■ FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY M85& ■ s*jt** : ** THE POETS OF METHODISM The dead are like stars by day, Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct ; they hold their way In glory through the sky. {brontu THE EPWORTH SINGERS AND OTHER POETS METHODISM REV. S. W. CHRISTOPHERS, AUTHOR OF " HYMN WRITERS AND THEIR HYMNS," " HOMES OF OLD ENGLISH WRITERS," ETC. " When Poetry keeps its place, as the handmaid of Piety, it shall attain, not a poor miserable wreath, but a crown that fadeth not away." — John Wesley. ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 770 Broadway, New York. CONTENTS. Frontispiece. — (Page Illustration?) Preface ........ vii CHAPTER I. Introductory Chapter ..... I CHAPTER II. Fathers of Poets ...... 20 CHAPTER III. The Epworth Singers ..... 41 CHAPTER IV.— (Page Illustration.) Others of the Epworth Singers . . . .61 CHAPTER V. Two Brothers in Song ..... 90 CHAPTER VI. More about Songs from the Brothers . . .113 CHAPTER VII. Other Psalms from the Brothers in Song . . 135 CHAPTER VIII. Clerical Song-Masters ..... 160 CHAPTER IX. More Clerical Song-Masters . . . . 179 CHAPTER X.—(Page Illustration.) Itinerant Minstrels ...... 200 CHAPTER XI. A Controversial Songster . . . . 219 PAGE VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER XII. Three Lay Singers ...... 241 CHAPTER XIII. A Choir of Holy Women .... 262 CHAPTER XIV. Poetical Divines, Father and Son .... 284 CHAPTER XV. Two Poetic Metaphysicians .... 305 CHAPTER XVI. Later-Day Clerical Hymnists .... 324 CHAPTER XVII. A Poetical Satirist ..... 344 CHAPTER XVIII. The Tuneful Son of a Prophet .... 366 CHAPTER XIX.— (Page Illustration.) An Inspired Young Maiden .... 388 CHAPTER XX. A Bard from the Mine . . . . , 412 CHAPTER XXI. A Kentish Lyric . . .% . . . 434 CHAPTER XXII. Three Poetic Voices from the West . . . 454 CHAPTER XXIII. Some of the Latest Sons of Song . . . 478 Index to Hymns, with Authors' Names . . 499 „ Names, Places, etc. .... 508 PREFACE tffjEJffi T is not intended, in this volume, to give fall (&SmJp biographies of all "the Poets of Methodism." VQ> ^n most cases, enough is said, it is hoped, to c show where, when, and amidst what surround- ings, the Methodist Poets lived. Every possible care has been taken to secure accuracy as to dates and chrono- logical order j while all available means have been used to preserve the sketches of life and character from any shade or colouring of untruthfulness. The reader has before him every name of worthy poetic genius and taste with which the writer has become acquainted, during a quiet and patient research into all accessible Methodist chronicles, dating from the times of Wesley to the present day. If the volume should appear chargeable with omissions, the author has only to say that no place has been given to some worthy names, such as Miles Martindale and J. W. Etheridge, for lack of timely access to their poetic remains. In other instances, the claims to notice have seemed too doubtful, or the names had fallen into too deep an obscurity. Vlll PREFACE. Grateful acknowledgments are due to the authors of several papers on " Hymns and their Writers," in the Wesleyan Times. In particular the author's thanks are tendered to Mr. W. M. Symons, of Vauxhall, for a sight of his valuable collection of MSS. and printed notes on "Methodist Hymn- Writers and their Hymns"; also to the Rev. Messrs. Benjamin Gregory and F. F. Woolley, Mr. Benjamin Gough, Mr. James Smetham, and Mr. C. L. Ford, for permission to use the verses which he has given in association with their names. The main object of these pages is to afford occasional opportunities of agreeable communion with a few hallowed and gifted spirits who have " served their generation, by the will of God," in holy song and psalmody. And if any reader's soul should be brought to realise a happier tone of thought and feeling, while taking a passing glance at the persons of Methodist Poets, or should gain, at any leisure moment, a pleasant insight into their hearts, habits, and homes, while he is under the charm of their musical varia- tions in verse, the author's recompense will be full. s. w. c. Redruth, 1874. THE POETS OF METHODISM. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. The Christian bard has, from a real spring Of inspiration, other themes to sing; No vain philosophy, no fabled rhyme, But sacred story, simple and sublime, By holy prophets told ; to whom belong The subjects worthy of the pow'rs of song. ■** HERE is sometimes a striking similarity between what is said or done at a particular point in one ^ man's history, and words or actions at a remark- •"OJV able turn in the life of another. The actions or I words seem, indeed, to repeat themselves like times in the personal experience of very different men. So it would appear to be in the lives of Charles Wesley and Lord Byron. "What, would you have me to be a saint all at once " ? said Charles Wesley, when he was a sprightly young Oxford student, and his brother John spoke to him about religion. Charles did become saintly, however, and was a Methodist rather earlier than his brother. "Would you have me turn Methodist ? " said Byron once to Walter Scott, when, like a true friend, the poetic novelist had spoken plainly to him about the claims of personal piety. " Methodist ! " replied Scott, "no, I cannot think of you as B 1 THE TOETS OF METHODISM. a Methodist ; but I can conceive of your being a catholic Christian." Had Byron asked his friend to define the term * catholic Christian,' we should have had a definition of Christian piety such as the mind of Scott conceived to be proper for a poet like Byron. His catholic Christianity would probably be broad, artistic, and gorgeous enough to allow entire freedom to the play of the poet's genius. In outward grandeur of forms, influence, and power, it must be favour- able to the unchecked supremacy of his imagination and poetic passion. There must be full licence for pride of intellect to live under the semblance of severe devotion. It must be rather ritualistic than spiritual ; more sensuous than heartfelt 5 and all its requisitions must leave the poet free to make poetic fame and success the commanding objects of his life. Romish pomp, or Greek ceremonial splendour, or even the show of Anglo-Catholicism, might suit a catholic Christian such as Scott wished Byron to be. From his point of sight, perhaps, the great novelist saw that Methodism would be too bald in its forms, too simple in its aim, too unadorned in its style, too primitive in its discipline, and too absorbing in its one pursuit, to fit a genius whose only ambition was poetic glory. Scott, it may be, did not look deep enough into Methodism to see that its standard of spiritual piety was such as would not permit the mere culture of intellect, or the exercise of poetic genius alone, to be the one absorbing action or object of life. It has been said by some, " How gloriously would Byron have shone as a poet, had he been a Christian ! " He might possibly have shone had he been a Christian in the popular sense : a Christian chiefly in creed, or ritual, or even in spirit, according to the general notion of a Christian spirit j but would his poetic powers have been so gloriously exhibited had he become a Christian after St. Paul's scyle, or St. John's type, or one in accordance with the original standard of the Divine Master ? Probably not. It is a question whether any man, whatever his genius may be, can become a poet of the first order in the estimation of the mere intellectual world, without INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 3 proving that the main purpose and leading motives of his life have checked the cultivation of that pure, Christ-like unselfish- ness which the New Testament calls the Christian to attain. But it is not a question whether the Christian who is wholly bent on holiness of heart carries his life's aim far beyond the successes and rewards of mere intellect or genius. Nor can it be doubted that the pure principles of spiritual Christian life, in their commanding influence over the "whole spirit and soul and body," though they may bring every natural gift into full exercise for the glory of Christ, always carry the hallowed man above the desire of devoting his powers to any service that is not purely for Christ's glory ; certainly saving him from devotion to anything that glorifies self. New Testament Christianity is in conformity with the truth, " Ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price : therefore glorify God in your body and in your spirit which are God's." The genuine Christian serves Christ " inspirit " ; not merely in his " soul and body," but "in spirit." His higher powers, his ' spirit,' his religious faculty, his "inner man," which communes with "the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit," enables him to realize St. Paul's experience, "we walk by faith, not by sight." The world of sense does not engage us, the region of mere intellect does not detain us. Men of lower views and narrower aims mind the " things that are seen," the things which their thinking faculty, their unhallowed genius and passions, may deal with j but we have eyes for "things that are not seen." Our spiritual sight is not so bent beneath and around us ; it is rather turned forward and upward. God has brought us around to Himself and His kingdom ; and now we walk with our eyes on Him and His "heavenlies." "lam crucified with Christ ; nevertheless I live 5 yet not I, but Christ liveth in me j and the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me." "Ye are dead," says the same apostle to Christians "and your life is hid with Christ in God." You are dead to all glory but His. For " He died for all, that they which live 4 THE POETS OF METHODISM. should not henceforth live unto themselves but unto Him which died for them and rose again." Paul was a man of noble gifts. His acute and powerful understanding, his imagination, his genius and taste, his depths of feeling, his powers of expression, and his varied attainments, might have secured distinguished honours ; but the moment he became a Christian, every thing which he possessed or could command was unreservedly devoted to his Lord's service and glory. His talents were improved and employed to the uttermost; but never so as to let "self seek or share any honour that belonged to his Master alone. " What things were gain to me," says he, "those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord ; for whom I have suffered the loss of all things and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in Him." There have been souls, since Paul's time, who have caught his spirit, and with simplicity and meek unselfishness have kept Christ's glory before them, forgetting their own, and calling all their genius, or science, or learning, or philosophy into full action, have done all for Christ's glory. Like " wise men," they have been led to Jesus by every new " star " they have discovered j and have laid all their ' opened treasures,' the rich fruits of their thought and toil, at His feet, their " gold, and frankincense, and myrrh." And so the Christian who is gifted with poetic genius, if he follow Paul as Paul followed Christ, will, for Christ's sake, improve his talent and exercise his gift, not "to be seen of men," not merely to excel as a poet, or to "please men," or#to immortalize his own name, but, as Paul would say, to honour Him " whose I am and whom I serve." The poetry of such a man would please his neighbour "for his good to edification." It would never be inconsistent with Christian purity of thought and feeling. It would accord with the finely expressed feeling of a young modern poet, " I wish to be less a popular than a religious poet. My desire is to write only Christian poetry — praise to Christ, my Lord and Saviour, and to leave popular INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. ^ and general themes to those who can succeed in them far better than I. I would have Redemption for my song; and though mine may not be the Muse for the million, yet, if her voice may rise sweetly in the ear of Jesus, and find an echo in His disciples' hearts, how high will be my honour! " or, as she devoutly expresses herself to God, O Thou whose poetry and love in one, Walk forth where'er Thou art, and hand in hand Encircle heaven and earth, Thou above praise Exalted infinitely ; O great God ! Hear me, and make me a pure golden harp For Thy soft finger. Might I be Thy bird, Hidden from all, singing to Thee alone. " I would have no poetry but such as Christ can smile on," said this same sweet singer ; " oh, may I write no other ! " Such is the poetry which holy men of God used to utter in the fulfilment of their Divine mission. Their psalms and hymns, odes and visions, which have come down to us, show how rich and rare were the natural gifts which they employed in declaring the will of Him to whom they cease- lessly rendered homage as the Author and End of all their endowments. With all the simple majesty of their odes, the ringing harmony of their anthems, the grandeur and beauty of their hymns, the awful glories of their dreams and visions, the rich simplicity of their pastorals, and the chaste, impres- sive, and thrilling music of their illustrations, all of surpassing excellence — yet self is never seen. They never decline from their lofty aim. Their aim is God. Their work is to declare His will, to proclaim His Messiah, to sustain His worship, to issue His warnings and teachings, and to record the truth which is to make " men wise unto salvation." They are true poets, though they never show poetry to be their object. Theirs is no mere intellectual calling. Theirs is a work of sublime faith ; faith in the Unseen. They might be uncon- scious of their own poetic spirit and power, so void are they of any apparent thought about themselves. If they speak of themselves, it is only to make God's will more clear and im- pressive. There is no evident effort, no straining for effect, 6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. no design to show their wealth of material, no apparent wish to startle by sudden brilliancy or happy turns. The reader never smells the writer's lamp. Nor, indeed, does a breath escape them which might serve to indicate the loss of their Divine purpose amidst cherished thoughts about their own inner selves or their personal reputation. They are careless of their own names as poets ; and have no concern about leaving a memorial. Indeed, they never speak as professional poets. Poetry is not their profession. They are simply prophets, ambassadors, voices ; and if they psalm it, they chant to bewail their sins, to glorify God for their deliverance, or, as humble and happy saints, to declare what God had done for their souls. Their standard of piety was too high, too God-like, to allow their poetry to be anything but purely devotional, anything that did not most certainly tend to God's glory. And while their standard is maintained by men of poetic genius, poetry will take the same character, and be mainly such as will purify the tone of human intellect, and, above all, awaken the human spirit to the duties and joys of Christian worship. Though now there seems one only worthy aim For poet — that my strength were as my will ! And which renounce he cannot without blame — To make men feel the presence of his skill, Of an eternal loveliness ; until They faint with love, and longing for their home, Yet not the less be strengthened to fulfil Their work on earth, that they may surely come Unto the Land of Rest, who here as exiles roam. Those who are not under the sacred control of the Holy Ghost in a way analogous to that in which inspired writers were, will of course feel more deeply the difficulty of exer- cising their conscious poetic power consistently with that thorough unselfishness which pure Christianity demands. And their difficulty will be the greater in proportion to the strength of their conviction, that self must be ignored if they would glorify Christ by full conformity to His mind. Charles Wesley felt this difficulty at first : and has recorded his deep INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 7 sense of it in a hymn of touching plaintiveness, warm pathos, and vigorous harmony of expression — Where shall I lay my weary head ? Where shall I hide me from my shame ? From all I feel, and all I dread, And all I have and all I am ! Swift to outstrip the stormy wind, And leave this cursed self behind. 0 the intolerable load Of nature, waken'd to pursue The footsteps of a distant God, Till faith hath form'd the soul anew ! 'Tis death, 'tis more than death to bear — 1 cannot live till God is here. Give me Thy wings, celestial Dove, And help me from myself to fly ; Then shall my soul far off remove, The tempest's idle rage defy, From sin, from sorrow, and from strife Escaped, and hid in Christ, my Life. Stranger on earth, I sojourn here : Yet, O, on earth I cannot rest Till Thou, my hidden Life, appear, And sweetly take me to Thy breast : To Thee my wishes all aspire, And sighs for Thee my whole desire. Search and try out my panting heart : Surely, my Lord, it pants for Thee, Jealous lest earth should claim a part: Thine, wholly Thine I gasp to be. Thou know'st 'tis all I live to prove ; Thou know'st I only want Thy love. The hymnist here discloses the struggle in the soul of a poet who admits the supreme claim of Christ to all that a Christian has and is, and who is fixed in his purpose and desire of realiz- ing entire consecration of his powers to the Divine service -7 while he yet feels the effort of self against the sacrifice of all which the pride of intellect and conscious genius would con- tend for on their own behalf. The standard of Christian holiness which Charles Wesley set before himself was that which he and his brother John set before themselves and the people called Methodists. It was the standard of that perfect love to Christ which constrains 8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. him who realizes it to fulfil the apostolic injunction, " I be- seech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world : but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God." To be a holy people in this sense of living for Christ alone, and so, in the spirit of self-sacrifice to "spread scriptural holiness over the land," was the prin- ciple and purpose of the Methodists j and faithfulness to this standard of piety would admit of no' self-seeking, no proud aspirations of mere intellect, no pandering to the wor- shippers of mind, no mode of limiting the pursuits of life to the regions of either sense, or genius, or passion, or intellec- tual power. Whatever efforts the poetic genius of a consistent Methodist might put forth, they must necessarily be such, and such only, as are in keeping with unreserved devotion to Christ alone. . A young Methodist poet beautifully represents the tempta- tion which may assail conscious genius in its first essays to devote itself entirely to Christ ; and shows the spirit in which the temptation is to be met and overcome. The tempter is symbolized by A giant flower "Whose cup turned upward. And he speaks to the tempted who is figured by A lily of the vale without a spot. " Rise," he said, " Thou pretty, timorous spirit; wherefore hide Such matchless beauty ; 1, not half so fair, Lift up my head and live : I am a king, And Genius is my name ; and on the stem Of pride do I sit royally, and gaze On the broad universe — that mirror spread For gods and me — wherein I read my form Glassed out in glory ; tall as the night heavens, And broader than the ocean. Rise too Thou white Humility, darling of heaven, Give me thy hand ; I'll teach thee how to soar, INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 9 And thou shalt be a queen, if thou but turn Thy bells this way. See what a world of light Stands o'er thee! " " Nay, I must not," said the flower; " I have commandment ever to rise up, And ever to look down ; — this law is given To keep my robe snow-white." Methodism proper, then, could never be expected to number among its members such poets as live by choice among the intellectual gods. Byron could not be Byron the poet and Byron the Methodist all under one. Nor could a genuine Methodist gifted with poetical powers ever be a poet of Byron's class. The same thing may be said of others who have lived to be poets, poets by profession, and nothing higher. "They," as was once said, " do not comprehend the deep and lofty mysteries of Poetry. They have not dwelt in her heart, nor known what it is to feel her power burning in every pulse of the spirit, and drawing the curtain from heaven, earth, and ocean, to show the resplendent omnipresence of beauty and love beaming from the face of God over them all. Poetry covered them with her flowers, buried them in showers of gems, but sealed from their eyes that one simple magic pearl of white, immortal truth, which God has set in her bosom as the richest of all caskets. Some of them with half-open eyes, pore dreamily over the great secret, or seem to have their finger trembling on the very spring of that portal, which but once opened, admits the true poet to gaze upon the universal landscape as with angel's eyes." Some poets show large Christian knowledge and reverent feeling 5 and yet for them to have conformed to the principles, the simple aim, and spiritual pursuits of Methodism would pro- bably have been to put a final check to that wide expatiation of genius, that undevout indulgence of imagination, and that morbid intercourse with self which have secured for them all their distinction. No, Methodism, while she is faithful to her first principles and one design, can never boast of any poets but such as sing to help her devotion, or serve to illustrate her rule of holiness, or to inspirit her in her labours, 10 THE POETS OF METHODISM. or to console her by unfolding the beauty of her prospects and the consummation of her design. The poets of Methodism are mostly of this class. And it may be said that the fruits of her consecrated genius are mainly such as might come from spirits who have been able to adopt as their own the motto of a reverend "pilgrim " " I have nothing, I am nothing, I desire nothing but Jesus and Jerusalem "; or the tuneful words which have been accepted by Methodist hymnists from the songs of a saintly French woman — Henceforth may no profane delight Divide this consecrated soul ; Possess it Thou who hast the right, As Lord and Master of the whole. Thy gifts, if call'd for, I resign, Pleased to receive, pleased to restore : Gifts are Thy work ; it shall be mine The Giver only to adore. Let it not be thought that these remarks on Methodist poets in general are in any way intended to form an apology for them in the presence of poets of another class. Poetry like theirs needs no apology, at least among Christians. If on a review of their works all varieties of poetic power are found j if the highest degree of that power sometimes makes itself felt ; if all the essentials of poetry show themselves ; if the distinctive genius and spirit, the imagination and fancy, the facility and flexibility of thought and language, the deep sympathy with nature, the instinctive insight into the depths of human feeling, the order, taste, sense of beauty and of music, the spirit of harmony, and precise but full and various expression — if all these manifest themselves as they do among the poets of Methodism, these poets may take their stand among their peers without any further introduction. But if all these qualities are theirs ; and, combined in fair proportions, have been faithfully used as God's gifts in pro- moting the spiritual holiness, the mental renovation, the social purity, and the final triumphs of Christ's kingdom ; the Divine sanctions add dignity to their charms. Their poetry, so largely devotional, has put forth its beauty and life INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. II under an inspiration which associates it with the happiest thoughts of daily Christian life, the deepest joys, the richest grace, and the most jubilant victories of individual saints and Christian churches throughout the world. If true •' Poetry is the religious idea incarnate in the beautiful," then the poets of Methodism may take a high rank among true poets. " But have the Methodists ever written anything but hymns ? " Yes, some of them have. And what, if they had written nothing but hymns r Their hymns, in many cases, have become world-wide in their influence, and find a welcome from growing numbers of cultured minds and pure hearts. "Anything but hymns!" Why, none but a true poet could produce a true hymn. A genuine hymn is a thing of beauty and diffusive life 5 and nothing short of hallowed poetic genius could bring it into being. A hymn of the highest order, most instinct with devout life, requires, however, more than mere poetic genius to give it birth. It requires that spiritual taste, that sympathy with Heaven, that pure love of truth, and that holy familiarity with the Divine source of inspiration, without which the hymn will lack the undying impress of the Blessed Spirit. For lack of all this not even Milton could secure for his psalms a permanent life among Christian songs. His great hymn, the " Nativity Hymn, ' had so much of Milton in it that it failed to fulfil the purpose of a hymn, as it fails to engage Christian hearts in pure and unchecked adoration of the Incarnate One. Methodist poets have not always been happy as hymnists. Some of their hymns take a lead in holy song. Others were sung for the last time when their authors first chanted them to themselves. But, on the whole, the devotional and Godward poetic utterances of Methodism promise to live permanently among the things which reverent genius, pure taste, and truthful hearts will ever appreciate and enjoy. "The poets of Methodism ! Do you include the little rhyme factors and makers of jingling ditties which have sprung up and given voice now and then in the course of the Methodist history ? " 12 THE TOETS OF METHODISM. Certainly not. Though even these may have a passing notice asamusingphenomena. The "poetry "pages of theold Metho- dist magazines were not always free from verses whose only virtue was the ring of their rhyme. The editors were, perhaps, at times too indulgent to their contributors — more tender over young essayists in verse than careful of their own repu- tation for taste, although, it may be, these very rhymes served to increase the popularity which distinguished the original Methodist serial. The earlier issues were certainly more suited to the Methodist multitude, and were more enjoyed by the many than the modern continuation of the periodical seems to be. More or less of oral rhyme, too, has always been afloat among Methodists. Now and then some zealous, though un- cultured, brother or sister has been known to start up under rhyming- inspiration and set all like-minded fellow-worship- pers a singing at the poet's dictation. Many a ditty never submitted to an "editor" has become more popular in its oral form than it would have been as shut up in print. We once attended service in a little rural chapel on a Devonshire moorland. At the close of the sermon, just as the preacher was about to give out the last hymn, a good woman, taken with the spirit of spontaneous song, rose to her feet, and shouted — " Loner metre ! a " There's bread and fish for you and me, And plenty more for two and three ; Your empty baskets you may bring, And gr-ather all the fragments in." Long- metre ! ■q The preacher sat down and patiently waited till the ode, of about twelve verses, was sung through, with swelling effect, under the guidance of the enthusiastic woman. The first verse was by no means an unfair specimen of the many which followed. Not very far from the scene of this inspiring performance, a still more stirring ditty and chorus had served to move the INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 1$ spiritual warriors to the combat " against principalities and powers," as if they battled with " flesh and blood." " Come, neighbours ! " was the war song, Come, neighbours, with your sticks and stones, And break the Devil's back and bones, . And send him to hell with bitter groans, And we shall gain the union. After all, this fondness for rude, ringing rhymes and jingling choruses may be the lingering taste which has been begotten and cherished by Church authority. Sternhold and Hopkins taught their generation to sing, When Israel by God's command From Pharaoh's land was bent ; And Jacob's home the strangers left And in the same tram went. "The Ep worth people," said their Rector, Samuel Wesley, "must be contented with their present parochial way of singing. Indeed they must also be content with their Grand- sire Sternhold. Bishop Beveridge declared that the common people could understand the psalms of Sternhold better than those of Tate and Brady. And there may be truth in this, for the common people have a strange genius for understand- ing nonsense." But David was done into English metre by other hands, still more rude. Grave and educated congregations used to psalm it thus — 'Tis like the precious ointment Down Aaron's beard did go Down Aaron's beard it downward went His garment skirts unto. Or thus— Why dost thou hold thine hand aback And hide it in thy lap ? O pluck it out and be not slack To give thy foes a rap. Solomon as well as David has been made to foot it to Church music, so — The race is not for ever got By him who fastest runs ; Nor the battle by the people Who shoot the longest guns. 14 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Dr. Belcher, an American authority in psalm literature, says, " From the hymns in use before the days of Watts, here is a specimen verse ; and though our readers may smile at it, their fathers did not — " Ye monsters of the bubbling deep, Your Maker's praises shout ; Up from the sands, ye codlings, peep, And wag your tails about." Dr. Watts seems to have been the first to break in upon this serio-comic style of devotional song ; and, in his own way, to lead Christian voices up into nobler and sweeter harmonies. Yet, for a long time those voices were loth to sacrifice the old measures in favour of the new ones. Attempts were occasionally made, in America at least, to improve on Watts by bringing him back into something like conformity to old fashions. An old correspondent from Connecticut tells us that the leading singer in one of the churches thought he could better the music and the poetry of their psalms. He set Watts's ninety-second psalm to music of his own ; but found that to make the music and the verse accord, he must substitute his own finer lines for those of Watts — Oh, let my heart in time be found Like Datid's harp of solemn sound. He waited on the Pastor to submit his improved version and music, and proposed to sing — Oh, may my heart be tuned within Like David's sacred violin. The Pastor, who was a little waggish, found his gravity severely tested ; but, maintaining a becoming dignity, he suggested an improvement even on the singer's 'great improvement.' " Pray let me hear what you propose," said the flattered poet. The minister scribbled two lines for him, thus — Oh, may my heart go diddle, diddle, Like uncle David's sacred fiddle. Watts was rescued ; and the would-be restorer of old INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. l5 metrical psalmody was content for the future to allow that the new rhyming was better than the old. Doggrel, then, is not peculiar to Methodism. It was patronized in the Church of England, the Kirk of Scotland, and among English Presbyterians long before Methodism began her songs. Methodism, at all events, has never patronized or sanctioned the use of doggrel in worship. Never, we say ; but just now one verse occurs which may be deemed an exception. A Methodist preacher, in the use of his authorized "Hymn Book," may call on his congregation to glorify their Divine Master by singing — No matter how dull The scholar that He Takes unto His school And gives him to see — John Wesley sanctioned this by issuing it for Methodist use. But there was always a redeeming provision. Should there be a bald place in the hymn, or a rhyme so homely as to be akin to doggrel, he always secured music of sufficient spirit and power to carry the singing multitude above any feeling of weakness. This redeeming provision, however, is not always to be found associated with more modern Church doggrel. Even those who affect the highest culture of choral harmony may be found singing — My God, I love Thee, not because I hope for heaven thereby, Nor yet because who love Thee not Must burn eternally — and rendering such rhymes, too, in tunes or dronings so expressionless that the choir might seem to lie in shady cloister mew'd Chanting faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon. While in another quarter, in a manner neither " ancient " nor "modern," people have been heard singing by the water- side— O tarry not — your Lord obey ; And be baptized without delay : Nor ever think of coming here Unless you are a volunteer. l6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Methodism, then, is not to be the scape-goat. All the halting verses and ragged rhymes are not to be considered as the burden of her tongue. If some of her simple, warm- hearted people have, now and then, given out such utterances, it has been generally by the bye, and on their personal responsibility. And if they have been personally happy under such inspirations, or if their rhymes have chimed in with their fellow-worshippers' taste and feeling for the time, it has only served to remind us that unsophisticated human nature, when most excited, always shows itself ready to throw out its expressions of passion in some rhythmical or metrical form. The rhymes, however rude, show that the original gift of poesy continues to be represented among men, and sometimes gives signs of life even where there is the least culture. It doubtless helps to solace the poor rhymer when he finds his measures flowing in spite of circumstances ; and where the rhyming power is turned to the service of religion, the solace is all the more sweet, and is not only innocent, but mentally and morally beneficial. While John Wesley was conducting public worship in one of his chapels, his ear became uneasy under the discordant voice of an old woman who was, in her way, singing with the congregation. The fine-eared Methodist apostle stopped at length, and gently said, " My good sister, you are singing out of tune." " My heart is singing, sir ! " was the prompt reply. "Then, sing on, my sister ! " was the final decision of the preacher. Rude rhymes may provoke the smile of finely-tuned people, or prove instruments of passing torture to others 5 but better let the rhymers " sing on" than let them lose the joy of singing in the best way they can. If jingling ditties form their highest and happiest mode of expressing their devotion, let them rhyme it, till they rhyme it better in a better world. In the course of her history, however, Methodism has had poets, as courtesy has called them, or as they have thought themselves to be — spirits of higher pretensions than the mere impromptu authors of oral psalms or hymns. " Poems " INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. I 7 have now and then been issued, " Chimes " have been set a going ; and on these some well-meaning but mistaken souls have staked their mental and literary character. An interview with one of these line-stringers, some years ago, will never be forgotten. It was an evening gathering of friends, some of whom were distinguished for learning, intellectual power, and refined taste. The inspired or rather inflated poetizer had just sent his book into the world ; and now he was evidently disposed to press his effusions on the attention of the guests. He began by claiming acquaintance with a venerable literary man, and first throwing a glance around, and then giving the old student a significant look, he said, in a tone which rose above all other voices, " When I returned from my journey to the tropics, I pre- sented a native-grown stick to Mr. accompanied with verses expressive of my esteem ; did I not, Sir ? do you remember r " "Yes," said the fine old man with a waggish look, "I remember, it was a very pretty stick ! " Not feeling this stroke, or, if feeling it, not discouraged, he turned to another who was near him, a man of remarkable taste, massive in his knowledge, and a deep thinker, " Have you seen my volume of poems ? " " No, sir." " I should like your opinion of it. Will you let me give you a bit by way of sample ? " " Yes j but you must speak up • I am rather deaf." The poet began, and his voice swelled as his spirit kindled with the measure Oh she's dead ! — but she's gone to the home of the good, She dwells in a palace royal, O'er-past has her spirit cold Jordan's flood, And escaped from the land of trial. " Stay ! " said the listener, " before you go on, tell me what poetry is.'' There was silence. — The poet had never defined to him- self what he affected to produce. He was evidently at a c l8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. loss. But before he could well recover himself, the other continued, " If you cannot tell me what poetry is, I am sure it is not for me to define it to you ; but listen, I will give you a specimen of true poetry.'' — Then with beautiful intonation and touching emphasis he quoted — " Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow : they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." — " Now, Sir," he added, " that is poetry j compare that with your own, and say no more." The rebuke was effective, and the hush that followed gave birth to thoughts and feelings which have been fruitful to this day. And, yet, mere rhymers and chimers have continued to give voice from time to time. A check upon one does not hush the voice of another. Now, we have the affectation of a lengthy " Poem" on "the Birth of Christ," for instance, " that the virtuous, or at least the young," as the author says, may be benefited by hearing him tell how the Saviour Should lift the captive from the dungeon up, And rescue all the prisoners of hope ! And then, from another quarter we have tender tinklings, as sweetly innocent of poetic genius as the pretty chimes from a country church tower on a Sabbath morning — sound — imitative sound — with no living native breath of harmony, proving by its freshness that it is the gush of a poet's own life. But, after all, Methodism has its genuine poets ; that is to say, men and women of original and originating genius, whose music, though not, in some cases, without discords, has life in it which will continue to awaken answering har- monies when oblivion has for ever covered those who end as well as begin with their Jingle (or Rattle As some of them call it) the delicate battle. It is hoped that the following pages may serve to lead their INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 1(J readers into pleasant communion with true Methodist Bards, and help to make them happily familiar with " Fathers of Poets," "Epworth Singers," "Brothers in Song,'' "Clerical Song-Masters," "Itinerant Minstrels,'' "Lay Singers," "Choirs of Holy Women,'' "Poetical Divines,'' "Tuneful Metaphy- sicians," "Latter-day Clerical Hymnists," "Poetical Satirists," " Musical Sons of Prophets," " Inspired Young Maidens," " Bards of Cornwall and Kent," " Some of the Latest Sons of Song," and, indeed, all that are fairly known as "The Poets of Methodism." 20 THE POETS OF METHODISM. CHAPTER II. FATHERS OF POETS. To unseen realms the elders urge their flight, And prophets vanish in a car of light ; Yet still the plenteous unction ceaseless flows, Jehovah's hand the needful gift bestows. [AN is, what he knows." This may mean not only that the kind and degree of man's knowledge gives a shaping to his character, but that the measure of one man's real knowledge is the standard of his value and use to another. Something like an illustration of this lives among recollections of early travels. It was early on a spring morning. The "Guard" cried, "take your seats, gentlemen ! V as he stood ready to take his. Another moment, and we were off ; not on the rails, no, but behind the beautiful team of a fast coach which then ran from Exeter through Dorset. As we left the suburbs of the old city, the merry tramp of the horses was cheerily in tune, as a kind of castanet accompaniment, to the music of the Guard's bugle. We dashed along gaily through rich varia- tions of scene. Now, standing, as the coach reached the pitch of the hill above Honiton, to look back on the lovely vale in which so many fair lace-makers once plied their skilful hands at their cottage doors ; and now, stopping to salute old Axminster dreamily reposing by the side of her own little river. At length we crossed the border into Dorset. Among the travellers, there was one to whom, up to this time, it seemed in vain to appeal. He was muffled FATHERS OF POETS. 21 up ; and was evidently indisposed to respond to any remark or question from a fellow traveller. No fine turn of the road, no sudden unfolding of prospect, no bit of flowery hedge-row, no charm of cottage home or village had any attractive power for him, as far as could be seen. A short " Yes," or " No " was his only word. There was a cold and somewhat forbidding look of absence, passing, at times, into an expression of pain or distress. He seemed to know nothing. And it was silently decided, at last, that he was nothing, nothing of any worth to his companions on the coach, at all events. For it must be remembered that coach travelling was a, far more sociable and conversational thing than our present mode of getting conveyed, like goods and chattels, by rail. It allowed people, too, to hear one another's natural voice. So that a coach traveller could scarcely maintain a persistent silence without danger of being thought too ignorant, too rude, too stupid, or too con- temptibly proud to speak. Our road now began to decline from the heights above Lyme Regis ; and it was evident, from the prospect which was opening beneath, that our way down would be steep and critical. Just at this point, how- ever, our muffled mope. who had been so impenetrably en- trenched within himself gave signs of change. His face more fully disclosed itself; i a little freshness seemed to spring up and pass over it ; the rigidity left his lips ; and it was felt that his eye seemed ready to speak before his tongue gave voice. Indeed there was a kindling light in his eye which awakened a wish to hear him speak. The coach was now requiring all the skill and power of the driver to guide it down into the depth which yawned beneath us. One who sat next to the strangely quickened traveller cried at length, " Where in the world are we going ? " " Going ! " said the one whose mouth was now open as well as his face, " we are going down into the hole which so very nearly proved a trap-hole for that runaway ragamuffin, Charles Stuart, the Second. It is a hallowed spot, sir. It would have been more sacred to England, perhaps, had it 22 THE POETS OF METHODISM. witnessed the handcuffing rather than the escape of the graceless fugitive. Nevertheless, it is a hallowed spot. That,'" continued he, pointing to a village rising from the base of the hill, " that is ' the hole of the pit ' whence was dug that gifted and divinely marked family for which Eng- land and the world owes God an ever accumulating debt of gratitude. That is Charmouth, sir ; the earliest home, as far as we can trace, of the Wesley family." By this time, we had reached the bottom of the hill, and had pulled up in front of the little rustic inn. And now onr friend with the loosened tongue became enthusiastic. " It was near this spot, I suppose," said he, "that the wretched Charles, under the care of his companion, Lord Wilmot, spent the night in watching for the arrival of the boat that was to take them from the creek below to the craft bound for the French coast. And up there in the village must have been the little chapel into which he sneaked to prevent suspicions, and where he heard Bartholomew Wesley hold forth in what a rollicking royalist called, ' his long- breathed devotions and bloody prayers.' That Bartholomew Wesley was the ' puny parson of the place,' as some called him j true to his post ; ready to feed his flock as a pastor, or to work at the spinning wheel, as St. Paul did at tent- making, to eke out his pittance, by making home-spun hose and doublets for himself. The village smith had reported that the strangers' horses were shod in a foreign style, and the parson thought that one rider, at least, must be the pro- scribed Stuart ; and, as in duty bound, he left his chapel service to catechise the inn-keeper. But, alas ! it was too late ; the game was gone. It was a pity. But with all his alleged puritanical gravity, he had good humour enough to joke over it. ' I am sure,' said he to a friend, ' that if ever the king come back he will be certain to love long prayers ; for if I had not been at that time longer than ordinary at devotion, I should surely have snapt him.' " " What would have come of it, if the parson had ' snapt him'?" asked one of the travellers. "Into what groove FATHERS OF POETS. 23 would the history of England have run ? Would your Wesley family ever have been ' divinely marked ' ? Would they have appeared at all ? Would they have placed e Eng- land and the world under a debt of gratitude to God ' ? " "I can't tell," was the reply, "how mysteriously the course of human generations have been made to hang upon a few minutes continuation of prayer, or upon the fitting of a horse-shoe a few minutes sooner or later ; I think, however, that if that heartless prince had been ' snapt ' by Bartholomew Wesley, neither the good Rector nor his son John would have had to endure so much bitter suffering from the Church which acknowledged Charles Stuart at its head." Just at this moment there came an old man asking the coach passengers to buy his prawns which he held out temptingly on a plate. " Oh," said our now interesting companion, " this is the place for prawns. They were coming to this creek long before Bartholomew Wesley was made Rector in 1640 3 and they have been coming ever since ; affording meals to many a cottage home from generation to generation. John Wesley, the grandfather of the great Oxford Methodist, must have been a boy running about here soon after 1640 ; and I dare say, like many a boy used to catching prawns in the tidal pools, he used to prove himself equal to the task of garnish- ing the poor Rector's table, now and then in the season, with a little dish-full quite as large and delicious as these." The prawns were demolished, and as the coach crept up the opposite hill, one traveller, at least, was trying to get at the secret of this wonderful change in the manner of the gentleman who had so long shut himself up within himself. The problem was at last good-naturedly solved. The man in his unaccountable mood had been undergoing a kind of periodical attack of physical suffering, which was intensely aggravated by the necessary effort to conceal his agony. The paroxysm had passed just as the coach crossed the border of Dorset ; and the restored freedom of body and mind had resulted in the fresh flow of spirits with which he entered on 24 THE POETS OF METHODISM. the historical associations of Charmouth. In Devon, he was accounted nothing, and had credit for knowing nothing. In Dorset, his knowledge, and his pleasant mode of using it, made him every thing to his fellow travellers for the rest of the journey. So that, after all, " man is what he knows.'* A lesson had been given to some, at all events, on the duty of abstaining from hasty judgment as to the character and knowledge of those who may sometimes be silent fellow travellers. " I should like to know a little more about the Wesleys of Charmouth," some one said, as we approached the top of the hill. " Well, it is a story that can be but partly told, for much of it is lost," said the oracle of the party, calling us to look back a moment or two. " You have seen the hamlet in the valley ; yonder on the hill is another of Bartholomew Wesley's pastorates, Catherston, which was given him in charge about 1650. In these parishes he served, using great plain- ness of speech, and edifying his flock without any sparkle of what is called popularity. He lived there to see his son John pass through his university training in Oxford ; undergo his examination successfully before the Parliamentary ' Triers ' ; enter on his work as a preacher among the villages on the coast yonder, near Weymouth j take the pastoral charge of Winterborn- Whitchurch ; become a com- panion with himself in tribulation under the Act of Uniformity, on Bartholomew day 1662 5 and then pass away in comparatively early life, worn out by persecution, priva- tion, sorrow, and toil. The old man never entirely threw orF the painful effect of his bereavement. The law would not allow him to preach 5 but he seized every opportunity of fulfilling his sacred mission ; while to gain a livelihood he practiced physic, calling into exercise, at last, the knowledge which he had gathered as a medical student at Oxford. He did not live long to endure the disabilities and oppressions to which he and his nonconforming neighbours were cruelly subjected. He soon met his martyred son again in their FATHERS OF POETS. 2$ new inviolable home. Charles Wesley might have felt some- thing like an inherited share in his great grandfather's latest thoughts and feelings, when he wrote one of his hymns on ' Preparation for Death.' The plaintive desire for rest, and the longing hopefulness of the old weary confessor are finely uttered — " Hide me by Thy presence, Lord, From the dire infectious race, From the men Thou call'st Thy sword, From the gale of bitterness, From the strife of tongues conceal, Tongues inflamed with fire of hell. In Thy tabernacle keep Till I bow my weary head Close my eyes in lasting sleep Sink among the quiet dead, Where the world no more molest, Where the weary are at rest. Weary of contention here Saviour, to Thy arms I fly. Save Thine aged messenger, Bid me get me up and die, Die out of a world of strife, Die into immortal life. Made by pure consummate love Meet and ready to depart, Gladly would I now remove, See Thee, Saviour, as Thou art, Cherished in Thy loving breast Lull'd to everlasting rest." About the harvest time of the year 1683, a young man footed it into Oxford from London. He was rather short in stature, but of well formed and muscular figure. His face would be thought handsome. It was alive with genius, humour, and intelligence. It bore the stamp of calm thought and strong decision. And an observer who saw him tramp- ing over the bridge which spanned the Charwell, with all his little store of worldly goods on his back, would have seen in his earnest look, the will and the power to bend himself successfully to his chosen life-task. Under the vigorous Vice Chancellorship of Dr. John Owen, the old seat of learning was, by this time, recovering from the effect of civil war. Broken trees were removed 3 trampled down l6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. gardens were putting forth new beauty ; broken windows and shattered roofs and walls were repaired ; and public and private ways were again free from their overgrowth of bramble and weed. Things seemed to be put somewhat in order for the admission of Bartholomew Wesley's grandson, Samuel, who, without a friend in the city, and scarcely one any where else, was come with his fortune of forty five shillings in his pocket, resolved to work his way to academic honour, or to perish in the struggle. When but an infant on his mother's breast, he was driven from his birth-place, Winterborn Whitechurch in Dorset, out of the pastoral care of which his persecuted nonconformist father, John Wesley, was cast by the act of uniformity in 1662. His parents, by and by, notwithstanding their straits and perils, managed to secure for him the full advantage of the Dorchester Grammar School. On the premature death of his father, he had been admitted to a dissenting academy in London, first at Stepney and then at Newington Green ; where, in learning to defend the ecclesiastical system of Nonconformity, he learnt to prefer the polity of the Church of England. And now, having broken away from his dissenting friends, the poor fatherless lad paced the " stream-like windings of the beau- tiful High Street of Oxford, beautiful then it must have been. Did he linger to look at that remarkable porch of St. Mary's then of recently gained significance, with its virgin and child, set up by the obsequious chaplain of the unhappy Laud, in time to help towards relieving his master of his imponderous head ? Wesley must have heard the story from his mother. Did he think while looking up at that porch and tower, for the first time, that he was looking at the church in which the voices of his sons would be lifted up with such power and effect ? Did he stop to regale his spirits with a draught from the quaint old Carfax Conduit, which then stood at the corner of High Street, where it had served to adorn and refresh the city ever since 1590 ? However that might be, he found his way to Exeter College, and entered it, perhaps with something before him like a prophetic looming of future FATHERS OF POETS. 27 success, such as is sometimes caught by the eye of conscious genius, while as yet it is unseen by all others. He had passed over the threshold of a College which was divided by a narrow lane only from Lincoln, in which his son was to attain academic distinction, and from which that son was to go prepared to face at once the cultured and the unlearned world in fulfilling the apostolic mission of his life. How mysteriously places are sometimes linked at certain points in their history ! and how close though subtle may be the re- lations between the turns in a father's life and the bent and issues of his children's action ! Samuel Wesley began his college life at the right point, — the lowest ! acting on the wise maxim of the old Jack- tar, who seeing, for the first time, a messmate getting into an omnibus of modern style, cried, " Jack, you are wrong ! you are getting in at the stern ! Get in at the bows, I say, and work your way up to the quarter deck ! " Young Wesley got in at the bows ; and worked his way up. He was admitted as pauper scliolaris ; and became a serving man to his richer fellow students, that he might get bread for his outer man, while his inner man fed on the learning- afforded him in the schools. He could assist those who were willing to pay for learning; or lift those into place who found it more easy to pay for being lifted than to put them- selves to climbing work. There are always men enough in Oxford who have more money than wit. Wesley's poverty was perhaps a blessing. It was more of a stimulus than a check. " Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad ugly and venomous, "Wears yet a precious jewel in his head." Necessity threw him upon his own resources. He remem- bered his school-day essays in rhyme ; and^feeling that there was power within him still, he put it forth, and produced what he hoped would help to enrich his pocket, while it challenged the world's estimate of his genius. His first little volume appeared as, " Maggots ; or, Poems on several 28 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Subjects never before handled ; by a Scholar." The volume had a portrait of the author, represented as crowned with laurel, but with a maggot on his brow, and an explanatory verse beneath, In his own defence the author writes, Because when this foul maggot bites, He ne'er can rest in quiet : Which makes him make so sad a face, He'd beg your worship, or your grace, Unsight, unseen, to buy it. This first outbreak of genius showed, for the most part, the mere playful and witty side of the poet's character ; and is valuable chiefly as shewing the sprightly elements of his power. He proves himself capable of scorching satire against the fashionable vices of his times ; though he con- forms too frequently to the fashion himself, by using unchaste words in reproving unchaste actions. But what can be expected from "Maggots "? True, they are, as he tells us, his " first formed birth, the natural issue of his own brain pan, born and bred there, and only there 3 " yet, the breed would not naturally find very general entertainment, though some of them appeared under curious titles. " A Ginger-bread Mistress "5 "A Covetous old Fellow " ; "A Bear-faced Lady "5 "A Tame Snake in a box of Bran " ; "A Certain Nose"; "A Leather Bottle"; "A Cow's Tail " 3 and " A Tobacco Pipe," might be rare specimens of " Maggots " ; but probably most critics will think that they were not least kindly thought about when they were thought to have found a home in Pope's " Dunciad." Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, 'Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day Calls forth each mass, a poem or a play. How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie 1 How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry ! Maggots half form'd, in rhyme, exactly meet, And learn to crawl upon poetic feet ! Here one poor word a hundred clench'es makes, And ductile dulness new meanders takes ; There mothy images her fancy strike, Figures ill-pair'd, and similes unlike. FATHERS OF POETS. 29 Samuel Wesley's first volume was published by the crack- brained genius and book-worm, Dunton, whose publishing shop, near the Exchange, bore the sign of "The Black Raven." He gave to the world a flattering description of his own person and character, telling us that his modesty was more than usually great, and then saying, " I have all those good qualities that are necessary to render me an accom- plished gentleman." He fell out with Samuel Wesley, however, after the death of his beautiful wife, who was Mrs. Wesley's sister ; and then turned the laugh against his brother-in-law, telling the world that he had " got his bread by the ' Maggots.' " The " Maggots '' seem, therefore, to have been rather prolific than barren. One of the poetic pieces in the volume was called u A Tobacco Pipe,'' and it appears to indicate the young poet's early devotion to the pipe. He versifies the usual vapoury arguments in its favour, and then sings Surely when Prometheus climb'd above the poles, Slyly to learn their art of making souls, When of his fire he fretting Jove did wipe, He stole it thence in a tobacco pipe ; Which, predisposed to live, as down he ran, By the soul's plastic power, from clay was turn'd to man. This would have been an important hint for Darwin. The tobacco pipe would, perhaps, be more popular than the ape as an ancestral type. And smokers especially may be glad to know of what clay they are made, and to what form of clay they may return. Did the father's confirmed habit of smoking and snufF-taking beget that aversion to tobacco and snuff which his son John so strongly expresses in a letter to somebody in Ireland ? " Use all diligence to be clean. " Let thy mind's sweetness have its operation Upon thy person, clothes, and habitation. Use no tobacco — it is an uncleanly and unwholesome self- indulgence. Use no snuff. I suppose no other nation in Europe is in such vile bondage to this silly, nasty, dirty custom as the Irish are. But let Christians be in this bondage no longer.'* Was it his father's habit that awakened John 30 THE TOETS OF METHODISM. Wesley to the importance of prohibiting the use of snuff and tobacco to his preachers ? That, probably, it was which moved Samuel Wesley's sister in law to prompt the poetical pen of his son Samuel and to bring out those sarcastic lines The snuff-box first provokes our just disdain, That rival of the fan and of the cane, Your modern beaux to richest shrines intrust Their worthless stores of fashionable dust. Strange is the power of snuff, whose pungent grains Can make fops speak, and furnish beaux with brains ; Nor care of cleanliness, nor love of dress, Can save their clothes from brick-dust nastiness. Some think the part too small of modish sand "Which at a niggard pinch they can command; Nor can their fingers for that task suffice, Their nose too greedy, not their hands too nice ; To such a height with these is fashion grown, They feed their very nostrils with a spoon. One, and but one degree is wanting yet, To make our senseless luxury complete ; Some choice regale, useless as snuff and dear To feed the mazy windings of the ear. This satire would have been more complete had it included smoking, the more intrusively offensive form of selfishness. The young author of " Maggots" felt as if a kind of apology were needed for productions which some called " light, vain, frothy, and below the gravity of a man, at least of a Christian." In a style as playful as the poems he calls on the objector to lend him a handful of beard, and to be at the charge of grafting it on, and then he will promise reforma- tion. He pleads, too, the necessity for recreation as well as work, and thinks that as recreation for his pen, his "Maggots '" give "neither his readers nor himself any reason to blush." Many, perhaps, might doubt his judgment, while they allowed his plea for recreation. Sweet recreation barr'd what doth ensue, But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair; And at her heels, a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life ? His recreations prepared him for more serious and volu- FATHERS OF POETS. 3 I minous work. It is interesting and instructive, too, to visit, if it be only in imagination, the spot where a remarkable man did some of his best work and realized some of the sweetest pages of his life. A traveller on horseback jogging from Spilsby in Lincolnshire towards Louth about the year 1692, and passing through Harrington would, just beyond Brinkhill, descend into a pleasant valley, and find himself in a little picturesque village, with low mud-built and thatched cottages here and there on the right and the left, by the way side. A primitive old farm house on one hand, and on the other, on what, there, would be called a hill, the old Church looking down kindly upon the graves of generations who had once gathered under its roof, and offering friendly shelter to the lowly home of its parson ; while it claimed spiritual superiority to the Hall whose surrounding woods served to grace the borders of God's acre. There he would have found Samuel Wesley with his wife and first boy living on fifty pounds a year in a style which he himself poetically describes — In a mean cot, composed of reeds and clay, Wasting in sighs the uncomfortable day ; Near where the inhospitable H umber roars, Devouring, by degrees, the neighbouring shores. Let earth go where it will, I'll not repine, Nor can unhappy be, while heaven is mine. This was South Ormsby, in the gift of his friend the Marquis of Normanby. The young parson was as active as he was content, and as happy as he was active. Happy, at all events, he was in his wife, and happy he must have been in himself while he could beautify his poetic pages with portrait illuminations of such loveliness aud virtue as hers. He has immortalized her character thus — She graced my humble roof, and blest my life, Blest me by a far greater name than wife ; Yet still I bore an undisputed sway, Nor was't her task, but pleasure to obey ; Scarce thought, much less could act, what I denied, In our low house there was no room for pride ; Nor need I e'er direct what still was right, She studied my convenience and delight. 32 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Nor did I for her care ungrateful prove, But only used my power to show my love. Whate'er she asked I gave, without reproach or grudge, For still the reason asked, and I was judge. All my commands, requests at her fair hands, And her requests to me where all commands. To others' thresholds rarely she'd incline, Her house her pleasure was, and she was mine ; Rarely abroad, or never, but with me, Or when by pity called, or charity. The woman who thus gave joy to his home was the well- trained Susannah, daughter of the saintly nonconformist minister of London, Dr. Annesley, and sister to the wife of Dunton, who published Wesley's first volume ; and who after the death of his own beautiful wife, revenged himself, it may be, for Wesley's expression of pain at his haste to marry again, by issuing the satirical verse Poor harmless Wesley, let him write again ; Be pitied in his old heroic strain ; Let him in reams proclaim himself a dunce, And break a dozen stationers at once. This sneer is directed chiefly, perhaps, at the parson's Poem on "The Life of Christ," in folio. There is, how- ever, in one of the poet's contributions to the "Athenian Gazette," which, for a long time, he so largely and with so much learning helped Dunton to keep up, a passage which with more correct severity reflects upon the defects of his own poem. "A young poet," says he, " should never be ambitious of writing much, for a little gold is worth a great head of lead . . to be a perfect poet, a man must be a general scholar, skilled both in the tongues and sciences, and must be perfect in history and moral philosophy." Many will differ from him in his estimate of the learning necessary to a poet. As highest class poetic genius and passion may be found without much of such learning as he requires. If such learning were a main qualification, he would have been nearer to perfection as a poet ; but his fault was that which he himself condemns. He wrote too much, too fast, and too carelessly to write well ; the fault, FATHERS OF POETS. 33 in a less degree, into which, some think, his son Charles fell after him. But his poem was more mercilessly dealt with, long after he had left this world, and that under trie guise of friendliness. " I have been for a long time looking out for a copy of Samuel Wesley's Poem on the ' Life of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,' " said a book-worm, the other day, as he sat in a friend's library, " but my search has been in vain." "There is one here," was the reply ; and a thick little duodecimo volume was produced, which proved to be Dr. Coke's edition. The book-worm rejoiced at a sight of the treasure. But, alas for him ! and alas for the poet ! and alas for the little doctor ! On opening to the preface, there were the following utterances — " Each book of the poem (except the 6th) has an addition of many lines, some as many as hundreds — on the whole, not less than two thou- sand, besides those which supply the places of those lopped off. — Besides lines additional, others new. . . . Few of the original lines are now standing. The versification may be said to be new — an old poem cast in a new model. The writer flatters himself that on a comparative estimate they will be found not unworthy of regard. But he does not profess himself to be a particular favourite of the Muses. Parnassus is a mount which he never intended to ascend. His tale on the present occasion is short and simple. He saw this poem of Mr. Wesley, the plan and design of which he thought to be excellent, but the lines appeared to be very bad. He has therefore endeavoured to mend what he has preserved, and to supply what he thought to be deficient." "What do you think of that, for a little doctor?" cried the book-worm, " a man who ' never intended to ascend Parnassus'! One who never ' thought himself a favourite with the Muses.' For him to undertake to mend every line of Samuel Wesley's which he thought worthy of his touch ! To supply what he ' thought to be deficient ' after he had ' lopped off ' most of the book as redundant ! No ! no ! D 34 THE POETS OF METHODISM. my little doctor ! You were a glorious missionary hero . but you should have let alone ' commentary ' making ; and as to clipping and botching Samuel Wesley, neither 'Par- nassus ' nor the ' Muses ' ever gave you licence or power ! " The thick little volume was nunt^ down in disappoint- ment ; and no wonder ! Some of Wesley's best passages had been marred and ' mended.' Among these, one or two are remarkable for their original pure lyric beauty and power. One to the glory of God the Father — Before this beauteous world was made, Before the earth's foundations laid, He was, He ever is, we know not how ! No mean succession His duration knows, That spring of being neither ebbs nor flows : Whatever was, was Gtd, ere time or place ; Endless duration He, and boundless space, Fill'd with Himself, wherever thought can pierce, He fill'd Himself alone, the universe. Another, in celebration of the Divine Son — The Father's image He, as great as bright, Closed in the same insufferable light ; More closely join'd, more intimately one With His great Father, than the light and sun. Equal in goodness and in might, True God of God, and Light of Light ; Him, with the Father, we adore ; There is no after, or before. But some of the poet's smaller detached pieces are among his more polished gems. So his sons, John and Charles, thought when they gave prominence to one or two of them in their first volume of " Hymns and Sacred Poems." One piece was declared by an able critic to be " the finest poem on the subject in the English language." The poet heads the verses with what he supposes to be, " Part of a (new) dialogue between Plato and Eupolis the poet"; at the close of which Eupolis gives his " Hymn to the Creator " — Author of Being, Source of Light, With unfading beauties bright, Fullness, Goodness, rolling round Thy own fair orb without a bound : FATHERS OF POETS. 3$ Whether Thee Thy suppliants call Truth, or Good, or One, or All, Ei or Jao ; Thee we hail Essence that can never fail, Grecian or Barbaric name, Thy steadfast Being still the same. Thee, when morning greets the skies With rosy cheeks and humid eyes : Thee, when sweet declining day Sinks in purple waves away ; Thee will I sing, O Parent Jove, And teach the world to praise and love. Yonder azure vault on high, Yonder blue, low, liquid sky, Earth on its firm basis placed, And with circling waves embraced, All, Creating Power confess, All their mighty Maker bless. Thou shak'st all Nature with Thy nod, Sea, earth, and air confess Thee God : Yet does Thy powerful hand sustain Both earth and heaven, both fiim and main. Scarce can our daring thought arise To Thy pavilion in the skies ; Nor can Plato's self declare The bliss, the joy, the rapture there. Barren above Thou dost not reign, But circled with a glorious train, The Sons of God, the Sons of Light, Ever joying in Thy sight (For Thee their silver harps are strung) : Ever beauteous, ever young, Angelic forms their voices raise, And through heaven's arch resounds Thy praise. The feather'd souls that swim the air, And bathe in liquid ether there ; The lark, precentor of their choir, Leading them higher still and higher, Listen and learn ; the angelic notes Repeating in their warbling throats ; And ere to soft repose they go, Teach them to their lords below : On the green turf, their mossy nest, The evening anthem swells their breast Thus like Thy golden chain from higir Thy praise unites the earth and sky. Source of Light, Thou bid'st the sun On his burning axles run; $6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. The stars like dust around him fly, And strew the area of the sky. He drives so swift his race above, Mortals can't perceive him move ; So smooth his course, oblique or straight, Olympus shakes not with his weight. As the queen of solemn night Fills at his vase her orb of light, Imparted lustre ; thus we see The solar virtues shine by Thee. Eiresione we'll no more, Imaginary Power, adore ; Since oil, and wood, and cheering wine, And life-sustaining bread is Thine. Thy herbage, O great Pan, sustains The flocks that graze our Attic plains ; The olive with fresh verdure crown'd, Rises pregnant from the ground ; At Thy command it shoots and springs, And a thousand blessings brings. Minerva, only is Thy mind, "Wisdom and bounty to mankind. The fragrant thyme, the bloomy rose, Herb and flower and shrub that grows On Thessaiian Tempos plain, Or where the rich Saleans reign, That treat the taste or smell or sight, For food, for medicine, ©r delight ; Planted by Thy parent care, Spring and smile and flourish there. O ye nurses of soft dreams, Reedy brooks and winding streams, Or murmuring o'er the pebbles' sheen, Or sliding through the meadows green, Or where through matted sedge you creep, Travelling to your parent deep : Sound His praise by whom you rose, That Sea which neither ebbs nor flows. O ye immortal woods and groves, "Which the enamour'd student loves ; Beneath whose venerable shade, For thought and friendly converse made, Famed Hecadem, old hero, lies, W7hose shrine is shaded from the skies, And through the gloom of silent night Projects from far its trembling light; You, whose roots descend as low As high in air your branches grew ; FATHERS OF POETS. 3] Your leafy arms to heaven extend, Bend your heads, in homage bend : Cedars and pines that wave above, And the oak beloved of Jove. Omen, monster, prodigy, Or nothing are, or, Jove, from Thee ; Whether various Nature play, Or re-inversed Thy will obey, And to rebel man declare Famine, plague, or wasteful war. Laugh, ye profane, who dare despise The threatening vengeance of the skies, Whilst the pious, on his guard, Undismay'd is still prepared : Life or death, his mind 's at rest, Since what Thou send'st must needs be best. No evil can from Thee proceed : 'Tis only suffer'd, not decreed. Darkness is not from the sun, Nor mount the shades till he is gone : Then does night obscure arise From Erebus, and fills the skies, Fantastic forms the air invade, Daughters of nothing and of shade. Can we forget Thy guardian care, Slow to punish, prone to spare ? Thou brak'st the haughty Persian's pride, That dared old ocean's power deride ; Their shipwrecks strew'd the Eubcean wave, At Marathon they found a grave. O ye blest Greeks who there expired, For Greece with pious ardour fired, What shrines or altars shall we raise To secure your endless praise ? Or need we monuments supply To rescue what can never die ? And yet a greater Hero far (Unless great Socraces could err) Shall rise to bless some future day, And teach to live and teach to pray. Come, unknown Instructor, come 1 Our leaping hearts shall make Thee room,; Thou with Jove our vows shalt share, Of Jove and Thee we are the care. O Father King, whose heavenly face Shines serene on all Thy race, We Thy magnificence adore, 38 THE POETS OF METHODISM. And Thy well-known aid implore : Nor vainly for Thy help we call ; Nor can we want: for Thou art All ! The author of this hymn was remarkable for the versatility of his talents • and though there was much in his hastily- written pages that occasionally provoked the satirical powers of contemporary genius, yet there was much of suggestive thought underlying his unpolished material ; and sometimes, it may be, the suggestions were used by those who repaid the benefit with a laugh. Wesley's " Epistle to a Friend con- cerning Poetry" may have suggested the notion of Pope's "Dunciad," if not of Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." It is without the bad feeling which breathes in these productions, but is distinguished by much critical acumen, just thought, and fair judgment; while it evidences, here and there, fine poetic ingenuity. Samuel Wesley would have done better as a poet had he adopted the German motto and kept to both its terms — " Never haste, never rest." He never rested ; but he was too hasty. His verse-making was ceaseless ; but his verses could not always mature themselves for haste. So it was in his last volumes, " The History of the Old and New Testament, attempted in verse ; and adorned with three hundred and thirty sculptures." But in the estimation of good Methodists, and, indeed, of all Christian people throughout the world, one hymn of Samuel Wesley's will ceaselessly shed balm on his memory. "Among my recollections," says a Sunday-school teacher, " is the image of a gentle girl who was missed from the school but one Sabbath ; and then we heard that Sarah was no more. In her short illness, while she was able to express herself, she spoke of happy days in the school. ■ Mother,' said she, ' find me that hymn beginning with M ' Behold the Saviour of mankind Nail'd to the shameful tree ! How vast the love that Him inclined To bleed and die for thee 1 ' FATHERS OF POETS. 0)9 " Her mother read the entire hymn, and the happy girl responded, ' Now, mother, mind the line 11 ' To bleed and die for — me ! Yes ! He did ! for me ! for vie ! He calls me home ! ' " It was her last word. She had left her mother behind to ' mind the line ' — " To bleed and die for thee ! " " Good Friday ! O how I love the return of Good Friday ! " said a silver-haired, saintly woman, as she sat with a friend at the door of her cottage in the evening light of that Christian memorial day. Her eyes looked as if they were reflecting holy light from the mysterious cross ; and her voice was tremulous with sacred feeling as she spoke. " It was on a Good Friday evening that my heart, while yet young, was first broken, as I listened to the story of the cross ; and then healed, as the music of the hymn seemed to come direct with life from heaven in those words — 11 O Lamb of God ! was ever pain, Was ever love like Thine ! O how precious has that hymn been to me ever since ! It is, indeed, my Good Friday hymn. This day's return is always sweet. And that hymn is my heart's music throughout the day, and will be till I go to see Him ! " Among the few things saved from the fire when the Epworth Parsonage was burnt, and the child John Wesley was so marvellously preserved, was this same precious " Good Friday hymn." Behold the Saviour of mankind Nail'd to the shameful tree ! How vast the love that Him inclined To bleed and die for thee ! Though far unequal our low praise To Thy vast sufferings prove, O Lamb of God, thus ail our days, Thus will we grieve and love. Hark, how He groans! while nature shakes, And earth's strong pillars bend ! The Temple's veil in sunder breaks, The solid marbles rend. 40 THE POETS OF METHODISM. 'Tis done! the precious ransom 's paid ; " Receive my soul," He cries : See where He bows His sacred head ! He bows His head and dies. But soon He'll break Death's envious chain, 1 in full glory shine! O Lamb of God, was ever pain, Was ever love like Thine! Thy loss our ruins did repair, Death by Thy death is slain ; Thou wilt at length exalt us where Thou dost in glory reign. Were this all that the elder Samuel Wesley ever left us, it would be sufficient to establish his claim in our hearts as a father of Methodist poetry, and a worthy head of " the Epworth singers." ' wr&m*$*** THE EPWORTH SINGERS. CHAPTER III. THE EPWORTH SINGERS. From yon lonely roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms — the simple song of praise. |VERY remarkable manifestation of Christ appears to be heralded and ushered in by newly inspired song. The mystery of the holy Incarnation was preceded by successive strains of prophetic poesy. Those who were sent to proclaim the Saviour's personal approach were inspired bards. Every Messianic prophet was a poet ; and every sacred poem was a prophecy. When the prophetic promises were fulfilled in Christ's visible presence among men, heaven opened its harmonies in accord- ance with inspired human voices — the poetic utterances of hallowed genius below melted into the swell of anthems from above — the poetry of inspired men was felt to be akin to that which belongs to heaven, the home and source of all pure poetic life. "And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts praising God," and . . . sudden blaze of song Spreads o'er the expanse of Heav'n ; In waves of light it thrills along, Th' angelic signal given — " Glory to God ! " from yonder central fire Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry quire : Like circles widening round Upon a clear blue river, Orb after orb the wondrous sound Is echoed on for ever : " Gloiy to God on high, on earth be peace, And love towards men of love — salvation and release." 42 THE TOETS OF METHODISM. So in the following "days of the Son of Man," when He comes in the power of His truth, and in fresh manifestations of His Spirit, to assert His claims anew as the Saviour and Mediatorial Lord of mankind, it would seem that His approach awakened the powers of song, and called human genius to consecrate its powers to the celebration of His Pentecostal glory. We may not, in such cases, hear the harmony above as shepherds once did, for Whilst this muddy mixture of decay Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it — but He calls up tuneful human voices to bail each mightier coming of the Spirit of Truth ; to marshal the powers and spread the joys of His saving grace. Indeed, those who devoutly study the history of the Christian religion will now and then find themselves pleasantly arrested by periodic swells in the tide of holy song j the Church will be seen to have its " times and seasons " of new poetic inspiration : "times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord." And it is happily instructive to observe that these fresh breathings of spiritual music from above are so timed as to provide Christ's people with enlarged means of expression, as, by turns, they are called to the joys of victory, and to "glory in tribulation." Beautiful illustrations of this are to be found in the annals of Christianity on the Continent. The well-timed rise in succession of the " Minne Singers," the "Mystic Hymnists," the "Master Singers," and the tuneful "Bohemian Brethren," shows how graciously hallowed pcetic and musical genius has been made to minister to Christ's spiritual household at each crisis in its history. The mighty Comforter, who, by the ministry of Luther, called such multitudes in Germany into newness of life, spoke by him, too, when he summoned forth new powers of spiritual song, and opened a new era in the history of tuneful worship. "I would fain," says Luther, "see all arts, especially music, in the sen- ice of Him who has given and created them. It is my intention, after the example of the prophets and ancient fathers, to make German psalms for the people ; that THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 43 is, spiritual songs, whereby the Word of God may be kept among them by singing. We seek therefore everywhere for poets." Nor did he seek in vain. Poets arose under an inspiration which seemed to be given for the occasion. And the Spirit's work in the psalmody of Lather's time bore fruit and fulfilled its purpose, until — a Romanist being witness — " the whole people were singing themselves into this Lutheran doctrine." The succession of devout poets con- tinued j and the great work of the Reviving Spirit issued in the opening of a new era of spiritual life, until the conse- crated poetic genius of Germany seemed to become the con- necting link between holy reformation on the Continent and the spiritual awakening under the Wesleys and their com- panions in England. The name of Epworth appears to be naturally associated with the rise of what may be called the Methodist school of psalmody. At the most north-western point of Lincolnshire, on the westerly bank of the river Trent, there was a tract of land which, towards the close of the seventeenth century, was still, for the most part, a low marsh. Even the few raised portions of it were overflown on the rise of the waters. " I and my company have been confined to an upper chamber," says an eye-witness, "and seen no dry land for the space of these seven days. I did see- the mothers, Pyrrha-like, trudging middle-deep in water with theire infants hanging upon theire breastes ; and the fathers, Deucalion-like, bearinge theire children upon theire shoulders, to seek higher ground for theire succour. All sorts of people in pitifull distress ; some to save theire lives, some theire goods and cattle, some to get food for theire hungrie bodies." The district formed an island between three rivers and an old dyke, known as the " Isle of Axholme." About the centre of the province, on a swell that rose above the fen, was the ancient Heapeurde, or "the Hill Farm," afterwards known as Epworth. From the church on this comparatively high ground, the eye might range over the swampy flats and throw its glance around from Kirton on the Lincolnshire side, down to Nottingham- 44 THE POETS OF METHODISM. shire, and with a sweep to the west into Yorkshire, until it reached up to the Northern Wolds. To this " farm on the rising ground" Samuel Wesley came, during the year 1696, by such roads only as led across the partially cultured flax and barley fields. Here he found a rectory described as a dwelling of "five baies, built all of timber and plaister, and covered all with straw thatche, the whole building being con- trived into three stories, and disposed into seven chiefe rooms, namely — a kitchinge, a hall, a parlour, a butterie, and three large upper rooms ; besydes some others of common use ; and also a little garden impailed, betweene the stone wall and the south. The horne-stall, or scite of the parson- age, situate and lyenge betweene the field on the east, and Lancaster Lane on the west, and abuttinge upon the High Street on the south, and of John Maw — sonne of Thomas — his tenement, and a croft on the north. By estimation three acres. One barn of six baies, built all of timber and clay walls, and covered with straw thatche j and outshotts about it, and free house there bye. One dovecoate of timber and plaister covered with straw thatche ; and one hempkiln, that hath been useallie occupied for the parsonage ground, adjoyning upon the south." The Rector and his exemplary wife brought four children to this Epworth home — Samuel, who was born in London, and three girls, Emilia, Susanna, and Mary. This Epworth parsonage became the birth-place of six more children, suc- ceeding one another, as, Mehetabel, Anne, John, Martha, Charles, and Kezia. Thus was formed the remarkable family often, all more or less gifted with poetic power, and several ot whom have been immortalized as what may be called the family of Epworth singers. The influence which this family has had on so many following generations, and its still widening power for good over families and populations throughout the world, are largely owing to their sanctified training in that Epworth home. Where has not the accumulated fruit of the saintly mother's deeds been seen and felt ? When will the good THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 45 inherited from the learning, genius, and steadfast godliness of the venerable head of that Ep worth household die out from human life? "Though," says that faithful mother, "the education of so many children must create abundance of trouble, and will perpetually keep the mind employed as well as the body j yet consider 'tis no small honour to be entrusted with the care of so many souls. And if that trust be but managed with prudence and integrity, the harvest will abundantly recompense the toil of the seed-time ; and it will be certainly no small accession to the future glory to stand forth at the last day and say, ' Lord, here are the children which Thou hast given me, of whom I have lost none by my ill example, nor by neglecting to instil into their minds, in their early years, the principles of Thy true re- ligion and virtue.' " The woman who held this principle duly worked it out. She aimed at educating each child's "whole spirit and soul and body "j bringing all and each under such physical discipline as best to promote health and strength, training and instructing their intellect to mental vigour and intelligence ; and, above all, leading them to act on religious principle, and to form habits of devout acquaintance with the Divine will. Their genius and poetic passion were inherited from the father ■ but the gracious exercise of their genius, and the fine balance of their various powers and gifts, they owed to the character and oversight of the devoted mother. Her mode of home training was somewhat shaped, it may be, by the peculiarities of her first boy's case. The young Samuel's "hearing was acute an'd perfect 5 his intellect apparently keen and active ; but there was no power of speech. He never uttered an intelligible word until he was nearly five years old ; and his parents began to fear that he was hopelessly dumb. Having been missed longer than usual on one occasion, his mother sought him in different parts of the house, but without success. ' Becoming alarmed, she called him loudly by name, and to her joyful surprise he answered from under a table, in a clear, distinct voice, ' Here I am, mother!' Suddenly, and without any assignable 46 THE POETS OF METHODISM. reason or effort, he had gained the use of speech. This early infirmity in the case of her first-born prevented Mrs. Wesley beginning to teach him, had she been so disposed, before he was five years old. He now learned with great rapidity," and soon amply repaid her care. The cheering success of this her first attempt at teaching probably fixed her plans for the future. " The school always opened and closed with singing a solemn psalm j " and nothing was permitted to disturb this order. This regulated system of psalm-singing may have done much to tune the native powers of song which were more or less peculiar to every member of the household. Samuel was about six years old when brought to Epworth, and after due preparation was sent to "Westminster School in his thirteenth or fourteenth year. As the hope of his father and the object of loving solicitude to his mother, he had the benefit of their written advice and warning and teaching. The influence of the father may be traced in its distinctness from that of the mother in their correspondence ; while the beautiful harmony of parental feeling is equally clear. The child of such parents, the scholar from such a parental school, if possessed of any genius or heart, might be expected to do, or to say, or to be, something that would graciously associate him with the happiness and welfare of future generations. And so it was. Samuel Wesley, as the eldest-born of the Epworth singers, has, by the exercise of his hallowed poetic power, become for ever one with the most tender and holy sympathies of Christian life. A single hymn of his was enough to effect this. What wonder is awakened in the soul when it seeks to trace the innumerable linking of things in the kind works of Providence and saving grace ! How mysteriously one person is found to be related to another, though far apart both as to space and time : and how delicate is the tie which sometimes binds the action of one to the ever unfolding destinies of many ! One word in conversa- tion, one sentence in a sermon, or one verse of a hymn, is, in some cases, immortally connected with the salvation of ever- expanding multitudes of souls. THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 47 "God has given you many spiritual children," said one Christian minister to another, as they walked and talked about Divine things, " and you have the joy of knowing that your children in the Gospel are among those ' chosen pilgrims of the dispersion,' who, like the ' elect strangers ' to whom Peter wrote, are maintaining and spreading spiritual life in almost all parts of the world where English-speaking people are found. It seems to me that the prolific power of your ministry is found in that realization of unseen and eternal things which you seem to have in yourself while you speak, and which, by the grace of the Blessed Spirit, your words appear to awaken in those who hear you." " It may be so," was the answer, " and if so, it is ( accord- ing to His abundant mercy '; for I can trace that sense of Divine reality in the spiritual and unseen to one point in my early course, when it was so called into life as never to lose its power. Soon after my conversion, I was taken to see a young woman who was at the point of death. She had been a fellow-teacher with me in the Sunday-school ; but in spite of all holy influences, examples, warnings, and prayers, she had given her heart to the vain world, and had accepted the homage which it paid to her beauty. I looked at her now — beautiful still ; and while my venerable companion was tenderly pressing the claims of Jesus on her heart, I was rehearsing to myself those exquisite lines — " Or worn by slowly-rolling years, Or broke by sickness in a day, The fading- glory disappears, The short-lived beauties die away. In my youthful hopefulness, I hoped for her, and inwardly pursued the happier strain — " Yet these, new rising from the tomb, With lustre brighter far shall shine ; Revive with ever-during bloom, Safe from diseases and decline. But I had scarcely finished the verse in my thought, before a cast of inexpressible horror was on her face, and in answer to an invitation to Christ from my friend, she shrieked, as she 48 THE POETS OF METHODISM. tore her hair, 'Too late ! ' — and was gone ! I hurried from that room feeling that there were terrible realities in the unseen world around me. That feeling remained till I myself, to all human appearance, was close on the end of my mortal life. The solemn blessedness of that night still impresses me. My friends standing around in that silent chamber j the grave calmness of the old physician by my side ^ the loss, on my part, of all power to utter even a whisper j the keen sensitiveness of my spirit as it seemed to be moving peacefully — oh, how peacefully ! — towards some Divine region — then it was that I had that hallowed realiza- tion of the spiritual world in its nearness, which has given a tone to my views and feelings ever since. That realization was given to me by what appeared to be a sweetly-toued, heavenly breathing into my soul of a favourite verse, " Let sickness blast, and death devour, If heaven must recompense my pains ; Perish the grass and fade the flower, If firm the word of God remains. That rich inward intonation of those lines floats to my spirit's ear even now. And I often think whether what I felt then of the power and meaning of the lines were any- thing like a spiritual reflection of the author's own thought and feeling when he wrote them. If so, he must have been ' in the heavenlies with Christ ' when his soul first uttered that hymn. How fine and touching is its music, rising so calmly as it does, from melting plaintiveness to bright and even triumphant assurance ! It was written ' on the death of a Young Lady,' and is a paraphrase of Isaiah's poetic verse, * All flesh is grass, and all the goodiiness thereof is as the flower of the field.' " The morning- flowers display their sweets, And gay their silken leaves unfold, As careless of the noontide heats, As fearless of the evening cold. Nipt by the wind's unkindly blast, Parch'd by the sun's directer ray, The momentary glories waste, The short-lived beauties die away. THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 49 So blooms the human face divine, When youth its pride of beauty shows : % Fairer than spring the colours shine, And sweeter than the virgin rose. Or worn by slowly rolling years, Or broke by sickness in a day, The fading glory disappears, The short-lived beauties die away. Yet these, new rising from the tomb, With lustre brighter far shall shire ; Revive with ever-during bloom, Safe from diseases and decline. Let sickness blast, and death devour, If heaven must recompense my pains ; Perish the grass, and fade the flower, If firm the word of God remains. "Blessings forever on the memory of Samuel Wesley, junior ! " "Yes," said the minister's companion, "and blessings upon that name will come from many others, from me among the rest. But from how many, many besides ! From all those, indeed, your children in the Gospel, whose spiritual birth and growth, and fruitfulness, and immortal victories, are for ever in mysterious relationship to the hymn which the Holy Ghost used in preparing you for preaching, during so many years, within the light of "things unseen," and with accumulative results ! Endless are the living associations which I see gathering around that hymn and its glorified author." Samuel Wesley, junior, could never be strictly called a Methodist. He was from the first, and ever remained, what, in his times, might be considered a High Churchman j and yet, as a poet, his hymns give him an immortal connection with the Epworth singers and with the poets of Methodism. His talents as a wit and literary genius, brought him into companionship and friendliness with the leading geniuses of his times, such as Lord Orford, Pope, and Atterbury. His close friendship with Atterbury cost him the loss of Robert Walpole's good-will ; and probably resulted in his 5° THE POETS OF METHODISM. quiet settlement at Tiverton in Devon, as the master of Blundell's Grammar School. He did not shrink from the free exercise of his sarcastic powers against those who dif- fered from him and his friend in politics. Hence the biting verses on his sordid opponent, Walpole — A Steward once, the Scripture says, When ordered his accounts to pass, To gain his master's debtors o'er, Cried, " For a hundred write fourscore." Near as he could, Sir Robert bent To follow Gospel precedent : When told a hundred late would do, Cried, " 1 beseech you, sir, take two." In merit which would we prefer, The Steward or the Treasurer ? Neither for justice car'd a fig, Too proud to beg, too old to dig ; Both bountiful themselves have shown, In things that never were their own : But here a difference we must grant — One robb'd the rich to keep off want ; T'other, vast treasures to secure, Stole from the public and the poor. How often, when walking up the old avenue to the un- pretending door-way of ancient Tiverton's " Free Grammar School," have we thought of Peter Blundell's, the poor clothier, who, at the end of the sixteenth century, by industry and uprightness rose to the dignity of a rich merchant, and secured honour for his own memory by saying that, "though he was no scholar himself, he would be the means of making many ! " And how often have our thoughts about his good purpose been associated with the name of Samuel Wesley, as one of the most efficient instruments in fulfilling the good man's design ! Never have we looked upon that speak- ing portrait of the "Master " which is still preserved in the school, without thinking of that master's faithful and affec- tionate observance of his father's request — " Endeavour to repay your mother's prayers for you by doubling yours for her 3 and, above all things, to live such a virtuous and reli- gious life that she may rind that her care and love have not THE EPWORTH SINGERS. $1 been lost upon you, but that we may all meet in heaven. Id short, reverence and love her as much as you will, which I hope will be as much as you can. For though I should be jealous of any other rival in your heart, yet I will not be jealous of her ; the more duty you pay her, and the more frequently and kindly you write to her, the more you will please your affectionate father." The master of Blundell's School entered on his work about the year 1732 ; having for many years proved himself ready for ruling and training others by setting an example of tender obedience to the command, " Honour thy father, and thy mother." Gentle warmth, simplicity, and keen, sarcastic force, were combined in his character as a poet. These fea- tures of his character are found embalmed in verse, each in its own shrine. And sometimes, when side by side, they strikingly show the diversity of his powers. Now, his child- like simplicity and gentleness breathe in an " Epitaph on an Infant"— Beneath, a sleeping infant lies; To earth whose ashes lent More glorious shall hereafter rise, Though not more innocent. When the Archangel's trump shall blow, And souls and bodies join, What crowds will wish their lives below Had been as short as thine ! And now, he reflects on the erection of a monument to the author of " Hudibras " in Westminster Abbey, with a sar- castic force which, like forked lightning, leaves its impress burnt into the object which it smites — While Butler, needy wretch ! was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give ; See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust! The Poet's fate is here in emblem shown — He asked for Bread, and he received a Stone. But it is in his hymns that the human lovableness and the high-toned piety and devotion of Samuel Wesley still live to bless the spiritual descendants of the Epworth Singers. 52 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Two friends once stood side by side, during the Sunday service, in Westminster Abbey. Their devotion was aided by the chant and song which arose swelling and melting by turns, and which, to them, was so new and fresh that it might seem to be the approaching music of an immortal Sabbath. Little did one of them think that so soon from that time the music of an immortal Sabbath would fill the departed soul of his companion ; but so it was. Years afterwards, when far away from Westminster Abbey, while he " went through the cornfields on the Sabbath day," the music of that self-same Westminster Abbey chant seemed to come flowing to his ear, though no choristers were to be seen. From whencesoever it came, it touched a chord in his soul, for he had some " music in himself," and he sang in response — " The Lord of Sabbath let us praise, In concert with the blest, "Who joyful in harmonious lays Employ an endless rest. Thus, Lord, while we remember Thee, We blest and pious grow ; By hymns of praise we learn to be Triumphant here below. On this glad day a brighter scene Of glory was display'd, By God, th' eternal Word, than when This universe was made. He rises, who mankind has bought With grief and pain extreme : 'Twas great to speak a world from naught : 'Twas greater to redeem ! " It was not until a few years after this responsive song in the cornfield that the singer knew the hymn to be a Sabbath utterance of one who, a century and half ago, caught inspira- tion amidst the Sabbath harmonies of old Westminster Abbey. While Samuel Wesley was as yet but a pupil at Westminster, his father said to him in a letter from Epworth, " I hope you understand the Cathedral service — I mean, understand what they sing and say. If we do understand THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 53 the service, and go along with it, we shall find Church music a great help to our devotion. . . We are not to think God has framed man in vain an harmonious creature ; and surely music cannot be better employed than in the service and praises of Him who made both the tongue and the ear." This appeal could not be in vain to one who inherited his father's musical as well as poetic taste. Cathedral music was a devout joy to him, and when, as an usher in Westminster School, his genius became mature, it was under the inspira- tion of Sabbath music in the old Abbey that his poetical soul concentrated, in that one short, tuneful hymn, its own har- monized thoughts on the Divine reason, authority, blessed associations, and sanctifying influence of the Christian Sabbath. The quietness of old Twyford, or Tiverton, reposing on its southern slope between the Devonian streams of the Exe and the Loman, and the rich beauty of its surroundings, were more akin, it may be, to the poet's taste and powers than the dim cloisters of Westminster. Here, it is certain, his genius gave out some of its sweetest and holiest music. No one who loves his memory and breathes the spirit of his hymns can approach the richly sculptured southern porch of the parish church without picturing the intellectual-looking head master, with his usher and one hundred and fifty foundation boys, passing into the fine old sanctuary, in observance of " Fast " or " Festival." And it might be that as the bells from that lofty tower ceased their tuneful call, in the solemn silence which fell on the worshippers before the opening sentences of the service, Samuel Wesley would come under that thrilling sense of the Divine Father's pre- sence which he has so grandly expressed in the Methodist hymn — Hail, Father, whose creating call Unnumber'd worlds attend ; Jehovah comprehending all, Whom none can comprehend ! In light unsearchable enthroned, Whom angels dimly see; The Fountain of the Godhead own'd, And foremost of the Three. 54 THE POETS OF METHODISM. From Thee, through an eternal now, Tne Son, Thine Offspring flovv'd ; An everlasting Father Thou, An everlasting God. Nor quite display'd to worlds above, Nor quite on earth conceal'd ; By wondrous, unexhausted love, To mortal man reveal'd. Supreme and all-sufficient Gel, When nature shall expire ; And world's created by Thy nod, Shall perish by Thy fire. Thy name, Jehovah be adored By creatures without end ; Whom none but Thy essential Word And Spirit comprehend. Nor would any reverent Christian who had entered into the doctrine of the cross deeply enough to be free from modern heathenism in the observance of Good Friday ever move up, on that memorial day, between the fine clustered columns of the spacious nave towards the chancel of St. Peter's, Tiver- ton, without being solemnized at the thought of one who used to worship there j and who, on a Good Friday about the year 1734, kindled there into the spirit of a hymn in which an apostolic intensity of devotion to the CrucLied wraps the worshipper in holy wonder at the mystery, the agony, the joy of the cross — From whence these dire portents around, That heaven and earth amaze? Wherefore do earthquakes cleave the ground? Why hides the sun his rays ? Not thus did Sinai's trembling head With sacred horror nod, Beneath the dark pavilion spread Of legislative God. Thou Earth, thy lowest centre shake. With Jesus sympathize ! Thou Sun, as hell's deep gloom be black : 'Tis thy Creator dies ! See, streaming from the accursed tree, His all-atoning blood ! Is this the Infinite ? — 'Tis He! My Saviour and my God ! THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 5J For me these pangs His soul assail, For me the death is borne ; My sins gave sharpness to the nail, And pointed every thorn. Let sin no more my soul enslave; Break, Lord, the tyrant's chain; O save me, whom Thou cam'st to save, Nor bleed nor die in vain ! The amiable and gifted hymnist, so graciously trained at Epworth, departed to his rest from Tiverton, Nov. 6, 1759, aged forty-nine. In thinking of the Epworth singers, a regretful thought must be given to the eldest daughter of the house, Emilia. The thought must be regretful both on her account and our own. "We are sorry to find so little remaining fruit of her poetic passion ; while it must be deplored that seemingly un- happy circumstances should ever have crossed or embittered the thought and feeling of so gifted a woman. She had been brought from her birth-place, South Ormsby, to Epworth while but a child. Her parents bestowed special care on her training. She became a thoroughly intellectual and educated woman, with an exquisite taste for the beautiful, especially in poetry and music. Her brother John, of whom she was passionately fond, declared that she was the best reader of Milton he had ever heard. She loved her mother with intense affection 3 while in occasional sharpness of temper and impatience of opposition, she reflected her father's in- firmities, showing, at the same time, that she inherited his energy, perseverance, imperious will, and noble courage. Some time before she became Mrs. Harper, and while she was residing at Wroote, her sister Hetty, then Mrs. Wright, tuneful and elegant amidst all her sorrows, sent her the following lines illustrative of her personal character and surroundings — My fortunes often bid me flee So light a thing as Poetry ; But stronger inclination draws, To follow Wit and Nature's laws- $6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Virtue, Form, and Wit, in thee Mo\e in perfect harmony; For thee my tuneful voice I'll raise> For tree compose my softest lays ; My youthful muse shall take her flight, And crown thy beauteous head with radiant beams of light. True Wit and sprightly Genius shine In every turn, in every line — To these, O skilful Nine, annex The native sweetness cf my sex ; And that peculiar talent let me show "Which Providence divine doth oft bestow On spirits that are high, with fortunes that are low. Thy virtues and thy graces all, How simple, free, and natural ! Thy graceful form with pleasure I survey ; It charms the eye, the heart, alwav. — Malicious Fortune did repine, To grant her gifts to worth like thine ! To all thy outward majesty and grace, To all the blooming features of thy face, To all the heavenly sweetness of thy mind, A noble, generous, equal soul is joined, By reason polished, and by arts refined. Thy even, steady eyes can see Dame Fortune smile or frown at thee ; At every varied change can say, " It moves not me ! " Fortune has fixed thee in a place Debarred of "Wisdom, Wit, and Grace. High births and virtue equally they scorn As asses dull, on dung-hills born : Impervious as the stones, their heads are found ; Their rage and hatred steadfast as the ground. "With these unpolished wights thy youthful davs Glide slow and dull, and Nature's lamp decays : O what a lamp is hid, 'midst such a sordid race ! But though thy brilliant virtues are obscured, And in a noxious, irksome den immured, My numbers shall thy trophies rear, And lovely as she is, my Emily appear. Still thy transcendent praise I will rehearse, And form this faint description into verse ; And when the Poet's head lies low in clay, Thy name shall shine in words which never can decay. An interesting and somewhat amusing indication of her character is given in one of her letters to her favourite brother THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 57 John. It would appear that John, while at Oxford, was disposed to introduce priestly confession, among the other High Church practices which he so diligently pursued, before he found the enjoyment of salvation in Christ. He must have proposed the plan to Emilia ; and she proves herself more than an equal, even for him, in strong sense, and free, vigorous thought. " To lay open the state of my soul to you, or any of our clergy, is what I have no inclination to at present j and I believe I never shall : I shall not put my conscience under the direction of any mortal man, frail as myself. To my own Master I stand or fall. Nay, I scruple not to say that all such desire in you, or any other ecclesiastic, seems to me like Church tyranny, and assuming to your- selves a dominion over your fellow-creatures which was never designed you by God." Well done, Emilia ! Would to God that the youthful mind of England may prove equally free and powerful to resist the new generation of unfledged priests who seek to insinuate themselves into mastery over young women's consciences ! Had this eldest daughter of the Epworth home thrown her clear, strong thoughts about clerical pretensions into verse, we might have had something that would even more than rival the lines of her brother Charles in his poetical epistle to his brother John as to the Church — But should the bold usurping spirit dare Still higher climb, and sit in Moses1 chair, Power o'er my faith and conscience to maintain, Shall I submit, and suffer it to reign ? Call it The Church, and darkness put for light, Falsehood with truth confound, and wrong with right ? No: I dispute the evil's haughty claim, The spirit of the world be still its name, Whatever called by man, 'tis purely evil, 'Tis Babel, Antichrist, and Pope, and Devil. Emilia Wesley's memory is closely associated with a re- markable occurrence in the history of the Epworth family. In a letter to her brother Charles, she says, respecting the extraordinary supernatural disturbances in the new parson- age— " I am so far from being superstitious, that I was too 58 THE POETS OF METHODISM. much inclined to infidelity ; and I therefore heartily rejoice at having such an opportunity of convincing myself, past doubt or scruple, of the existence of some beings besides those we see." So, in this case, there was an object accom- plished fully adequate to the mysterious magnitude of the means. Whatever the spiritual agency was, it found Emilia a doubting genius, and it left her as true a believer as her brother, who as one article of his Christian creed sang — Bound in chains of hidden night, Stragglers from the infernal pit, Devils cannot wreak their spite, 'Till our sovereign Lord permit: Jesus covers us and ours, Who on His great name depend, Limits hell's malicious powers, Saves His people to the end. Did it ever occur to Emilia Wesley, or to anybody else, that the machinations of human malice might be permitted for some purposes to continue their operation by unseen agency, from the region where mal cious souls are suffering their reward ? Was there no connection between the un- earthly distractions in the new rectory at Epworth and the wicked persecutions which hnd been consummated in the burning of the old parsonage ? Was there no relation between the mortal overthrow of the leading persecutors of the Rector's household and the fiendlike intrusions on that household's peace and devotion ? Among the bitterest enemies of the godly Rector there was one pre-eminent villain, the horrid circumstances of whose death, after his last desperate act of malice, seemed to symbolize his destiny under a retributive Providence. This was Robert Darwin ; one of the richest, but one of the most abandoned parishioners. The name, curiously enough, ap- pears, as a matter of course, to call up Isaac Taylor's mode of accounting for the disturbances in Epworth Parsonage. "Around us," says he, "as most believe, are beings of a high order, whether good or evil, and yet not cognizable by the senses of men. But the analogies of tne visible world favour the THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 59 supposition that, besides these, there are orders, or species, of all grades, and some, perhaps, not more intelligent than apes or pigs. That these species have no liberty, ordinarily, to infringe upon the solid world, is manifest; nevertheless, chances or mischances, may, in long cycles of time, throw some — like the Arabian locust — over his boundary, and give him an hour's leave to disport himself among things palpable." May there be some truth in this? May the truth that is in it be reconcilable with the notion that the monster Darwin and his companions may have been per- mitted still to manifest, for a time, their despairing malice in their now dark spiritual style ? The name of Darwin has often, since then, been identified with queer minglings of species, and mysterious alliances between human beings and other orders of life, "not more intelligent than apes or pigs"! Such associations of thought may be distinctive of some family lines. We can afford to wait for more light in such matters. It is clear, in the meantime, that Emilia Wesley needed an impressive lesson on unseen realities, and that, with other members of her family who became so mighty in dealing with " things that are eternal," she manifested in her character the saving design of the extraordinary teaching. She lived to realize the Christian's openness to the good influences of the spirit-world as well as to its powers of evil; to the joys of its ministerial guardianship as well as to its readiness for mischief. And after all her trials she could sing in harmony with her musical brother — Angels, where'er we go, attend Our steps, whate'er betide, With watchful care their charge attend And evil turn aside. But thronging round with busiest love, They guard the dying breast; The lurking fiend far off remove, And sing our souls to rest: 60 THE POETS OF METHODISM. And when our spirits we resign, On outstretch'd wings they bear, And lodge it in the arms Divine, And leave for ever there. This eldest sister of the Epworth group lived nearly to hei eightieth year. Her beloved brother John provided a retreat for her, during the time of her widowhood, in the chapel- house of West Street, Seven Dials, London ; and there, in the use of the religious services, her enjoyment of truth deepened until her course was peacefully finished. The only specimen of her verse that remains is in a few lines, "written under a portrait of John Wesley " — His eyes diffuse a venerable grace ; And charity itself is in his face. Humble and meek, learn'd, pious, prudent, just, Of good report, and faithful to his trust: Vigilant, sober, watchful of his charge, Who feeds his sheep, and doth their folds enlarge. SSMm m% & Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 6l CHAPTER IV. OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. Say, what is life ? A mystery ! most to them Who strive to fathom its still changeful deep ; Who fain exultingly the tide would stem That human bosoms in dim woe doth steep : Who soar aspiringly, yet still must weep ; On towering pinions, chain'd to earthly coil ; Intensely questioning the vast, the deep, The gem enshrined v\ithin its mortal foil ; The ethereal spark bedimm'd by sorrow and turmoil. HERE is much mystery about what one may call the particular fate by which some families are followed. Distinguished as the household may be for gifts and culture, each member in succes- sion appears, in some cases, to take the same unhappy turn at some one point in their course. So it was with the Wesleys. With but few exceptions, the Epworth family were either crossed in love, or proved unhappy in their wedded life. One of the exceptions was the beautiful little Mary; with a diminutive and somewhat deformed figure, there was an exquisite charm of countenance, sweetly expressive of the lovely temper and gracefulness of her soul. With the approbation of all her family, she became the much loved and loving wife of John Whitelamb, who, from humble birth and charity-school training, rose, under the care of Mary's father, to a successful college life, and to the pastoral charge of Wroote, a neighbouring parish to Epworth. The conjugal joys of the little rude primitive parsonage among the fens were broken up, however, in twelve months. Mary and her first infant were buried together in the rural 6l THE POETS OF METHODISM. grave-yard of her husband's first parish. Her sister, Me- hetabel, wrote this beautiful " Epitaph on Mrs. Mary White- lamb;'— If highest worth, in beauty's bloom, Exempted mortals from the tomb, We had not round this sacred bier Mourned the sweet babe and mother here, Where innocence from harm is blest, And the meek sufferer is at rest ! Fierce pangs she bore without complaint, Till heaven relieved the finished saint. If savage bosoms felt her woe, (Who lived and died without a foe), How should I mourn, or how commend, My tenderest. dearest, firmest friend ? Most pious, meek, resigned, and chaste, With every social virtue graced ! If, reader, thou would'st prove, and know, The ease she found not here below ; Her bright example points the way To perfect bliss and endless day. The same gifted sister shows herself to be the brightest poetical genius of the Epworth Singers in another tribute to Mary's memory : a poem which immortalizes the loveliness and virtue of the departed, while it touchingly associates the poet's tender recollections of her sister's Deauty of character with plaintive allusions to the springs of her own sorrow — If blissful spirits condescend to know, And hover round what once they loved below ; Maria ! gentlest excellence ! attend To her, who glories to have called thee friend ! Remote in merit, though allied in blood, Unworthy I, and thou divinely good ! Accept, blest shade, from me these artless lays, Who never could unjustly blame, or praise. How thy economy and sense outweighed The finest wit in utmost pomp displayed, Let others sing, while I attempt to paint The god-like virtues of the friend and saint. With business and devotion never cloyed, No moment of thy life passed unemployed, Well-natured mirth, mature discretion joined, Constant attendants of the virtuous mind. From earliest dawn of youth, in thee well known, The saint sublime and finished Christian shone. OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 6$ Yet would not grace one grain of pride allow, Or cry, " Stand off*, I'm holier than thou ! " A worth so singular since time began, But one surpassed, and He was more than man. When deep immersed in griefs beyond redress, And friend and kindred heightened my distress, And with relentless efforts made me prove Pain, grief, despair, and wedlock without love, My soft Maria could alone dissent, O'erlooked the fatal vow, and mourned the punishment. Condoled the ill, admitting no relief, With such infinitude of pitying grief, That all who could not their demerit see, Mistook her wond'rous love for worth in me; No toil, reproach, or sickness could divide The tender mourner from her Stella's side ; My fierce inquietude, and maddening care, Skilful to soothe, or resolute to share ! Ah me! that heaven has from this bosom tore My angel friend, to meet on earth no more ; That this indulgent spirit soars away, Leaves but a still, insentient mass of clay ; Ere Stella could c'.ischarge the smallest part Of all she owed to such immense desert ; Or could repay with aught but feeble praise The sole companion of her joyless days ; Nor was thy form unfair, though heaven confined To scanty limits thy exalted mind. Witness thy brow serene, benignant, clear, That none could doubt transcendent truth dwelt there ; Witness the taintless whiteness of thy skin, Pure emblem of the purer soul within : That soul, which tender, unassuming, mild, Through jetty eyes with tranquil sweetness smiled. But ah 1 could fancy paint, or language speak, The roseate beauties of thy lip or cheek, Where nature's pencil, leaving art no room, Touched to a miracle the vernal bloom. (Lost though thou art) in Stella's deathless line, Thy face immortal as thy fame shall shine. To soundest prudence (life's unerring guide), To love sincere, religion without pride ; To friendship perfect in a female mind, Which I nor hope nor wish on earth to find ; To mirth (the balm of care) from lightness free, Unblemished faith, unwearied industry ; To every charm and grace combined in you, Sister and friend ! — a long, a last adieu 1 Of the seven Epworth daughters, the only other exception, 64 THE POETS OF METHODISM. as a case of comfortable married life, was that of Anne, sometimes at home familiarly called Nancy, or Nan. She makes no figure in the records of the family ; and no notice is given of her person, except it may be in her brother Samuel's playful allusion to his father at Wroote — Methinks I see you striving- all Who first shall answer to his call, Or lusty Nan, or feeble Moll, Sage Pat, or sober Hetty ; To rub his cassock's draggled tail, Or reach his hat from off' the nail, Or seek the key to draw his ale, When damsel haps to steal it ; To burn his pipe, or mend his clothes, Or nicely darn his russet hose, For comfort of his aged toes, So fine they cannot feel it. " Lusty Nan" has left no memorial of her mind's character. Her marriage to John Lambert, a land surveyor in Epworth, brought from her eldest brother some verses, the good sense, wisdom, and piety of which may have been reflected in her domestic character and life, while they were exemplified in the author's own home experience — No fiction fine shall guide my hand, But artless truth the verse supply ; Which all with ease may understand, But none be able to deny. Nor, sister, take the care amiss Which I, in giving rules employ To point the likliest way to bliss, To cause as well as wish you joy. Let love your reason never blind, To dream of paradise below ; For sorrows must attend mankind, And pain, and weariness, and woe ! Though still, from mutual love, relief In all conditions may be found : It cures at once the common grief, And softens the severest wound. Through diligence and well-earned gain In growing plenty may you live 1 And each in piety obtain Repose that riches cannot give ! OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 6$ If children e'er should bless the bed, Oh, rather let them infants die Than live to grieve the hoary head, And make the aged father sigh I Still duteous, let them ne'er conspire To make their parents disagree ; No son be rival to his sire, No daughter more beloved than thee ! Let them be humble, pious, wise, Nor higher station wish to know ; Since only those deserve to rise Who live contented to be low. Firm let the husband's empire stand, With easy but unquestioned sway; May he have kindness to command, And thou the bravery to obey ! Long may he give thee comfort, long As the frail knot of life shall hold ! More than a father when thou'rt young, More than a son when waxing old. The greatest earthly pleasure try, Allowed by Providence Divine ; Be still a husband, blest as I, And thou a wife as good as mine ! To Nan's educated, well-read husband we owe the careful preservation of his father-in-law's early publications, many of which happily illustrate the character of the venerable parent of our Epworth Singers. Pitiable, indeed, is the marriage story of the other sisters. Of Susanna, lovely in form and face, of lively, strong, and cultured intellect, her mother writes to an uncle, who had failed to fulfil his promise of providing for his niece, rt My second daughter, Sukey, a pretty woman, and worthy a better fate, when, by your unkind letters, she perceived all her hopes in you were frustrated, rashly threw herself upon a man, — if man he may be called that is little inferior to the apostate angels in wickedness, — that is not only her plague, but a constant affliction to the family." Martha, still more unhappy, was miserably bound to The vilest husband, and the worst of men, who, in his last hour of penitence, cried, " I have injured an 66 THE POETS OF METHODISM. angel ! An angel that never reproached me !'' " Sister Patty was always too wise to be witty," said Charles, her brother. She was intellectual and accomplished ; well read, and gifted with conversational powers which made Dr. Samuel Johnson value her society. Her poetic taste was equal to her memory, which enabled her to quote freely and at large from the best English poets. The man she married was as " unstable as water'' ; was first betrothed to her j then courted her younger sister Kezia ; again returned, and fulfilled his promise to Martha j plunging her, at length, into the miseries' of a home polluted and cursed by an infidel and licentious apostate ; and casting a blight upon her forsaken sister, of whom, in her thirty-first year, Charles Wesley says, "Yesterday (March 9, 1 741) Sister Kezzy died in the Lord Jesus. He finished his work, and cut it short in mercy." Hetty, or Mehetabel Wesley, was the first child of the family born in Epworth, and was, perhaps, the first in poetic rank of the Epworth Singers. She was a gay sprightly child, overflowing with fun, good nature, and wit. Warm fancy, sparkling genius, delicate sensitiveness, and petulant temper soon made themselves known and felt in the handsome girl. Her vigorous poetic talent was quite equalled by her early capacity for polite and substantial learning. And though her lighter disposition and temper sometimes gave uneasiness to her parents, her keen appreciation of various knowledge promised ample returns for their careful culture of her powers. She owed much, as to education, to her father's brother, Matthew Wesley, a London physician. He did a great deal to bring out her distinctive faculties, by making her his pet companion during his hours of leisure ; and, it may be, helped too fully to intensify the warmth of a nature naturally conscious of superior ability and genius. It was under his care that her fine taste had its first excitements and enjoyment. She never forgot to sing, — 'Twas owing to his friendly care I breathed at ease the rural air, Her ample bounds where Reading spreads, Where Kennett winds along the meads, OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SIXGERS. 6j Where Thompson the retreat approves, Bv streams refreshed and gloomed with groves, Where, from Cadogan's lofty seat, Oar view surrounding landscapes meet. 'Twas there he made my leisure blest, There waked the muse within my breast. Her susceptibility to tender impressions was soon appa- rent ; and to the pressure of parental checks, especially on the part of her father, we owe some of the first outflowings of her tuneful feeling and wit. One of her early notes in verse has been found in her father's handwriting, and marked by her brother John among his papers as " Hetty's Letter to her Mother." It tells its own love tale, — Dear Mother, You were once in the ew'n, As by us cakes is plainly shewn, Who else had ne'er come after. Pray speak a word in time of need, And with my sour-looked father plead For your distressed daughter ! Her early wit was often sportive, and was sometimes in- dulged in a way which indicated her power, taste, elegant turn of mind, and readiness to give others a share of her own innocent literary pleasure. She would sometimes supply the " Gentleman's Magazine " with A RIDDLE. I am an implement that's common, Much occupied by man and woman ; Not very thick nor very long, Yet tolerably stiff and strong. If inches twelve may give content, That measures much about my stint. Sometimes I'm only used for pleasure, And then I'm jaded out of measure ; If a young vigorous bard employs me, Egad, e'en to the stumps he tries me ; A parson to get one in ten, In private plies me now and then ; The lawyer, and the doctor too, For fees will wear me black and blue. I have a dribbling at the nose, Which leaves a stain where'er it goes, 68 THE POETS OF METHODISM. And yet the fairest nymph will use me, The queen herself will not refuse me. I'm used by members of all arts, Who would be reckoned men of parts ; And none esteems a lady polished Who has not often me demolished ; And let me tell you, by the by, A minute's labour drains me dry ; I'm now exhausted, so have done ; Now who or what I am make known. While she could thus ingeniously furnish a riddle on " A Pen," she was equally prepared to utter a tuneful laugh at the old philosophy of Metempsychosis, or transmigration of the soul. Somebody, whom she calls her sister Sukey's idol, had seemed disposed to assert this pagan doctrine, and she writes : — The period fast comes on when I Must to an oyster turn (Unless my Sukey's idol lie) ; Nor will I grieve or mourn. Welcome my transmigrated state ! I'll for the worst prepare : Think while 'tis given to think by fate ; Then like a log must bear. These eyes, I feel, will soon depart (Else Hettie should not write) ; Their balls will to such pearls convert As ladies wont delight. The pineal gland, from whence, some say, Man thinks, reflects, and knows Whate'er is best, — perhaps it may The oyster's head compose. Or coarse or curious be the mould, Whate'er its form contains ; That small peninsula may hold My few but working brains. Myjingers may the strice make, The shell my parched skin ; My nerves and bones with palsies shake The white reverse within. Perhaps at tide-time I may wake, And sip a little moisture ; Then to my pillow me betake, And sleep like brother oyster. OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 69 What shall I dream ? or what compose ? Some harmless rhymes like these ; Below the wits, above the beaux, Which Poll and Kez may please. A dubious being, hardly life ; Yet sensible of woe ; For when Death comes with rusty knife, But few will meet the blow. Which sure my heart, though once 'twas strong, Will then nor fly nor choose; The pulpy substance will not long The coup de grace refuse. My loving oyster-kins, which sit So fast to native shell, Must then some other harbour get, Or in wide ocean dwell. And since this sensible must fail, I feel it bend and sink, Come age, come death, you'll soon prevail, I'll wait you on the brink. But is there not a something still Sprung from a nobler race, Above the passions and the will, Which lifts to heaven its face ? There is — I feel it upward tend, While these weak spirits decay, Which sighs to meet its Saviour — Friend, And springs for native day. When all its organs, marred and worn, Let Locke say what he can 'Twill act still round itself — turn, — The mind is still the man : Which, if fair virtue be my choice, Above the stars shall shine ; Above want, pain, and death rejoice, Immortal and divine. Alas, that this brilliant playful genius should become melancholy and plaintive amidst the miseries of ill-fated wedlock ! Yet so it was. A venerable country pastor some years ago, on returning from a pastoral round, said to a friend, " Among the daughters of that home on the hill yonder, there was one in whom, JO THE POETS OF METHODISM. somehow, I became deeply interested. There was a peculiar charm about her person and manners ; and I found her mind finely cultured. She had travelled ; was intelligently ac- quainted with several parts of Europe, and was familiar with their language and literature. I observed, however, that she wore a marriage ring ; though it was evident that all allusion to her husband was carefully avoided by the family ; and from the cast of melancholy which was occasionally apparent on her countenance and even in the tone of her voice, I began to suspect that there was some sorrowful element in her history. Do you know any thing about her r " M Yes," said the friend, " I never look at her without grief. I believe I am correct in saying that she was crossed in her first love by the interference of her family, and in her vexa- tion vowed that she would marry the next man who made advances, whoever or whatever he might be. The next man was a rude, uncultured, ill-savoured sot. She kept her vow. With him she went to a distant part of the kingdom ; suffered all the miseries of union with an utterly uncongenial and repulsive person, whose treatment of her was in keeping with his own selfish nature. He is now wandering some- where ; and she, having buried her only child, finds a temporary refuge in the home of her girlhood." "Poor girl!" was the pastor's reply, " how things seem to repeat themselves. Your account appears to be very nearly a repetition of Hetty Wesley's case. She too vowed rashly when crossed in her first choice. It was, either that she would never marry another, or, that she would take the first man that might offer, whose suit her parents should approve. Her father urged her marriage with Mr. Wright, and was inexorable 5 while she was doubly bound by her filial duty, and her vow. The ill-sorted marriage took place, and the husband's character and conduct broke the wife's heart." The tale is a sad one. Who can read Hetty's letter to her father soon after this fatal knot was tied without thinking and feeling that, in such cases, tlieie has not been fair and OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 7 1 proper respect to the mutual choice of young hearts j and that violence has been done to nature under colour of parental prudence and care ? Who can see genius and beauty thus sacrificed without a tear ? How deeply the heart is moved to hear a sensitive poetic soul appealing to a vulgar sottish husband in a strain like this — If e'er thou didst in Hetty see Aught fair, or good, or dear to thee, If gentle speech can ever move, The cold remains of former love, Turn thee at last — my bosom ease, Or tell me why I cease to please. Is it because revolving years Heart-breaking sighs, and fruitless tears, Have quite deprived this form of mine Of all that once thou fanciedst fine ? Ah no ! What once allured thy sight Is still in its meridian height: These eyes their usual lustre show, When uneclipsed by flowing woe. Old age and wrinkles in this face As yet could never find a place: A youthful grace informs these lines, Where still the purple current shines, Unless by thy ungentle art It flies to aid my wretched heart ; Nor does this slighted bosom shew The thousand hours it spends in woe. Or is it that, oppressed with care, I stun with loud complaints thine ear; And make thy home, for quiet meant, The seat of noise and discontent ? Ah no ! Those ears were ever free From matrimonial melody : For though thine absence I lament When half the lonely night is spent, Yet when the watch or early morn Has brought me hopes of thy return, I oft have wiped these watchful eyes, Concealed my cares, and curbed my sighs, In spite of grief, to let thee see I wore an endless smile for thee. Had I not practised every art T' oblige, divert, and cheer thy heart, To make me pleasing in thine eyes, And turn thy house to paradise ; 7^ THE POETS OF METHODISM. I had not asked, " Why dost thou shun These faithful arms, and eager run To some obscure, unclean retreat, With fiends incarnate glad to meet, The vile companions of thy mirth, The scum and refuse of the earth ; Who when inspired by beer can grin At witless oaths and jests obscene, Till the most learned of the throng Begins a tale of ten hours long ; While thou, in raptures, with stretched jaws Crownest each joke with loud applause ? " Deprived of freedom, health, and ease, And rivalled by such things as these ; This latest effort will I try, Or to regain thy heart, or die. Soft as I am, I'll make thee see 1 will not brook contempt from thee ! Then quit the shuffling doubtful sense, Nor hold me longer in suspense; Unkind, ungrateful as thou art, Say, must I ne'er regain thy heart ? Must all attempts to please thee prove Unable to regain thy love ? If so, by truth itself I swear, The sad reverse I cannot bear : No rest, no pleasure, will I see ; My whole of bliss is lost with thee ! I'll give all thoughts of patience o'er (A gift I never lost before) ; Indulge at once my rage and grief, Mourn obstinate, disdain relief, And call that wretch my mortal foe Who tries to mitigate my woe ; Till life, on terms severe as these, Shall, ebbing, leave my heart at ease ; To thee thy liberty restore To laugh when Hetty is no more. Alas, for the woman who could make such an appeal to her husband in vain ! It was in vain. Nor was this all. She saw her children wither and die one after another under the unhealthy fumes which pervaded their close dwelling in con- nection with Wright's lead works; and seemed to mix themselves with the effects of his influence for fatal mischief on the spirits and health of his accomplished wife. In a dim OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 73 chamber in dingy Frith Street, London, amidst the network of close dwellings below Soho Square, with unwholesome smells of paint and putty and whitelead finding their way into the scene of affliction, there is the worn mother in con- finement, languishing in weakness, and looking in helpless sorrow on her dying infant ; until her overflowing soul calls on her stupefied husband to write from her lips her finely tuned and melting utterance to the departing babe — Tender softness ! infant mild ! Perfect, purest, brightest child ! Transient lustre ! beauteous clay ! Smiling wonder of a day ! Ere the last convulsive start Rends thy unresisting heart ; Ere the long enduring swoon Weigh thy precious eyelids down ; Ah, regard a mother's moan, Anguish deeper than thy own. Fairest eyes, whose dawning light Late with rapture blest my sight, Ere your orbs extinguished be, Bend their trembling beams on me ! Drooping sweetness ! verdant flower ! Blooming, withering in an hour ! Ere thy gentle breast sustains Latest, fiercest, mortal pains, Hear a suppliant ! let me be Partner in thy destiny ! That whene'er the fatal cloud Must thy radiant temples shroud ; When deadly damps, impending now, Shall hover round thy destined brow, Diffusive may their influence be, And with the blossom blast the tree. These exquisite lines were put on paper by her amanu- ensis in a style as rude as the hand that used the pen ; and were enclosed in a note equally barbarous, addressed to the Rev. Mr. John Wesley. To think of such a correspondent as the husband of John Wesley's elegant and accomplished sister is to be prepared for tender sympathy with the forlorn woman, when, " in deep anguish of spirit," she wrote : — 74 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Oppressed with utmost weight of woe, Debarred of freedom, health, and rest ; What human eloquence can show The inward anguish of my breast ! The finest periods of discourse (Rhetoric in all her pompous dress Unmoving) lose their pointed force, When griefs are swelled beyond redress. Attempt not then with speeches smooth My raging conflicts to control ; Nor softest sounds again can soothe The wild disorder of my soul ! Such efforts vain to end my fears, And long-lost happiness restore, May make me melt in fruitless tears, But charm my tortured soul no more. Enable me to bear my lot, O Thou who only canst redress ! Eternal God, forsake me not In this extreme of my distress. Regard Thy humble suppliant's suit ; Nor let me long in anguish pine, Dismayed, abandoned, destitute Of all support but only Thine ! Nor health, nor life, I ask of Thee ; Nor languid nature to restore : Say but " A speedy period be To these thy griefs," — I ask no more ! Nor will any mother's heart, especially a heart bereft of its children, ever fail to weep with her that wept, while it tries to sing her plaintive yet hopeful verses on the death of her children, — Though sorer sorrows than their birth. Your children's death has given, Mourn not that others bear for earth, While you have peopled heaven ! If now so painful 'tis to part, O think, that, when you meet, Well bought with shortly fleeting smart Is never-ending sweet ! What if those little angels, nigh T* assist your latest pain, Should hover round you when you die, And leave you not again ! OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 75 Say, shall you then regret your woes, Or mourn your teeming years ? One moment will reward your throes, And overpay your tears. Redoubled thanks will fill your song ; Transported while you view Th' inclining, happy, infant throng ; That owe their bliss to you ! So moves the common star, though bright With simple lustre crowned ; The planet shines, with guards of light Attending it around. The gifted woman's sorrows constrained her, at last, to turn to Him whose gentle, loving heart is always open to the weary child of affliction. In the course of 1743, in a touching letter to her brother John, she tells the story of her espousals to Jesus and records her new-born joys of Christian hope. From an allusion in this letter, she seems to have escaped from -among the oppressive fumes of Frith Street to the leafy heights of Stanmore, looking out, near Edgware, upon the rich inland landscapes of Buckinghamshire, and, on the other hand, towards the waters of the German Ocean. Stanmore will be all the more sacred to the country rambler who has been touched by the music of Mrs. Wright's genius. Mr. Duncombe, author of M The Feminead," in which he celebrates the character of several eminent women, Mrs. Wright among the rest, in one of his letters to Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, says of the poet, " Mr. Highman, who knew her when she was young, told me she was very handsome. When I saw her, she was in a languishing way, and had no remains of beauty, except a lively piercing eye. She was very unfor- tunate, as you will find by her poems, which are written with great delicacy, but so tender and affecting they can scarce be read without tears. I am told she wrote some hymns for the Methodists, but I have not seen any of them. It affected me too much to view the ruins of so fine a frame 5 so I only made her three or four visits." The allusion to hymns which she was said to have 7-5 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " written for the Methodists 9* affords additional reason for classifying this unfortunate but finely gifted poet with the poets of Methodism. And that her talent was equal to hymn writing, as well as other forms of poetry, may be seen and felt in her hymn entitled " The Resignation : a penitent heart hoping in God." — Great Power ! at whose almighty hand Vengeance and comfort ever wait ; Starting to earth at Thy command, To execute Thy love or hate. Thy indignation knits Thy brow On those who dare to sin give way ; Bat who so perfeet, Lord, below As never from Thy word to stray ? But when Thy mighty laws we break, And after do our guilt deplore ; Thou dost the word of comfort speak, And treasure up our crimes no more. O Thou, Thy mighty grace display, And Thy offending servant spare ; With pain my body wastes away, My weakened limbs with constant care. Grief has my blood and spirits drunk, My tears do like the night-dew fall ; My cheeks are faded, eyes are sunk, And all my draughts are dashed with gall. Thou canst the heavy hand withdraw That bends me downward to the grave, One healing touch my pain can awe, And Thy declining servant save. But if Thy justice has decreed I still must languish out my days ; Support me in the time of need, Patient to bear these slow decays. Lo ! to Thy dreadful will I bow, Thy visitations still to prove ; Thy judgment do Thy mercies show, Since, Lord, Thou chastenest in Thy love. The plaintive devotion of these verses indicates her approach towards rest from sorrow. That rest came in due time. For several years before her death, she lost the easy use of her pen. Among her last efforts, however, her " Fare- OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 77 well to the World " has touching revelations respecting herself, and is full of exquisite feeling in its allusion to her loved and lovable little sister Mary : — While sickness rends this tenement of clay, Th' approaching change with pleasure I survey ; O'erjoyed to reach the goal, with eager face, Ere my slow life has measured half its race. No longer shall I bear, my friends to please, The hard constraint of seeming much at ease ; Wearing an outward smile, a look serene, While piercing racks and tortures work within. But let me not, ungrateful to my God, Record the evil, and forget the good : For both I humble adoration pay, And bless the Power who gives and takes away. Long shall my faithful memory retain And oft recall each interval of pain. Nay, to high Heaven for greater gifts I bend ; Health I've enjoyed, and I had once a friend I Our labour sweet, if labour it might seem, Allowed the sportive and instructive scene. Yet here no lewd or useless wit was found; We poised the wavering sail with ballast sound. Learning here placed her richest stores in view, Or winged with love, the minutes gaily flew. Nay, yet sublimer joy our bosoms proved, Divine benevolence, by heaven beloved. Wan meagre forms, torn from impending death, Exulting, blest us with reviving breath. The shivering wretch we clothed, the mourner cheered, And sickness ceased to groan when we appeared. Unasked, our care assists with tender art Their bodies, nor neglects the immortal part. Sometimes in shades unpierced by Cynthia's beam, Whose lustre glittered on the dimpled stream, We wandered innocent through sylvan scenes, Or tripped like fairies o'er the level greens. From fragrant herbage decked with pearly dews, And flowerets of a thousand different hues By wafting gales the mingling odours fly, And round our heads in whispering breezes sigh. Whole nature seems to heighten and improve The holier hours of innocence and love. Youth, wit, good-nature, candour, sense combined To serve, delight, and civilize mankind; In wisdom's love we every heart engage, And triumph to restore the Golden Age ! Nor close the blissful scene, exhausted muse, The latest blissful scene that thou shalt choose; /8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Satiate with life, what joys for me remain, Save one dear wish, to balance every pain, — To bow my head, with grief and toil opprest, Till borne by angel-bands to everlasting rest ! " It is but justice to her memory," says her brother John, to observe that she was at ' rest ' before she went hence, being for some years a witness of ' that rest ' which remains even here, ( for the people of God.' " On the 5th of March, 1 750, " I prayed by my sister Wright," says her brother Charles, " a gracious, tender, trembling soul j a bruised reed which the Lord will not break." On the 14th of the same month, u I found her,'' he says, "very near the haven ; and again, on the 21st, at four I called on my brother Wright, a few minutes after her spirit was set at liberty. I had sweet fellowship with her in explaining at the chapel those solemn words, ' Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself ; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.' All present seemed partakers both of my sorrow and my joy. — Monday, March 26th, I followed her to her quiet grave, and wept with them that wept." Where that " quiet grave " is, none can now tell. Of the three brothers in the Epworth group, John Wesley was, remarkably enough, like the majority of his sisters in this, that he was crossed, and more than they, crossed and crossed again in his earlier approaches towards wedded life ; and found, at last, that a marriage of mere convenience is close enough upon evil to prove, semetimes, as in his case, the greatest cross of all. A gay and sprightly young Oxford student, given to wit and humour, when just twenty-one, " appearing," as a contemporary said, " the very sensible and acute Collegian, a young fellow of the finest classical taste, of the most liberal and manly sentiments," might be expected to show himself open to tender impressions ; and if his genius were poetic, his first tuneful effusions would shew his heart's susceptibility. His wit and taste would take a gentle turn. So it was with the young Oxonian 3 and there is a pleasant OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 79 naturalness of humour in a letter of his to his brother Samuel, who had unfortunately broken his leg, while in the attached verses he shows himself capable of giving expression to a quiet laugh in a musical and elegant way. " I believe," says he, " I need not use many arguments to show I am sorry for your misfortune, though at the same time I am glad you are in a fair way of recovery. If I heard it from any one else, I might probably have pleased you with some impertinent con- solations j but the way of your relating it is a sufficient proof that they are what you don't stand in need of. And, indeed, if I understand you rightly, you have more reason to thank God that you did not break both, than to repine because you have broke one leg. You have undoubtedly heard the story of the Dutch seaman, who, having broke one of his legs by a fall from the main-mast, instead of condoling himself, thanked God that he had not broken his neck. I scarce knew whether your first news vexed me, or your last news pleased me more : but I can assure you that though I did not cry for grief at the former, I did for joy at the latter part of your letter. The two things which I most wished for of almost anything in the world, were to see my mother and West- minster once again, and to see them both together was so far above my expectations that I almost looked upon it as an impossibility. . . Since you have a mind to see some of my verses, I have sent you some which employed me above an hour yesterday in the afternoon. There is one, and I am afraid but one, good thing in them, that is, they are short. "FROM THE LATIN. As o'er fair Cloe's rosy cheek Careless a little vagrant pass'd, With artful hand around his neck A slender chain the virgin cast. As Juno near her throne above, Her spangled bird delights to see ; As Venus has her fav'rite dove, Cloe shall have her fav'rite flea. 80 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Pleased at his chains, with nimble steps He o'er her snowy bosom stray'd : Now on her panting breast he leaps, Now hides between his little head. Leaving at length his old abode, He found, by thirst or fortune led, Her swelling lips that brighter glow'd Than roses in their native bed. Cloe your artful hands undo, Nor for your captive's safety fear, No artful bands are needful now To heed the little vagrant here. Whilst on that heav'n 'tis giv'n to stay (Who would not wish to be so blest), No force can draw him once away, 'Till death shall seize his destin'd breast." On March 17th, 1726, the young poetical student was elected Fellow of Lincoln College, and grave work awaited him. He acted on his good mother's advice, however. " I would not have you leave off making verses, rather make poetry sometimes your diversion, though never your busi- ness." In a letter to his brother soon after his election to the Fellowship, he writes, " The most tolerable of my own verses you probably received from Leyburn. Some of those I had besides I have sent here ; and shall be very glad if they are capable of being so corrected as to be of any service to you." Though sent in their rough as the amusement of a leisure hour, they are evidence enough of his native poetic talent. One is after Horace. Integrity needs no defence ; The man who trusts to innocence, Nor wants the darts ATumidia?is throw, Nor arrows of the Parthian bow, Secure o'er Lyl-ia's sandy seas, Or hoary Caucasus he strays, O'er regions scarcely known to fame, Wash'd by Hydaspes1 fabled stream. While void of cares, of naught afraid, Late in the Sabine woods I stray'd ; On Sylvia's lips while pleas'd I sung How love and soft persuasion hung ! OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 8l A rav'nous wolf intent on food Rush'd from the covert of the wood ; Yet dar'd not violate the grove Secur'd by innocence and love. Nor Mauritania's sultry plain, So large a savage does contain ; Nor e'er so huge a monster treads Warlike Apulia's beechen shades. Place me where no revolving sun Does o'er this radiant circle run ; Where clouds and damp alone appear, And poison the unwholesome year : Place me in that effulgent day Beneath the sun's directer ray ; No change from its fix'd place shall move The basis of my lasting love. The elegant young scholar who thus sang of love was not to be without heart experience of its charms. But he was seemingly fated to be held in check, or left defeated in his hopes. His tender correspondence with Betsy, the sister of his friend Robert Kirkham, was interrupted. His pleasant inter- course with the beautiful and accomplished Mary Granville, afterwards Mrs. Delany, quietly ceased. His subsequent expectations of happiness in union with Sophia Christiana Hopkey, in Georgia, were cut off. And, to his bitter disap- pointment in later life, as to marriage with Grace Murray, we owe the outflowing of his feeling in characteristic verse, — O Lord ! I bow my sinful head ! Righteous are all Thy ways with man ! Yet suffer me with Thee to plead, With lowly reverence to complain ; With deep unutter'd grief to groan ; Oh ! what is this that Thou hast done ? Unsearchable Thy judgments are, O Lord, a bottomless abyss ; Yet sure Thy love, Thy guardian care, O'er all Thy works extended is, Oh ! why didst Thou the blessing send ? Or why thus snatch away my friend ? 82 THE POETS OF METHODISM. What Thou hast done, I know not now, Suffice I shall hereafter know, Beneath Thy chastening hand I bow ; That still I live, to thee I owe. Oh ! teach thy deeply-humbled son To say, " Father, Thy will be done." Teach me from every pleasing snare To keep the issue of my heart ; Be Thou my Love, my Joy, my Fear ; Thou my Eternal Portion art. Be Thou my never-failing Friend, And love, oh, love me, to the end. It is pleasant to see so much of human naturalness in one the sacred and happy results of whose life and labours invest his name with ever brightening honours. Had his affections been happily met, had his heart found repose in a worthy " help-meet," would such permanent honour and blessing have illuminated his memory ? Who can tell ? Though in his college days, when his classical knowledge gave polish and elegance to his effusions, John Wesley amused himself with sprightly composition, his finely balanced character would find opportunity for giving tuneful utterance to graver thought and devout feeling. Just as he came of age, he wrote an imitation of the 65th Psalm, which secured the approval of his tasteful and venerable father. u I like your verses," said the venerable poet, " and would not have you bury your talent." His talent was not buried. Poetic inspiration came upon him in his birthplace in 1726. He had spent the summer in the old seat of the Epworth Singers, and amidst the first-fruits of the harvest in the old farm on the hill, he began his fine metrical paraphrase on the first eighteen verses of the 104th Psalm, and proved by his faithfulness to the inspired version, the beauty, strength, and harmony of his English verse, that he was a worthy member of that remarkable family choir of Psalmists. This is the most finished of John's early songs : — Upborne aloft on venturous wing, While spurning earthly themes I soar Through paths untrod before, What god, what seraph shall I sing ? OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 83 Whom but Thee should I proclaim, Author of this wondrous frame ; Eternal, uncreated Lord, Enshrin'd in glory's radiant blaze! At whose prolific voice, whose potent word Commanded Nothing swift retir'd, and worlds began their race. Thou, brooding o'er the realms of night, Th' unbottom'd, infinite abyss, Bad'st the deep her rage surcease, And said'st, " Let there be light ! " Ethereal Light Thy call obey'd, Glad she left her native shade, Through the wide void her living waters past ; Darkness turn'd his murmuring head, Resign'd the reins, and trembling fled ; The crystal waves roll'd on, and filled the ambient waste. In light, effulgent robe, array'd, Thou left'st the beauteous realms of day ; The golden towers inclin'd their head, As their Sov' reign took his way. The all-encircling bounds (a shining train, Minist'ring flames around Him flew) Through the vast profound He drew, When, lo ! sequacious to His fruitful hand, Heaven o'er the uncolour'd void her azure curtain threw. Lo ! marching o'er the empty space, The fluid stores in order rise, With adamantine chains of liquid glass, To bind the new-born fabric of the skies. Downward th' Almighty Builder rode, Old Chaos groan' d beneath the God, Sable clouds His pompous car, Harness'd winds before Him ran, Proud to wear their Maker's chain, And told, with hoarse-resounding voice, His coming from afar. Embryon earth the signal knew, And rear'd from night's dark womb her infant head, Though yet prevailing waves her hills o'erspread, And stain'd their sickly face with pallid hue. But when loud thunders the pursuit began, Back the affrighted spoilers ran ; In vain, aspiring hills opposed their race, O'er hills and vales with equal haste, The flying squadrons past, Till safe within the walls of their appointed place : There firmly fix'd, their sure enclosures stand, Unconquerable bounds of ever-during sand I 84 THE POETS OF METHODISM. He spake ! From the tall mountain's wounded side, Fresh springs roll'd down their silver tide: O'er the glad vales the shining wanderers stray, Soft murmuring as they flow, While in their cooling wave inclining low, The untaught natives of the field their parching thirst allay. High seated on the dancing sprays, Chequering with varied light their parent streams, The feather'd choirs attune their artless lays, Safe from the dreaded heat of solar beams. Genial showers at His command, Pour plenty o'er the barren land : Labouring with parent throes, See ! the teeming hills disclose A new birth ; see cheerful green, Transitory, pleasing scene, O'er the smiling landscape glow, And gladden all the vale below. Along the mountain's craggy brow, Amiably dreadful now ! See the clasping vine dispread Her gently-rising verdant head ; See the purple grape appear, Kind relief of human care ! Instinct with circling life, Thy skill Uprear'd the olive's loaded bough ; What time on Lebanon's proud hill, Slow rose the stately cedar's brow. Nor less rejoice the lowly plains, Of useful corn the fertile bed, Than when the lordly cedar reigns, A beauteous, but a barren shade. While in His arms the painted train, Warbling to the vocal grove, Sweetly tell their pleasing pain, Willing slaves to genial love. While the wild-goats, an active throng, From rock to rock light-bounding fly, Jehovah's praise in solemn song Shall echo through the vaulted sky. About five years after the birth of John Wesley, a little puny thing was " born out of due time " in the old Epworth Parsonage. Its eyes were as yet shut against the light. It gave no voice, and, scarcely betokening much life, it was kept nestled in soft wool till its natural birthday, when its eye-lids were lifted, and its first cry was given. Who would have ven- tured to prophesy that those eyes would be so alive to beauty OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 8^ for nearly eighty years, and that that voice would, through a long life, pour forth a continuous succession of holy songs from the depths of a consecrated musical soul ? Yet so it happened with Charles Wesley. The delicate child grew, under parental care and discipline, and became, by-and-by, the rollicking young student at Oxford. His poetical passion sometimes became a frenzy. In the rage of composition he would, at times, commit sad breaches on his brother John's order and method • talking incoherently, while his inner genius was at work ; overturning the study table, by suiting his action to his thought ; spouting a few lines, and then scattering the books, so as to turn the retreat of learning into a chaos, while he was conceiving his harmonies of rhyme and rhythm. Nothing of the early outnowings of his soul remains but the burning, torturing satire which he sent to his sister Martha on her marriage with Mr. Hall. Charles knew that the wretched Hall had promised to marry his younger sister, Kezia, but had no knowledge of Martha's previous betrothal to him ; so that when he heard of the marriage of Hall and the elder sister, he charged her with guilty union with Kezia's affianced husband. He was hasty, and, in the heat of the moment, sent her a poetic epistle, the closing lines of which are enough to show its character and to prove his early poetic power : — No — wert thou as thou wast, did heaven's first rays Beam on thy soul, and ail the Godhead blaze, Sooner shall sweet oblivion set us free From friendship, love, thy perfidy and thee ; Sooner shall light in league with darkness join, Virtue and vice, and heaven and hell, combine, Than her pure soul consent to mix with thine j To share thy sin, adopt thy perjury, And damn herself to be revenged on thee ; To load her conscience with a sister's blood, The guilt of incest, and the curse of God. The poet retained this capacity for scathing satirical verse to the last. It was put forth now and then. Nor could age chill this vein of satire. Only four years before his death, he pictures " The Man of Fashion." 86 THE POETS OF METHODISM. "What is a modern man of fashion ? A man of taste and dissipation ; A busy man, without employment ; A happy man, without enjoyment ; Who squanders all his time and treasures In empty joys, and tasteless pleasures ; Visits, attendance, and attention, And courtly arts too low to mention ; In sleep, and dress, and sport and play, He throws his worthless life away ; Has no opinion of his own, But takes from leading beaux the ton ; Born to be flatter'd, and to flatter, The most important thing in nature, "Wrapt up in self-sufficient pride, With his own virtues satisfied ; With a disdainful smile or frown He on the riffraff crowd looks down ; The world polite, his friends and he, And all the rest are — nobody. Taught by the great his smiles to sell, And how to write, and how to spell, The great his oracles he makes, Copies their vices and mistakes, Custom pursues, his only rule, And lives an ape, and dies a fool ! Charles Wesley., however, had higher work than mere satire, which, after all, he indulged in but seldom. His conversion, by the instrumentality of a good Moravian woman, turned all his powers into a devotional current, and hymn-writing became the business and joy of his life. On the third day from that of his first joy in Christ, " I waked," says he, " under the protection of Christ, and gave myself up, soul and body, to Him. At nine I began a hymn upon my conversion, but was persuaded to break off, for fear of pride. Mr. Bray coming, encouraged me to proceed in spite of Satan. I prayed to Christ to stand by me, and finished the hymn." The spiritual song, thus composed under the tremulous sensitiveness of " first love," was soon taken up by joyful voices in celebration of his brother John's new birth. On the very evening after it was composed, " towards ten," he says, " my brother was brought in triumph by a troop of our friends, and declared, ' I believe.' We sang the hymn with great joy." OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 87 Where shall my wondering soul begin ? How shall I all to heaven aspire ? A slave redeemM from death and sin, A brand pluck'd fiom eternal fire, How shall I equal triumphs raise, And sing my great Deliverer's praise ? O ! how shall I the goodness tell, Father, which Thou to me hast show'd ? That I, a child of wrath and hell, I should be call'd a child of God ! Should know, should feel my sins forgiven, Blest with this antepast of heaven ! And shall I slight my Father's love, Or basely fear His gifts to own? Unmindful of His favours prove? Shall I, the hallow'd cross to shun, Refuse His righteousness to impart, By hiding it within my heart? No ! though the ancient dragon rage, And call forth all his hosts to war ; Though earth's self-righteous sons engage ; Them, and their god, alike I dare ; Jesus, the sinner's Friend, proclaim ; Jesus, to sinners still the same. Outcasts of men, to you I call, Harlots, and publicans, and thieves ! He spreads His arms to embrace you all ; Sinners alone His grace receives : No need of Him the righteous have, He came the lost to seek and save. Come, all ye Magdalens in lust, Ye ruffians fell in murders old ; Repent, and live ; despair and trust ! Jesus for you to death was sold : Though hell protest, and earth repine, He died for crimes like yours — and mine. Come, O my guilty brethren, come, Groaning beneath your load of sin ! His bleeding heart shall make you room, His open side shall take you in. He calls you now, invites you home : Come, O my guilty brethren, come ! For you the purple current flow'd In pardons from His wounded side: Languish'd for you the eternal God, For you the Prince of Glory died. Believe, and all your guilt's forgiven ; Only believe — and yours is heaven. 88 THE POETS OF METHODISM. What a flood of spiritual song followed that remarkable conversion hymn ! Charles Wesley's disposition, temper, training, and accom- plishments, as well as his distinctive genius and taste, pre- pared him for his life-task as a hymnist. His Biblical knowledge and his elegant classical learning were always under command in the pursuit of his great object, and were sometimes amusingly made to serve his humour in self- defence or self-control. His brother's turbulent wife once succeeded in entrapping him and John in a room from which, for the time, there was no escape, and there she opened on them a running volley of complaints. The poet called Virgil to his help, and kept up so vehement and rapid a rehearsal of Latin verse as to " tame the shrew," and con- strain her to give them freedom. He was little in stature like his brother; but he could make himself felt, especially by those who were forward, self-complacent, or pert. His reproofs could be hard and sharp. Hypocrisy and affecta- tion always felt his frown. But he was frank, generous, and steady as a friend ; was pleasing, instructive, and cheerful as a companion, humorous, witty, and good. His powers of expression, whether in the pulpit, or by the pen as a hymnist, were marked by simplicity and energy. He went on his way hymning through life. And his name is balmy and immortal, not only because of his multitude of songs, but for the beautiful completeness and rich variety of his rhyme, the pleasant variations of his metre, his happy union ot strong argument and melodious diction, and his genuine and tasteful setting of evangelical truth. Hymns broke from his finely tuned soul wherever he moved. Inspiration was often caught in the saddle. That mode of travel seemed favourable to his creation of harmony ; though sometimes it had its disadvantages. " Near Ripley," says he in the May of 1743, " my horse threw and fell upon me .... which spoiled my making hymns, or thinking at all, till the next day." The dear old poet used to be seen, when he was near eighty, riding about in London on a little old grey pony 5 OTHERS OF THE EPWORTH SINGERS. 89 and now and then, as he jogged along, his inward melodies would rise, and then out would come a small card from the well-stored pocket, and there would be pencil short-hand jottings by the way. As soon as City Road was reached, the honoured nag was left to ruminate in front, while its master, with a soul bubbling up with rhyme and rhythm, would call for pen and ink, that the full measure of his devotional music might find permanent life. Just before he departed to the home of poetry and music, he breathed out his last prayerful lines — In age and feebleness extreme, Who shall a helpless worm redeem ? Jesus ! my only hope Thou art, Strength of my failing flesh and heart ; Oh ! could I catch one smile from Thee And drop into eternity ! The songs of his pilgrimage ceased on the 29th of March, 1788, and in the old graveyard of St. Marylebone an epitaph, which he had written on the death of a good Mora- vian minister, was put on his own sepulchre stone, by those who felt that it was beautifully appropriate to the author himself : — With poverty of spirit bless'd, Rest, happy saint, in Jesus rest ; A sinner saved, through grace forgiven, Redeem'd from earth to reign in heaven ! Thy labours of unwearied love, By Thee forgot, are crown'd above ; Crown'd, through the mercy of thy Lord, With a free, full, immense reward ! 9o THE POETS OF METHODISM. CHAPTER V. TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. Give me thy hand, brother — give me thy hand, But not as our fathers did, dropping with gore ; Dash down the gauntlet, and shiver the brand, But not in the fashion they did so of yore ; Throw away war's array, and come, let us prove Which has the heart that is strongest in love. HAT spiritually minded and exemplary Christian, whose devout diary has so often aided the pious soul, Joseph Williams of Kidderminster, once visited Bristol, and had an interview with Charles Wesley. It was on October 8th, 1739, when Wesley " preached the word of reconciliation at the brick- yard." " Hearing," says Williams, " that Mr. Charles Wesley would preach in the afternoon, just out of the city, I got a guide, and went to hear him. ... I then went with him to a religious society, which met about seven in the evening. .... Never did I hear such praying or such singing. . . . Their singing was not only the most harmonious and delight- ful I ever heard, but, as Mr. Whitefield writes in his Journals, they ' sang lustily, and with a good courage.' I never so well understood the meaning of that expression before. . . . If there be such a thing as heavenly music upon earth, I heard it there." The secret of that charm which Primitive Methodist singing had for the soul of this good man was found in the fine adaptation of the tunes to the spirit, power, and music of the hymns ; and in the naturalness, spiritual harmony, devout warmth, and oneness of the singers. It was TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. $ L genuine praise, words, tones, and feeling, all in harmony, after the manner of Charles Wesley's inspiring version of the 150th Psalm :— Publish, spread to all around The great Jehovah's name; Let the trumpet's martial sound The Lord of Hosts proclaim. Praise Him in the sacred dance, Harmony's full concert raise ; Let the virgin-choir advance, And move but to His praise. Celebrate th' Eternal God With harp and psaltery; Timbrels soft, and cymbals loud, In His high praise agree. Praise Him every tuneful string, All the reach of heavenly art ; All the power of music bring, The music of the heart. There are tokens that such singing as Williams heard at Bristol is passing away from Methodism ; passing away in favour of the soft, nerveless, soulless, namby-pamby toning, fashionable, now-a-day, among those who utter their hymns both " Ancient and Modern," as if they were Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. The clarion ring of early Methodist voices, the joyful swing and swell and expressive repeat ; now from men, and now from women, are becoming things of the past. Such singing, indeed, must die out from among those who are losing the singing power, as they fall into pitiable dependence on organs and choirs. This change may be the rather deplored in that the declension of Methodist music is accom- panied by a declining taste for the spiritual intensity and lofty heavenliness of original Methodist hymns. An unhealthy taste for mere artistic sounds is symptomatic of a lowered tone of spiritual life. The two brothers in song, the Wesleys, ceaselessly aimed at keeping up a consistent accordance between the spirited, earnest, and triumphant devotion of their hymns and the music to which they were set and sung. They had fine taste and warm love for music ; and knew how 92 THE POETS OF METHODISM. to employ it to the glory of Him from whom all music comes. Nor, with their musical bent, could they always abstain from tuneful satire even when charity prompted them to " an apology for the enemies of music." So Charles sings : — MerTof true piety, they know not why Music with all its sacred powers decry, Music itself (not its abuse) condemn, For good or bad is just the same to them. But let them know they quite mistake the case, Defect of nature for excess of grace ; But whilst they reprobate the harmonious art, ) Blamed we excuse, and candidly assert > The fault is in their ear, not in their upright heart. ) The brothers availed themselves of musical composition from any and every source ; so that the people might be suit- ably and largely supplied with " Service of Song." These supplies sometimes came in a way beautifully illustrative of the harmony between the Divine Grace which they preached and the Divine Providence which guided their steps, their voices, and their pens. On March 29th, 1746, Charles Wesley jots in his diary : " I passed the afternoon at Mrs. Rich's, where we caught a physician by the ear, through the help of Mr. Lampe and some of our sisters. This is the true use of music." This little record gives an insight into the way in which early Methodists made their private social gatherings subservient, at once, to their own cultivation in psalmody and the spiritual benefit of casual visitors ; while it affords a clue to some of the first retired springs of Methodist hymn-tunes. Mr. Rich was the lessee of Covent Garden Theatre. His wife, a beautiful and accomplished actress, had, on one occasion, found her way into West Street Chapel, where Charles Wesley preached. She was arrested by the Wrord, gave herself to the pursuit of Divine mercy, and found the joys of salvation. Now came the conflict. Her husband required her usual presence on the stage ; but, though enduring painful persecution, she firmly refused to appear, unless it were to bear public testimony against theatrical amusements. She conquered. Her husband soon left her a rich widow j TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. 93 and under her roof her spiritual father always found a welcome. In her home it was that Charles Wesley met with Frederick Lampe, a German musician, who was engaged by Mr. Rich as a composer of dramatic music. For many years he had been a Deist ; but on reading John Wesley's "Earnest Appeal to Men of Reason and Religion/' he, too, became a hearty believer in Christ ; and consecrated his musical talent by setting tunes to many of the hymns of his now beloved friends, the Wesleys. The interesting relations between the members of this remarkable group are seen in happy light from a letter of Mrs. Rich's to Charles Wesley on Nov. 27th, 1746, during her husband's life : — "Dear and Rev. Sir, — I am infinitely obliged to you for your kind letter. It gave me great comfort, and at a time I had much need of it ; for I had been very ill both in body and mind. Some part arose from my poor partner, who, I fear, has in a great measure stifled his convictions which God gave him. " As to myself, God has been pleased to show me so much of my own unworthiness and helplessness that the light has almost broken my heart 5 and I might truly be called a woman of a sorrowful spirit. " O think what it is to be obliged to conceal this from the eyes of those who know nothing of these things, but call it all madness ! The Lord teach them better : at whose table I have been greatly strengthened, and through His grace I still hope to conquer all the enemies of my soul. "I gave a copy of the hymn to Mr. Lampe, who, at the reading, shed some tears, and said he would write to you : for he loved you as well as if you were his own brother. The Lord increase it 3 for I hope it is a good sign. " The enclosed is a copy of a song Mr. Rich has sung in a new scene, added to one of his old entertainments, in the character of Harlequin Preacher, to convince the town he is not a Methodist. Oh, pray for him, that he may be a Christian indeed, and then he will be no more concerned about what he is called, and for me. Your unworthy daughter in Christ." 9+ THE POETS OF METHODISM, The hymn, which brought tears from the musician's eyes, and elicited his expression of love for the man whose hymns he helped the Methodists to sing, was one in which the happy change in the gifted tune-maker is charmingly sung, while the musician's hopes of future harmonies swell into longing ecstacy : — Thou God of harmony and love, Whose name transports the saints above, And lulls the ravish'd spheres — On Thee in feeble strains I call, And mix my humble voice with all The heavenly choristers. If well I know the tuneful art To captivate a human heart, The glory, Lord, be Thine; A servant of Thy blessed will, I here devote my utmost skill To sound the praise Divine. With TubaVs wretched sons no more I prostitute my sacred power To please the fiends beneath ; Or moderate the wanton lay, Or smooth with music's hand the way To everlasting death. Suffice for this the season past — I come, great God, to learn at last The lesson of Thy grace ; Teach me the new, the Gospel song, And let my hand, my heart, my tongue, Move only to Thy praise. Thine own musician, Lord, inspire, And let my consecrated lyre Repeat the Psalmist's part ; His Son, and Thine, reveal in me, And fill with sacred melody The fibres of my heart. So shall I charm the listening throng, And draw the living stones along By Jesus' tuneful name ; The living stones shall dance, shall rise, And form a city in the skies — The New Jerusalem. TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. 95 Oh ! might I with Thy saints aspire — The meanest of that dazzling choir — Who chant Thy praise above ; Mix'd with the bright musician-band, May I a heavenly harper stand, And sing the song of love. What ecstacy of bliss is there, While all the angelic concert share, And drink the floating joys ! What more than ecstacy when all, Struck to the golden pavement, fall At Jesus' glorious voice ! Jesus — the heaven of heaven He is — The soul of harmony and bliss ; And while on Him we gaze, And while His glorious voice we hear, Our spirits are all eye, all ear, And silence speaks His praise. Oh, might I die that awe to prove, That prostrate awe which dares not move Before the great Three-One ; To shout by turns the bursting joy, And all eternity employ In songs around the throne ! Lampe's tunes became popular. In a letter to his wife, Charles Wesley asks — "How many of Lampe's tunes can you play ? " and in an epistle from Newcastle to his friend Blackwell, the good London banker, he says — " His tunes are universally admired here among the musical men, and have brought me into high favour with them." Like many a pious musician, Lampe must have found it difficult to maintain the public exercise of his profession. It was more easy to throw his heart into a Methodist hymn-tune than to entertain the musical multitude. In October, 1748, he was in Dublin, and his friend Wesley says : — " I met at Mr. Lunell's an old Dutch Quaker, who seemed to have deep experience of the things of God. At two Mr. Lampe and his wife called, and were overjoyed to see me. I cannot yet give up my hope that they are designed for better things than feeding swine — that is, entertaining the gay world." What curious associations are sometimes around these 96 THE POETS OF METHODISM. brothers in song ! — an old Dutch Quaker and a converted German musician and Methodist tune-maker ! The tune- maker realized his poetic friend's hope at last. His work of "feeding swine" was over — he got something better in the music way more to his taste, and that for ever ! With what a swell of poetic music and heavenward affection Wesley sings at his upward flight ! — 'Tis done ! The Sovereign will \s obey'd, The soul, by angel-guards convey'd, Has took its seat on high ; The brother of my choice is gone To music sweeter than his own, And concerts in the sky. His spirit, mounting on the wing, Rejoiced to hear the convoy sing While harping at his side ; With ease he caught their heavenly strain, And smiled and sung in mortal pain — He sung, and smiled, and died. Enroll'd with that harmonious throng, He hears th' unutterable song, Th' unutterable Name ; He sees the Master of the choir, He bows, and strikes the golden lyre, 0 And hymns the glorious Lamb. He hymns the glorious Lamb alone, No more constrain'd to make his moan In this sad wilderness : To toil for sublunary pay, And cast his sacred strains away, And stoop the world to please. Redeem'd from earth, the tuneful soul, While everlasting ages roll, His triumph shall prolong ; His noblest faculties exert, And all the music of his heart Shall warble on his tongue. Oh, that my mournful days were past ! Oh, that I might o'ertake at last My happy friend above ! With him the Church triumphant join, And celebrate in strains divine The majesty of love ! TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. 97 Great God of Love ! prepare my heart, And tune it now to bear a part In heavenly melody ; " I'll strive to sing as loud as they Who sit enthroned in brighter dav," And nearer the Most High. Oh, that the promised time were come ! Oh, that we all were taken home, Our Master's joy to share ! Draw, Lord, the living, vocal stones, Jesus, recall Thy banish'd ones, To chant Thy praises there. Our number and our bliss complete, And summon all the choir to meet, Thy glorious throne around ; The whole musician-band bring in, And give the signal to begin, And let the trumpet sound. The " two brothers in song " began their issue of "Hymns and Sacred Poems" in 1739, and continued, at intervals, to supply Christian singers for half a century. Thirty-eight publications appeared, one after the other ; now under the name of one brother, now under that of the other; some with both names, and others nameless. The two hymnists appear to have agreed that, in the volumes which bore their joint names, they would not distinguish theit hymns. They left those who read and sang them to detect, if they could, the severer taste, the stronger style, and the clearer precision of John ; or the bolder nights, the more glowing fancy, the more various harmony, and the more diffuse, flowing diction of the younger poet. Most of the hymns commonly attributed to John are translations, but his stamp may be found upon a larger number of the original Methodist songs than tradition or custom has allowed ; and, perhaps, had his distinctive claims been more fairly put in from the beginning, the Methodists would have found their indebtedness to him for his part in their doctrinal standards and ecclesiastical discipline far more nearly balanced than it now is by their obligations to him for his share in their service of psalmody. At all events, the hymns which bear his name are ever living things. Much of their life is owing H 98 THE POETS OF METHODISM. to the living impressions made on the author's soul by im- portant facts in his personal history. It was so with both brothers. One part of their education at home, under the regulated and prayerful oversight of their devoted mother, evidently influenced their devotional thought and action through life. They were instructed, as soon as they could speak, to give utterance to any feeling of devotion that might rise in their minds, in short and simple prayers. The Lord's Prayer was rightly adopted as at once the most simple and awe-inspiring form of prayerful words which human lan- guage could afford, and they were therefore made to say it at rising in the morning and on retiring at night. Both John and Charles give out their poetical paraphrases on that prayer with a loving reverence and a simple, warm, intense devoutness which indicate the still fresh influence of impressions in childhood. Charles, in his rhyme and rhythm, is beautifully child- like ; but John's hymn excels in a becoming harmony of grandeur, condensed power, and tender warmth. Father of all, whose powerful voice Call'd forth this universal frame — Whose mercies over all rejoice, Through endless ages still the same ; Thou by Thy word upholdest all, Thy bounteous love to all is show'd, Thou hear'st Thy every creature's call, And fillest every mouth with good. In heaven Thou reign'st, enthroned in light, Nature's expanse beneath Thee spread ; Earth, air, and sea before Thy sight, And hell's deep gloom, are open laid. Wisdom, and might, and love are Thine — Prostrate before Thy face we fall, Confess Thine attributes Divine, And hail Thee Sovereign Lord of all. Thee, Sovereign Lord, let all confess, That moves in earth, or air, or sky, Revere Thy power, Thy goodness bless, Tremble before Thy piercing eye. All ye who owe to Him your birth, In praise your every hour employ ; Jehovah reigns ! be glad, O Earth, And shout, ye Morning Stars, for joy. TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. 99 Son of Thy Sire's eternal love, Take to Thyself Thy mighty power ; Let all earth's sons Thy mercy prove, Let all Thy bleeding grace adore. The triumphs of Thy love display ; In every heart reign Thou alone, Till all Thy foes confess Thy sway, And glory ends what grace begun. Spirit of grace, and health, and power, Fountain of light and love below, Abroad Thine healing influence shower, O'er all the nations let it flow. Inflame our hearts with perfect love, In us the work of faith fulfil ; So not Heaven's host shall swifter move Than we on earth to do Thy will. Father, 'tis Thine each day to yield Thy children's wants a fresh supply; Thou cloth'st the lilies of the field, And hearest the young ravens cry : On Thee we cast our care ; we live Through Thee, who know'st our every need ; O feed us with Thy grace, and give Our souls this day the living bread. Eternal, spotless Lamb of God, Before the world's foundation slain, Sprinkle us ever with Thy blood ; O cleanse, and keep us ever clean. To every soul (all praise to Thee) Our bowels of compassion move, And all mankind by this may see God is in us, for God is love. Giver and Lord of life, whose power And guardian care for all are free, To Thee in fierce temptation's hour From sin and Satan let us flee. Thine, Lord, we are, and ours Thou art, In us be all Thy goodness show'd ; Renew, enlarge, and fill our heart With peace, and joy, and heaven, and God. Blessing and honour, praise and love, Co-equal, co-eternal Three, In earth below, and Heaven above, By all Thy works, be paid to Thee. Thrice Holy, Thine the kingdom is, The power omnipotent is Thine ; And when created nature dies, Thy never-ceasing glories shine. IOO THE POETS OF METHODISM. Nearly half a century ago, on a Sunday morning, an old Methodist preacher preached in a village on the heights above Marazion, in Cornwall, near St. Hilary Downs. After the service, he was invited to dine with a member of the congregation. The table was somewhat richly laden. For a minute or two he seemed to hesitate in his chair, and at length said — "Isn't this the place where John Wesley sat in the saddle and dined on blackberries from the hedge for want of a better inner ? " " Yes," it was replied. "Then," said he, "forbid that I should indulge in this plenty, or eat or drink in this place. Where Wesley had not a morsel of bread offered him, I will not feast. In honour of his memory I will go out on the downs and fast and pray." The stalwart old pilgrim stalked away, singing — His happiness, in part, is mine, Already saved from self-design, From every creature-love ! Bless'd with the scorn of finite good, My soul is lighten'd of its load, And seeks the things above. Some would think that this came too near to the ascetic ; but the old man was a sturdy representative of that early class whose veneration for John Wesley and whose love for his work and their own were master feelings. He was one of the few who could appreciate John Wesley's hymn for " The Pilgrim," and consistently sing it throughout. He was, too, in built and appearance, in physical constitution, mental character, and intensity of devotion, something like a sopy of the man who recorded Wesley's pilgrim experience m St. Hilary Downs — John Nelson ; and, like Wesley's vigorous companion, could say from his heart, "By the grace of God I love every man, but fear no man." Nelson gives us his vivid recollections : — "When I hadbeenout a week, I returned to St. Ives. . . . All that time Mr. Wesley and TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. IOI I lay on the floor, he had my great-coat for his pillow, and I had Burkett's ' Notes on the New Testament ' for mine. After being here near three weeks, one morning, about three o'clock, Mr. Wesley turned over, and finding me awake, clapped me on the side, saying, ' Brother Nelson, let us be of good cheer. I have one whole side yet, for the skin is off but one side.' We usually preached on the commons, going from one common to another, and it was but seldom any one asked us to eat or drink. One day we had been at St. Hilary Downs, and Mr. Wesley had preached from Ezekiel's vision of dry bones, and there was a shaking among the people as he preached. As we returned, Mr. Wesley stopped his horse, to pick the blackberries, saying, ' Brother Nelson, we ought to be thankful that there are plenty of blackberries ; for this is the best country I ever saw for getting a stomach, but the worst that ever I saw for getting food.' ' Do the people think we can live by preaching ? ' I said ; ' I know not what they may think, but one asked me to eat something as I came to St. Just, when I ate heartily of barley-bread and honey.' He said, 'You are well off; I had a thought of begging a crust of bread of the woman where I met the people at Morva, but forgot it till I had got some distance from the house.' " In the light of this record of a week's adventures in the pilgrim-poet's life, his hymn appears in all its distinctive beauty and singular appropriateness. Follow the man from Oxford to Georgia ; watch him amidst the disappointments of his love, the falling away of weak friends ; his perils in the distant wilderness, his perils in the deep, his perils at home amidst hostile mobs, his single-handed defensive battles against all classes of foes to truth, his continuous rounds of missionary travel, his ceaseless variety of company and accommodation, and his untiring efforts to bless the world ; see him " in stripes, in tumults, in labours, in watchings, in fastings ; as poor, yet making many rich ; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things j" look at him, as to this world fortuneless, homeless, with his back on things that 102 THE POETS OF METHODISM. are seen, his whole soul bent on eternal life; a lone man still, an apostolic pilgrim, lingering on the open Western common to feed on wild berries, and thinking of begging a crust from a poor woman j look at him, and then listen, as he pours forth a jubilant song from his heart — his pilgrim's song: — How happy is the pilgrim's lot, How free from every anxious thought, From worldly hope and fear 1 Confined to neither court nor cell, His soul disdains on earth to dwell — He only sojourns here. His happiness in part is mine, Already saved from self-design, From every creature-love ! Bless'd with the scorn of finite good, My soul is lighten'd of its load, And seeks the things above. The things eternal I pursue, A happiness beyond the view Of those that basely pant For things by nature felt and seen Their honours, wealth, and pleasures mean, I neither have, nor want. I have no sharer of my heart, To rob my Saviour of a part, And desecrate the whole ; Only betroth'd to Christ am I, And wait His coming from the sky To wed my happy soul. I have no babes to hold me here, But children more securely dear For mine I humbly claim ; Better than daughters, or than sons, Temples divine of living stones Inscrib'd with Jesus' name. No foot of land do I possess, No cottage in this wilderness — A poor wayfaring man ; I lodge awhile in tents below, Or gladly wander to and fro, Till I my Canaan gain. Nothing on earth I call my own — A stranger to the world unknown, I all their goods despise ; I trample on their whole delight, And seek a country out of sight, A country in the skies. TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. IO3 There is my house and portion fair, My treasure and my heart is there, And my abiding home : For me my elder brethren stay, And angels beckon me away, And Jesus bids me come. I come, thy servant, Lord, replies ; I come to meet Thee in the skies, And claim my heavenly rest : Now let the pilgrim's journey end, Now, O my Saviour, Brother, Friend, Receive me to Thy breast. A Methodist preacher, travelling in the United States of America, found his way into Indiana. He and his family suffered deep poverty. A settler who loved him, being a large landholder, presented him with a title-deed of very many acres. He went home glad at heart, in freedom, as he thought, from his difficulties. Three months after this he came to his friend, the kind-hearted settler. He was welcomed j but he soon drew out the parchment. " Here, sir," said he, " I want to give you back your title- deed." " What's the matter ? " said the other ; " any flaw in it ? " "No." " Isn't it good land? " " Good as any in the State." "Do you think I repent the gift? " " I have not the slightest reason to doubt your generosity." "Why don't you keep it, then? " " Well, sir," said the preacher, " you know I am very fond of singing, and there is one hymn in my book, the singing of which is one of the greatest comforts of my life. I have not been able to sing it with my whole heart since I have been here. A part of it runs this way : — " No foot of land do I possess, No cottage in this wilderness, A poor, wayfaring man, I lodge a while in tents below, Or gladly wander to and fro, Till I my Canaan gain, 104 THE POETS OF METHODISM. There is my house and portion fair, My treasure and my heart is there, And my abiding home. "Take your title-deed," he added ; "I would rather sing that hymn than own America." He went his way, and sang his hymn, fulfilling his ministry, and confiding in Him to whose service he had sacrificed himself. Nor did he or his family ever lack bread. He is gone now to his " abiding home." "When you have a trouble that haunts you," said one friend to another, as they sat in the dusk, communing about their experience of life, " how it peers at you around every corner, and crosses your way at every turn ! Some say that, in such cases, the time of nightfall is the worst, according to the old saying, ' Cares double at night ; ' and it is true that they come on, thickening the darkness, and taking multi- tudinous forms to the lone, sleepless sufferer. But to me, the moment of waking in the morning has often proved the worst; it used to seem as if I awoke under suffocating pressure, which made every nerve twitch and every pore weep. Relief, however — sweet relief — came to me. I prayed at night that I might have a peaceful and free awakening, and that God might be first in my morning thought and feeling. My prayer was answered. I fell off to sleep in hope, and I was seemingly called in the morning by the voice of a hymn which came with such freshness and power as if it were breathed into my soul by the spirit who first inspired the author. It was the hymn beginning with — " O God, my God, my all Thou art ; Ere shines the dawn of rising day. w My mornings from that time have been too bright for intrusive troubles. That is now my elect morning hymn. It is John Wesley's, I believe." Well, he was the translator. The original was in the Spanish, and who its author was is not known. But though the thoughts were at first those of some saintly Spaniard, the English rendering is such as to show that John Wesley TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. 10^ had a poet's appreciative talent, and a poet's beauty and power of expression 3 and the circumstances under which it came from his pen might prove that his experience, like your own, was a sympathetic reflection of what the Spanish hymnist was feeling when he wrote. The translation was probably made while Wesley was in Georgia. There he, too, was haunted by troubles. The violation of his conscientious Churchism, the vile machinations of his hostile parishioners, the vexatious results of his courtship, and the seeming failure of his loved mission work — all combined to darken his evening retrospects and to bedim the prospects of his early mornings. Under such circumstances, with a heart still set upon the good, and seeking refuge in God, with what appropriate and cheering light must this Spanish version of the 63rd Psalm have touched his soul, and how finely and with what unction he has uttered his own, as well as his author's, devout feeling ! O God, my God, my all Thou art ; Ere shines the dawn of rising day, Thy sovereign light within my heart, Thy all-enlivening power display. For Thee my thirsty soul doth pant, While in this desert land I live ; And hungry as I am, and faint, Thy love alone can comfort give. In a dry land, behold, I place My whole desire on Thee, O Lord ; And more I pay to gain Thy grace Than all earth's treasures can afford. In holiness within Thy gates Of old oft have I sought for Thee ; Again my longing spirit waits That fulness of delight to see. More dear than life itself, Thy love My heart and tongue shall still employ And to declare Thy praise will prove My peace, my glory, and my joy. In blessing Thee with grateful songs My happy life shall glide away ; The praise that to Thy name belongs Hourly, with lifted hands, I'll pay. T06 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Abundant sweetness, while I sing Thy love, my ravish'd soul o'erflows ; Secure in Thee, my God and King, Of glory that no period knows. Thy name, O Lord, upon my bed Dwells on my lips, and fires my thought; With trembling awe, in midnight shade, I muse on all Thy hands have wrought. In all I do I feel Thy aid, Therefore Thy greatness will I sing, O God, who bid'st my heart be glad Beneath the shadow of Thy wing. My soul draws nigh, and cleaves to Thee ; Then let or earth or hell assail, Thy mighty hand shall set me free: For whom Thou sav'st, he ne'er shall fail. This was one of the first hymns which John Wesley published on his arrival in England, and is among the first- fruits of his genius, brightened and hallowed as it was by sanctified trial and growing devotion to God's service. When fully brought under the holy constraint of Christ's love, and unreservedly consecrated to the work of "spreading scriptural holiness over the land," John Wesley seems to have gone his rounds through the most western province of England in a spirit differing from that of some of his preachers — some of his own time, and some who have followed. Where he felt " all his patience put to the proof again and again," others have found it pleasant to dwell ; and where he was disposed to " leap " under a sense of freedom, some of his modern representatives have grumbled as if amidst the hardships of banishment. One of his letters illustrates this. The letter was written in Redruth, a re- markable centre of Wesley's itinerant operations in Corn- wall. About halfway down the steep, queer old street, at the back of a house, just below the broad space of the market, where he had often preached to the multitude, he sat in a little room over the side-passage, with its small window commanding the covered entrance from the street, as if it were a prophet's watch-tower. The nest was about fifteen feet square, with a kind of garret-like ceiling, and TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. TO7 affording just room for a bed, table, and chair by the small fire-place in the corner near the window. It was on Sunday, September 3 1, 1755. On the evening before, he had preached in the street, though he had just arrived " extremely weary 5" "and our friends," as he said, "were so glad to see me that none once thought of asking me to eat or drink. My weariness vanished when I began to speak." On the Sunday morning at eight, he was preaching again from " How shall I give up Ephraim ? " " Many endeavoured, but in vain, to hide their tears." From the street service he walked off to church, where he was " agreeably surprised to hear the prayers read, not only with deliberation, but with uncommon propriety." At one o'clock he was once more preaching in the street to double as many as were there in the morning, "and all were still as night." At five in the afternoon there were to be thousands waiting to hear him in Gwennap • but within the short interval he retreated to his snug little lodging-hole, and wrote thus to his friend Black well, in London : — Dear Sir, — Experience confirms your advice both ways. In my last journey into the North, all my patience was put to the proof again and again, and all my endeavour to please, yet without success. In my pre- sent journey, I leap, as broke from chains. I am content with whatever entertainment I meet with, and my companions are always in good humour, " because they are with me." This must be the spirit of all who take journeys with me. If a dinner ill-dressed, a hard bed, a poor room, a shower of rain, or a dirty road will put them out of humour, it lays a burden upon me, greater than all the rest put together. By the grace of God I never fret : I repine at nothing ; I am discontented with nothing ; and, to, have persons at my ear, fretting and murmuring at everything, is like tearing the flesh off my bones. I see God sitting upon His throne, and ruling all things well. Although, therefore, I can bear this also, to hear His government of the world continually found fault with (for in blaming the things which He alone can alter, we, in effect, blame Him), yet it is such a burden to me as I cannot bear without pain, and I bless God when it is removed. The doctrine of a particular providence is what exceeding few persons understand ; at least, not practically, so as to apply it to every circum- stance of life. This I want — to see God acting in everything, and dis- posing^ all for His own glory and His creatures' good. I hope it is your continual prayer that you may see Him, and love Him, and glorify Him with all you are and all you have. Peace be with you ail ! jo8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. The opening sentences of this epistle contain healthy- lessons for the more modern Methodist preachers ; but the latter part is of beautiful interest in relation to one of John Wesley's most successfully translated hymns. It seems to be a record of the thought and feeling which the work of translating that hymn had permanently fixed in his soul. We are reminded of the evident connection between Donne's poetic riches, as amassed in his poems, and as laid out with taste in his sermons, and the clearly discoverable alliance between the imagery of Milton as an essayist and his wrought-up grandeurs and beauties as a poet. Wesley's letter is the prose form of that creed as to a ruling Providence which with such loving skill he had worked into tuneful English out of Paul Gerhardt's well-known hymn. No translator has equalled him in this for native ease, pure elegance, weight, inspiring force, and unction. His own genius was never put forth with more permanent and sacred effect than when he taught us to sing — Commit Thou all thy griefs And ways into His hands ; To His sure truth and tender care, Who earth and Heaven commands. Who points the clouds their course, Whom winds and seas obey ; He shall direct thy wandering feet, He shall prepare thy way. Thou on the Lord rely, So safe shalt thou go on ; Fix on His work thy steadfast eye, So shall thy work be done. No profit canst thou gain By self-consuming care : To Him commend thy cause, His ear Attends the softest prayer. Thy everlasting truth, Father, Thy ceaseless love, Sees all Thy children's wants, and knows What best for each will prove. TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. IOO And whatsoe'er Thou will'st, Thou dost, O King of Kings ; What Thine unerring wisdom chose Thy power to being brings. Thou everywhere hast way, And all things serve Thy might; Thy every act pure blessing is, Thy path unsullied light. When Thou arisest, Lord, What shall Thy work withstand ? When all Thy children want Thou giv'st, Who, who shall stay Thy hand ? Give to the winds thy fears ; Hope and be undismay'd ; God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears, God shall lift up thy head. Through waves and clouds and storms, He gently clears thy way ; Wait thou His time, so shall this night Soon end in joyous day. Still heavy is thy heart ? Still sink thy spirits down ? Cast off the weight, let fear depart, And every care be gone. What though thou rulest not ? Yet Heaven and earth and hell Proclaim, God sitteth on the throne, And ruleth all things well. Leave to His sovereign sway To choose and to command ; So shalt thou, wondering, own His way, How wise, how strong His hand. Far, far above thy thought His counsel shall appear, When fully He the work hath wrought That caused thy needless fear. Thou seest our weakness, Lord, Our hearts are known to Thee ; O, lift Thou up the sinking head, Confirm the feeble knee 1 Let us in life, in death, Thy steadfast truth declare, And publish with our latest breath Thy love and guardian care. IIO THE POETS OF METHODISM. The gracious influence of this hymn on the thought, feeling, and character of Christians under the discipline of life might find unnumbered illustrations. One or two may be given from the recollections of an old observer. A venerable minister once said to him: — " My first year after marriage was spent in the South of England, and then I was called to take a pastoral charge in South Wales. My income had been small, and my expenses somewhat large, so that when the time of starting came, I had not money enough to pay my way to our journey's end. We had done our best with the means we had, and were happily one in our repose on God's fatherly goodness. I believed that He would supply our need day by day as He had always done, and in that full trust we went off on the top of the coach. Those were old coaching days. We had got abouc halfway towards our destination, and when I had given the coachman and guard their fees, I had but twenty- pence left in my pocket. We were to go into the inn while the horses were changed, and had to be booked for the rest of the journey. Where the amount of our fare was to come from, I did not know ; but stilly I rested on the promise of Divine help. As I got off the coach, that verse came freshly to my mind — " No profit canst thou gain By self-consuming care ; To Him commend Thy cause, His ear Attends the softest prayer. And I lifted up my heart to God in the language of the next verse — " Thy everlasting truth, Father, Thy ceaseless love, Sees all Thy children's wants, and knows What best for each will prove. " As we walked through the lobby, I saw a paper on the floor, picked it up, and opened it. It was a ten-pound note. 'The help has come in time/ said I to myself. But putting the note in my pocket, I called the landlord, told him that I TWO BROTHERS IN SONG. Ill had found a note which I supposed somebody in the house had lost. If he could tell me the amount and the number of the note, I would let the owner have it. There was at once a hue and cry through the house, ' Who had lost a bank-note ? ' Nobody claimed it ; nobody could describe it. The horn blew ; the coach was to start j we could not stay; and hurriedly giving the landlord my address in Wales, and assuring him that I would remit the amount lost as soon as the owner of the note was identified, we took our seats, and, by-and-by, safely arrived at our new residence. No news of the person who had lost the note ever came, nor has any claim ever been made on me from that day to this. How ever some people may account for the fact, there it is ; one of many instances in my life in which God has shown Himself near to help me in the time of need." Another dear old friend used to tell a story of his mining days. He was a purser at a mine in the West of England. The road from the mine towards his home was dangerous in the dark, leading in and out among old mine pits and shafts. " It was almost dark one evening," said he, " before I left the counting-room, but my heart was always ready to sing — " Who points the clouds their course, Whom winds and seas obey ; He shall direct thy wandering feet, He shall prepare thy way. " I took a captain's candle to light me on my way, but somehow or other I got wrong in starting, and wandered on till I became thoroughly confused. Suddenly I felt a slight twitch of my fingers, and the candle I was holding was taken from me as by an unseen hand. It did not fall, neither was it put out immediately, but was borne on in front of me, and then slightly inclined to the left, and that sufficiently to discover to me a precipice. When I saw it, I knew my whereabouts, which had I not known, the next moment I should have been hurled into eternity. Imme- diately after the candle fell, and was extinguished. I stood Ill THE POETS OF METHODISM. still, and praised God for His great deliverance ; then scrambling on my hands and knees, and feeling my way as I went from amidst the shafts and pits by which I was surrounded, I escaped to the turnpike road, and went home with a thankful heart. The next day I repaired to the memorable spot again, and thankfully surveyed the precipice of ruin where I stood the night before, but from which the kind overruling providence of God had delivered me. " Let us in life, in death, Thy steadfast truth declare, And publish with our latest breath Thy love and guardian care." MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. I 13 CHAPTER VI. MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. Thanks be to God ! His grace has shown How sinful man on earth May join the songs which round His throne Give endless praises birth. He gave His Son for man to die] He sent His Spirit from on high To consummate the scheme : O be that consummation blest! And let Redemption be confest A poet's noblest theme. 'HE sanctified genius of Christianity has made the hills and valleys of the English-speaking world vocal with prayer and praise to " Jesus and Him crucified." " It was nearly sunset," says a Western travelling preacher, " and a mellow light was upon the valley up which I was footing it towards a village chapel. The light seemed to hallow the balmy quietness around me. I came at length within sight of a group of tin-washers. They were mostly young women in their picturesque sun-bonnets and working dress. They were gracefully using their long- handled instruments in regulating the action of the water on the pounded tin ore, as it was carried over a succession of sloping boards, so as to allow the cleanly-washed tin to form a deposit beneath. They Bwere singing in concert as they worked, and on passing the nearest point of the road to them, I caught some of the words of their evening song. The words came swelling up the valley — " Wash me, and make me thus Thine own, Wash me, and mine Thou art ; I 114 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " It filled me with sacred feeling as I passed, and the soften- ing music followed. It was an agreeable preparation for evening worship. The time of service arrived, and the same singers came with their parents, friends, and neighbours, all decently dressed for God's house, and true to the hour for prayer. I chose the same favourite hymn. New inspiration seemed to come upon them, and they made the sanctuary ring with their spirited, glowing harmony, as they sang: — 11 Jesu, Thou art my Righteousness, For all my sins were Thine ; Thy death hath bought of God my peace, Thy life hath made Him mine. Spotless and just in Thee I am ; I feel my sins forgiven ; I taste salvation in Thy name, And ante-date my heaven. For ever here my rest shall be, Close to Thy bleeding side ; This all my hope, and all my plea, For me the Saviour died. My dying Saviour, and my God, Fountain for guilt and sin, Sprinkle me ever with Thy blood, And cleanse and keep me clean. Wash me, and make me thus Thine own Wash me, and mine Thou art ; Wash me, but not my feet alone — My hands, my head, my heart. Th' atonement of Thy blood apply, Till faith to sight improve, Till hope shall in fruition die, And all my soul be love. " It was indeed a joy to hear this from the lips of so many happy young people who had known the washing of re- generation, and renewing of the Holy Ghost ; and the joy became deeper as their faces brightened or their eyes sparkled through their tears as they listened to their preacher's address on the words of Jesus. ' If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me.' Every feature of the eager, upturned coun- tenances seemed to respond, ' Lord, not my feet only, but MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. II5 also my hands and my head.' Nor will that parting music ever be forgotten j for as they went off in groups from the service, I could hear them singing along the hill-side lane — " Wash me, and make me thus Thine own ; Wash me, and mine Thou art ; Wash me, but not my feet alone, My hands, my head, my heart." Methodism owes it to Charles Wesley that its distinctive teachings are so embodied in the psalmody which the masses of its generations have formed the habit of singing] that it has been preserved in doctrinal integrity while some other communities have been u tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine." The doctrine, for instance, of the Holy Spirit's "witness " with the spirit of believers, that they "are the children of God," is so wrought into the very life of the Methodists' hymnology that their" service of song " has been an agreeable preservative from indistinct notions, mistiness of experience, and doubtful gloom. " I used to go mourning for my sins all the day," said a tinner once, at a Methodist lovefeast, " and sometimes nearly all night, too. Now and then, it seemed as if I had " The tears that tell the sin forgiven, The sighs that waft the soul to Heaven ; And then I should again be in darkness and uncertainty. I was going over the down one day when the furze-blossom was ripening to seed, and I said within myself, * If the Lord would make a furze seed-pod burst this moment, I would believe the sign that my sins were forgiven.' A seed-pod did burst with a crack, but I could not believe. ' Lord, try me again,' said I; and again a seed opened ; but still I had no faith. I went home, determined that I would pray for the salvation of a friend, and if it came to pass within a fixed time, I thought I should be able to believe a sign like that. Within the time, the friend I prayed for was led to give his heart to Christ ; but I was darker than ever. All at once the thought came, ' What am I doing ? I am like the wicked Jews, I am looking for a sign to prove what the Il6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Holy Ghost only can make known.' ' Lord,' said I, ' Thou wilt not give Thy glory to another. It is Thine to tell me of my acceptance.' " Spirit of faith, come down, Reveal the things of God ; And make to me the Godhead known, And witness with the blood : 'Tis Thine the blood to apply And give me eyes to see, Who did for every sinner die Hath surely died for me. " I will ' cast my soul on Jesus/ and wait. I did not wait long. The Blessed Spirit came, and oh, how clear it was then ! Then I could sing, and hear the sweet meaning of the hymn : — " How shall a slave released From his oppressive chain Distinguish ease and rest From weariness and pain ? Can he his burden borne away Infallibly perceive? Or I before the Judgment Day, My pardon'd sin believe ? Redeem'd from all his woes, Out of his dungeon freed, Ask how the prisoner knows That he is free indeed ! How can he tell the gloom of night From the meridian blaze? Or I discern the glorious light That streams from Jesus' face ? The gasping patient lies In agony of pain ! But see him light arise, Restored to health again, And doth he certainly receive The knowledge of his cure ? And am I conscious that I live ? And is my pardon sure ? A wretch for years consign'd To hopeless misery, The happy change must find, From all his pain set free ; MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. J J / And must not I the difference know Of joy and anxious grief, Of grace and sin, of weal and woe, Of faith and unbelief ? Yes, Lord, I now perceive, And bless Thee for the grace Through which, redeem'd, I live To see Thy smiling face. Alive I am who once was dead, And freely justified; I know Thy blood for me was shed, I feel it now applied. By sin no longer bound, The pris'ner is set free, The lost again is found In Paradise in Thee : In darkness, chains, and death I was, But, lo ! to life restored, Into Thy wondrous light I pass, The freeman of the Lord. In comfort, power, and peace, Thy favour, Lord, I prove, In faith, and joy's increase, And self-abasing love ; Thou dost my pardon'd sin reveal, My life, and heart renew ; The pledge, the witness, and the seal Confirm the record true. The Spirit of my God Hath certified Him mine, And all the tokens show'd Infallible, Divine ; Hereby the pardon'd sinner knows His sins on earth forgiven, And thus my Saviour shows My name inscribed in Heaven." Nothing but clearly denned spiritual life, and certain joy- fulness in God, could be expected in the experience of people whom Charles Wesley taught to sing of salvation. Some of his hymns on a present sense of pardon and adop- tion are most jubilant, and have furnished means of expres- sion to happy souls without number. Under one date, in the narrative of the ill-fated Patagonian Mission, it is recorded : " Found Mr. Williams ana Badcock to-day very n8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. ill, the latter beyond the hope of recovery. He is most patient, and leaning upon his Saviour." John Badcock was a pious Cornish fisherman — a Methodist. He had devoted himself to the mission as a boatman, and now he was lying in the " Speedwell's cabin, in Terra del Fuego, starving to death, and awaiting his end." At eleven o'clock that same evening he died. As the end approached, he requested Mr. Williams to join him in singing a hymn, and having repeated it, he then sang the whole with a loud voice : — Arise, my soul, arise, Skake offthv guilty fears ; The bleeding sacrifice In my behalf appears ; Before the throne my Surety stands, My name is written on His hands. He ever lives above For me to intercede, His all-redeeming love, His precious blood to plead ; His blood atoned for all our race, And sprinkles now the throne of grace. Five bleeding wounds He bears, Received on Calvary ; They pour effectual prayers, They strongly speak for me. Forgive him, O forgive ! they cry — Nor let that ransom'd sinner die ! The Father hears Him pray, His dear Anointed One ; He cannot turn away, The presence of His Son ; His Spirit answers to the blood, And tells me I am born of God. My God is reconcil'd, His pardoning voice I hear, He owns me for His child, I can no longer fear ; With confidence I now draw nigh, And Father, Abba, Father, cry! His voice fell, and in a few minutes after his spirit joined the choir above. MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. I 10 Charles Wesley was as warm and correct in most of his songs about entire holiness as he was about the evidence of adoption, though he was somewhat tinged now and then by the morbid mysticism to which he had shown an early proneness. An aged Congregational minister and his wife, who resided in a retired North Devon village, used occasionally to visit a Methodist home in which the services of the Society were held. While they were sitting in the parlour one day, the old man took up a book from the table, and, looking at the title, threw it down, saying, " There is no such thing in this world." It was John Wesley's " Plain Account of Christian Perfection." The old lady took up the rejected volume, and opening about the middle (as those who are not habitual readers are apt to do), her eye fell upon a passage which arrested her. u Why," said she, " is this perfection ? Why, John ? " she cried to her husband, u is this perfection ? Listen to this. I have enjoyed this for many years. Is this perfection, as the Methodists call it ? Then I have got it ! It is possible in this world, John. It is to be enjoyed even here. This blessing God gives me from day to day. Listen to this " \ and she read from one of Wesley's pages. Her husband was silent, until the Methodist mother of the house opened an old hymn-book, and asked whether they could not both join her in singing a hymn of Charles Wesley's, which expressed the same spiri- tual experience as John Wesley described, in a manner more tuneful, but not with less precision. •* Can't you sing this from your hearts ? " said she, repeating verse after verse. " Yes," they said. "Well, then, we will sing together." And the good Methodist woman, and the old veteran theologue, and his venerable, warm-hearted wife, sang : — O for a heart to praise my God, A heart from sin set free, A heart that always feels Thy blood, So freely spilt for mc ! 120 THE POETS OF METHODISM. A heart resign'd, submissive, meek, My dear Redeemer's throne, Where only Christ is heard to speak, Where Jesus reigns alone. A humble, lowly, contrite heart, Believing, true, and clean, Which neither life nor death can part From Him that dwells within. A heart in every thought renew'd, And full of love Divine, Perfect, and right, and pure, and good, A copy, Lord, of Thine. Thy tender heart is still the same, And melts at human woe ; Jesus, for Thee distrest I am, I want Thy love to know. My heart, Thou know'st, can never rest Till Thou create my peace, Till of my Eden repossest, From self and sin I cease. Fruit of Thy gracious lips, on me Bestow that peace unknown, The hidden manna, and the tree Of life, and the white stone. Thy nature, dearest Lord, impart, Come quickly from above, Write Thy new name upon my heart, Thy new, best name of Love. Among the multitude of Charles "Wesley's hymns, the one hundred and sixty-six spiritual songs which he issued under the title of " Hymns for a Family" have a peculiar charm. A venerable man, remarkable for his brilliant wit and cultured taste, and to whom Charles Wesley was known, once said of these hymns : — " Such accumulated strength and beauty of expression, in presenting the daily wants, pains, trials, and embarrassments of a family to the God of the families of the whole earth, surely never before was pre- sented to the suffering children of men." The poet's expe- rience of family life, and his inspiration as a family hymnist, may be said to have begun on his own wedding-day. He remained single nearly forty years, that he might give him- self to evangelical work ; but then there arose the thought, MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. 121 " How know I whether it is best for me to marry or not ? Certainly, better now than later j and, if not now, what security have I that it shall not be then ? It should be now or not at all." While this thought was working, he found his way to a small village in Wales, where he was welcomed by a respectable and pious family. There was a lovable daughter who arrested his heart. He consulted his brother and his friend Perronet, pondered much, waited, expressed himself to God in hymns, and, at last, proposed, was accepted, and ere long came the wedding-day. What a wedding-day was that! "Saturday, April 8, i/49," says the bridegroom — " Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. " Not a cloud was to be seen from morning till night. I rose at four j spent three hours and a half in prayer, or sing- ing, with my brother, with Sally, with Beck. At eight I led My Sally to church. Her father, sisters, Lady Rudd, Grace Bowen, Betty Williams, and, I think, Billy Tucker and Mr. James, were all the persons present. At the church door, I thought of the prophecy of a jealous friend, ' that if we were even at the church door to be married, she was sure, by revelation, that we could get no farther.' We both smiled at the remembrance. We got farther. Mr. Gwynne gave her to me (under God) ; my brother joined our hands. It was a most solemn season of love ! Never had I more of the Divine presence at the sacrament. My brother gave out the following hymn — " Come, Thou everlasting Lord, By our trembling hearts adored ; Come, Thou heaven-descended Guest, Bidden to our marriage feast ; Jesus, in the midst appear, Present with Thy followers here, Grant us the peculiar grace, Show us all Thy smiling face. 122 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Now the veil of sin withdraw, Fill our souls with sacred awe, Awe that dares not speak or move, Deepest awe of humble love; Love that doth its Lord descry, Ever intimately nigh, Sees the Invisible in Thee, Fulness of the Deity. Let on us Thy Spirit rest, Enter each devoted breast, Still with Thy disciples sit, Still Thy works of grace repeat : Now the former wonder show, Manifest Thy power below, Earthly souls exalt, refine, Turn the water into wine. Stop the hurrying spirit's haste, Change the soul's ignoble taste ; Nature into grace improve, Earthly into heavenly love : Raise our hearts to things on high, To our Bridegroom in the sky, Heaven our hope and highest aim, Mystic marriage of the Lamb. O might each obtain a share Of the pure enjoyments there ! Now, in rapturous surprise, Drink the wine of Paradise ; Cry, amidst the rich repast, Thou hast given the best at last, Wine that cheers the Host above, The best wine of perfect love. " He then prayed over us in strong faith. We walked back to the house, and joined again in prayer. Prayer and thanks- giving was our whole employment. We were cheerful without mirth, serious without sadness. . . . My brother seemed the happiest person among us." Family life begun in this style promised to be a life of family prayer and praise amidst all the vicissitudes to which it would necessarily be subject. And so it was. About four months after marriage we have an insight into the household order of the Methodist hymnist. On a September morning there was a record made. "We had family prayer at eight. I began the New Testament. I passed the hour MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. I23 of retirement in the garden, and was melted into tears by the Divine goodness." On the next day but one: "1 rose with my partner at four," says the husband. " Both under the Word, and among the select band, we were constrained to cry after Jesus with mighty prayers and tears. We sang this hymn in my family — 11 God of faithful Abraham, hear His feeble son and Thine, In Thy glorious power appear, And bless my just design. Lo ! I come to serve Thy will, All Thy blessed will to prove ; Fired with patriarchal zeal, And pure primeval love. Me and mine I fain would give A sacrifice to Thee, By the ancient model live, The true simplicity ; Walk as in my Maker's sight, Free from worldly guile and care, Praise my innocent delight, And all my business prayer. Whom to me Thy goodness lends Till life's last gasp is o'er, Servants, relatives, and friends, I promise to restore ; All shall on Thy side appear, All shall in Thy service join, Principled with godly fear, And worshippers Divine. Them, as much as lies in me, I will through grace persuade; Seize and turn their souls to Thee, For whom their souls were made ; Bring them to th' atoning blood (Blood that speaks a world forgiven), Make them serious, wise, and good, And train them up for Heaven." No family, however holy, is free from affliction; and, indeed, sometimes the weight of affliction seems to rise with the measure of holiness. Charles Wesley's wife was attacked with small-pox, and, for a time, the disease threatened to be fatal. Nevertheless, she was spared ; but while yet 124 THE POETS OF METHODISM. trembling under the effects of the trial, their first-born, a boy of uncommon promise, was cut down by the disease which had weakened and sadly changed the mother. The poet felt the stroke keenly, but maintained his power to minister comfort to his wife. He wrote a hymn for her, entitled "A Mother's Act of Resignation on the Death of a Child." It was sweet, soothing, and full of spiritual comfort. Its influence has hushed many a sorrowing mother since then. " In the course of pastoral visitation," says a city pastor, " I found my way once into a cellar, in one of the crowded suburbs of Manchester. There was a comparatively young couple, in miserable poverty, partly resulting from the afflic- tion of the husband, who was evidently dying of consumption. He sat in moody silence over a low fire. The poor mother was on the end of a ragged couch, bending in anguish over the dead body of her child, which looked beautiful in death. I sat down, and tried first to console the woman j then, turning to the father, I said, ' There is bright and certain hope, you know, in the departure of a little one.' ' I don't know,' was the curt reply. 'That is my library,' he added, pointing to a shelf, on which there were a few volumes of modern infidel authors ; ' you may know now what my opinions are.' ' Yes ; but you know,' I replied, ' that such opinions are no help to you now. They don't supply you with one comfortable answer to the cravings of your soul as it is moving towards another world. You want something to clear your prospects. I am not going- to dispute with you ; but I want to tell you that I have a wife, and that we have known what it is to lose a child — a lovely boy. My wife was reconciled to her loss by thinking of what her child had gained ; and she was helped to this sweet resigna- tion by a hymn which I read to her. It was a hymn written by a bereaved father like you and I, and written for the comfort of his wife under the trial, such as your wife is now suffering. Come, I will give you the hymn as well as I can.' I then rehearsed Charles Wesley's verses, known as ' A Mother's Act of Resignation.' MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. J 2^ *' Peace, my heart, be calm, be still, Subject to my Father's will ; God in Jesus reconciled Calls for His beloved child ; Who on me Himself bestow'd Claims the purchase of His blood. Child of prayer, by grace Divine, Him I willingly resign, Through his last convulsive throes Borne into the true repose, Borne into the world above, Glorious world of light and love ! Through the purple fountain brought, To his Saviour's bosom caught, Him in the pure mantle clad, In the milk-white robe array'd, Follower of the Lamb I see ; See the joy prepared for me. Lord, for this alone I stay ; Fit me for eternal day ; Then Thou wilt receive Thy bride To the souls beatified, Then with all Thy saints I meet, Then my rapture is complete. " As I closed I saw the poor mother's face gathering calm- ness, and there was a tear in the dying father's eye. I invited them to join me in prayer. There were sobs ; and on rising from our knees, the woman's face had brightened, though wet with tears. ' I will follow my child to Jesus/ said she. 'And so will I,' sobbed the broken-hearted man. The end was happy. The wife found a heavenly Friend under her greater bereavement. She lost her husband ; but the sceptic was saved." Charles Wesley had deep and universal sympathy with suffering human nature. His loving heart led him into all accessible scenes of mental conflict, bodily anguish, and per- plexity and pressure of circumstances. Indeed, he was more marvellously gifted with insight into varieties of human misery and trial than any other of our hymnists. And it is to his experience as a sufferer in Christian fellow- ship with sufferers that we owe some of his most touching, consoling, and richly fruitful hymns. 126 THE POETS OF METHODISM. It is refreshing in this mortal life to fall in, here and there, with a pilgrim so anointed with the heavenly Spirit as to rise fairly above the sufferings incidental to human nature. One such instance can never be forgotten. The man, a strong robust man, had rheumatic fever in a cottage-chamber under the shelter of Mount Edgecumbe, at the mouth of the Tamar. He was a good man. For several days there had been an agonising struggle to " let Patience have her per- fect work." But, when his pastor called, he was really triumphing with "joy unspeakable and full of glory j" literally " glorying in tribulation." There were shouts and songs by turns. As the visitor entered the room, he was singing, with a clear, ringing voice — This is the straight and royal way That leads us to the courts above ; Here let me ever, ever stay, Till, on the wings of perfect love, I take my last triumphant flight From Calvary's to Siorts height ! In answer to a question as to his spiritual comfort, he said, " I had been lying here for several days, suffering as I never thought my poor body could suffer. But for some time the Lord kept me in patience, until I began to feel that I could not stand it much longer. I was afraid that, after all, I should murmur against the Lord. ' Lord/ said I, ' keep me ! ' Then I began to think about the martyrs. I had read that some of them sang in the fire j and I said, ' Why shouldn't I sing ? ' It seemed to be said to me, ' You are not a martyr, and you can't look for such joy.' ' I am not a martyr,' said I to myself, ' though I am called to suffer perhaps as much as if I had been in the fire. My God who appoints me to this suffering is the same God as called the martyrs to theirs. He is as able to help me as He was to help them, and as willing too. Lord,' I cried, ' give me the victory ! I believe Thou wilt Thou dost ! ' I shouted, for in a moment there was a light upon my soul, a joy within me that was like heaven in the midst of my MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. 127 pain. The pain was not gone, but it was over-balanced by the joy ; and I said, ' If the joy cannot stay without the pain, let the pain stay, Lord ! ' Then I knew what that verse meant, and could sing it — " When my sorrows most increase, Let Thy strongest joys be given : Jesus, come with my distress, And agony is heaven. Nor have I been able ever since to keep myself from singing another hymn — that beautiful hymn for 'believers suffering.' Come, sing it with me." The song was raised ; and never did that hymn appear so full of holy music, deep meaning, and heavenly refreshment, as when the pastor's voice fell into harmony with that of the agonising man, in singing : — Saviour of all, what hast Thou done, What hast Thou suffer'd on the tree ? Why didst Thou groan Thy mortal groan, Obedient unto death for me ? The mystery of Thy passion show, The end of all Thy griefs below. Thy soul for sin an offering made, Hath clear'd this guilty soul of mine ; Thou hast for me a ransom paid, To change my human to Divine To cleanse from all iniquity And make the sinner all like Thee. Pardon, and grace, and heaven to buy, My bleeding Sacrifice expired : But didst Thou not, my Pattern, die, That, by Thy glorious Spirit fired, Faithful to death I might endure, And make the crown by suffering sure ? Thou didst the meek example leave, That I might in Thy footsteps tread ; Might, like the Man of Sorrows, grieve, And groan, and bow with Thee my head ; The dying in my body bear, And all Thy state of suffering share. Thy every perfect servant, Lord, Shall as his patient Master be, To all Thy inward life restored, And outwardly conform'd to Thee ; Out of Thy grave the saint shall rise And grasp, through death, the glorious prize. 128 THE POETS OF METHODISM. This is the straight and royal way That leads us to the courts above ; Here let me ever, ever stay, Till, on the wings of perfect love, I take my last triumphant flight From Calvary's to Sion's height ! The spirit in which this sufferer sang must have been the spirit of many among the suffering early Methodists ; and from some of the hymns which Charles Wesley wrote " For the Brotherhood/' it is evident that in their u brotherhood" of suffering they often mutually stimulated one another to " rejoice in tribulation." This is strikingly shown in the fact that, from the beginning, and for many generations, one favourite hymn was always swelling from the harmonised voices of the societies. It was a joy which might make one forget the distress of life, to hear the old Methodists sing : — Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades through the wilderness, Who still your bodies feel ; Awhile forget your griefs and fears, And look beyond the vale of tears To that celestial hill! Beyond the bounds of time and space, Look forward to that happy place, The saints' secure abode ; On Faith's strong eagle pinions rise, And force your passage to the skies, And scale the mount of God. See where the Lamb in glory stands, Encircled with His radiant bands, And join th' angelic powers ; For all that height of glorious bliss Our everlasting portion is, And all that Heaven is ours. Who suffer for our Master here, We shall before His face appear, And by His side sit down : To patient faith the prize is sure, And all that to the end endure The Cross shall wear the crown. MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. I2Q Thrice blessed bliss-inspiring hope ! It lifts the fainting spirits up, It brings to life the dead : Our conflicts here shall soon be past, And you and I ascend at last, Triumphant with our Head. That great mysterious Deity We soon with open face shall see : The beatific sight Shall fill the heavenly courts with praise, And wide diffuse the golden blaze Of everlasting light. The Father shining on His throne, The glorious co-eternal Son, The Spirit One and Seven, Conspire our rapture to complete ; And, lo ! we fall before His feet, And silence heightens Heaven. In hope of that ecstatic pause, Jesus, we now sustain Thy cross, And at Thy footstool fall, Till Thou our hidden life reveal, Till Thou our ravished spirits fill, And God is all in all. Every verse of this exalted and exalting song has had its numerous illustrations from year to year — now one, and now another — now in this scene of life, and now in that. A young man who was born blind in Tewkesbury, rather more than fifty years ago, was brought from spiritual dark- ness to light while a mere boy. He soon became known as a kind of walking Bible, and had stored his sanctified memory with at least five hundred of Wesley's hymns. Of these, one seemed to be ever rising in his soul with saving freshness, as, in his seventeenth year, he neared the land of immortal light. He had a foresight of his last mortal day, as that day approached ; and when it came, a day of suffer- ing, his father said, " O, my dear boy, you are called to suffer ! " He answered, in a song — Who suffer with our Master here, We shall before His face appear, And by His side sit down. 130 THE POETS OF METHODISM. And, after a moment or two, the blind, but happy young saint sang again — Thrice blessed bliss-inspiring hope ! It lifts the fainting spirits up, It brings to life the dead : Our conflicts here shall soon be past, And you and I ascend at last Triumphant with our Head. It was his last song as a sufferer. His head fell on the pillow, and his final " conflict " was u past." Another young devoted Methodist passed away from Ebchester once, with portions of the same hymn on her lips. A witness says : — " On the day of her departure, sitting in her chair, as she had done for some time both night and day, she broke out into singing with a loud voice. Her friends were startled, for she had spoken but in whispers for several weeks. They gathered around and listened. She kept up her songs for half an hour, and then requested that they would sing with her — Come on, my partners in distress. She struck in here and there with great earnestness, now and then saying, " Sing on ! — sing on ! " They sang — To patient faith the prize is sure, And all who to the end endure The Cross shall wear the crown. She asked for the window to be opened, and, as if talking to spiritual attendants, she said, " Stay, stay ; I am not yet ready ! " Her sight now became dim, and she called us to come nearer to her, and sing on — Tha great mysterious Deity We soon with open face shall see : The beatific sight Shall fill the heavenly courts with praise, And wide diffuse the golden blaze Of everlasting light. She waved her hands, and sang with deep feeling — And, lo ! we fall before His feet And silence heightens Heaven. MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. 131 There was silence ; she was at the feet of her visible Master. There are some hymns which make themselves felt at once — as soon as they fall on the ear — hymns which never lose their freshness and power, never cease to widen their influence until they are acknowledged as things of life, by all souls, in all lands, and over all seas. Such a hymn is one of Charles Wesley's — a hymn whose music is kept up on both sides of the Atlantic. It has often been on the lips of departing saints in this land, when, as an old saint said, "They see their native land in the distance, and the sea intervening — a sea which none is able to cross unless borne by the Cross of Christ." One hymn has often helped them to " cling to the wood and cross the sea." Thousands have been aided as the venerable John Lomas, of Man- chester, was, who, after more than forty years of Methodist pilgrimage and faithful service, came to the flood in 1854, "clung to the Cross, and crossed the sea," uttering his favourite hymn with his latest breath — Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high. This was the first verse of the Methodist poet's immortal hymn to be sung " In Temptation." Its living music has passed over the great waters into the land where the poet put forth the first efforts of his genius as a hymnist. Dr. Belcher says, " Mr. Gould mentions the influence of singing on the mind of a minister in Vermont. He was a stranger called to officiate for a Sabbath in a cold and dreary church. When he entered it, the wind howled, and loose clapboards and windows clattered. The pulpit stood high above the first floor. There was no stove, but a few persons in the church, and those few beating their hands and feet to keep them from freezing. He asked himself, ' Can I preach ? Of what use can it be ? What shall I do ? Can these two 1$2 THE rOETS OF METHODISM. or three singers in the gallery sing the words if I read a hymn ? I concluded to make a trial., and read — " Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high : Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past ; Safe into the haven guide, O, receive my soul at last. Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee : Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me. All my trust on Thee is stay'd, All my help from Thee I bring ; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing. Wilt Thou not regard my call ? Wilt Thou not accept my prayer ? Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall — Lo ! on Thee I cast my care : Reach me out Thy gracious hand ! While I of Thy strength receive, Hoping against hope I stand, Dying, and, behold, I live ! Thou, O Christ, art all 1 want, More than all in Thee I find ; Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick and lead the blind. Just and holy is Thy name, I am all unrighteousness ; False and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace. Plenteous grace with Thee is found, Grace to cover all my sin : Let the healing streams abound, Make and keep me pure within. Thou of life the Fountain art ; Freely let me take of Thee, Spring Thou up within my heart, Rise to all eternity ! " They commenced, and the sound of a single female voice has followed me with an indescribable, pleasing sensation MORE ABOUT SONGS FROM THE BROTHERS. I33 ever since, and probably will while I live. The voice, intonation, articulation, and expression seemed to me per- fect. I was warmed inside and out, and for the time was lost in rapture. I had heard of the individual and voice before; but hearing it in this dreary situation made it doubly grateful. Never did I preach with more satisfaction to myself. And from this incident I learned a lesson : never to be discouraged from unfavourable appearances, but, where duty calls, go to work cheerfully, without wavering.' ?' The beautiful hymn, thus sung with such power and happy effect in Vermont, has served in other instances to melt American life into the life of Heaven. A fine, intelligent Virginian young man, while residing in the West, became an infidel and a blasphemer of the name of God. From this state he was delivered by reading the work of Soame Jenyns ; but, while he acquiesced in the truth of revelation, he yet did not feel its power. He was attacked by a lingering and fatal disease, which led him to reflection and prayer, but often made it difficult for him to converse. Three Christian friends sometimes visited him, to beguile the tedious hours by singing. They one day entered his room, and, almost without any previous remarks, began the hymn — There is a fountain filled with blood ; And then — The voice of free grace cries escape to the mountain. He then said to them, " There is nothing I so much delight to hear as the first hymn you ever sang to me — " Jesus, Lover of my soul." They began to sing it to the tune Martyn, and found the solemnity which had reigned in the little circle while singing the two former hymns began to be changed to weeping. They struck the touching strains of the second stanza, and the weeping became loud; the heart of him who had reviled Christ broke, and they feared that to sing the remaining 134 THE POETS OF METHODISM. stanzas would be more than he could bear. When singing in his room after this, he said, "I don't think I shall ever hear " Jesus, Lover of my soul, sung again. It so excites me that my poor body cannot bear it." That " poor body " now waits for the awakening. The rescued spirit has met the author of his loved hymn, and in the same Paradise sings, without weeping — Jesus, Lover of my soul ! OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS TN SONG. I3j CHAPTER VII. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'er/hung A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between, So let Thy presence brood, though now unseen, O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung- Feeling and thought ! — till the rekindled chords Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words. [HILE the Wesleys met all varieties in the con- dition and experience of religious societies by their successive issue of hymns for Christian "Fasts and Festivals," for "Times of Trouble J and Persecution," on " Preparation for Death," and "Funeral Hymns," "Hymns for Families," for "Chris- tian Friends," and for " Children," " Hymns on God's Everlasting Love," and for all " Seekers of Redemption," there never was any startling or stirring event in the natural world or in national history, but they were ready with suit- able songs, turning all passing circumstances to account for the good of the people. They gave out hymns for " Times of Tumult," " On the Earthquake," " Hymns for the Nation," hymns of "Intercession" in times of danger to the throne and to English hearths and altars. Charles pro- duced hymns faster and more freely than John could select, or abridge, or revise. The pre-eminent Methodist poet was too full of feeling to allow his pen to cease its action : that ready pen, so vigorous, so free, so easy, so full of fine English harmonies, so happily consecrated to Christian 136 THE POETS OF METHODISM. holiness. The poet never lacked inventive power j but in his eagerness to press everything into his Master's cause, he would now and then seize the expressed thoughts of others, and weave them into the texture of his devotional verse ; ever, with beautiful simplicity and unselfishness, pouring out his soul in numbers to edify the Church, and to supply Christian homes and congregations with suitable songs for all occasions and through all times. There is a beautiful entry in his journal marking the birth-time of one of his hymns of triumph in tribulation. " May 20th, 1743, I got once more to our dear colliers of Wednesbury. ... I preached in a garden on the first words I met (1 Cor. ii. 1). While I spoke of His sufferings, He looked upon us, and made us look upon Him and mourn. ... I saw a piece of ground given us by a Dissenter to build a preaching-house upon, and consecrated it by a hymn. I walked with many of the brethren to Walsall, singing. We were received with the old complaint : ' Behold, they that turn the world upside down are come here also.' I walked through the town amidst the noisy greetings of our enemies, and stood on the steps of the market-house. An host of men were laid against us. The floods lifted up their voices and raged horribly. I opened the book on the first presented words, Acts xx. 24. The street was full of fierce Ephesian beasts (the principal man setting them on), who roared, and shouted, and threw stones incessantly. Many struck without hurting me. I besought them in calm love to be reconciled to God in Christ. While I was departing, a stream of ruffians was suffered to bear me from the steps. I rose, and having given the blessing, was beat down again. So the third time, when we had returned thanks to the God of our salvation. I then from the steps bade them depart in peace, and walked quietly through the thickest of the rioters. They reviled us, but had no com- mission to touch a hair of our heads." The song of " Thanks to the God of our Salvation" broke for the first time like trumpet-notes of victory : — OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. 1.37 Worship, and thanks, and blessing, And strength ascribe to Jesus ! Jesus alone Defends His own When earth and hell oppress us. Jesus with joy we witness, Almighty to deliver; Our seal set to That God is true, And reigns a King for ever. Omnipotent Redeemer, Our ransom'd souls adore Thee, Our Saviour Thou, We find it now, And give Thee all the glory. We sing Thine arm unshorten'd, Brought through our sore temptation, With heart and voice In Thee rejoice, The God of our salvation. Thine arm hath safely brought us A way no more expected Than when Thy sheep Pass'd through the deep, By crystal walls protected. Thy glory was our reward, Thine hand our lives did cover, And we, even we, Have walked the sea And march'd triumphant over. Thy works we now acknowledge, Thy wondrous loving-kindness, Which held Thine own By means unknown, And smote our foes with blindness. By Satan's host surrounded, Thou didst with patience arm us, But would'st not give The Syrians leave, Or Sodom's sons, to harm us. Safe as devoted Peter, Betwixt the soldiers sleeping, Like sheep we lay, To wolves a prey, Yet still in Jesus' keeping. i38 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Thou from th' infernal Herod And Jewish expectation Hath set us free ; All praise to Thee, O God of our salvation I The world and Satan's malice, Thou, Jesus, hast confounded ; And by Thy grace, With songs of praise, Our happy souls resounded. Accepting our deliverance, We triumph in Thy favour, And for the love Which now we prove Shall praise Thy name for ever. This song became a favourite form of thanksgiving amidst the joys of deliverance from persecutors. A few months later the evangelizing poet was again among the Wednes- bury lions. " I found the brethren assembled, standing fast in one mind and spirit, in nothing terrified by their adver- saries. The word given me for them was, ' Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit yourselves like men, be strong.' Jesus was in the midst, and covered us with a covering of His Spirit. Never was I before in so primitive an assembly. We sang praises lustily and with a good courage, and could all set our seal to the truth of our Lord's saying, ' Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake.' We laid down and slept, and rose up again, for the Lord sustained us. We assembled before day to sing hymns to Christ as God. And again, there, before day, was the victorious shout — " Worship, and thanks, and blessing." A series of alarming events opened with earthquake shocks in London during 1 750. The genius of the heavenly- minded poet seems to have risen with the occasion. " This morning," he tells his brother, " at a quarter after five, we had another shock of an earthquake, far more violent than that of February 8th. I was just repeating my text, when it shook the Foundry so violently that we all expected it to fall upon our heads. A great cry followed from the women OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I39 and children. I immediately cried out, ' Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be moved, and the hills be carried into the midst of the sea ; for the Lord of Hosts is with us ; the God of Jacob is our refuge.' He filled my heart with faith, and my mouth with words, shaking their souls as well as their bodies." The tokens of judgment followed each other until 1756. There were fears of invasion, and the kingdom was kept in painful excitement. John Wesley made his appeal to his countrymen in " Serious Thoughts " about the Lisbon earthquake. " How many hundred thou- sand men," says he, " have been swept away by war, in Europe only, within half a century ! How many thousands, within little more than this, hath the earth opened her mouth and swallowed up ! ... Is there not a God that judges the world ? and is He now making inquisition for blood ? . . . It has been the opinion of many that even this nation has not been without some marks of God's displeasure. Has not war been let loose even within our own land, so that London itself felt the alarm ? Has not a pestilential sick- ness broken in upon our cattle, and, in many parts, left not Dne of them alive ? And, although the earth does not yet open in England or Ireland, has it not shook and reeled to and fro like a drunken man ? and that not in one or two places only, but almost from one end of the kingdom to the other ? " At the same time, amidst the "rumours of wars," Charles Wesley went up and down faithfully, warning the guilty, and singing with the faithful in hope of final victory. "At Nottingham I warned them," he says, "of the impending judgments. . . . My subject, both at night and in the morning, was, ' 1 will bring the third part through the fire.' It was a time of solemn rejoicing." On October 8, 1756, he was in company with his friend, the saintly Grimshaw, of Haworth. His record is : " We spent an hour in inter- cession for the Church and nation. I exhorted the many persons present to continue instant in prayer, and mark the answer and the end." After another week, he tells us : — " I 140 THE POETS OF METHODISM. preached a second time at Haworth (Mr. Grimshaw reading prayers), from Psalm xlvi. 8. My mouth was open to declare the approaching judgments, and the glory which shall follow, when the Lord is exalted in all the earth. . . . After an hour's interval we met again, as many as the church walls would contain, but twice the number stood without till the prayers were over. Then I mounted a scaffold, and, lifting up my eyes, saw the fields white unto harvest. We had prayed for a fair day, and had the petitions we asked. The churchyard, which will hold thousands, was quite covered. God gave me a voice to reach them all. I warned them of those things which shall come to pass, and warmly pressed them to private, family, and public^ prayer 5 enlarged on the glorious consequences thereof, even deliverance from the last plagues, and standing before the Son of Man. I concluded and began again, for it was an accepted time. I do not remember when my mouth has been more opened, or my heart more enlarged." It was amidst excitements, labours, and triumphs of faith like these that the consecrated powers of the happy poet rose into their grandest flights ; and amid the darkling surround- ings of the hymnist, his voice swells with the more impres- sive and awe-inspiring majesty, as he sings : — Righteous God, whose vengeful vials All our fears and thoughts exceed, Big with woes and fiery trials, Hanging, bursting o'er our head : While Thou visitest the nations, Thy selected people spare, Arm our cautioned souls with patience, Fill our humbled hearts with prayer. If Thy dreadful controversy With all flesh is now begun, In Thy wrath remember mercy, Mercy first and last be shown ; Plead Thy cause with sword and fire, Shake us till the curse remove, Till Thou com'st, the world's Desire, Conquering all with sovereign love. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I4I By the signals of Thy coming Soon, we know, Thou wilt appear, Evil with Thy breath consuming, Setting up Thy kingdom here : Thy last heavenly revelation These tremendous plagues forerun, Judgment ushers in salvation, Seats Thee on Thy glorious Throne. Earth unhinged, as from her basis, Owns her great Restorer nigh, Plunged in complicate distresses, Poor distracted sinners cry: Men, their instant doom deploring, Faint beneath their fearful load ; Ocean working, rising, roaring, Claps his hands to meet his God. Every fresh alarming token More confirms Thy faithful word, Nature (for its Lord hath spoken), Must be suddenly restored : From this national confusion, From this ruin'd earth and skies, See the times of restitution, See the new creation rise 1 Vanish then this world of shadows, Pass the former things away ; Lord, appear, appear to glad us With the dawn of endless day : O conclude this mortal story, Throw this universe aside, Come, eternal King of Glory, Now descend, and take Thy bride. John Wesley could sometimes use the pruning knife with good effect, and here and there, by a delicate touch or two, he has certainly improved the beauty of his brother's verses ; but some of his rearrangements and efforts at abridgment prove that he was not always to be trusted. Charles's hymn, "After Preaching in a Church," has been unhappily dealt with. John's selection from it is in the "Methodist Hymn Book," beginning with — Jesus, the Name high over all ; but the abridgment of the original hymn impairs its strength, breaks its unity, and mars its grandeur. With what clarion- 142 THE POETS OF METHODISM. like music Charles's own song rings through the soul, especially when sung with the spirit which fired its author : — Jesus, accept the grateful song, My Wisdom and my Might, 'Tis Thou hast loosed the stammering tongue, And taught my hands to fight. Thou, Jesus, Thou my mouth hast been ; The weapons of Thy war, Mighty through Thee, I pull down sin, And all Thy truth declare. Not without Thee, my Lord, I am Come up into this place, Thy Spirit bade me preach Thy name, And trumpet forth Thy praise. Thy Spirit gave me utterance now, My soul with strength endued, Harden'd to adamant my brow, And arm'd my heart with God. Thy powerful hand in all I see, Thy wondrous workings own, Glory, and strength, and praise to Thee Ascribe, and Thee alone. Gladly I own the promise true, To all whom Thou dost send, " Behold, I always am with you, ' Your Saviour to the end." Amen, amen, my God and Lord, If Thou art with me still, I still shall speak the Gospel Word, My ministry fulfil. Thee I shall constantly proclaim, Though earth and hell oppose, Bold to confess Thy glorious Name, Before a world of foes. Jesus, the Name high over all In hell, or earth, or sky, Angels and men before it fall, And devils fear and fly. Jesus, the Name to sinners dear, The Name to sinners given, It scatters all their guilty fear, And turns their hell to Heaven. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I43 Balm into wounded spirits it pours, And heals the sin-sick mind, It hearing to the deaf restores, And eyesight to the blind. Jesus the prisoners' fetters breaks, And bruises Satan's head, Power into strengthless souls it speaks, And life into the dead. O that the world might taste and see The riches of His grace ! The arms of love that compass me Would all mankind embrace. 0 that my Jesus' heavenly charms Might every bosom move ! Fly sinners, fly into those arms Of everlasting love. The lover of your souls is near, Him I to you commend, Joyful the Bridegroom's voice to hear, Who calls a worm His friend. He hath the bride, and He alone, Almighty to redeem, 1 only make His mercies known, I send you all to Him. Sinners, behold the Lamb of God ! On Him your spirits stay ; He bears the universal load, He takes your sins away. His only righteousness I show, His saving grace proclaim ; 'Tis all my business here below To cry, " Behold the Lamb ! ' For this a suffering life I live, And reckon all things loss ; For Him my strength, my all I give, And glory in His cross. I spend myself that you may know The Lord our righteousness ; That Christ in you may live and grow, I joyfully decrease. Gladly I hasten to decay, My life I freely spend, And languish for the welcome day When all my toil shall end. J44 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Happy if, with my latest breath, I might but gasp His name, Preach Him to all, and cry, in death, " Behold, behold the Lamb ! " The poet's joy seems to be all the more exalted because he once more preached the Gospel " in a church." The joy of dispensing the Gospel in such a place was, perhaps, be- coming rare. As the thoughts and feelings unfold themselves from verse to verse, the poet's passion glows with greater warmth and rushes on its upward course, flashing with more and more of life, until it passes into a rapt devotion, as near as can be to that of a disembodied soul . How many a saint, both old and young, this hymn has cheered amidst his struggles to maintain his conflict with Satan, and with the latent unbelief of the heart. How many a minister of truth has gathered strength from it in his work of proclaiming his Master. And how many, who are now beholding the Lamb, crossed the Jordan into His presence with the inspiring tones of this hymn on their dying lips. It has been with thousands as it was with Benjamin Edward Knowles, who, in 1841, fled from Birstal into Para- dise. Wasted by consumption, he awaited his Lord's call. The night before his departure was, to his mother, a night of weeping ; but seeing her tears, the happy young Christian said, " I can sing — " Jesus, the Name to sinners dear, The Name to sinners given, It scatters all their guilty fear, It turns their hell to Heaven ! " With his hand pressing his temples, he said, " O, this poor head ! But, mother, it is not crowned with thorns, as His was — " Jesus the prisoners' fetters breaks, And bruises Satan's head, Power into strengthless souls it speaks, And life into the dead." He asked his friends to cheer his last hours with singing j OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I^$ and from the sound of those voices he passed within hearing of those who " sing the Lamb in hymns above." To sing her favourite hymns was the life's joy of Elizabeth Lee, of Nottingham. She sank finally into mortal weakness when only eighteen years of age ; but her passion still ruled her soul when her bodily powers refused to lift themselves in song. She burst into tears when thus made painfully sensible of her weakness, but with all her remaining strength cried — Happy if, with my latest breath, I might but gasp His name, Preach Him to all, and cry, in death, " Behold, behold the Lamb ! " " I shall go home to-day," said she ; and as the evening came, she went into the presence of Him whose name hal- lowed her last mortal breath. During the fatal illness of the late Rev. Robert Wood, some allusion was made to the " Great Exhibition" of 1851, in which he had always shown a great interest. A hope was expressed that in a short time his desire to visit it might be gratified. He shook his head and said, " No, I shall never see the ' Crystal Palace.' But reach me the Hymn Book, read the 73rd hymn, and you will see that I shall not lose much." That hymn is one of Charles Wesley's grandest effusions. It is among his ** Funeral Hymns," but how exultant is its music ! All the crystal palaces of earth are comparatively dim to the eye of those who, as " joint heirs with Christ," are " come unto the City of the Living God, the Heavenly Jerusalem," and who can sing, as the old Metho- dists used to sing : — Away with our sorrow and fear ! We soon shall recover our home; The city of saints shall appear, The day of eternity come : From earth we shall quickly remove, And mount to our native abode, The house of our Father above, The palace of angels and God. J 46 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Our mourning is all at an end, When raised by the life-giving Word, We see the new city descend, Adorn'd as a bride for her lord ; The city so holy and clean, No sorrow can breathe in the air ; No gloom of affliction or sin, No shadow of evil is there. By faith we already behold That lovely Jerusalem here ! Her walls are of jasper and gold, As crystal her buildings are clear : Immovably founded in grace, She stands as she ever hath stood, And brightly her builder displays, And flames with the glory of God. No need of the sun in that day Which never is followed by night, Where Jesus's beauties display A pure and a permanent light ; The Lamb is their light and their sun, And, lo ! by reflection they shine, With Jesus ineffably one, And bright in effulgence Divine. The saints in His presence receive Their great and eternal reward, | In Jesus, in Heaven they live, They reign in the smile of their Lord The flame of angelical love Is kindled at Jesus's face, And all the enjoyment above Consists in the rapturous gaze, Some years ago, Mr. Brewster, a Methodist missionary, when travelling in Newfoundland, turned aside to visit an old settler whom he had heard of. He found him living with his daughters ; and soon the talk turned upon the old country. (i And have you ever seen the Shannon ? " said the old man j " and do ye know the river ? " " No," was the reply, " I don't know it." The old man then told the story, how he had left the banks of the Shannon, and how, when all were sad and sighing as they parted from their friends, his little wife sang — OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I47 Away with our sorrow and fear ! We soon shall recover our home ; and then, how they started on their journey ; how, when they came to the shore and were ready to embark and to leave the old country behind, the tears came, but his little wife sang again — Away with our sorrow and fear! They dried their tears and were soon on board, By-and-by a storm came, and all was terror. The captain and sailors gave up all for lost. But the little wife, she was happy, and began to sing — Away with our sorrow and fear ! The captain plucked up courage ; the sailors went to the pumps j the storm passed, and all was well. They landed at length ; and when they found themselves left in the wilder- ness, their hearts were sad and heavy ; but the little wife, she sang again — Away with our sorrow and fear ! and then they bestirred themselves ; built their hut, and soon got over their difficulties. "But," said the old man, "and have you never seen the Shannon ? " The family grew up -, and then " the little wife " sickened, and while they were around her dying bed, the hymn she loved so well was on her lips, and she died singing — Away with our sorrow and fear ! We soon shall recover our home. Among Charles Wesley's "Christian Festival Songs," his hymns for Whit Sunday are instinct with the true spirit cf Pentecostal times. They have kept their life j and many- times since his day have they served, not merely as celebrations of repeated Pentecosts, but as the happy means of kindling the spiritual devotion which always precedes the Hoi/ Ghost's descent, and prepares the waiting multitude for His richer blessings. A Cornish minister, once visiting an old Methodist woman, who, in her ninety-sixth year, was wait- 148 THE POETS OF METHODISM. ing for her Lord in a cottage near the famous Gwennap Pit, said to the venerable pilgrim, u Well, Whit Monday comes next week when the preaching will be in * the Pit '; you will not be able to join us, but your heart will sing with us, I am sure, though your voice will not be there." " Ah," said the old saint, " I shall never forget the singing we had there on the Whit Monday after my conversion, which was in the great revival of 18 14. O, what a Pente- cost that was ! 'Twas all over the country ! and when the time for preaching in the Pit came round, O, what a gather- ing of happy souls there was ! O, how the singing went up ! " " What did you sing — can you remember ? " " Yes, I can tell the first lines ; but the hymn is in that little book in the window ; the first lines were — u Father of everlasting- grace, Thy goodness and Thy truth we praise, Thy goodness and Thy truth we prove." " Shall I read the whole hymn to you ? " " O, I should like to hear it all once more. It will freshen up my soul, and make me feel as if I were converted over again, as if another Pentecost shower was coming down." " Now then, this is the hymn : — u Father of everlasting grace, Thy goodness and Thy truth we praise, Thy goodness and Thy truth we prove : Thou hast, in honour of Thy Son, The Gift unspeakable sent down, The Spirit of life, and power, and love : Thou hast the Prophecy fulfill'd, The grand original compact seal'd For which Thy word and oath were join'd : The Promise to our fallen head, To every child of Adam made, Is now pour'd out on all mankind. The purchas'd Comforter is given, For Jesus is return'd to Heaven, To claim and then the Grace impart ; Our day of Pentecost is come, And God vouchsafes to fix His home In every poor expecting heart. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I49 Father, on Thee whoever call Confess Thy promise is for all, While everyone that asks receives, Receives the Gift, and Giver too, And witnesses that Thou art true, And in Thy Spirit walks, and lives. Not to a single age confined, For every soul of man design'd, O God, we now that Spirit claim : To us the Holy Ghost impart, Breathe Him into our panting heart, Thou hear'st us ask in Jesus' name. Send us the Spirit of Thy Son, To make the depths of Godhead known, To make us share the life Divine ; Send Him the sprinkled blood t' apply, Send Him our souls to sanctify, And shew and seal us ever Thine. So shall we pray and never cease, So shall we thankfully confess Thy wisdom, truth, and power, and love ; With joy unspeakable adore, And bless and praise Thee evermore, And serve Thee like Thy hosts above. Till, added to that heavenly choir, We raise our songs of triumph higher, And praise Thee in a bolder strain; Out-soar the first-born seraph's flight, And sing, with all our friends in light, Thine everlasting love to man." "Bless the Lord! Bless the Lord!" cried the dear old woman. " Yes, that's it. It was such a blessed time when thousands of us took up those words, — u And bless and praise Thee evermore, And serve Thee like Thy hosts above ! And then again, O my dear man, it seems to me as if I hear it now — u Out-soar the first-born seraph's'flight, And sing, with all our friends in light, Thine everlasting love to man 1 "Bless the Lord! 'Tis "everlasting love!' ' everlasting love ! ' IjO THE POETS OF METHODISM. A lady writing on " The Wesleys and their Hymns," says, with truth and beauty : — " It was for the founders of Method- ism to diverge so far from the staid nonconforming type of Watts and Doddridge as to show that the modern hymn was capable not only of paraphrasing Bible truths, but of uttering the most joyous as well as the most agonised feel- ings of the heart; to combine devout spiritual thought and personal experience with professed reverence and adoration, and so to bring the spirit of the old Hebrew poetry into har- mony with the brighter songs of the New Covenant as to blend in one the voices of all who are by faith the children of faithful Abraham." Charles Wesley's u Select Psalms " afford many rich and beautiful illustrations of these remarks. Of the hundred and nine Psalms which he rendered into English verse, there are some gems of superior value, while in most of the others he manages with great skill to unite faithfulness, strength, pathos, unction, and pleasantly appropriate music of expres- sion. Who can chant his version of the sixth Psalm without feeling that his soul is brought into such tuneful sympathy with the plaintive, suffering, yet trustful " Singer of Israel " that the Hebrew Psalmist and the English Christian become one in the spirit of their song ? — In Thine utmost indignation, Do not, Lord, Thine own chastise ; In Thine infinite compassion, Hear my feeble, dying cries ! Hear me, for my bones are vex'd ; O forgive, forgive my sin ! Sick I am, and sore perplex'd, All a troubled sea within ! Lord, how long shall Thy displeasure Lengthen out my punishment ? O correct me, but in measure ! Let Thy yearning heart relent : Sinner's Friend, and kind Receiver, Cast my sins behind Thy back : Turn me now, my soul deliver, Save me for Thy mercy's sake ! OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. J5I 0 reverse the mortal sentence ! Let me live to sing Thy grace : After death is no repentance ; Dead, I cannot sing Thy praise. Spent I am with enaless groaning, Wash with tears my sleepless bed ; Weary of my fruitless moaning, Send my gasping spirit aid 1 Shorn of all my strength, I languish ; See, I faint beneath my load ! Faint through deep distress and anguish, Faint into the arms of God ! God, to me, in great compassion, Doth a gracious token give ; 1 shall see His whole salvation, I shall all His love retrieve. Leave me, then, to Jesus leave me, Ye that gloried in my fall I Jesus' arms shall still receive me, He hath heard my mournful call : He hath answered my petition, Show'd Himself the sinner's Friend, Saved me in my lost condition, He shall save me to the end. By a world of foes surrounded, By the hellish sons of night, I shall see them all confounded, Put to everlasting flight. He who hath my sins forgiven, All my sins to death shall doom, Hence as by a whirlwind driven : — Come, my utmost Saviour, come ! Charles Wesley's " Short Hymns on Select Passages of the Holy Scriptures" were originally issued in 1762. In their modern form of publication they fill nearly five volumes. The poet spent many years, in later life, revising and en- larging them. This was a work of love, as the compositions were evidently favourites with him. The passages on which these hymns are founded range from the beginning of Genesis to the end of Revelation. His brother John says, " Many of these are little, if any, inferior to his former poems, having the same justness and strength of thought, with the same beauty of expression ; yea, the same keenness of wit *p THE POETS OF METHODISM. on proper occasions, as bright and piercing as ever." On a second reading, he adds, " Some are bad ; some mean ; some most excellently good. They give the true sense of Scrip- ture, always in good English, generally in good verse." The poet's familiarity with Patristic modes of interpreting Scripture is evident in some of his hymns, and not unfrequently serves to give distinctive beauty to his verses. He confesses, too, his obligation to more modern commentators, whose thoughts he seems to set to music in a way that perhaps the grave authors could not anticipate. " Many of the thoughts," hesays, " are borrowed from Mr. Henry's ' Commentary,' Dr. Gell on the Pentateuch, and Bengelius on the New Testament." So voluminous a poet, dealing with such a range of themes, could scarcely be free from inequality. But his pages are fairly begemmed with well-cut jewels. How happy is the turn he gives to Israel's prayer for Joseph's children, " And let my name be named on them " — My name be on the children ? No : But mark them, Lord, with Thine : Let all the heavenly offspring know By characters Divine ; Partakers of Thy nature make, Partakers of Thy Son, And then the heirs of glory take To Thine eternal throne. Sentences in the sacred page which some would pass over, he is, now and then, arrested by ; and under his eye they become instinct with instruction and wisdom. The cry from the sons of the prophets, when they had tasted the poisoned pottage, "There is death in the pot! " is made to suggest a beautiful lesson, — Death in the pot ! 'tis always there, The bane of all our food, When we partake it without fear, Without an eye to God ; Unless He sanctify the meat, And bless us from the sky, Unless we to his His glory eat, Our souls by eating die. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. 1^3 Job's melancholy wail, " I have made my bed in the dark- ness," is brought to melt into exquisite harmony of Christian hope : — Ready for my earthen bed, Let me rest my fainting head, Welcome life's expected close, Sink in permanent repose : Jesus' blood to which I fly Doth my conscience purify, Signs my weary soul's release, Bids me now depart in peace. Thus do I'my bed prepare; O, how soft, when Christ is there, There my breathless Saviour laid, Turns it to a spicy bed ; Resting in His power to save, Looking now beyond the grave, Calm I lay my body down,, Rise to an immortal crown. Nothing can be more touching and instructive than the poet's efforts to maintain the exercise of his genius, as, in his latter days, he found his wings growing faint. Recollec- tions of his own intense youthful zeal during the earlier times of his ministry, the readiness and impetuous force with which he pursued his holy calling, are followed by feelings of growing weakness, and deepening convictions that his period of action is passing into the season of calm sub- mission, final weakness, and mental decay. A characteristic letter from his brother John affords an insight into his condition towards the close of his career. " Dear Brother, — ■ You must go out every day, or die. Do not die to save charges. You certainly need not want anything as long as I live." The venerable poet, in his weakness, turned his thoughts on the Lord's address to Peter : " When thou wast young, thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest : but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not." And catching inspiration, he gave utterance to his hymn entitled "A Retrospect." '54 THE POETS OF METHODISM. When young-, and full of sanguine hope, And warm in my first love, My spirit's loins I girded up, And sought the things above ; Swift on the wings of active zeal With Jesus' message flew, O'erjoy'd with all my heart and will My Master's work to do. Freely where'er I would I went Through wisdom's pleasant ways, Happy to spend and to be spent In ministering His grace : I found no want of will or power, In love's sweet task employ'd, And put forth every day and hour My utmost strength for God. As strong and glorying in my might, I drew the two-edged sword, Valiant against a troop to fight The battles of the Lord ; I scorn'd the multitude to dread, Rush'd on with full career, And aim'd at each opposer's head, And smote off many an ear. But now, enervated by age, I feel my fierceness gone, And nature's powers no more engage To prop the Saviour's throne : My total impotence I see, For help on Jesus call, And stretch my feeble hands to Thee, Thou workest all in all. Thy captive, Lord, myself I yield, As purely passive clay ; Thy holy will be all fulfill'd, Constraining mine t' obey ; My passions by Thy Spirit bind, And, govern'd by Thy Word, I'll suffer all the woes design'd To make me like my Lord. Wholly at Thy dispose I am, No longer at my own, All self-activity disclaim, And more in God alone : Transport, do what Thou wilt with me, A few more evil days, But bear me safe through all to see My dear Redeemer's face. OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I$$ The name of Charles Wesley can scarcely be mentioned without a thought about one hymn in which his hallowed genius rises even above itself. " Dr. Watts," John Wesley says, " did not scruple to say that that single poem, ' Wrestling Jacob,' was worth all the verses he himself had written." "Its wonderful conciseness," says Mr. John Kirk, with critical justness, " yet perfect and finished picturing of the scene on the Transjordanic hills, beyond the deep defile where the Jabbok, as its name implies, wrestles with the mountains through which it descends to the Jordan. The dramatic form, so singular in hymnic composition, shadowing forth the action of the conversation ; the great force of its thoroughly English expression ; the complete finish and rhythm of its verse ; its straightforward ease without any straining at elegance ; and the minuteness and general beauty of its application of the narrative, have won the commenda- tions of all competent critics." The theme of this hymn was a favourite theme of the author's preaching. At Kingswood, on May C4, 1741, he says, "I preached on Jacob wrestling for the blessing. Many then, I believe, took hold on His strength, and will not let Him go till He bless them and tell them His name." Soon after he preached with similar effect in Cardiff". After the publication of the hymn, the power of his preaching seemed to grow. In London, June, 1744, he writes, " I preached on wrestling Jacob, and a glorious time it was. Many wept with the angel, and made supplication, and were encouraged to wait upon the Lord continually." And so again, again, and again at Bristol and Dublin. One would like to have heard the powerful preacher on those occasions give out his own hymn ; to have seen the people as they kindled under its musical power and unction ; and to have heard the ring and swell of their voices as they sang together — Come, O thou Traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see, My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee; With Thee all night I mean to stay, And wrestle till the break of day. 1& THE POETS OF METHODISM. I need not tell Thee who I am, My misery or sin declare, Thyself has called me by my name, Look on Thy hands and read it there ; But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou ? Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. In vain Thou strugglest to get free, I never will unloose my hold ; Art Thou the Man that died for me ? The secret of Thy love unfold ; Wrestling, I will not let Thee go Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal Thy new unutterable name ? Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell ; To know it now resolved I am ; Wrestling, I will not let Thee go Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, Or touch the hollow of my thigh ; Though every sinew be unstrung, Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly; Wrestling, I will not let Thee go Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long, I rise superior to my pain, When I am weak then I am strong ; And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-man prevail. My strength is gone, my nature dies, I sink beneath Thy weighty hand, Faint to revive, and fall to rise ; I fall, and yet by faith I stand — I stand, and will not let Thee go Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, Be conquer'd by my instant prayer : Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, AJad tell me if Thy name is Love ? OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. 1^7 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me; I hear Thy whisper in my heart ; The morning breaks, the shadows flee, Pure Universal Love Thou art ; To me, to all Thy bowels move — Thy nature and Thy name is Love. My prayer hath power with God ; the grace Unspeakable I now receive ; Through faith I see Thee face to face — I see Thee face to face and live ; In vain I have not wept and strove ; Thy nature and Thy name is Love. I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art — Jesus, the feeble sinner's Friend ; Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, But stay and love me to the end ; Thy mercies never shall remove — Thy nature and Thy name is Love. The Sun of Righteousness on me Hath rose with healing in His wings ; Wither'd my nature's strength, from Thee My soul its life and succour brings ; My help is all laid up above — Thy nature and Thy name is Love. Contented now upon my thigh I halt, till life's short journey end ; All helplessness, all weakness, I On Thee alone for strength depend ; Nor have I power from Thee to move — Thy nature and Thy name is Love. Lame as I am, I take the prey, Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome; I leap for joy, pursue my way, And as a bounding hart fly home, Through all eternity to prove Thy nature and Thy name is Love. The saintly poet had, at length, his own last wrestling. He left his brother John to give out the favourite hymn, and thousands whom he had taught to wrestle remained behind to sing of Israel's victory. About three weeks after his entrance into rest, his bereaved brother was at Bolton, in Lancashire. " I preached in the evening," says the veteran, " in one of the most elegant houses in the kingdom 5 and 1^8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. to one of the liveliest congregations. And this I must avow, there is not such a set of singers in any of the Methodist congregations in the three kingdoms. There cannot be, for we have near a hundred such trebles, boys and girls, selected out of our Sunday School and accurately taught, as are not found together in any chapel, cathedral, or music-room within the four seas. Besides the spirit with which they all sing, the beauty of many of them so suits the melody that I defy any to exceed it j except the singing of angels in our Father's house." Mr. Haslam, of Markland Hill, near Bolton, was a Methodist of John Wesley's stamp, and a member of that " liveliest congregation " whose singing was so enjoyed by the venerable preacher. " Mr. Haslam told me," says one, "many years ago, while upon his death-bed, that he was present in the chapel at Ridgeway Gates when Mr. Wesley visited Bolton, just after his brother Charles's death. The venerable man, himself eighty-five years of age, commenced the service in the usual way, with singing and prayer; for the second hymn he selected ' Wrestling Jacob,' and gave out the first verse with peculiar emphasis. When he came to the words, u My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee, his emotion became uncontrollable, and he burst right out into a flood of tears, and sat down in the pulpit, covering his face with both hands. The effect upon the congregation was such as might be expected — the people ceased to sing, and, in many parts of the chapel, sat down weeping and sobbing aloud. The congregation was very large, Saturday night though it was ; and, said Mr. Haslam, the place was like a Bochim. After a while, Mr. Wesley recovered himself, arose, and gave out the lines again ; c and then there was such singing,' said the good old man, ' as I never heard before ; it seemed as if the sound would lift the roof off the build- ing.' A sermon followed, remarkable for the holy influence OTHER PSALMS FROM THE BROTHERS IN SONG. I^y attending the delivery, and the deep impressions it seemed to make on the multitude of people." That multitude of singers has passed away. The aged weeping preacher has had all tears wiped from his eyes. He is in immortal companionship with his brother poet. The brothers are gone from our sight, but they are brothers in song still. Their songs remain to be taken up by genera- tions of happy singers on earth j while they " rest from their labour, and their works do follow them." i6o THE POETS OF METHODISM. CHAPTER VIII. CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. ^11 He came to earth : — From eldest years, A long and bright array Of prophet-bards and patriarch-seers Proclaimed the glorious day : The light of Heaven in every breast, Its fire on every lip, In tuneful chorus on they prest, A goodly fellowship. HAT varieties of mighty but sweet life-giving influence may spring in combination from one small source, to unfold and spread themselves for ever and ever ! It is so in material nature ; and so in the region of Divine Providence and Grace. These outflowings of power and influence for good in human life are prepared and arranged and timed by the same ruling Wisdom and Rectitude as " appointed the ordi- nances of heaven and earth.'' The secret processes of their preparation are unobservable by man : Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will. And even when they first spring into human sight, it proves impossible for us to foresee or anticipate the modes or results of their expansion, — Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain : God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. l6l In the course of the year 1733 a few young collegians of Oxon might be found together, of an evening, in the chamber of one of the Fellows of Lincoln College. For a time they were on their knees at prayer. Then they joined at their evening meal, and afcer supper, one who seemed to be the acknowledged leader, having in his very face something of authority, happily mingled with modest gentleness, would conduct the friendly intercourse by reading, and eliciting expressions of thought from his companions, guiding them in a review of their day's work, and aiding in the formation of pious and charitable plans for the future. This was u The Holy Club," as the mass of candidates for " Holy Orders 'r called them with a devout sneer. The " chief manager " was John Wesley, followed with fraternal deference by his cheerful, open-hearted, free, and practically kind brother Charles. There was the high-toned ritualistic William Clayton j the philosophic and dreamy John Gambold j the stirring and successful evangelist, Benjamin Ingham 3 the contemplative and graceful James Hervey ; the eloquent, apostolic George Whitfield j and a few others of like spirit, though of less prominent name. For some time, these variously gifted human spirits held together in a combination which appeared almost too sacred to be dissolved by circum- stances. They might be looked at as A band of love, a threefold cord, Which never could be broke. But the band was melted by and by. The powers and influences that had risen to the light in beautiful oneness began to fall off into different channels, and the members of the Holy Club went, each his own way, to fill his own place, and to do his own work. One fact courts deep attention. Those of the band whose memory has proved most lasting, and whose work has been most permanently fruitful, added to their powers and graces as evangelists, teachers, and pastors, the gifts of poetic genius and taste. So that while, by the ministry of the Word, they were the l62 THE POETS OF METHODISM. means of gathering multitudes into Christ's fold, they were pre- pared for guiding the devotions of the flock, and for providing them with " psalms and hymns and spiritual songs." Though some of them ceased, at length, to follow the old leader of the club, John Wesley, and even loosened their fellowship with his genial brother Charles, yet, as one after another they realized the spirituality and freedom of true believers in Christ, they continued to preach the same Saviour, and to consecrate their powers of song to the service of the same Lord. They were Methodists still, as, for a time, they still had the honour of being reviled as Methodist parsons ; while in spirit, and by the law of original Methodist brotherhood, they were fairly classed among the " Poets of Methodism." When the Wesleys broke away from the Moravians, or were excluded from those among whom they first found the joy of salvation by faith in Christ alone, their friend and brother, Gambold, chose Moravian fellowship, and eventually became a Mora- vian bishop. His poetic genius, however, still kept identity with early Methodism in its first issue of " Hymns and Sacred Poems j " and for several generations the Methodists learnt to quote his lines as recommended for their devout use by John and Charles Wesley. A preacher, one of early Methodism's "sons of thunder," seems to have stored his mind with poetic forms of expres- sion suitable to every emergency. On one occasion, Gam- bold's poem, "To a Friend in Love," furnished the timely passage. There had been one of those remarkable visita- tions of the Blessed Spirit which some modern Methodists, as well as worldlings, fail to understand, and during the graciously repeated Pentecost, large numbers of both young and old people were made partakers of Divine life, under marvellous manifestations of spiritual power. When the excitement had been somewhat hushed, the preacher alluded to, on coming out from one of the public services, saw one or two of the young men walking off, each in company with a young woman. "There! see!" said he, "the courting devil is got among them already ! " CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. 163 What art thou, Love ? thou strange mysterious ill, Whom none aright can know, though all can feel. From careless sloth thy dull existence flows, And feeds the fountain whence itself arose ; Silent its waves with baleful influence roll, Damp the young mind, and sink th' aspiring soul, Poison its virtues, all its powers restrain, And blast the promise of the future man. It may be questioned whether Gambold, or the Wesleys, who published his verses, intended them to be applied with indiscriminate harshness. If, however, the earlier Methodists excelled their nominal descendants in intensity of spiritual devotion, they were certainly less guarded against ascetic ex- tremes. The philosophic turn of Gambold's mind, his doubtful style of thought, his mystic dreaminess, and his tendency to unreal views of human life, all fitted him for a place among the Moravians of his day, rather than among the Methodists. His genius is seen at its best, and he is most agreeable as a poet, when he sings on "The Mystery of Life":— So many years I've seen the sun, And call'd these eyes and hands my own, A thousand little acts I've done, And childhood have and manhood known : O what is Life ? and this dull round To tread, why was a spirit bound ? So many airy draughts and lines, And warm excursions of the mind, Have fill'd my soul with great designs, While practice grovell'd far behind : O what is Thought ? and where withdraw The glories which my fancy saw ? So many tender joys and woes Have on my quivering soul had power ; Plain life with heightening passion rose, The boast or burden of their hour : O what is all we feel ? why fled Those pains and pleasures o'er my head ? So many human souls divine, Some at one interview display'd, Some oft and freely mix'd with mine, In lasting bonds my heart have laid : O what is Friendship ? why imprest On my weak, wretched, dying breast ? 164 THE POETS OF METHODISM. So many wondrous gleams of light, And gentle ardours from above, Have made me sit, like seraph bright, Some moments on a throne of love : O what is Virtue ? Why had I, Who am so low, a taste so high ? Ere long, when Sovereign Wisdom wills, My soul on unknown paths shall tread, And strangely leave, who strangely fills This frame, and waft me to the dead : O what is Death ? — 'tis life's last shore, When vanities are vain no more ; Where all pursuits their goal obtain, And life is all retouch'd again ; Where in their bright result shall rise Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and joys. The life which seemed such a mystery to Gambold was begun in South Wales. He was the son of an English clergyman ; was born at Puncheston, in Pembrokeshire, April 10, 171 1. His home training was truly Christian, and his preparation for college was complete when he was fifteen. At that age he entered Christchurch, Oxford ; and there came into association with the Wesleys. Though that asso- ciation was afterwards broken, the poet's beautiful testimony to its gracious influence on him remains on record. " Mr. Wesley, late of Lincoln College, has been the instrument of so much good to me that I shall never forget him. Could I remember as I ought, it would have very near the same effect as if he was still present -, for a conversation so un- reserved as his, so zealous in engaging his friends to every ' instance of Christian piety,' has left nothing now to be said, nothing but what occurs to us as often as we are disposed to remember him impartially One time he was in fear that I had taken up notions that were not safe, and pursued my spiritual improvement in an erroneous, because inactive, way. So he came over and stayed with me near a week. He accosted me with the utmost softness, condoled with me the incumbrances of my constitution, heard all I had to say, endeavoured to pick out my meaning, and yielded to me as far as he could. I never saw more humility in him than at . CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. l6^ this time. It was enough to cool the warmest imaginations that swell an overweening heart." It was, indeed, his custom to humble himself most before the proud, — not to reproach them 5 but in a way of secret intercession to procure their pardon. While the poet was still in the border-land between Methodism and Moravianism, he wrote a drama, tl The Martyrdom of Ignatius : a Tragedy." It was never intended forthestage. Nor, as a written drama, would it be a model ; but, as a poem, it is valuable as a thoughtful embodiment of those religious views which formed the permanent point of unity between him and Methodism. He was one with the Wesleys in "holding the Head," and in maintaining the principle of salvation by faith in Christ alone, His own ex- perience constrained him to sing — Come hither ye whom from an evil world The name of Jesus draws ! You count him sweet, And great, and mighty, by that glimm'ring light Your novice minds have gained. You venerate That full acquaintance and that vital union Whereby the faithful know Him ; and to this You now aspire. But can you then let go Your manly wisdom, and become as babes, To learn new maxims and the mind of Christ ? Can you forsake your former ease and sunshine, To associate with a poor afflicted people, The scorn of all mankind ? Can you the weight Of your whole souls, with all your hopes of God, Rest on a long-past action ; and that such As your Lord's mystic but opprobrious death ? Both the poet and his old friend Wesley had learnt to forsake all for Christ and His afflicted people. They were ever one in this. What a pity that Wesley should ever have had to say, " Who but Count Zinzendorf could have separated such friends as we were ? Shall we never meet again ? " Never in this world ! While the one was proving how a well-filled life of active zeal can permanently bless the entire world, the other, for seventeen years, timorously bore the honours of episcopacy ; by turns preaching and retiring into stillness ; doing homage with voice and pen to * The most dear and paternal heart of Papa Zinzendorf," and singing the l66 THE POETS OF METHODISM. brethren's fond doggrel hymns. He sang at the Lord's Supper, weak and wasted with suffering, five days before his departure, and was heard to say, as his sufferings closed, " Dear Saviour, remember my poor name, and come, come soon ! " He quitted his mortal pastorate on September 13th, 1 77 1, having written his own epitaph, and left it as one of his purest poetic gems : — Ask not who ended here his span ; His name, reproach, and praise was man. Did no great deeds adorn his course ? No deed of his but show'd him worse. One thing was great, which God supplied, He suffer'd human life — and died. What points of knowledge did he gain ? That life was sacred all — and vain ; •Sacred how high, and vain how low, He knew not here, but died to know. Gambold, during the college days of the Holy Club, writes to a friend respecting one of their number, " He is a man of surprising greatness of soul ; and if you look for his virtues, you will not be able to discover them one by one, but you will see that he walks before God with a reverence and alacrity which includes them all." This was James Hervey, a native of Hardingstone, near Northampton. Like several of his devoted companions, he was the son of a country parson. His connection with the little Methodist knot in Oxford began in 1733, when he was about nineteen. '" His character and career " have been described as "a contrast to those of Whitfield and Wesley. He was essentially contem- plative j they were eminently practical. His mission was to sanctify the sentimentalism of the day. In him the breath of life did not blow, as in Wesley, in a strong, steady, all- pervading current ; or, as in Whitfield, like a rushing and restless wind ■ but in a gentle zephyr, toying with the tresses of the trees, shaking the petals of the flowers and grasses of the grave, yet the minister of convalescence, and the mes- senger of peace." He may be classed among the poets of Methodism ; his soul's life was poetic ; his prose was poetry 5 the flowing harmony of his distinctive style showed the CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. l6j native tunefulness of his genius. The few remains of his versified fragments awaken regret that he should have yielded to the scrupulous feeling once expressed to his sister — " I am so far from carrying on my versifying designs that I heartily wish I had never conceived any j that those lines I sent to my cousin had either never been made, or that I had never heard them commended. Pride and vanity are foolish and unreasonable in dust and ashes, and, which is worse, odious and detestable before infinite perfection and infinite power." His hallowed talent might furnish the church with many a spiritual song. One of his has often been sung j and con- tinues graciously to aid devout observers of the inspired wise man's counsel, " In all thy ways acknowledge Him." Since all the downward tracts of time God's watchful eye surveys, Oh, who so wise to choose our lot, And regulate our ways ? Since none can doubt His equal love, Unmeasurably kind, To His unerring, gracious will, Be every wish resigned. Good when He gives, supremely good, Nor less when He denies ; E'en crosses, from His sovereign hand, Are blessings in disguise. It is his poetic vein that supplied the charm to the pages of "Meditations" which for so many generations aided the devout thought of the Christian multitude. All that is most precious in the memory of Hervey is associated with his early sojourn in the West of England. " Dear old Hartland ! " cried a Western pilgrim, " many fond memories cluster around thee : were it only the memory of the day-dreams, and the tranquillizing thoughts at night, which have come to me in her quiet lanes, and wooded slopes, and seaward tracks, the name of Hartland mast ever awake pleasant echoes in my heart. It seems but yesterday since I was rambling down the narrow valley along by the stream which goes onward to the sea, beguiling its way by enticing the pensile woods to whisper responses to its j68 the poets of Methodism. music j or looking at what remains of St. Nectan's Abbey ; or mounting the broad steps of the path from the abbey to the parish church, and listening to the local tradition about the tall lord of the manor, who used to take two of the steps at an upward stride on his way to the Sunday Service ; or trying to picture the ^delicate form of Hervey trying to keep up with his friend Orchard, the long-striding saintly master of Hartland Abbey ; or calling up the devout poet's description of his retreat. The house is situate in a fine vale. It is an ancient structure, built for the use of religious re- cluses, and has an antique, grave, and solemn aspect ; before it is a neat spot of ground, set apart for the use of a garden enriched with fruits, and beautified with flowers. This leads into a curious sort of artificial wilderness made of elms and limes, planted in rows, cut into form, and uniting their branches. In the midst is a fountain large enough to swim in, and a little engine playing the waters. On each side are arbours for shade ; in various parts seats for rest ; on the right hand runs, parallel to it, a clear purling brook re- plenished with trout ; on the left a thick grove hanging from the side of a hill ; the one serves for a watery mound, the other is a leafy shelter from the north wind, and both, I think, greatly ornamental. This you will say is pleasant ; but how unworthy to be compared with those blissful mansions fitting up for the righteous in the Heaven of heavens ! I write this in a pleasure-house upon a high cliff, on the very edge of the sea. On one side a vast tract of land extends itself, finely diversified by stately trees, floating corn, and* pasturage for cattle. On the other side rolls the great and wide sea. Which way soever I look, I meet with footsteps of the Divine immensity I have been about twenty, or twenty-six miles into Cornwall, and seen wondrous work- manship of the All-creating God ; ragged rocks, roaring seas, frightful precipices, and dreadfully steep hills." He had gone* from Bideford to Kilkhampton, in North Cornwall. That journey has often been enjoyed by others since then. One who has gone over the ground says : — CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. 169 " Many, many a Sabbath sun has set on Kilkhampton since that evening, .... Most calm, most bright, When I jogged into it for the first time, half plaintive, half jubilant, as I saw the people passing the graves of their fore- fathers on their way to the House of God. I thought of Hervey, when I saw the noble old parish church, whose fine Anglo-Norman doorway still invited the steps of the pilgrim who loves to commune with God amidst the crumbling memo- rials of departed men. I lingered long before that altar-piece, and turned again and again to gaze on the elaborate monu- ment of Sir Bevil Grenville j feeling as if the ground were the holier because there Hervey conceived the thoughts which, in their embodiment, have improved the hearts of more than one generation." It was with the image of this Grenville monument before his mind that the meditative poet says, " As to such earthly memorials, yet a little while, and they are all obliterated. But as many names as are enrolled ' in the Lamb's Book of Life,' they shall never be blotted out from those annals of eternity." Make the extended skies your tomb ; Let stars record your worth : Yet know, vain mortals, all must die, As nature's sickliest birth. Would bounteous Heav'n indulge mypray'r, I frame a nobler choice ; Nor living, wish the pompous pile ; Nor dead regret the loss. In Thy fair Book of Life divine, My God, inscribe my name, There let it fill some humble place, Beneath the slaughter'd Lamb. Thy saints, while ages roll away, In endless fame survive ; Their glories, o'er the wrongs of time, Greatly triumphant, live. Hervey's health was so far improved by his sojourn at Hartland that he undertook the duties of a curate at Bideford. He began his work there in the enjoyment of that u peace I70 THE POETS OF METHODISM. with God through our Lord Jesus Christ " which had inspired his old Oxford companions, too, with power to exercise their saving ministry. Like a true Methodist, he formed a religious society in Bideford, even before Methodism under Wesley had taken its society form. But that which distinguished his life at Bideford was the composition of his " Reflections on a Flower Garden." This work was partly done among the flowers, as he sat in the summer-house of a garden attached to the house in which he lodged. To the pleasant inspirations which came upon him there, we owe the verses which he has modestly thrown into the margin of his page of reflection on the inspired utterance, " All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field " ; as if he would apologize for associating poetic rhyme with his poetic prose, he says, ^" The reader will excuse me if I imitate rather than translate Theocritus ; if I vary one image, add another, and give a new turn to the whole." When snows descend, and robe the fields In winter7 s bright array ; Touch'd by the sun, the lustre fades, And weeps itself away. When spring appears ; when violets blow, And shed a rich perfume ; How soon the fragrance breathes its last I How short-lived is the bloom ! Fresh in the morn, the summer rose Hangs withering ere 'tis noon ; We scarce enjoy the balmy gift, But mourn the pleasure gone. With gliding fire, an evening star Streaks the autumnal skies ; Shook from the sphere, it darts away, And, in an instant, dies. Such are the charms that flush the cheek, And sparkle in the eye : So, from the lovely finish'd form, The transient graces fly. To this the seasons, as they roll, Their attestation bring : They warn the fair ; their every round Confirms the truth I sing. CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. T7I Hervey was more happy in "Meditations" than in theological discussion. His attachment to John Wesley, as an Oxford Methodist, had been warm and tender. " Shall I call you," said he, once, " my father or my friend ? for you have been both to me. I heartily thank you, as for all other favours, so especially for teaching me Hebrew. I have cultivated the study again according to your advice ; I never can forget that tender-hearted and generous Fellow of Lincoln who con- descended to take such compassionate notice of a poor under- graduate, whom almost everybody contemned, and when no man cared for my soul." After this it is lamentable that difference of theological opinion should result in estrange- ment. In the year 1755 Hervey issued his greatest book, " Theron and Aspasia " ; in which doctrinal truth is wrought up with descriptive passages in the style of his "Meditations." Wesley said of the work, " Most of the grand truths of Christianity are herein explained and proved with great strength and clearness." At the same time, there were a few things to which he took exception, and on which he gave the author his private criticisms. Hervey not only treated his repeated communications with silence, but, under an unhappy influence, prepared an answer to them, and unfortunately submitted his sheets to the inspection of others. On this, Wesley published his strictures. His last letter to Hervey is touching. " O leave not your old well-tried friends ! The new are not comparable to them. I speak not this because I am afraid of what anyone can say or do to me ; but I am really concerned for you. An evil man has gained the ascendant over you ; and has persuaded a dying man, who. had shunned it all his life, to enter into controversy as he is stepping into eternity ! Put off your armour, my brother ! You and I have no moments to spare. Let us employ them all in promoting peace and goodwill among men. And may the peace of God keep your heart and mind in Christ Jesus." Hervey did not live to publish the response to his old friend's criticisms. Six years after he was gone, it was issued in a stealthy way by a disguised hand. Then it was published 172 THE POETS OF METHODISM. under the sanction of William Hervey, the deceased's brother. There was a spirit in it unlike that of Wesley's old friend. But Wesley's charity did not fail. " And is this thy voice, my son David ? " said he, plaintively. " Is this thy tender, loving, grateful spirit ? No ; the hand of Joab is in all this." The "generous Fellow of Lincoln" was willing to believe that Hervey 's posthumous letters had been tampered with. To believe that the bitter parts of these letters were written by the dying man so close upon his last moments, would be to have the pain of thinking that " good Mr. Hervey died cursing his spiritual father." God forbid ! The spiritual father and his tender, loving, contemplative, and poetical son in the Gospel have met long since, in reconciliation and peace. Hervey became his father's curate at Weston Favel in the year 1743. On his father's departure, he became the rector; and so, for fifteen years of rural retirement, he spent a con- templative, literary, and pastoral life. How full of Heaven his latest word ! " Thou bid'st me now in peace depart ; For I have known my precious Lord, Have clasped Thee, Saviour, in my heart ; My eyes Thy glorious joys have seen !" He spake, he died, and entered in. Thus Charles Wesley sang on the news of his old com- panion's upward flight. Another member of the original Holy Club, George Whitfield, had kept in closer bonds with Hervey, as having entire sympathy with his doctrinal notions, as well as with his poetic genius and taste. " And is my dear friend indeed about to take his last flight? " he asks, in a letter, just before Hervey's correspondence on earth ceased. " Farewell ! my dear, dear friend ! F-a-r-e-w-e-11 ! Yet a little while and we shall meet Where sin, and strife, and sorrow cease, And all is love, and joy, and peace! " The meditative poet, though so strangely fearful of in- dulging vanity by putting his poetic thoughts into rhyme, had sent hymns occasionally to Whitfield ; and these were CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. I 73 associated, by the great preacher, with spiritual songs of his own, for purposes of public and social worship. Whitfield had poetry enough in his soul to make hymns now and then ; and some of these serve to illustrate his own character ; while they have graciously aided many a Christian in expressing devout feeling amidst the discipline of life. Scarcely any- thing could be more interesting than to find the man who moved up and down shaking the multitudes, and thrilling the consciences of the polite few, by his thundering appeals, occasionally retiring to supply the quiet scenes of social and family life with a peculiarly suitable little psalm. It was something deeply touching to a soul susceptible of home tenderness when, on entering the cottage of a pious young couple, once, the mother was found gently rocking in the nursing chair by the hearth, with her first baby at her breast, and singing in a sweet undertone — Lo ! from the borders of the grave, Jesus, Thy hand is strong to save ; And thou hast made it bare ! In deep distress thine handmaid prayed. And thou hast interposed Thine aid In answer to her prayer. Oft was her soul depressed with fear, As the expected hour drew near, And greatly did she mourn ; But now her gloomy fears depart, And smiling mercy melts her heart, And former joys return. Thus favoured in the time of need, Her eyes behold her infant seed, And praises fill her tongue; Her husband of the joy partakes, And now his happy soul awakes, To join the grateful song. The same tuneful hymnist had furnished a working-man with devout beguilement of his way to and from his scene of daily toil. " You seem to be in good spirits, friend," said one who knew the singer. " It is a happy thing for a man who has family cares like yours to be able to march to the music of his own voice when on the way to labour." 174 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " Yes, so it is," was the reply ; " we are not without cares, you may be sure, with a family of twelve children, especially as some of them are of an age to make us think about how they will get on in life. But my wife has often said, and so say I, that though we have a home full, there's not one too many. I believe God will bless them and provide for them, and save them ; as he did with my father before me, and with me and my wife. But I think my heart is kept up often, when otherwise it would go down, by my way of singing on the road. It is always one song with me, and one prayer. But the Lord, I believe, never gets tired of hearing ; and I am sure while I keep from being tired of singing, he'll answer me and bless my children. This is my song :— " Thou who a tender parent art, Regard a parent's plea ; My offspring, with an anxious heart, I now commend to Thee. My children are my greatest care, A charge which Thou hast given ; May grace their every heart prepare To seek the joys of Heaven. If a Centurion could succeed Who for his servant cried, Wilt thou refuse to hear me plead For those so near allied ? Almighty Father, God of grace, Be to my children kind ; Among thy saints give them a place, And leave not one behind." This was one of Whitfield's hymns, and happy even in Paradise would he be to know that his hymn-making faculty had borne fruit as well as his preaching power. In the first band of Methodist collegians, none was more earnest and devout than Benjamin Ingham. And when, like his brethren, he at length found the spiritual freedom and power of God's adopted sons, he appeared as "a burning and shining light." There was a saving power in his early ministry which brought multitudes to repentance and peace. Swayed, however, by Moravian influence, he turned, by and CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. [75 by, from his Methodist companions, and became a centre of Moravian action in the North of England. His ministry had been hallowed to several in high rank of life. One of his titled converts was united to him in marriage ; and in association with " honourable women," his influence widened its range. Then he separated himself from the Moravians ; ordained preachers ; and acted as bishop over the large societies which he had formed. Seduced now by the dim uncertainties of the Sandemanian faith, or no faith, he lived to see the results of his labours melt away. He, too, was gifted as a song-master 5 issued a Hymn Book for the use of "The Societies," and taught his converts how to sing the songs which he and some of his old friends composed. But his Societies, for the most part, broke away from him. His Hymn Book fell into disuse ; and his poetic contributions to it passed into oblivion with the voices which used to sing them. The handsome but somewhat erratic evangelist and hymnist finished his career in his native county, Yorkshire, at the age of sixty, not very long after his loving and be- loved Lady Ingham had entered into rest. An interview once with a "widow indeed" is never to be forgotten. It was on a summer afternoon in the country, when everything felt quiet and cool after a refreshing shower. In a retired villa a few miles out of London, amidst fruit-trees, roses, honeysuckles, and jasmine, there was a summer-like drawing-room looking out, on one side, upon a lawn bounded by stately trees and fringed with flowers, and on the other, opening into a little paradise of a conservatory 5 there the dear old woman sat in a small elbow chair, and looked like a pattern of antique simplicity and gracefulness. She was dressed in a black silk gown, open at the neck so as to show a snowy neckerchief folded and pinned under the chin j with a small neatly fringed, cream-coloured shawl brought over the shoulders and fastened at the waist in front, with its corners falling over a white muslin apron. She wore a mobbed cap, with a modest crown, and a neat close border, yet not so close as to hide a clear, open brow, beauti- 1/6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. ful still ; and it seemed more sweetly beautiful with its silvered locks than when it had been more richly adorned in the prime of womanhood. The charming old saint's face inspired loving veneration — a fair complexion, beautifully touched with fresh colour. Her eyes revealed a spiritual depth of kindness and peace. Her features combined to express power, perspicacity, gentleness, repose, and love. And there was something in the expression which inspired the thought of a transforming process already begun between mortal age and immortal youth. In opinion, taste, and feeling, she was an amiable representative of the last century ; used to close and acute observation, well informed, remarkable for good sense, with a tenacious memory, and pleasant command of her native English 3 she was one of the few gifted elders who can really help a later generation to realize the life of older times. Dear old saint ! she soon left her earthly paradise. Not long after an interesting chat with her, in which she seemed more at home with Wesley and Romaine than with the visible things of my own generation, she was called for from above. She had lived nearly a century ; but her mind was as clear as an evening in spring. To her faith, unseen things were visible realities. One who sat quietly in her chamber could hear her whisper- ing to her Saviour with holy familiarity. " It was," she said, "as if He talked with me." And then as she lay murmuring a song in sweet undertones, it was asked, " What are you singing — shall I join you ?*' " I was sing- ing," said she, — " When I tread the verge of Jordan, Bid my anxious fears subside; Death of death, and hell's destruction, Land me safe on Canaan's side : Songs of praises I will ever give to Thee if* Her love was perfect. Her tuneful spirit caught a higher strain, and took its part in the harmonies of Paradise. The old saint's last song on earth was the closing verse of William Williams's beautiful hymn, as rendered in English — CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. J 77 Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah ! Pilgrim through this barren land ; I am weak, but Thou art mighty, Hold me with Thy powerful hand ; Bread of heaven, Feed me till I want no more. Open Thou the crystal fountain, Whence the healing streams do flow : Let the fiery, cloudy pillar Lead me all my journey through. Strong Deliverer, Be Thou still my strength and shield. When I tread the verge of Jordan, Bid my anxious fears subside ; Death of death, and hell's destruction, Land me safe on Canaan's side : Songs of praises I will ever give to Thee. Williams has been called " the last Lyric poet of South Wales," in that the utterances of his music were among the last pure, or comparatively incorrupt, specimens of native Welsh song. In his " Hosannah to the Son of David," " Gloria in Excelsis," and other pieces, much poetic origin- ality and force are apparent, even where to an English ear there may be a lack of harmony. The poet is deeply spiritual, warmly devout, and has genius which sometimes flashes and glows. His hymns are often impassioned, and must always be useful and popular as aids to devotion. The poet was born in Carmarthenshire in 1717, and was at first educated for the medical profession 5 but his deep and alarming convictions of sin, and the jubilant sense of spiritual deliverance which followed, resulted in his consecration to the work of an evangelist. He was ordained a Deacon in the Church of England ; but being refused Priest's orders, he was persuaded by Whitfield and the Countess of Huntingdon to become an itinerant minister among the Calvanistic Methodists. He was among the hero pioneers of Methodism in Wales. For just forty-five years he travelled forty or fifty miles a week ; zealously preaching, praying, and hymning it up and down among his countrymen. His last illness resulted from intense study, while preparing a volume on N 1/8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " A View of the Kingdom of Christ.'' When speech failed, his inward Heaven was still apparent. He had a joyful finish in the year 1791. As a preacher, he was a truly primitive Methodist itinerant • and as a hymnist, he may be properly classed among the early Methodist clerical song- masters. Indeed, among all the early Methodist poets, no one more deeply breathed the true missionary spirit, or more happily anticipated the missionary action and success of Methodism, than did "William Williams in his favourite hymn — O'er the gloomy hills of darkness, Look, my soul, be still, and gaze : All the promises do travail With a glorious day of grace : Blessed jubilee ! Let thy glorious morning dawn. Let the Indian, let the Negro, Let the rude barbarian see That divine and glorious conquest Once obtained on Calvary : Let the Gospel Loud resound from pole to pole. Kingdoms wide, that sit in darkness, Grant them, Lord, Thy glorious light And, from eastern coast to western, May the morning chase the night ; And Redemption, Freely purchased, win the day. May the glorious day approaching, On their grossest darkness dawn ; And the everlasting Gospel Spread abroad Thy holy Name, O'er the borders Of the great Immanuel's land. Fly abroad, thou mighty Gospel, Win and conquer, never cease ; May thy lasting wide dominion Multiply and still increase : Sway Thy sceptre, Saviour, all the world around. MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. I 79 CHAPTER IX. MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. Obedient to His Father's will He came — He lived — He died ; And gratulating voices still Before and after cried — From ages past descends the lay To ages yet to be, Till far its echoes roll away Into eternity. HILE the trained staff of College Methodists went out from Oxford, distributing themselves hither and thither, according to their several gifts, each in his own line, and all with a holy purpose, every tuneful genius exercising his talent and all singing to the same Divine Name, they were met almost at every turn by auxiliary forces coming from out- lying parishes of the land, prepared, amidst their parochal duties, by the same awakening and sanctifying spirit, for aiding in the diffusion of Gospel truth and grace. Some of them were tuneful souls j and "every one" of these " had a psalm," as well as a "doctrine," and a "tongue." It seemed as if, from every point, God had chosen evangelists who could be song-masters as well as preachers. The whole land was to be taught to sing as well as to watch and pray. One of the early poetic companions of the Wesleys was in the Methodist Chapel in London one evening when John Wesley was preaching. The preacher saw him, and, without asking- consent, announced that he would preach there on the next morning at five o'clock. Wesley had long wished to hear him preach, and now he thought he had secured an oppor- ]8o THE POETS OF METHODISM. tunity. The preacher, thus announced, would not say nay, lest he might disturb the public worship ; and because, too, he could not well seem to oppose Mr. Wesley's wish. At five o'clock in the morning he was in the pulpit, believing, of course, that Wesley would be somewhere among his hearers. After singing and prayer, he said that as he had been called before them contrary to his own wish, his consent to preach never having been asked, and that as he had done violence to his own feelings in deference to Mr. Wesley, and was now expected to preach, weak and inadequate, and unprepared as he was, he should give them the best sermon that ever had been delivered. Then opening the Bible, he read our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, and without a single word of his own in the way of note or comment, he closed the ser- vice with singing and prayer. The effect was deeply impressive. This was Edward Perronet, the brother of Charles, and the son of the Reverend Vincent Perronet of Shoreham, between whose family and the Wesleys there were close bonds of Christian affection. u Mr. Perronet," says Charles Wesley, in a letter to a friend, " joins in hearty love and thanks for your kind con- cern for him. He grows apace, is bold as a lion, meek as a lamb, and begins to speak in this Name to the hearts of sinners." A proof of his boldness and meekness in the service of his Divine Master was seen on October 15th, 1746. " It was past eight," says Charles Wesley, "when we came to Penkridge. . . . We were hardly set down when the sons of Belial beset the house, and beat at the door. I ordered it to be set open, and immediately they rilled the house. I sat still in the midst of them for half an hour. Edward Perronet I was a little concerned for, lest such rough treatment at his first setting out should daunt him ; but he abounded in valour, and was for reasoning with the wild beasts before they had spent any of their violence. He got a deal of abuse thereby, and not a little dirt, both which he took very patiently." A week after this the same journal records, " I set out with Edwrard Perronet, and reached MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. l8l Newcastle by Saturday noon. On Sunday my companion was taken ill of a fever. We prayed for him in strong faith, nothing doubting. Monday and Tuesday he grew worse and worse. On Wednesday the small-pox appeared ; a favourable sort. Yet on Thursday evening we were much alarmed by the great pain and danger he was in. We had recourse to our never-failing remedy, and received a most remarkable answer to our prayer. The great means of his recovery was the prayer of faith. A fortnight from this recovery, I was sensible," says Wesley, " of the hard frost in riding to Burnup Field j but did not feel it while calling a crowd of sinners to repentance. At my return I found Edward Perronet rejoicing in the love of God." This cheer- ful spirit of the young poetic evangelist was kept up, for his Methodist friend and companion in travel put a jotting in his note-book about three years afterwards, " I set out for London with my brother and Ned Perronet. We were in perils of robbers, who were abroad, and had robbed many the night before. We commended ourselves to God, and rode over the heath singing." The happy trio could, each and all, write hymns as well as sing them. Perronet's poetic talent was faithfully consecrated to his Divine Master's service, and was so exercised as to furnish holy excitement to a tuneful adoration of the glorified Redeemer from every following generation of spiritual Christians. About forty years ago, William Dawson, a Methodist local preacher, a farmer, but an original genius, and striking and popular speaker, was preaching in London on the Divine offices of Christ. After setting Him forth as the great Teacher and Priest, he showed Him in His glory as the King of Saints. He proclaimed Him as King in His own right, and then proceeded to the coronation. His ideas were borrowed from scenes familiar to his hearers. The immense procession was marshalled. Then it moved towards the grand temple to place the insignia of royalty upon the King of the universe. So vividly was all this depicted, that those who listened thought they were gazing upon the long line of patriarchs. J 82 THE POETS OF METHODISM. kings, prophets, apostles, martyrs, and confessors of every age and clime. They saw the great temple rilled ; and the grand and solemn act of coronation was about to be performed. By this time the congregation was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, and while expecting to hear the pealing anthem rise from the vast assembly upon which they seemed to gaze, the preacher lifted up his voice and sang — All hail the power of Jesu's name! Let angels prostrate fall ; Bring forth the royal diadem, To crown Him Lord of all ! The effect was overwhelming. The crowd sprang to their feet, and sang the hymn with a feeling and a power which seemed to swell higher and higher at every verse. It was a jubilant multitude paying harmonious homage to their Sovereign Lord and Saviour. Their hymn was that which had first appeared without a name in the " Gospel Magazine " during 1780, and five years afterwards was known to be Edward Perronet's. A volume of " Occasional Verses, Moral and Sacred," had been issued. The poet acknowledged this volume as his own, though it had no author's name. Among the " occasional verses " was the well-known spirited and inspiriting hymn in its original form — All hail the power of Jesu's name ! Let angels prostrate fall ; Bring forth the royal diadem, To crown Him Lord of all ! Let high-born seraphs tune the lyre, And as they tune it, fall Before His face who tunes their choir, And crown Him Lord of all ! Crown Him, ye morning stars of light, Who fixed this floating ball ; Now hail the strength of Israel's might, And crown Him Lord of all ! Crown Him, ye martyrs of your God, Who from His altar call : Extol the stem of Jesse's rod, And crown Him Lord of all ! MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. J 3,3 Ye seed of Israel's chosen race, Ye ransom'd of the fall, Hail Him who saves you by His grace, And crown Him Lord of all ! Hail Him, ye heirs of David's lins, Whom David Lord did call, The God incarnate, Man divine, And crown Him Lord of all ! Sinners, whose love can ne'er forget The wormwood and the gall, Go, spread your trophies at His feet, And crown Him Lord of all ! Let every tribe and every tongue That bound creation's call, Now shout in universal song, The crowned Lord of all. Perronet was for a time associated with the Wesleys. His doctrinal views subsequently became more accordant with those of the Countess of Huntingdon ; and in connection with her society he laboured at Canterbury, Norwich, and other places, with zeal and success. His notions respecting the Church of England, by and by, became such as he ex- pressed in an anonymous poem called "The Mitre," said to be one of the most cutting satires on the Established Church that was ever written. It was suppressed, after it was in print, by the influence of John Wesley, it is thought, though he himself, in later life, said, " For forty years I have been in doubts concerning that question, ' What obedience is due to heathenish priests and mitred infidels?'" Charles Wesley was shocked at the poem, and declared it to be lack- ing in wit, and of insufferable dulness ; but his feeling as a churchman may have dimmed his sight as a critic. Perronet is severe. But, in his day, there was too much to provoke his satirical genius. He saw what he thought to be reason for saying of the system against which he launched his satire — To what compare thy fertile womb ? A den, a cavern, or the tomb ? Why not compare to all ? Dark, hollow, teeming, large, and deep ; Or wild, or dead, or fast asleep ; And stubborn as a wall. 384 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Or like a mart, high vending place, Open for every age and face Who loiter, steal, or range; Or like the common road or street, Where knaves, as honest, walk or meet, As Albion's grand Exchange. In short, thou'rt like a common sewer, Filling and emptying — never pure From pride, or pomp, or sin ; That (speak they truth who say they know), With all thy scavengers can do, They cannot keep thee clean. And perhaps some may think that there is appropriateness to modern development as well as sharp poetic point in the prophetic part of his effusion — Permit me to foretell thy doom, (Which has in part been that of Rome,) Thou wilt be clean abhorred ; The nation will expose thy shame, Cast out as dung thy putrid name, The vengeance of the Lord ! For while her orders and her rules Are made the standard of thy schools, And all besides of blame, What other portion canst thou hope, But that the wise should give thee up, Her ape — without her name t Perronet's feeling towards the Episcopal Church was so far from being agreeable to Lady Huntingdon that his con- nection with her was severed, and he finished his days as the minister of a dissenting congregation. His mortal course came to an end in Canterbury, January 2nd, 1792, and he departed crying, " Glory to God in the height of His divinity ! Glory to God in the depth of His humanity ! Glory to God in His all-sufficiency ! And into His hands I commend my spirit ! " The contemporary song-masters of early Methodism were so distributed by their Divine Master over the field, that to pass from the place where one sang was soon to come within the sound of another's voice. One day, in the course of December 1776, two old friends met in the vicarage of a parish in Bedfordshire, not having MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. I 85 seen each other for sixteen years. One was a tall man, lusty, but well-formed and of good bearing, agreeable, and some- what majestic, with a face in which gravity, thoughtfulness, kindness, jollity, and fun were curiously blended into consistent unison j while in his address there was a mingling of solemnity, ease, and tenderness. The other had something more of the ethereal about him. His person was striking. He was evidently one whose looks were often Commercing with the skies, His rapt soul sitting in his eyes. Deep thought, language, philosophy, divinity, and holy imagination seemed to speak in his features j while his face appeared to give forth reflections of a spiritual world. There was sweetness even in his manifest languor ; and, indeed, to see him and to hear his voice was to receive an impression which disposed the soul to divine pursuits. The last time these two friends met, they were alike in their theological views ; now they came together knowing that they had become dissimilar. But doctrinal notions were as nothing before the warmth of their mutual love. Each saluted the other as brother j and they embraced with tears of brotherly affection. "We left them together," says an eye-witness, " for two hours, and when we returned we found them still consulting how they might be useful to the Church of Christ. They were now to part. The worn and languid one showed tokens of decay, and as he did not expect to see the other again, it was the more solemn. They invited us who were present, and also called in the servants, to join them in a part- ing address to the throne of grace. The invalid prayed fervently and affectionately, and having concluded, all were about to rise from their knees, when the other began to pray in language equally warm and loving with that of his dear brother. Their parting was such as might be expected after such a meeting. Their conduct reminds me of the saying of the persecutors of the primitive Christians — ' See how these Christians love one another ! ' " 1 86 THE POETS OF METHODISM. This parting scene was in the vicarage of Everton, and the two friends were the vicar himself, John Berridge, and John Fletcher of Madeley. When the loving vicar saw his saintly friend depart, never, probably, to enter that house of prayer again, he might have had thoughts and feelings like those which he threw into devout verse on the final departure of Whitfield, another of his evangelical co-workers. His hymn was founded on the Psalmist's prayer, " Help, Lord j for the godly man ceaseth ; for the faithful fail from among the children of men." Send help, O Lord, we pray, And Thy own Gospel bless ; For godly men decay, And faithful pastors cease ; The righteous are removed from home, And scorners rise up in their room. While Satan's troops are bold, And thrive in number too, The flocks in Jesu's fold Are growing lank and few. Old sheep are moving off each year, And few lambs in the fold appear. Old shepherds, too, retire, Who gather'd flocks below, And young ones catch no fire, Or worldly prudent grow ; Few run with trumpets in their hand, To sound alarms by sea and land. O Lord, stir up Thy power, To make the Gospel spread ; And thrust out preachers more, With voice to raise the dead, With feet to run where Thou dost call, With faith to fight and conquer all. The flocks that long have dwelt Around fair Sion's hill, And Thy sweet grace have felt, Uphold and feed them still; But fresh folds build up everywhere, And plenteously Thy truth declare. As one Elijah dies, True prophet of the Lord, Let some Elisha rise To blaze the Gospel Word ; And fast as sheep to Jesus go May lambs recruit his folds below. MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. 1 8/ The Wesleys and their Oxford companions had gone out from college, and were in their various positions, working out their Christian plans, when Berridge, at the age of nine- teen, began his course of preparation for his great life-task at Clare Hall, Cambridge. Born at Kingston in Nottingham- shire, the son of a farmer, he was destined by his father to succeed him on the soil. But John had no capacity for calculating the worth of bullocks, and the disappointed parent declared he should go to college " to be a light to the Gentiles." The example of a pious boy-neighbour, and the religious influence of a tailor, sometimes employed in the house, led him to take a religious turn. With a mind well trained and largely furnished, he served as a curate for some years, and in 175^5 was admitted to the vicarage of Everton. After a year or two of unsatisfactory labour, he was led to a clear discovery of the way of salvation by faith ; and his ministry at once became living and fruitful. The first fruits were characteristic. One of his flock came to inquire for him. " Well, Sarah ? " said he. " Well ! " was the reply ; "well, not so well, I fear!" " Why, what's the matter, Sarah ? " " Matter ? why I don't know what's the matter. These new sermoTis ! I find we are all to be lost now 3 I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep ; I don't know what's to become of me ! " The number of such inquirers rapidly increased. Mr. Hicks, a neighbouring clergyman, was one of his converts. At length Wesley and the vicar met ; and an alliance was formed. "1 was informed," says John Wesley, in November, 1758, " that Mr. Berridge desired I would come to him as soon as possible. I set out for Everton. Mr. B. was just taking horse; I rode on with him, and in the evening preached at Wrestlingworth, in a large church well-filled with serious hearers. We lodged at Mr. Hicks's, the vicar, a witness of the faith which once he persecuted But a few months ago Mr. Berridge was thoroughly con- vinced that * by grace ' we are ' saved, through faith.' Immediately he began to proclaim aloud the redemption that i88 THE POETS OF METHODISM. is in Christ Jesus ; and God confirmed His own word exactly as He did at Bristol, in the beginning, by working repentance and faith in the hearers, and with the same violent outward symptoms." The wonderful effects of Berridge's preaching are described by Wesley, who was an eye-witness. On Saturday 14th of July, 1749, he says: " While Mr. B. preached in the church, I stood with many in the churchyard to make room for those who came from far; therefore I saw little, but heard the agonizing of many panting and gasping after eternal life. In the afternoon Mr. B. was constrained, by the multitude of people, to come out of the church, and preach in his own close. Some of those who were here pricked to the heart were affected in an astonishing manner. The first man I saw wounded would have dropped, but others, catching him in their arms, did, indeed, prop him up, but were so far from keeping him still that he caused all of them to totter and tremble. His own shaking exceeded that of a cloth in the wind. It seemed as if the Lord came upon him like a giant, taking him by the neck, and shaking all his bones in pieces. One woman tore up the ground with her hands, filling them with dust, and with the hard trodden grass, on which I saw her lie, with her hands clenched, as one dead, when the multitude dispersed. Another roared and screamed in a more dread- ful agony than ever I heard before. I omitted the rejoicing of believers, because of their number and the frequency thereof, though the manner was strange ; some of them being quite overpowered with Divine love, and only showing enough of natural life to let us know they were overwhelmed with joy and life eternal." Scenes like these opened everywhere in rapid succession. Under the ministry of Berridge's neighbour, Hicks, and himself, about four thousand souls were brought to seek God in the space of twelve months. He entered now on a course of itinerancy. He went through all the surrounding counties ; preached ten or twelve sermons every week, travelling on horseback in that time about one hundred MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. 189 miles. It was in the spirit of this missionary work that he wrote his hymn on " Thy kingdom come :" — • O Father, let Thy kingdom come, Thy kingdom built on love and grace ; In every province give it room, In every heart afford it place ; The earth is Thine, set up Thy throne, And claim the kingdoms as Thine own. Still nature's horrid darkness reigns, And sinners scorn the check of fear, Still Satan holds the heart in chains, Where Jesu's messengers appear ; We pray that Christ may rise and bless The world with truth and righteousness. Bid war and wild ambition cease, And man no more a monster prove ; Fill up his breast with heavenly peace, And warm it well with heavenly love ; To Jesus bid the people go, And Satan's kingdom overthrow. More labourers in the vineyard send, And pour Thine unction on them all ; Give them a voice to shake and bend The mountains high and cedars tall ; That flocks of sinners, young and old, May shelter seek in Jesu's fold. Berridge was thoroughly adapted for his work. Robust in form and constitution, firm and undaunted in spirit, fearless of men, unwavering in faith, with a mind well furnished, a heart glowing with zeal, a voice loud and strong, and perfectly under command, with never-failing power of expression, he was verily a "son of thunder." At times, when he spoke, Sinai seemed to thunder and flash j while that same voice would become tremulous and melting while he wept over those to whom he preached a Saviour. Persecution of no kind checked him ; though, for nearly thirty years, the enemies of truth would know him by no other title than "The Old Devil." His humility was deep and pure. The expression of his feelings respecting himself as an itinerant was sometimes in amusing accordance with his character. In a letter to the Countess of Huntingdon, he says, " I am one of those strange folks who set up for journeymen without knowing their business, and offer many precious wares to sale igo THE POETS OF METHODISM. without understanding their full value. I have got a Master, too, a most extraordinary person, whom I am supposed to be well acquainted with," because He employs me as a riding pedlar to serve nearly forty shops in the country, besides my own parish ; yet I know much less of my Master than I do of His wares." He was once on his way to a visitation when a strange clergyman joined him. After some chat, the stranger said, "Do you know one Berridge in these parts? he is a very troublesome, good-for-nothing fellow, they tell me." " Yes, I know him," said Berridge, " and I assure you that one .half his wickedness has not been told you." The stranger was surprised, and begged to have the wicked fellow pointed out to him when they came to the church. Other talk followed, until they arrived at the place of meeting. Berridge's companion then reminded him of his promise to show him this Berridge. " My dear sir," said he, "I am John Berridge." " Is it possible r " cried the other ; " and can you forgive me ? Will you honour me with your acquaint- ance ? Will you admit me to your house ? " " Yes," was the old man"s reply, "and to my heart." The true simplicity of the hymnist's character, and his genuine lowliness of his mind, are put forth in his best hymn style in his verses on " My Soul is even as a Weaned Child." Dear Jesus, cast a look on me, I come with simplest prayer to Thee, And ask to be a child ; Weary of what belongs to man, I long to be as I began, Infantly meek and mild. No wild ambition I would have, No worldly grandeur I would crave, But sit me down content ; Content with what I do receive, And cheerful praises learn to give, For all things freely sent. Well weaned from the world below, Its pining care and gewgaw show, Its joy and hope forlorn ; My soul would step, a stranger, forth, And, smit with Jesus' grace and worth, Repose on Him alone. MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. JQJ I would love Him with all my heart, And all my secret thought impart, My grief, and joy, and fear ; And while the pilgrim life shall last, My soul would on the Lord be cast, In sweet believing prayer. His presence I would have each day, And hear Him talking by the way Of love, and truth, and grace ; And when He speaks and gives a smile, My soul shall listen all the while, And every accent bless. He had learnt the lesson of his Lord's active service, and then was called to the suffering which was necessary to com- plete his character. He was for a time laid aside from work j and it was during this trial that he composed the hymns con- tained in his volume of " Sion's Songs." He had previously compiled and issued a collection of Divine songs designed chiefly for the religious societies of churchmen in the neigh- bourhood of Everton. It contained some originals ; "but," says he, " I was not wholly satisfied with it. The bells indeed had been chiefly cast in a celebrated foundry, and in ringing were tuneable enough, none more so ; but a clear Gospel tone was not found in them all." He alludes to the hymns of the Wesleys, from whose doctrinal notions, once his own, he had now somewhat swerved. " Sion's Songs," how- ever, were Berridge's own. " 111 health, some years past, having kept me from travelling or preaching, I took up the trade of hymn-making, a handicraft much followed of late, but a business I was not born or bred to, and undertaken chiefly to keep a long sickness from preying on my spirits, and to make tedious nights pass over smoothly. Some tinkling employment was wanted, which might amuse and not fatigue me." He wanted "tinkling employment," and some of his hymns are certainly curious tinkling productions ; but others are more worthy of a man who, on the testimony of those who knew him best, " possessed a strength of understanding, a quickness of perception, a depth of penetration, a brilliancy of fancy, and a fund of prompt wit, beyond most men." The peculiar balance of humour and gravity in his character is 192 THE POETS OF METHODISM. seen in the prayer with which he closes the preface to his hymn-book : " My Saviour and my God, accept this mite of love, which is cast into Thy treasury. Give it a blessing, and it shall be blessed. What is water in the hymns turn into wine ; by giving them a charge to enliven the hearts of the children, and stir up the wills of aliens to seek Thy salvation. Only attend them with an unction of Thy spirit, and what- ever be the hymns, Thy glory shall be promoted by them. Amen." But his humour, and what may be called his grave waggery, often found vent in his letters and in his intercourse with friends. He was never married, and it is very curious to find him most free to joke and be serious by turns on the question of wedlock in his epistles to the Countess of Huntingdon. My Lady, — Before I parted with honest Glascott, I cautioned him much against petticoat snares. He had burnt his wings already ; sure he will not imitate a foolish gnat, and hover again about the candle. If he should fall into a sleeping-lap, he will soon need a flannel night-cap, and a rusty chain to fix him down like a Church Bible to the reading- desk. No trap so mischievous to the field preacher as wedlock, and it is laid for him at every corner. Matrimony has quite maimed poor Charles, and might have spoiled John and George, if a wise Master had not graciously sent them a brace of ferrets. Dear George has now got the liberty again, and he will escape well if he is not caught by another tenter-hook. Eight or nine years ago, having been grievously tormented with housekeepers, I truly had thought of looking out for a Jezebel for myself. But it seemed needful to ask advice of the Lord ; so falling down on my knees before a table, with a Bible between my hands, I besought the Lord to give me a direction. The first sign he tells us was not satisfactory. Another trial brought up the passage, "Thou shalt not take thee a wife," &c. These words he took, as he says, "not only as a rule of direction, but as a promise of security," Thou shalt not take a wife, that is, I will keep thee from taking one. In his sitting-room at Everton, he had several portraits of pious men hanging on the walls in small frames ; and over the mantel-piece there was a looking-glass of the same size in a similar frame. A clergyman who paid him a visit for the first time looked at the pictures one after another. " That," said Berridge, "is Calvin, and that Luther 5 and MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. 1 93 that," pointing to the glass over the fireplace, " is the Devil ! " The visitor stepped quickly to look at it, and saw his own face. " Is it not," cried Berridge, " a striking likeness of his Satanic majesty ? " Probably he sometimes felt that he was treading on snares when indulging this waggish mood, and might seem to be giving himself a caution and a check in his hymn on " I said of laughter, it is mad ; and of mirth, what good doeth it ? " But, oh, thou man of God, This empty mirth beware ; March off, and quit this giggling road ; No food for pilgrims there. It checks the Spirit's aid, And leaves the heart forlorn, And makes them look as Sampson did, When all his locks were shorn. May Jesus be my peace, And make up all my joy ; His love can yield me serious bliss, And bliss that will not cloy. But the way in which he uses his faculty of merry quaint - ness in giving sharp point to moral and religious truth in his " Christian World Unmasked," and in his epistolary recom- mendation of "Cheerful Piety," gives a pleasant impression of consistency, and finely balanced intellect and affections. The closing verses of one of his best hymns breathe the spirit in which he waited for his Lord's coming — Leaning on Thy loving breast, Where a weary soul may rest ; Feeling well the peace of God, Flowing from Thy precious blood. In this posture let me live, And hosannas daily give ; In this temper let me die, And hosannas ever cry. One who was near him at the last, said, " The Lord has enabled you to fight a good fight." " Blessed be His name for it," was the response. " Jesus will soon call you up higher," it was said again. "Ay, ay, ay," he cried, "higher ! o '94 THE POETS OF METHODISM. higher ! higher ! Yes, and my children, too, will shout and sing, ' Here comes our father ! ' ' This was his last voice on earth. He "fell asleep in Christ," January 22, 1793. How difficult it is, at times, to prove a man's identity. The changes wrought in him and his surroundings during an interval of some years' absence, render it hard to say whether the person you see now is the same as you looked at then. A difficulty somewhat analogous to this occurs sometimes in fixing the authorship of a hymn. The lapse of a few years only since the death of the author so mysti- fies his claims, as to make it by no means easy for some people to be sure whether the hymn was written by him or by somebody else. So it seems to have been with that widely-known and soul-kindling hymn — Jesus, Thy blood and righteousness My beauty are, my glorious dress. It was certainly issued by the Wesleys among their " Hymns and Sacred Poems," in 1740, and given as "from the German ; " and seems to have been a rendering of one of Count Zinzendorfs hymns by John Wesley. Nevertheless, it has subsequently been ascribed to John Cennick, whose Talent and taste as a hymnist are placed beyond a doubt by compositions which are certainly his, and need no suste- nance from doubtful claims. " To me," says an old psalm-singer, "there is one hymn which is always associated with my first insight into a happy future, and my earliest expressions of Christian hope. Long before I knew who wrote it, that hymn, whenever I heard it sung, used to melt and exhilarate me by turns, as it excited thoughts of going up amidst brightening multitudes and choral harmonies to meet the Saviour. I am not sure whether it was the hymn alone that awakened the feelings I speak of. The music of the finely adapted tune may have had something to do with it j for that music seems even now to rise within me in harmony with the thoughts, rhyme, and rhythm of the verses. However that may be, a deep MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. T05 chord is always touched in my soul when I read or hear John Cennick's spiritual song — Thou dear Redeemer, dying Lamb ! We love to hear of Thee ; No music's like Thy charming name, Nor half so sweet can be. O may we ever hear Thy voice In mercy to us speak ; And in our Priest we will rejoice, Thou great Melchisedek. Our Jesus shall be still our theme, While in this world we stay ! We'll sing our Jesu's lovely name, When all things else decay. When we appear in yonder cloud, With all the ransom'd throng, Then will we sing more sweet, more loud, And Christ shall be our song. Cennick's doctrinal course was a wavering one j and but for the soundness of his conversion, and for the genuine groundwork of piety in his heart, it might have been un- happy. He had warmth, fancy, and tunefulness of poetic spirit as a hymnist ; but as a divine he lacked discrimination, and as an evangelist his judgment was not always sound. His parents were Quakers ; though he soon learnt to make hymns and to sing them. He was taught at home to pray if not to sing. It was soon seen that trade was not his calling. For a time, he showed a proneness to gaiety. But in 1735 he was convinced of sin while walking in Cheapside 5 and at once his vain songs, and cards, and theatrical amusements were cast aside. Sometimes he wished to go into a Popish monastery to spend his life in devout retirement. At other times he would fain live in a cave, sleeping on fallen leaves,, and feeding on forest-fruits. He fasted long and often, and prayed nine times every day. He lived in fear of departed spirits ; and trembled lest he should meet the devil. Dry bread was too great an indulgence for such a sinner ; and he began to feed on potatoes, acorns, crabs, and grass ; and often wished he could live upon roots and herbs. He would i$6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. have been a distinguished brother of the Boskoi, the grass- eating monks in the fields of old Mesopotamia. But he was saved from all this by the manifested peace of God which he received on September 6th, 1737. His course was now one of freedom and joy. He became at once a preacher of sal- vation through faith in Christ. His public Methodist action began in association with the Wesleys. On Friday, March 1739, "I came to Reading," says John Wesley, "where I found a young man who had in some measure known the powers of the world to come. I spent the evening with him and a few of his serious friends, and it pleased God much to strengthen and comfort them." This young man was Cennick. He worked as a lay-helper with the Wesleys nearly two years, preaching and making hymns. Charles Wesley sympathized with him as a hymn writer, and cor- rected his verses for the press. Like all those who took an active part in early Methodism, he had experienced spiritual conflict in the first pursuit of Christian peace j and had been led through a course of vain efforts into the great secret of salvation by faith in Christ alone. One of his best hymns may be taken as a record of his own first happy introduction to Jesus as " the way, the truth, and the life" — Jesus, my all, to heaven is gone ; He whom I fix my hopes upon : His track I see, and I'll pursue The narrow way till Him I view. The way the holy prophets went — The road that leads from banishment — The King's highway of holiness — I'll go ; for all His paths are peace. This is the way I long had sought, And mourned because I found it not ; My grief and burden long had been Because I could net cease from sin. The more I strove against its power, I sinned and stumbled but the more ; Till late I heard my Saviour say, Come hither, soul, I am the way. MORE CLERICAL SONG-MASTERS. I97 Lo ! glad I come ! and Thou, blest Lamb, Wilt now receive me as I am ! My sinful self to Thee I give : Nothing but love shall I receive. Then will I tell to sinners round What a dear Saviour I have found; I'll point to Thy redeeming blood, And say — Behold ! the way to God. It was not long, however, before the young hymning evangelist began to show tokens of change. On Nov. 4, 1 740, Charles Wesley writes : " At Kingswood, while I was testifying Christ died for all, Mr. Cennick, in the hearing of many, gave me the lie. I calmly told him after- wards, ' If I speak not the truth as it is in Jesus, may I decrease and you increase.' " About a month after this, John Wesley had to share with his brother the consequences of Cennick's changed disposition. He preached at Kingswood on the afternoon of Tuesday, December 16, 1740, from "Let patience have her perfect work;" and then his own patience was put to the test. "The next evening," says he, " Mr. Cennick came. I was greatly surprised when I went to receive him, as usual, with open arms, to observe him quite cold ; so that a stranger would have judged he had scarce ever seen me before." The doctrinal differences between these good men soon became associated with warm feeling, until the spirited young hymnist declared that while connected with the Wesleys he was " in the midst of the plague ; " and both in private and public denounced his old companions as preachers of Popery. Wesley quietly pursued his way, but grieved over the results. "Twenty years afterwards," he says, " I visited the classes at Kingswood. Here only there is no increase ; and yet, where was there such a prospect till that weak man, John Cennick, con- founded the poor people with strange doctrines ? We see no end of it to this day." There is, perhaps, a still more lasting effect of Cennick's public teaching in Ireland, at least. A few years ago, a lover of Goldsmith's poetry, on his way from Athlone to I98 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " Sweet Auburn," saw a small unpretending chapel by the wayside, and inquired of the car-driver to what people it belonged. " To the Swaddlers," was the sneering reply. The traveller was interested and amused to find that the term of reproach still lived on Popish lips ^ and a passage from Charles Wesley's journal naturally occurred, illus- trating the origin of the term. He was in Dublin on September 10th, i/47; and "at five," he says, "all was quiet within doors ; but we had men, women, and children upon us as soon as we appeared in the streets. One I observed crying, ' Swaddler, Swaddler ! ' (our usual title here), who was a young Ishmael indeed, and had not long learned to speak. I am sure he could not be four years old. We dined with a gentleman, who explained our name to us. It seems we are beholden to Mr. Cennick for it, who abounds in such expressions as, ' I curse and blaspheme all the gods in heaven, but the Babe that lay in the manger, the Babe that lay in Mary's lap, the Babe that lay in swaddling clouts.' Hence they nick-named him ' Swaddler,' or f Swaddling John' ; and the word sticks to us all, not excepting the clergy." The man who declaimed in this style about the " Babe in the manger," could, however, sing more reverently to the Incarnate One whom God " exalted with His right hand " : — We sing to Thee, Thou Son of God, Fountain of life and grace ; We praise Thee, Son of Man, whose blood Redeemed our fallen race. Thee we acknowledge God and Lord, The Lamb for sinners slain ; Thou art by Heaven and earth adored, Worthy o'er both to reign. To Thee all angels cry aloud, Through Heaven's extended coasts ; Hail ! Holy, Holy, Holy Lord Of glory and of hosts. The prophets' goodly fellowship, In radiant garments drest, Praise Thee, Thou Son of God, and reap The fulness of Thy rest. MORE CLERICAL SO N'G-MASTERS. 199 The apostles' glorious company Thy righteous praise proclaim ; The martyred army glorify Thine everlasting Name. Throughout the world Thy Churches join To call on Thee, their Head, Brightness of Majesty Divine, Who every power hast made. Among their number, Lord, we love To sing Thy precious blood ; Reign here, and in the worlds above, Thou holy Lamb of God. When Cennick drew back from companionship with the Wesleys, he attached himself to Whitfield, whose theological notions he took to be more akin to his own. But after a time there was another shift, and he closed his earthly career in com- munion with the Moravians, and in the ranks of their minis- try. He has again joined those with whom he began his Methodist itinerancy, and in union with whom he had his first inspirations as a hymnist. Those early poets of Methodism sing together now, and Cennick has left one of his immortal songs to aid those who are following him to the pilgrim's home: — Children of the Heavenly King, As ye journey, sweetly sing; Sing your Saviour's worthy praise, Glorious in His works and ways. Ye are travelling home to God, In the way the fathers trod ; They are happy now, and ye Soon their happiness shall see. O ye banished seed be glad, Christ our Advocate is made ; Us to save our flesh assumes, Brother to our souls becomes. Shout, ye ransomed flock, and blest, You on Jesu's throne shall rest ; There your seat is now prepared, There your kingdom and reward. Fear not, brethren, joyful stand On the borders of your land ; Jesus Christ, your Father's Son, Bids you undismayed go on. Lord, submissive may we go, Gladly leaving all below ; Only Thou our Leader be, And we still will follow Thee. 200 THE POETS OF METHODISM. CHAPTER X. ITINERANT MINSTRELS. It is once an age two hearts are set So well in unison, that not a note Jars in their music ; but a skilful hand Slurs lightly over the discordant tones, And wakens only the full power of those That sound in concord. Happy, happy those, Who thus perform in the grand concert-life. °)S^lll^l HAT a chronicle of providences might be made ^r4^S?iil from the early lives of that generation of 1>ailli*S Methodist preachers which sprang up in \cJ^^ England during the first age of Methodism ! ^ For variety of origin, difference of mental con- stitution and culture, unlikeness of home training, and dis- similarity of appearance and manners, the men who laboured and suffered with the Wesleys in their evangelizing move- ment were most remarkable. Nor were ever such human varieties made so thoroughly one in heart and purpose as they. One secret of this was that deep and commanding sense of the living reality of unseen and Divine things. Hence their intense earnestness and full abandonment to their spiritual calling. The invisible was open to them. They lived more in " the heavenlies " than in the earthly world. They " walked by faith, not by sight." Those of them who sprang up from among the Cornish mines were distinguished in this respect. One reason may be found in their early introduction to dark, deep, and mysterious scenes of danger, and solemn momently nearness to death. When the miner's habit of companionship with awful uncertainty and unearthly imagi- nations becomes hallowed by living faith in the presence of Him to whom all worlds are subject, the Christian character To feel in such a scene and hour, Mid all that each discloses, The presence of that viewless power On whom the world reposes : This to the heart is more than all Mere beauty an bring o'er it : Thought, feeling, fancy, own its thrall And joy is hushed before it. ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 201 in that man becomes bold and distinctive in its outline, and full and rich in its energy and tone. Many such were, by Divine impressment, put into the ranks of Methodist " Rounders," as they were called. They were all the better prepared to brave the difficulties and dangers of their Christian calling for having been brought into their position through fearful perils and "deaths oft." Now and then it was proved that their discipline had been as favourable to poetic genius as to preaching power j while in some cases the genius and the speaking gift found their genial and proper scene of action only by some wonderfully fine turn of things. Some time during the year 17^9 a young western miner in his teens had risen from a violent fever, and, allured by the refreshing air of Penzance Bay, had wandered out to enjoy the balmy influences of beautiful nature. He had not gone far before he fell into the hands of a press-gang, which, under the sanction of the chief magistrate, was on the look-out for prey. The lad pleaded his youth and present weakness. But press-gangs in those days had no tenderness ; nor was the mayor disposed to be soft. At the nick of time an honest, peaceful, but fearless Quaker came up. " What art thou going to do with that lad ? " said he to the mayor. " What ? I am going to send him to serve his Majesty." "There are others more fit for the service," was the response. " Yea, a hundred in this town ; send them 5 send idle, disorderly persons, not honest men's sons who live by their diligence and frugality." "The king must have men," said the official 3 "if we cannot get seamen we must take others." " Look upon that lad," answered the tender-hearted Friend j "thou mayest read innocence in his countenance." " He will look much better after he has been six months at sea ; and in time he will be a captain." u Let him go home," it was still pleaded, " there are men enough to be got without him." 202 THE POETS OF METHODISM. A few more words, and the point was turned. " Make haste home," said the mayor to the lad. And as he moved off he thought of the goodness of God, who by means of that old Friend made a way for his escape ; while many of his neighbours were torn from their homes, perhaps never to return. This was not the last nice turn and narrow escape of the young miner. Not very long after, he had to tell a tale of marvellous deliverances in rapid succession. He tells of a wonderful escape from death from the fall of a large stone while he was standing in the tin-pit beneath ; and of his being carried down with the earth when it suddenly sunk into an old pit, and being saved from suffocation by being landed in an open space beneath, where another miner was working. " But," says he, " the greatest deliverance hap- pened soon after this. One day as I was working in the bottom of a pit, about ten yards deep, I laid aside my tool, and fell on my knees, and found uncommon enlargement in prayer. In less than two minutes the ground fell in. A very large stone fell before me, which rose higher than my head. Two others fell, one on my right side, and the other on my left -} these likewise rose above my head. A fourth fell like a cover, and rested on the top of the others, about four inches above my head. Some scores of small ones fell behind on my legs and feet • while others fell on the cover that was over me. Here I was shut up as in a prison. When my father came to the brink of the pit and found me buried, he fell a weeping. But when he found I was alive, he told me the whole pit would fill to the top. I desired him to go out of the reach of danger. I was a little sur- prised at first • but it was soon gone, as the stones were large and hollow, and I had sufficient room to breathe. When he perceived that no more stones fell, he got help, and by degrees removed some of the large stones ; and after cutting my shoes from my feet, I was got out without receiving the least injury. I cannot help admiring the providence of God in the following particulars : — "i. I was praying at the time when this happened. ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 203 " 2. I was kneeling. Had I been- standing, I should have been crushed to pieces j had I been sitting, my legs would have been broken with the large stone which fell before me. " 3. They fell in an instant. Had I heard them coming, probably I should have risen from my knees -, and then the stones which fell like a cover would have dashed out my brains. " 4. Three large stones fell, one before me, and one on each side ; and only small ones behind on my legs. Had a large one fallen there, my legs would have been broken into shivers. "5. The three large ones that fell were "a few inches higher than my head, and were instantly covered with another large one. Had they been a few inches lower, the last would certainly have killed me in a moment. Surely this preservation was the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes." The young man thus brought up alive from the dead was Richard Rodda ; born in 1743, in the parish of Sancreed, on the heights between Penzance and the Atlantic ; a few miles from the romantic mining district of St. Just, among whose metallic hills it was that he had been so frequently sheltered from death. His earliest recollections were of vision-like insights into revealed truth, of Methodist preachers coming to preach in his father's house, of conflicts in his boyish mind between good and evil, and of Divine lessons coming to his heart through a preserving Providence. " One day," he says, " I was riding at full gallop in company with several others, my horse threw me over his head, and then quite leaped over me ; and, although another horse coming close behind did the same, yet I received no hurt." Reflection on all these evident interferences on his behalf from above led him to conclude that God intended to show how soon He could take him away from the scene of action ; and that his only way of securing a safe as well as happy life was to obey the conviction that he was called to preach the Gospel L 204 THE POETS OF METHODISM. of Christ. "One Lord's day," he writes, u we expected a travelling preacher. The people were gathered together from various parts, when word was brought that he could not come. On hearing this, I was desired to stand up and speak to the people. The conflict in my breast was very strong, but I refused to open my mouth." A darkness fell on his soul, and a kind of horror seized him, under which he at length vowed to obey his conviction. " Accord- ingly," he says, "I exhorted that night, for the first time, which was in my father's house. Soon after, I was desired to exhort in the society ; and then, by their advice, I did it in public." He had taken his proper course, and, from that moment, he was the happy and successful Methodist preacher ; sound in judgment, strict in his rule of life, diligent in. his work, and exercising his well-balanced powers for the good of saints and sinners. Among his talents was that of poetry ; and, like many others, he found his poetic genius called into play by the grace and the joys of his new birth. He had been from early life feeling after God ; and in boyhood would fain have found himself an acknowledged member of the Methodist Society. At length, when Mr. Wesley " called over the Society at Newlyn," near Penzance, he was received into membership. For two years, at least, he sought rest for his soul. How he found it, he tells Mr. Wesley in a letter. "About the beginning of June, 1758, while I was praying in my father's house, and earnestly entreating God to write forgiveness on my heart, the following words darted into my soul, ' Son, be of good cheer, thy sins are forgiven thee.' In that instant my burden was removed, and my soul was rilled with peace and joy. But I soon doubted whether this was what many termed ' justification { and as I had always a fear of deceiving myself, the enemy soon reasoned me out of my happiness, and my soul seemed as far from the blessing as ever. On the 1 ith of that month, while Benjamin Trembath was praying by me, God gave me a clear sense ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 20J of His forgiving love. There was not the least doubt re- maining of my acceptance through the Beloved. For many days and weeks I was enabled to rejoice in God, my Saviour. Every duty was profitable, as it conveyed fresh tokens of the Divine favour. My understanding was opened to behold the power, wisdom, and goodness of God, in creating, preserving, and governing the world. I saw that the whole earth was full of His majesty and glory. But what most astonished me was the wondrous greatness of redeeming love. To behold the Ancient of days become an infant ! The filler of immensity, contracted to a span ! The Lord of heaven and earth taking upon Him the form of a servant ; and, after fulfilling all righteousness, bowing His blessed head on the cross, to save His avowed enemies ! These con- siderations filled me with love and gratitude, which I expressed in the following lines — " Praise God, my soul, whose wondrous love Hath drawn my thoughts to things above, Where Jesus ever reigns ; Let every sinful wand'iing thought Be into full subjection brought, Till freed from sin's remains. " When pure, and perfected in love, O, may I never, never rove From Christ, my living Head ; But steadfast and unshaken stand, Obedient to my Lord's command, While by His Spirit led. "Among the little happy flock, Who sit beneath their guardian rock, Will I take up my rest ; My Shepherd's voice my soul shall hear, And, freed from doubts and slavish fear, Shall lean upon His breast. " His loving arms extended wide, Shall press me to His wounded side, Nor let me thence depart ; But fill my soul with joy and peace, And all the fruits of righteousness Shall flourish in my heart. 206 THE POETS OF METHODISM. 41 The heavenly spices of His grace Do sweetly now perfume the place Where Satan had his seat ; Jesus hath spoil'd the powers of hell, And lo ! I now for ever dwell Triumphant at His feet ! " Here will I lie, nor ever move, Till Christ, my Lord, shall say, ' My love, Come up, and dwell with me' : Then I on wings of love shall rise, And reign with Him above the skies, To all eternity." This was his first hymn. Whether his after-course was brightened with other songs is not known ; but the one he has left as an expression of his " first love " is happy enough in diction, tender enough in feeling, and sufficiently har- monious in measure and rhythm, to prove that he had "music in himself "j and that he may be classed with Methodist itinerant minstrels. His pilgrimage as an itinerant minstrel and preacher ran through thirty-three years. He lingered in hope, after becoming unequal to farther wanderings, for twelve or thirteen years ; and then, with the light of Canaan touching his soul, he looked back tenderly, for a moment, to the time when his first hymn broke from his renewed heart, saying: "It is now about fifty- eight years since the Lord set my soul at glorious liberty, and I have found Him to be a gracious God all the way, faithful to His promise. Not one word has failed. Glory be to His name ! I could go to Smithfield and die for His dear cause. I know I could. But now let me enter into the joy of my Lord! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly!" The Master came, and the old itinerant minstrel verified his own early stanza — Here will I lie, nor ever move, Till Christ my Lord shall say, " My love, Come up and dwell with Me." Then I on wings of faith shall rise, And reign with Him above the skies, To all eternity. In the valley which crosses the lower part of the ancient Cornish town of Redruth, there is a curious architectural relic, ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 207 called the " Round House.,, The part of the building from which the name is taken was literally around house ; whether originally a dwelling, or a mill of some sort, does not appear. It stands by the side of a stream which runs down the valley, and, with its heavy chimney-stack and its thickly- thatched conical roof, is a quaint memorial of things as they were two hundred years ago. A kind of wing was attached to it in 1726 — a strongly-built dwelling, and very respectable as an ordinary house of that period. A peculiar religious interest belongs to the Round House, the term now applied to the entire building. In the more modern part there is a large room, in which Methodist prayer-meetings used to be held a century ago. In that room, what is called in the county " the great revival " of 1814 began. Eight persons were converted there in a prayer-meeting ; and from that meeting there went out the feeling and power which spread through the whole western part of Cornwall, until scarcely a house could be passed in which there was not the voice of prayer and praise. Among the converts in that revival was a young woman of eighteen, the granddaughter of the old Methodist to whom the Round House belonged. " She is still alive to tell the story," says a visitor of the sick, "and is patiently waiting for her Lord's coming in a bed-room over the apartment in which the great work of God began. She remembered her grandfather ; was in the house when he died 5 and would never forget his funeral sermon being preached before the door, where the ash-tree stands, the preacher taking his place on the steps which lead to the upper room at the end of the house. I have often talked with the good old woman about her young days, and have sometimes caught from her lips interesting scraps of infor- mation about early Methodism in Redruth. She could call up, now and then, things which her grandfather had said in her hearing about the itinerant preachers in his time. In the year 1781, it seems, there were two preachers who left vivid impressions on the old man's mind. They both visited the Round House as pastors, and occasionally took the lead of 208 THE POETS OF METHODISM. meetings in "the large room." They were distinguished as the " Singer " and the " Man of Prayer." The man of prayer was one whose clothes showed the first sign of wear and tear at the knees, and as one who, though he lisped a little, had a voice of prayer which was mighty with God and with man. An illustration . of his character was distinctly re- membered : — The chapel at that time was a long building with square windows, a gallery at one end and the pulpit at the other, somewhat after the fashion of what is now called a rostrum, extending for some length against the wall. The preacher stood about the middle of it, and behind him there was a long seat, occupied, as it was said, by "the leaders and principals." Some of these magnates, it would appear, were of sufficient importance, judging from a note of John Wesley's to the itinerant known as the " Singer." " Observe the rules of the Conference," the note ran: "whoever is pleased or displeased, the trustees and leaders will soon trample them under foot if you will let them. But I think you can be mild and yet firm." Now it happened that one of these wilful-footed lay occupants of the formidable seat behind the preacher, asked the man of prayer to dine with him after a Sunday morning service. As soon as they were fairly in the house, the host turned critic, and said to his guest, " You have preached us a very poor sermon this morning, sir." •' What, my dear brother !" was the answer, " kneel down, my dear brother, and let us pray." His critical doctorship could not refuse. So they were on their knees ; and the preacher began by saying, " O Lord ! have mercy upon this dear brother ; enlighten his understanding, and give him to know the truth, that the truth may make him free." The prayer was continued until the critic's heart was subdued, and his critical tongue for ever silenced in the presence of the saintly preacher. This man of prayer was Samuel Bardsley. The other itinerant was a man of prayer, too, but he had the additional distinction of musical and poetic gifts. He was the " Sweet Singer." It was Benjamin Rhodes. ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 200. "Yes," said the old pilgrim of the Round House, " I lie here on my bed, and think it over sometimes : how my grandfather used to talk about his singing, and how the young people used to learn the tunes that he would pitch, and sing the hymns he liked to sing.'* "Do you rem?mber any of the hymns or tunes?" it was inquired. " Well, no ; I was but young, and things are getting misty to me now. I do seem to catch a little of what I used to hear. It was something sung in parts, and the voices used to come one after another in some places, and then melt altogether into such sweet music. It used to ring so, some- thing like bells." " Do you remember the words ?" u One line or so comes to me, but that is all. It is — *' My heart and voice I raise, To spread Messiah's praise." " Why, that was Mr. Rhodes's own hymn. I can say it to you all, if you like to hear it. I can't sing it now, as 1 used to sing it with my father and aunt, who remembered Mr. Rhodes. This is the hymn : — " My heart and voice I raise, To spread Messiah's praise ; Messiah's praise let all repeat ; The universal Lord, By whose Almighty word Creation rose in form complete. " A servant's form He wore, And in His body bore Our dreadful curse on Calvary ; He like a victim stood, And poured His sacred blood, To set the guilty captives free. " But soon the Victor rose Triumphant o'er His foes, And led the vanquish'd host in chains ; He threw their empire down, His foes compell'd to own O'er all the great Messiah reigns. 2FO THE POETS OF METHODISM. " With mercy's mildest grace, He governs all our race In wisdom, righteousness, and love ; Who to Messiah fly Shall find redemption nigh, And all His great salvation prove. u Hail, Saviour, Prince of Peace! Thy kingdom shall increase, Till all the world Thy glory see ; And righteousness abound, As the great deep profound, And fill the earth with purity." "Ah!" said the old saint, as the hymn was finished, "that makes me feel as if young life was springing up again. Well, I shall be young again soon, and sing with those who are gone up before me to be young for ever." Mr. Rhodes was a Yorkshireman. He was born in the year 1743, at Kexborough, in the south-west of the county. He had the advantage of being the son of a schoolmaster, and of being the child of a home in which private and family devotion were kept up. The old and happy style of home training was a blessing to him. The household were regularly catechised. While a boy, he was taken to Bristol by his father to hear Mr. Whitfield preach ; and under that hallowed voice his young heart received impressions that never ceased to influence his character and life. How charmingly the early minglings of his poetic feeling and his religious sym- pathies become traceable ! "At about twelve years of age," he writes, " I took a walk one evening into a large thick wood, not far from the town. I left the path, and wandered in the thickest part of it, till I was entirely lost. Night began to close in upon me, and I did not know which way to turn my face towards home. It soon became quite dark. I then gave over rambling, and intended to remain there till the next morning, when I hoped to find my way out. In this situation I found my former impressions begin to return with much sweetness. My soul was drawn out in prayer ; I was deeply sensible of the presence of God ; my heart overflowed with penitential tenderness, and, under a deep sense of my own un worthiness, ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 21 I and of His goodness, mercy, and love, I sang and prayed with much fervour ; yea, I was so thankful that the Lord had found me in a wood that I would not for all the world have missed such an opportunity." This devout and spiritual tendency of his youthful soul was broken, by-and-by, under the influence of evil example and the unfolding fascinations of surrounding life. Still, his love of the beautiful and the true again claimed the mastery ; and though the harmony of his religious notions, as well as his pious feeling, once or twice suffered violence from those who unhappily identified Christianity with doctrinal strife, yet his poetic taste, and pure, simple love, came out of the trial in beautiful and happy companionship. "My fears were gone," says he, "and the truth of Christianity appeared to me in the clearest light. Not only my understanding saw, but all my powers felt, the truth thereof. I had a deep sense of a present God, whom I approached in the name of Jesus with reverential awe, confi- dence, gratitude, and love, and could call Him ( my God and my all.' In this happy season my joy frequently prevented my sleep, while my soul was taken up with Him who is altogether lovely ; and in ecstacies of joy, in the stillness of the night, I often sang my great Deliverer's praise. All things earthly appeared so empty that I thought nothing here below worth a thought, only as it tended to promote my eternal interest ; I only desired grace and glory." He found himself, with all this, tenderly susceptible of appeals to his affections, and, like many others of his tempera- ment, charms from without drew closely around his young, palpitating heart. But the word of God proved the more powerful charm ; and every entanglement of which he was, for a time, in danger, melted from around his heaven-bound soul. In his twenty-first year he began to devote his gifts and acquirements to the service of his Redeemer, and in the year 1776 became a Methodist travelling preacher. He wandered, scattering blessings as he went, through Norfolk and Oxfordshire, Kent and Lincolnshire, Scotland and 212 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Sussex. At length, returning into Kent, he writes, u Since I came into these parts I have lost a sister and mother, who, I believe, are both gone after my father into Abraham's bosom ; but I am left behind, almost the only person out of a large family. But how long or how short my day may be, I leave to unerring Wisdom ; one only concern ought to possess me — to employ it as I ought ; then, at the close of it, I also shall sleep in peace, and, after a short absence, be with my dear departed friends. " Thrice happy meeting ! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part us more." Thus bereft of all whose smiles had kept him circling as nearly as might be around the scenes of his younger life, he came to Redruth to sing to the Cornish Methodists, and to find con- solation amidst the warm sympathies of those whose jubilant piety reflected upon his musical soul the harmonies which his own spiritual songs inspired. For several years at the opening of the present century, the lofty brow, peaceful face, and thoughtful eye, that had been, during fifty years of itinerant life, turned upon gathering crowds, with brightening expressions of simplicity, truthful- ness, loving zeal, and heaven liness, were to be seen occasion- ally on the sands of old Margate, looking out on the sea, or watching the advancing work of the new pier, or turned heavenward from the top of the bright chalk cliffs, or opened again, now and then, upon the people from the pulpit, or marking with growing interest the rise of the new chapel in Hawley Square ; or, like an angel's face, bending looks of kindness by the bed-side of some seeking sinner or departing saint : everywhere and at all times, until the worn-out form sank to its own rest, looking like an embodiment of the spiritual longings, cheerful hopes, and reverent assurance which live and breathe in the second part of his glorious hymn — Jerusalem divine, When shall 1 call thee mine ? And to thy holy hill attain, Where weary pilgrims rest, And in thy glories blest, With God Messiah ever reisri ? ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 21 3 There saints and angels join In fellowship divine, And rapture swells the solemn lay ; While all with one accord Adore their glorious Lord, And shout His praise through endless day. May I but find the grace To fill an humble place In that inheritance above ; My tuneful voice I'll raise In songs of loudest praise, To spread Thy fame, Redeeming Love. Reign, true Messiah, reign ! Thy kingdom shall remain When stars and sun no more shall shine. Mysterious Deity, Who ne'er began to be, To sound Thy endless praise be mine 1 Up among the hills of south-west Yorkshire, amidst its glorious border moorlands, stands Old Haworth ; notorious, in these times, as the land of romance, where the Brontes lived and wrote, but formerly loved as a place of holier memories. There, one day, in the year 174^, stood up a big, burly, powerful Scotchman, more to be feared than fearing. He was an itinerant preacher. And in his congre- gation was the parish parson, at that time ignorant of saving grace, but confident that he had college logic enough to con- fute the preacher. The preacher, however, was so well versed in the Scriptures and the parson's own liturgy, as to be more than a match for his antagonist. The preacher came again ; and then Grimshaw, for he it was, stood by the itinerant and gave out the hymn for him. The people shouted, "Mad Grimshaw is turned Scotch Will's clerk! and Scotch Will leads and guides Mad Grimshaw!" The parson now became the inquirer, " How shall I preach sal- vation by faith," said he, " and the necessity of a clean heart, while I myself do not possess these blessings ?" " How ?" said Scotch Will, " you must preach them till you experience them 5 and then because you enjoy them." The advice was taken ; and Grimshaw, writing afterwards to Dr. Gillies, says : " Darney preached at Haworth 5 the 2J4 THE POETS OF METHODISM. Lord was with him, indeed ; I have cause to bless God for it." Scotch Will was William Darney, who joined Mr. Wesley's society in 1742. He became an itinerant preacher ; was very successful in forming societies in various places not before visited ; and was a great sufferer from violent persecutions. All his sufferings, however, did not stop his preaching or singing. He was the first man of his order who published hymns of his own making ; issuing a volume of two hundred and fourteen hymns, printed in Leeds in ry^i. He never claimed to be a poet 5 and if he had, his claim would never, perhaps, be allowed, — not by Charles Wesley, at least ; for under his influence, Darney's verses gave way to better songs. Nevertheless, the rough people whom he taught to sing could appreciate his genius, and loved to sing his hymns, doggrel as many of them were. All honour to the man who did his best for his Lord's sake. One of his spiritual songs was headed, " God is the salva- tion of His people" : — Come, O my God and King, Thy will to me make known ; Salvation do Thou bring, Salvation through Thy Son ; Seal this salvation on my heart, Then 1 from Thee shall never part. O let me never doubt What Thou hast done for me, Since Thou hast thus wrought out Salvation that is free ; Seal this salvation on my heart, Then I from Thee shall never part. Salvation from the guilt And from the power of sin ; For this Thy blood was spilt, The same do Thou bring in : All whom the Son doth thus make free, They walk in glorious liberty. O may I daily prove This liberty within, And feel my Saviour's love, Which saves me from my sin ; Then shall I walk in liberty, Because the Son hath set me free. ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 21$ About ten years before he died, Darney retired from his active itinerancy, but continued to work, within a limited circle, on the border-land of Lancashire j and finished his labours, sufferings, and mortal songs in 1779. He passed away in deep peace. Charles Wesley records a visit to Haworth on October 17th, 1756, and says : "A young preacher of Mr. Ingham's came to spend the evening with me at Mr. Grimshaw's. I found love for him, and wished all our sons in the Gospel were equally modest and discreet." On the next day — "He accompanied us to Heptonstal, where I preached. We went on our way rejoicing to Ewood. There the hard rain cut short my discourse. Mr. Allen could not leave us yet, but rode with us as far as Gawksholm." James Allen was a native of Wensleydale, Yorkshire, where he was born, June 24th, 1734. He joined Mr. Ingham as an itinerant evan- gelist in 1752, and was useful as a hymnist as well as preacher. He left the Inghamite branch of early Methodism in 1761, having changed his views of doctrine and discipline. " My eyes," he says, "were never fully opened till the latter end of October, 1762. How am I now ashamed of my preaching, and the hymn-book I was concerned in printing ! Almost every page put me to the blush." Some of his spiritual songs, nevertheless, in their revised condition, have been sung by numberless warm-hearted Christians. Generations have gone since his peaceful end in 1804 j but his voice of psalmody is still heard in such hymns as his on "Worthy the Lamb." Glory to God on high, Let praises fill the sky ; Praise ye His name ! Angels His name adore, Who all our sorrows bore, And saints cry evermore, Worthy the Lamb ! All they around the throne Cheerfully join in one, Praising His name ! 2l6 THE POETS OF METHODISM. We who have felt His blood Sealing our peace with God, Spread His dear fame abroad, Worthy the Lamb! To Him our hearts we raise, None else shall have our praise ; Praise ye His name ! Him our exalted Lord, By us below adored, We praise with one accord, Worthy the Lamb I If we should hold our peace, Stones would cry out apace, Praise ye His name ! Love does our souls inspire With heavenly, pure desire, And sets us all on fire, Worthy the Lamb ! Join all the human race, Our Lord and God to bless ; Praise ye His name I In Him we will rejoice, Making a cheerful noise, And say with heart and voice. Worthy the Lamb I Though we must change our place, Our souls shall never cease Praising His name. To Him we'll tribute bring, Laud Him our gracious King, And without ceasing sing, Worthy the Lamb I Laurence Batty was the youngest son of Mr. Giles Batty, a respectable yeoman of Newby Cote, near Settle, in Craven, Yorkshire. He completed his education at St. Catherine's Hall, Cambridge, where he formed an acquaintance with Mr. Delamotte, the friend of Ingham and the Wesleys. He adopted the principles, and drank in the spirit of the early Methodists. On his return to Yorkshire he joined Mr. Ingham, and began to preach in the district of Craven. He was the means of converting his parents and his two brothers, William and Christopher, both of whom were ITINERANT MINSTRELS. 21"] somewhat gifted hymnists in connection with James Allen. William, who was born in 17 14, was at first an active opposer of Divine truth, but was subsequently a diligent, popular, and devoted preacher of the Cross. He united himself with Mr. Ingham in 1745, and suffered much per- secution. His end was sudden, on the 12th of December, 1788. A long poem on " Messiah's Conquest" came from his pen, and he solaced himself amidst his trials with spiritual songs ; while he taught many a heart to sing after him on " Salvation to Christ ": — 0 dear Redeemer, who alone Can'st give me ease in pain, Whose blood did once for me atone, And pardon for me gain. 1 once was wholly dead in sin, And ignorant of Thee, And walked contentedly therein, Nor knew Thy love to me. But Thine all-seeing eye then view'd, And mark'd my every way ; And still in tender love pursued Me, who from Thee did stray. Thy Name is now through grace become More precious to my soul Than sweetest smell of rich perfume, Or Aaron's precious oil. Without Thy favour, though I live, Life but a burden is ; Naught else can satisfaction give ! Experience shows me this. My faithless heart, O Saviour dear, Correct with gentle hand ; In every danger be Thou near, Alone I cannot stand. Christopher Batty, one year younger than his brother William, was an associate in holy song. Two or three short poems were added to his hymns. His wife, Alice, emulated him in psalmody ; and his brother William's colleague, John Green, had the tuneful gift too. As Inghamite Methodist itinerants, indeed, they were banded in the work of supply- 2l8 THE POETS OF METHODISM. ing their converts with spiritual songs, and many of their hymns live still to testify to the entire consecration of their utmost power and genius to the service of Christ. About thirty years before his course was finished, Christopher Batty became elder and minister of the church at Kendal, from which charge he passed, in his eighty-second year, into im- mortal union with the glorified choir of early Methodist itinerant minstrels. A CONTROVERSIAL SONGSTER. 219 CHAPTER XL A CONTROVERSIAL SONGSTER. Rugged strength and radiant beauty- These were one in nature's plan ; Humble toil and heavenward duty— • This will form the perfect man. calm September Sunday afternoon, in the year ?3, crowds of people were descending the sides, or moving along the base of old Carnmarth Hill in Cornwall. They were gathering towards a remarkable amphitheatre, either natural or formed by the sinking of ancient mine-works. It was then a " green hollow, gently shelving down, about fifty feet deep, about two hundred feet across one way, and nearly three hundred the other." At five o'clock it was filled with people, and the ground around for some distance was covered by the crowd 3 " so that," as an eye-witness said, " supposing the space to be four score yards square, and to contain five persons in a square yard, there must have been about two-and-thirty thousand people." Two persons now appeared standing a little way down on the side of the hollow. They were clerical in appearance. One was rather a small man, of fair and agreeable countenance, keen of vision, and of strong purpose — evidently a man of power, though now nearing the allotted period of human life. This was John Wesley. He had preached in St. Agnes' " Church Town," at eight o'clock that morning j at one, he was found lifting up his voice to the people in Redruth ; and now, at five, he is standing to proclaim salvation to the thousands around him in the celebrated " Gwennap Pit." " It was," he says, " the largest assembly I ever preached to. Yet I found, upon 220 THE POETS OF METHODISM. inquiry, all could hear, even to the skirts of the congregation. Perhaps the first time that a man of seventy had been heard by thirty thousand persons at once." That was a grand and awfully impressive scene ; " I think," says one who was there, "the most magnificent spectacle which is to be seen on this side of Heaven. And no music is to be heard upon earth comparable to the sound of many thousand voices, when they are all harmoniously joined together, singing praises to God and the Lamb.'' The other figure standing by Wesley was that of a man rather taller and less neatly made ; a man in the prime of life, with a face that could not be looked at without interest ; open, well formed, and manly. The eye that kindled and flashed as the mighty music of the hymn rose from the en- thusiastic multitude, was the eye of a thinker, keen, telling of logical wariness and ready skill, and giving out, in harmony with its kindred features, expressions of genius, humour, boldness, ardent temper, and vivid imagination. It was Thomas Oliver's, one of Mr. Wesley's itinerant preachers, his friend and assistant polemic. He now came, in company with Mr. Wesley, to visit his friends in Cornwall. He had been on the ground before, and it was while on this Cornish round, or circuit, that he had the first of those impressive dreams which seemed to have called his poetic powers into action. " While I was in this circuit," he says, " I dreamed one night that Christ was come in the clouds to judge the world, and also that he looked exceedingly black at me. When I awoke I was much alarmed. I therefore humbled myself exceedingly, with fastings and prayer ; and was determined never to give over till my evidence of the love of Christ was made quite clear. One day as I was in prayer in my room, with my eyes shut, the Lord, as it were, appeared to the eye of my mind, as standing just before me, when ten thousand small streams of blood seemed to issue from every part of his body. This sight was so unexpected, and at the same time so seasonable, that for once I wept aloud — yea, and almost A CONTROVERSIAL SONGSTER. 221 fainted away. I now more fully believed His love to me, and that, if He was then to come to judgment, He would not frown, but rather smile on me 3 therefore, I loved and praised Him with all my heart. Some years after, I had a dream of a quite different sort. I dreamed that I was talking with two women concerning the Day of Judgment. Among other things, I thought 1 told them I was certain it was very near. On hearing this, I thought they burst into laughter and re- jected all I said. Being much grieved at this, I told them, e I will go and see if it is not as I have said.' Accordingly I went to the door, and looking up southward, I thought I saw the heavens open, and a stream of fire, as large as a small river, issuing forth. On seeing this, I thought I ran back to the -women, and said, ' You would not believe me, but come to the door and see with your own eyes that the day is come.' On hearing this, I thought they were much alarmed, and ran with me to the door. By the time we were got thither, I thought the whole concave, southward, was filled with an exceeding thick fiery mist, which swiftly moved northward, in a huge body, filling the whole space between the heavens and the earth as it came along. As it drew near, I thought, 1 The day is come, of which I have so often told the world. And now, in a few moments, I shall see how it will be writh me to all eternity ? ' And for a moment I seemed to feel myself in a state of awful suspense. When the fire was come close to me, I was going to shrink back • but thought, 'this is all in vain, as there is now no place of shelter left.' I then pushed myself forward into it, and found that the fire had no power to hurt me 5 for I stood as easy in the midst of it as ever I did in the open air. The joy I felt on being able to stand unhurt and undismayed amidst this awful burning cannot be described. Even so shall it be with all who are careful to enter in at the strait gate, and to walk closely and steadily in the narrow way all the days of their life 3 all these shall " Stand secure and smile, Amidst the jarring elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." 222 THE POETS OF METHODISM. And now, the dreamer was again in the land of dreams and visions ; standing by Wesley's side, looking out upon the awful multitude in the hollow valley which might remind him of " multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision ; " recall his old dreams about " the day of the Lord in the valley of decision;" and, perhaps, awaken a joy at the thought that during the course of his twenty years' pil- grimage since the night of his dream, he had so exercised his hallowed genius as to supply the Methodists with music as well as words to sing in jubilant anticipation of the Judg- ment. While he was standing on Cornish ground once more, people were everywhere, through the kingdom, sing- ing his tune to his grand Judgment Hymn — Come, immortal King- of Glory, Now in Majesty appear ; Bid the nations stand before Thee, Each his final doom to hear ; Come to judgment, Come Lord Jesus, quickly come. Speak the word, and lo ! all nature, Flies before Thy glorious face, Angels sing your great Creator, Saints proclaim His sovereign grace, While ye praise Him, Lift your heads and see Him come. See His beauty all resplendent, View Him in His glory shine, See His majesty transcendent, Seated on His throne sublime : Angels praise Him, Saints and angels praise the Lamb. Shout aloud ye heavenly choirs. Trumpet forth Jehovah's praise : Trumpets, voices, hearts, and lyres ! Speak the wonders of His grace ! Sound before Him Endless praises to His name. Ransom'd sinners, see His ensign, Waving thro' the purpled air ! 'Midst ten thousand lightnings shining, Jesus' praises to declare ; How tremendous Is this dreadful, joyful day. A CONTROVERSIAL SONGSTER. 223 Crowns and sceptres fall before Him, Kings and conquerors own His sway, Fearless potentates are trembling, While they see His lightnings play: How triumphant Is the world's Redeemer now. Noon-day beauty in its lustre Doth in Jesu's aspect shine, Blazing comets are not fiercer Than the flaming eyes Divine : O how dreadful Doth the Crucified appear. Hear His voice as mighty thunder, Sounding in eternal roar t Far surpassing many waters Echoing wide from shore to shore : Hear His accents Through th' unfathom'd deep resound. " Come," He saith, " ye heirs of glory, Come, the purchase of my blood :j Bless'd ye are, and bless'd ye shall be, Now ascend the mount of God ; Angels guard them To the realms of endless day." See ten thousand flaming seraphs, From their thrones as lightnings fly ; "Take," they cry, " your seats above us, Nearest Him who rules the sky : Favourite sinners, How rewarded are you now ! " Haste and taste celestial pleasure ; Haste and reap immortal joys ; Haste and drink the crystal river ; Lift on high your choral voice, While Archangels Shout aloud the great Amen.'* But the angry Lamb's determin'd Every evil to descry ; They who have His love rejected Shall before His vengeance fly, When He drives them To their everlasting doom. Now, in awful expectation, See the countless millions stand ; Dread, dismay, and sore vexation, Seize the helpless, hopeless band ; Baleful thunders, Stop and hear Jehovah's voice ! 224 THE POETS OF METHODISM. " Go from me," He saith, " ye cursed — Ye for whom I bled in vain — Ye who have my grace refused — Hasten to eternal pain ! " How victorious Is the conquering Son of Man ! See, in solemn pomp ascending, Jesus and His glorious train ; Countless myriads now attend Him, Rising to th' imperial plain; Hallelujah! To the bless'd Immanuel's name 1 In full triumph see them marching, Through the gates of massy light ; "While the city walls are sparkling With meridian glory bright ; How stupendous Are the glories of the Lamb ! On His throne of radiant azure, High above all heights He reigns — Reigns amidst immortal pleasure, While refulgent glory flames ; How diffusive Shines the golden blaze around ! All the heavenly powers adore Him, Circling round His orient seat; Ransom'd saints with angels vying, Loudest praises to repeat ; How exalted Is His praise, and how profound ! Every throne and every mansion, All ye heavenly arches ring; Echo to the Lord, salvation, Glory to our glorious King ! Boundless praises All ye heavenly orbs resound ! Praise be to the Father given, Praise to the Incarnate Son, Praise the Spirit, One, and Seven, Praise the mystic Three in One ; Hallelujah ! Everlasting praise be Thine ! This was the original hymn, first issued from Leeds, about four years after the hymnist's Lord had, as he says, " appeared to the eye of his mind j" and a few years after Charles Wesley had published his hymn — Lo ! He comes with clouds descending. A CONTROVERSIAL SONGSTER. 22