as mere preachers
and teachers, they had proposed to themselves. They
had now, as it were, a tribe of their own. The bishop
had become an African chief, and he could settle
down, not as a visitor, but as the head of a population,
the father of a family; and not only must teach, but,
if need be, protect, his children.
The missionaries had to choose a station, and a
place called Magomero was selected.  Its chief advantage was, that it was included by a sharp bend
of the river in such a manner that, by running a
stockade across from bank to bank, the included land
could be rendered safe from  attack.  On the other
hand, the place was low, and covered with wood,
and was thus unhealthy; so thlat, in the rainy season
especially, there was much fever.  It was also no less
tlhan sixty miles distant from the river Shire,  which
formed the high-road by which the missionary party
were connected with the civilised world.  It is very
possible that a better site, had all the circumstances
been foreseen, would have been chosenl; but the position in which Mackenzie found himself had not been
anticipated by any one.
The first consideration was the erection of huts
for residences, and at this the bishop laboured with




332     Life of Clarles lFrederick Mackenzie.
his usual diligence; at the same time, a beginning
was made in the instruction of the children, by drilling and school-exercise, until a better communication
should be established, when the language had been
learned.  The life of the missionaries was peaceful
and happy; and, had it not been for the wars which
were being waged around them, and in which, unfortunately, they became involved, they might possibly
have become at owice a fountain of Gospel truth in the
moral wilderness.
But the Ajawa were devastating the country, and
their M3anLg-anja friends again applied to Mackenzie
andc his party for assistance.  This Mackenzie was
induced to give, partly because he considered that he
was engaging in what was simply a war of selfdefence, and protection of the captives under his care,
so many of them being orphans; and partly because he
hoped to be able to obtain a law fiom the Mang-anja,
prohibiting altogether the slave-trade for the future.
To this law his allies readily agreed.  The English
accordingly went against the enemy, who were easily
subdued; the result being still further to increase the
little colony under the direction of the bishop. There
seemed also to be another advantage attending this
circumstance,-that thus the missionaries should at
once set forth the Gospel in its practical form of a
defence for the weak and oppressed, until such time
as an increasing knowledge of the language should
enable them to expound its special doctrines more




Tlhe Danger despised.         333
perfectly.  That this was a mistake, the event has
proved; such a policy, to be carried out successfully,
would have required that Mackenzie should combine the
powers of a general with the authority of a bishop.
The mission-station should have been chosen so as at
once to have been healthy, in order that the strength
of the party might be fully preserved; and strong, so
as to be able to resist for a considerable time aany
force the natives were likely to be able to bring against
it.  Even then the policy of the leader ought to
have been strictly defensive; at any rate, until such
time as the consolidation of his power and influence,
and his acquaintance with the country, should have
enabled him to interfere with effect on whichever side
he considered to be just and right.  It turned out, in
the event, that the invasion of the Ajawa was not
the onslaught of a mere slave-taking raid, but a steady
invasion by a stronger race upon a weaker; and it
was not only impolitic and dangerous to incur their
animosity, but it was of the greatest importance to
win such a race over to the Gospel: but of
this circumstance the missionaries did not become
aware till after the death of Mackenzie. Then, again,
the presence of a native population in a settlement at
best unhealthy was an additional source of disease to
the Europeans, who found it most difficult to enforce
any thing like a sanitary police. After all, fever was
the ever-present and deadly enemy of the Europeans.
It was to this enemy that not only Maclkenzie suc



O34     Life of C/zarles Frederick Mackea/czie.
cumbed, but several of the leaders of the mission as
well.
Nevertheless, apart from  premonitory attacks,
showing that this enemy ought not to hfave been
despised, matters proceeded so far favourably, that
Mackenzie deemed it prudent to send for the ladies
of the party.  The missionaries had already received
a considerable addition in the person of the Rev. H.
De Wint Burrup; A11r. Dickinson, M\I.D., the medical
officer of the expedition; and Thomas Clarke,  a tanner.  This party had pushed up rapidly froml the sea
to IMaoloero, defying all the usual precautions against
fever, and, as it happened, with- success; for they all
arrived in good health at MTfagomero. This, of course,
made them  think lightly of African fever.  3Mrs.
Burrup had colre out with her husband, but remained
behind with Miss MBackenzie, to join the party when
the settlement should be sufficiently established to
make their reception a matter of prudence. This time,
IMaclkenziejudged, had now arrived; and arrangements
were made that he and Mr. Burrup should go and
meet them at a small island, at the point where the
IRuo and Shire meet.  Accordinigly, Dr. Livingstone was to bring the ladies to this point, at -which
it was expected they would arrive about the beginning
of January.  But delays occurred, and Mackenzie
did not arrive at the place of meeting unltil the 13th
of January.  Livingstone had passed a few  days
before on his way down.  It so happened that the




Tche sad.Enct.             335
medicines had been lost by an accidental upsetting
of the canoe in which Mackenzie journeyed down the
river. The bishop, who seemed from former experience to be comparatively fever-proof, greatly underrated the danger of remaining in this place; and thus,
though on an island near a marsh, without quinine,
and in a state of inaction after strong labour,-in
circumstances, that is, rendering him especially liable
to an attackl of fever,-he determined to stay at a spot
which must necessarily have been, even under the
most favourable circumstances, unhealthy. Ml~ackenzie
was further induced to take this step by a favourable opportunity, as it seemed to him, of making
friends with the chief, and so laying the foundation for future missionary work; but here, in the
midst of his plans for the evangelisationi of the natives,
the fever seized upon him, and made rapid progress.
He became aware that his end was drawing near,
and told his native attendants that Jesus was coming
to fetch him away.  About the 20th of January, his
senses began to fail, and he lay in his hut in extreme
weakness; on the 24th, he appears to have ruptured
a blood-vessel. ]Mr. Burrup, his companion, was
nearly as ill as himself, and could thus render but
little assistance.  His native attendants did all they
could, being faithfil and attentive to the last.  On
the morning of the 31st, the chief insisted that the
bishop should be removed to another hut;'the probable motive being, that he feared lest the bishop's death




336    Life of Clharles Frederick Mackenzie.
should take place in his hut, and thus, according
to their superstition, the hut would be haunted by
his spirit. Mr. Burrup was obliged to consent, for
fear of worse consequences; and the dying bishop
was removed to the other hut. This probably hastened his end, as in about an hour and a half afterwards he breathed his last.
IMr. Burrup, ill as he was, had at once to take
steps for the removal of the body, which the chief
insisted should not remain where it was even for a
day; on the same evening, therefore, assisted by the
faithful natives, the body was conveyed in a canoe
to the mainland, and there, in a secluded spot,
under a large tree, a grave was dug, and clas the
evening darkened around him, 3Nr. Burrup, himself
a dying man, committed the body of his brother to
the dust.
IMr. Burrup immediately made preparations for a
return to Magomero, leaving a letter for Dr. Livingstone and the ladies with the chief. He arrived there
on February 14th, so exhausted with fever as to be
unable to walk. It was hoped he might, by care and
medicine, yet survive; but he sunk on February 22d,
and was buried in a quiet spot on the following day,
which was Sunday, near Magomero.
The ladies of the party had arrived, and reached
in due time the place of rendezvous; Miss Mackenzie, at that time, being unconscious from fever.
Inquiry was made concerning the bishop; but the




Th]e two Martyrs comnared.       337
natives denied all knowledge of him, although the
letter was in their hands — fearing they might be called
to accoulit for the bishop's death.  This caused a
harassing suspense, which endured till March 4,
when the real facts were ascertained. Nothing now
remained but that the sorrowing party should return
to the Cape, at which place they arrived safely
on April 26.
Thus, then, was consummated this noble act of
self-sacrifice and Christian heroism, in which two
noble-minded men had sacrificed their lives, and two
Christian heroines surrendered what was dearest to
them  on earth: and willingly surrendered; for all,
knowing the risk, deliberately hazarded their lives
for the sake of the Gospel. It may be sai(l, indeed,
on cold, calculating worldly principles, that such
lives are lost; but so only, by men who love not
their lives unto the death, can THAT kingdom  be
advanced.
It is interesting to compare the two lives of the
MIartyr Missionaries, who stand side by side in this
little book; both are so wonderfully alike, and yet so
marvellously different.  To a superficial observer,
they may be supposed to have belonged to altogether
different schools of religious thought: Mackenzie the
modern Hiygh Churchman, who introduces the surplice and the offertory; -MAartyn the Evangelical,
who only preaches from book because his people wish
y




*338    Life of Charles Frederick iMackenzie.
it. And then, also, their dispositions were as different
as their ecclesiastical leanings: Mackenzie, robust
and cheerful, is always ready for active bodily service;
5Martyn, feeble and desponding, is soon exhausted.
Mackenzie is impressible, easily, even too easily, influenced by those with whom he happens to be;
Martyn is one who, in spite of a certain softness, can
stand alone in decided, though conscientious, antagonism to those to whom he is opposed. Mackenzie
attracts all by a kind of instinct, and is almost idolised by those over whom he rules; M3artyn makes but
few friends, and seems almost to repel those for
whom he nevertheless burns with Christian love and
zeal. The talent of the one is displayed in the active
life of the missionary bishop; of the other, in the pains
and skill by which he renders the truth of the Holy
Word intelligible to his converts. Yet, notwithstanding all these great differences, how wonderfully similar is the life of both! The history of the one, in
the most important of all particulars, is the history
of the other.  Under the influence of grace, they
both give themselves wholly to the work; for this they
both leave their university, with its pleasant, useful
life, though appreciating its pleasantness, and aware
of its usefulness. They forsake home friends, all that
is near and dear, impelled by one motive, " that they
might finish their course with joy, and the ministry
they had received, to testify the Gospel of the grace
of God."




ThIe Value of Martyrdom.        339
The value, then, of such lives as are set forth in
these two contrasted biographies, is not at all to be
measured by the success which attended the labours
of their earthly existence.  They set forth, indeed,
even more strongly than those other lives here recorded, that which it was especially our purpose to
demonstrate,-the power of the invisible; for, just
as the most touching memrorial of bravery and patriotism  is not found in the marble monument of
the general in the aisle of the cathedral, but in the
nameless graves of rank and file which dot the surface of the battle-field, so is it with the soldiers of
the cross.  There is a marvellous tale of Christian
heroism in that solitary grave amidst the reeds of the
ShirS, and the unknown sepulchre in the burial-place
at Tocat. If regarded from the world's point of view,
there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor
wisdom, in these humble graves; yet, from the
Christian side, they speak with an eloquence which
strikingly displays the power of godliness over men's
hearts, and the strength with which the invisible
prevails. It is in such biographies as these that
our age, which delights so much in what it calls
material results, may find what is to it a needful
evidence of Christianity-the evidence afforded by
the power which the Gospel displays to bend to its
ministry men of sound judgment and cultivated
taste.  These men of whom we write were not mere
enthusiasts; on the contrary, both of them had had




340          The Martyr Missionaries.
that kind of education which would, even if they
had been previously inclined that way, have purged
out enthusiasm from them.  They were both accomplished mathematicians, with minds drilled by the
inflexible reasonings of that most matter-of-fact of
all studies.  Yet these men, at the call of what
they held to be their duty to an inferior and despised
race, took their lives in their hands, and, in the
calmest and most deliberate manner possible, sacrificed every thing they had, in order to accomplish
their ministry-a sure proof that they had a demonstration of the existence of the unseen as cogent
as, even more so than, that which mathematics supplied in the visible.  And this demonstration was no
other than that which prevails with Christians, and
always will,-the demonstration of the Spirit.
There is also another point which, in conclusion,
we would especially desire to remark on; and this is,
the analogy which exists between the propagation of
Christianity and its original foundation.  It must
never be forgotten that Christianity was established
by the death of its Founder.  We need not marvel,
therefore, that its progress should be analogous with
its commencement, and that martyrdoms and sacrifices should promote its ultimate victory as much a s,
even more than, the open and immediate success of its
ministers. Thus regarded, it will be seen that these
lives were sacrificed not without result.  That an age
of engrossing worldliness, which absolutely worships




Con clusion.              341
success, should have from time to time set before it
the example of those who, in opposition to the tendency
of their times, are ready to give their lives for that
old faith which supercilious unbelief pronounces to be
almost effete, is a wholesome reminder that the unseen is not so distant and evanescent as they who
have no hops for it, or aspirations after it, would
gladly believe it to be.
F~E~'








ANf EPILOGUE OF CONTRASTS.
Anr, how vainly, ah, how quickly,
Mortal life is passing!
Like a vapour, changing ever,
Shifting, fleeting, stable never,
Then in darkness quenched for ever.
II.
A.h, how stable, ah, how joyful,
Life on Christ depending!
Free from trouble, safe for ever,
It abideth, changing never,
Hid with Christ in God for ever.




344          An Epilogue of Conthasts.
III.
All, how fleeting, disappointing,
Earthly love appeareth!
Hearts which cling most close together,
Partings sad must often sever;
And, at last,  farewell for ever 1"
IW.
How surpassing, satisfying,
Love in Jesus grounded!
Its length and breadth and depth whoever
Comprehends, the height can measure,
Of love which passeth knowledge ever?
V.
Art thou knowing or devising
But man's works and wisdom?
See, then, thou art going thither,
Where they all will end together,
Silent in the grave for ever.
VI.
Art thou working, art thou dying,
In the faith of Jesus?
Then thy works shall follow whither
Thou, in blessed rest and pleasure,
Shalt live and reign with Christ for ever.




An Epilogue of Contrasts.              345
VII.
Quickly fading, not abiding,
Is the worldling's glory!
Like the chaff and dust together
Blown before the angry weather,
Scattered by the wind for ever.
VIII.
How  enduring  and how lasting
Is the Christian's blessing!
Like the tree which, blowing ever
By life's crystal, shining river,
Is rooted in God's love for ever.
Imitatedfrom the German.
LONDON:
LEVEY AND CO., PRINTERS, GRFAT NEW S'REET,
FETTER LANE,,N.C.








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