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twg_000000047500 | now endeavoured to help others to realise the same blessed hope. His intimate friends were told of the new joy that had come to him: he instructed the women who worked at the colleges, and when he went home induced his relatives to commence family prayers. Though the light had dawned upon him he was nevertheless full of faults. He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047501 | dressed showily, went to races, spent his Sundays carelessly. But gradually these habits were overcome, and he grew in holiness, becoming watchful of his conduct, praying more fervently, living nearer to Christ. In Simeon was ordained deacon in Ely Cathedral, and shortly after became honorary curate to Mr. Atkinson, vicar of St. Edward's Church, near King's College. He was already | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047502 | a marked man on account of his earnest life. He visited the parishioners as Mr. Atkinson's substitute, and was soon received with pleasure by them. The church became so full that the people could hardly find room. It is related that even the clerk's desk was invaded, and that when Mr. Atkinson returned after a holiday the clerk met him | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047503 | with the following strange welcome:-- "Oh, sir, I am so glad you are come: Now we shall have some room!" On the very first Sunday he took duty he showed the metal of which he was made; for, in going home after service, he heard voices high in dispute in one of the houses he passed. Straightway he went in, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047504 | reproved the couple who were at strife, and knelt down to pray. Peace was restored, and Simeon's character for earnestness was confirmed. Now came an eventful period in this good man's life. The minister of Trinity Church, Cambridge, having died, Simeon was appointed by the bishop. The parishioners, however, desired to have as minister the curate; and, as it was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047505 | impossible to gratify their wish, they made matters as unpleasant as possible for Simeon. The pew doors were nearly all kept locked, so that the space left for the congregation was much reduced. On the first Sunday there was practically no congregation; but later on people could not resist his influence, and the church began to fill. To provide places | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047506 | for those who came, Simeon had seats placed in various parts of the building. The churchwardens, however, threw them out into the church-yard! It was an uncomfortable beginning; but Simeon persevered. He began a course of Sunday evening lectures, to which the people flocked in crowds; but the churchwardens locked the church doors and carried off the keys. Besides beings | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047507 | rude and unmannerly, that was distinctly illegal; but Simeon put up with the affront for the sake of peace. When necessary he could be firm. The young men threw stones at the church windows and broke them. On one occasion Simeon discovered the offender, and obliged him to read a public confession of his fault. The church was crowded. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047508 | young man read the paper which Simeon had prepared for him, but did so in a voice low and partially inaudible. Then Simeon himself, taking the paper from him, read the apology in such tones that none could fail to hear. The young men were impressed, and the congregation listened to the sermon that followed with more than usual attention. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047509 | He was of all men the most humble; yet this did not prevent his speaking honestly and openly when he considered by so doing he could be of service. Thus a friend once asked him, after having preached a showy sermon with which he himself was remarkably satisfied, "How did I speak this evening?" "Why, my dear brother," said Simeon, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047510 | "I am sure you will pardon me; you know it is all love, my brother--but, indeed, it was just as if you were knocking on a warming-pan--tin, tin, tin, tin, without any intermission!" Once a party of undergraduates laid an ambush for Simeon, intending to assault him. He, however, by accident happened to go home that night another way. Not | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047511 | only had he to put up with active but also with much passive opposition. But he went on in faith and charity, till his enemies became his friends--his friends, his ardent and reverent admirers. We must pass over without further comment a life of humility, love, and holiness--a life full of good works at home, and ardently interested in missions | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047512 | abroad. In , when Simeon was seventy-two years old, he preached his last sermon before the university. The place was crowded. The heads of houses, the doctors, the masters of art, the bachelors, the undergraduates, the townsmen, all crowded to hear the venerable preacher. They hung on his words and listened with the deepest reverence. His closing days were singularly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047513 | bright and happy. Three weeks before his death a friend, seeing him look more than usually calm and peaceful, asked him what he was thinking of. "I don't think now," he answered brightly; "I enjoy." At another time his friends, believing the end was at hand, gathered round him. "You want to see," he remarked, "what is called a dying | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047514 | scene. That I abhor.... I wish to be alone with my God, the lowest of the low." One evening those watching beside him thought he was unconscious, his eyes having been closed for some hours. But suddenly he remarked:-- "If you want to know what I am doing, go and look in the first chapter of Ephesians from the third | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047515 | to the fourteenth verse; there you will see what I am enjoying now." On Sunday, 13th November, just as the bells of St. Mary's were calling together the worshippers to service he passed away. He had accepted an invitation to preach a course of four sermons, and would have delivered the second of the course on that very afternoon. I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047516 | am permitted, by the kindness of the Rev. H.C.G. Moule, from whose delightful biography the foregoing sketch has been compiled, to reproduce a page from this address. "Who would ever have thought I should behold such a day as this?" wrote Simeon. "My parish sweetly harmonious, my whole works stereotyping in twenty-one volumes, and my ministry not altogether inefficient at | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047517 | the age of seventy-three.... But I love the valley of humiliation." In that last sentence, perhaps, lies the secret of the man's far-reaching and undying influence. A SOLDIER MISSIONARY. THE STORY OF HEDLEY VICARS. It was the 22nd March, , just outside Sebastopol. The night was dark and gusty. Close to the Russian entrenchments was an advanced post of the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047518 | British forces, commanded by Captain Hedley Vicars. Fifteen thousand Russians under cover of the gloom had come out from Sebastopol and driven our French allies out of their advanced trenches. Then a portion of this force stealthily advanced, seeking to take the British by surprise. The first to discover the presence of the enemy was Hedley Vicars. With great judgment | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047519 | he made his men lie down till the Russians were within twenty paces. Then, springing to his feet, he shouted:-- "Now, 97th, on your pins and charge!" His force was about , that of the enemy nearly ! Wounded in the breast at the first onset, he still led the charge. "Men of the 97th, follow me!" rang out his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047520 | voice above the din of battle, and leaping the parapet of the entrenchment he charged the enemy down the ravine. "This way, 97th!" was his last command--still at the head of his men. His sword had already dealt with two of the foe, and was again uplifted, when a musket shot, fired at close quarters, severed an artery; and the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047521 | work on earth of this gallant man was over. Hedley Vicars was a true soldier and earnest Christian. The last words he wrote, penned the night before he died, were: "I spent the evening with Cay. I read Isaiah, xli.; and he prayed. We walked together during the day, and exchanged our thoughts about Jesus." He spent a busy time | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047522 | in the Crimea, doing plenty of hard work in the trenches; and when off duty engaged in hospital visiting, tract and stributing, attending prayer meetings and mission services, constant in his Bible reading, and always endeavouring to do good to others. Here is an entry from his diary on the 4th March, : "Sunday. Had Divine service in camp. We | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047523 | afterwards met together in a tent. All present. Then sat on a regimental board, after which I went to the Guards' camp for Cay; and we then went, laden with tracts, books and prayers, to the remaining hospitals of the Second Division, where we distributed all we had. Had service in our hospital tent on my return, and prayed with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047524 | one of the sick, particularly, who asked me to do so... I spoke to him of and directed him to 'look to Jesus' the Saviour. Service in the tent again in the evening. ... Oh, what a happy day this has been!... I must now conclude, as I must get ready for the trenches." [Illustration: HEDLEY VICARS LEADING THE 97TH.] | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047525 | On 12th January he wrote: "I have just returned from a night in the trenches, having come off the sick list yesterday morning. Last Sunday I was unable to leave my tent, but I had happy communion with Jesus in my solitude, and derived much pleasure from the fourteenth and fifteenth of St. John. How true is the peace of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047526 | mind that cleaving to Christ brings to a man! There is nothing like it in this world." Such was Hedley Vicars--a bright, loving, faithful Christian. He knew what it was to be without peace; for having got into debt when he was first in the army, and knowing the distress it caused his family at home, his mind was so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047527 | troubled that he wrote to his mother: "Oh, what agony I have endured! What sleepless nights I have passed since the perusal of that letter! The review of my past life, especially the retrospect of the last two years, has at last quite startled me, and at the same time disgusted me." And again: "Oh, that I had the last | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047528 | two years allotted to me to live over again!" His mother's letters stirred him to sorrow for past faults and desires to live a new life. The sudden death of his fellow-officer, Lieut. Bindon, made him realise the uncertainty of earthly things. In November, , whilst at Halifax, Nova Scotia, he was awaiting the return of a brother-officer to his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047529 | room, and idly turning over the leaves of a Bible that was upon the table. He caught sight of the words, "The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin". The message went home. That night he hardly slept. With the morning came LIGHT AND LIFE. Like Christian in the _Pilgrim's Progress_ he looked to the cross, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047530 | and his burden rolled away. Feeling keenly his own weakness he bought a large Bible, and placed it open on the table in his sitting-room, determined that an open Bible in the future should be his colours. "It was to speak for me," he said, "before I was strong enough to speak for myself." The usual result followed. His friends | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047531 | did not like his "new colours". One accused him of "turning Methodist," and departed; another warned him not to become a hypocrite, and remarked, "Bad as you were, I never thought you would come to this, old fellow!" So for a time he was nearly deserted. But he had got that which was better than any ordinary friendships. Though he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047532 | often came under the fire of jeers and taunts--more trying to most men than the rifle bullets of the enemy--he experienced a new joy which increased and deepened. Later on he would spend four or five hours daily in Bible reading, meditation and prayer, so that whereas he had written a few months earlier: "Oh! dear mother, I wish I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047533 | felt more what I write!" he was now daily becoming more earnest, patient and watchful, and was gradually putting on the whole armour of God. And so, during those three short years that intervened between his call to grace and his death at the early age of thirty, he did the work of a lifetime; and of him it can | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047534 | be truly said (as of many another alluded to in this book) that "he being dead yet speaketh". THE LASS THAT LOVED THE SAILORS. THE STORY OF AGNES WESTON. "I was obliged to go to church, but I was determined not to listen, and oftentimes when the preacher gave out the text I have stopped my ears and shut my | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047535 | eyes that I might neither see nor hear." Thus writes Agnes Weston of the days of her girlhood. There was therefore a time in the life of this devoted woman when there seemed no prospect of her doing good to any one--to say nothing of the great work she has accomplished in giving a helping hand to our sailors in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047536 | every part of the world. However, she got out of this Slough of Despond, and having become convinced of God's love she told the good story to the sick in hospitals, to soldiers and sailors without number, and has done more for the good of Jack Tar afloat and ashore than perhaps any other man or woman. Her public work | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047537 | commenced at the Bath United Hospital, where in she visited the patients. These looked forward so eagerly to her helpful conversation that in course of time it was arranged she should give a short Gospel address in each of the men's wards once a week. One day a man who had met with a terrible accident was brought into the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047538 | hospital whilst she was there. His case was hopeless, and Miss Weston asked that she might be allowed to speak to him. She whispered to him the text, "God so loved the world"; and, though he gave no sign of taking it in, yet presently, when she repeated it, big tears rolled down his face. The word of comfort had | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047539 | reached him. Another day she came across a poor fellow with both legs broken; and after a little earnest talk he said, "I've been a bad fellow, but I'll trust Him". Others she found who had been already influenced by Miss Marsh; and so her task of teaching was made easier. At the Sunday school she showed so great a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047540 | genius for taming unruly boys that the curate handed over to her the very worst of the youths, that she might "lick them into shape". Ere long the boys' class developed into a class for working men, which grew and grew till it reached an average attendance of a hundred. After that followed temperance work. This is how Miss Weston | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047541 | came to sign the pledge. She was working hard at meetings for the promotion of the temperance cause when a desperate drunkard, a chimney sweep by trade, came to her at one of the meetings and was going to sign the pledge. Pausing suddenly he remarked, "If you please, Miss Weston, be you a teetotaler?" "No," she replied; "I only | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047542 | take a glass of wine occasionally, of course in strict moderation." Laying down the pen he remarked he thought he'd do the same. So after this Miss Weston became an out-and-out teetotaler, duly pledged. She had some experience of good work in the army before she took to the navy. The 2nd Somerset Militia assembled every year for drill; and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047543 | for their benefit coffee and reading rooms were started and entertainments arranged, Miss Weston taking an active part in their promotion. The soldiers' Bible class which she conducted was well attended; and altogether, as one of the officers remarked, "the men were not like the same fellows" after they had been brought under her influence. The way Agnes Weston was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047544 | first introduced to the sailors was singular. She had written to a soldier on board the troopship _Crocodile_, and he showed the letter to a sailor friend, who remarked: "That is good: we poor fellows have no friend. Do you think she would write to me?" "I am sure she will," replied the soldier; "I will write and ask her." | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047545 | The good news that there was a kind friend willing to write to them gradually spread; and sailor after sailor wrote to Miss Weston, and their correspondence grew so large that at length she had to print her letters. Even in the first year she printed copies a month of her letters ("little bluebacks" the sailors called them, on account | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047546 | of the colour of their cover); but before many years had passed as many as , a month were printed and circulated. Then the sailor boys wanted a letter all to themselves, saying they could not fully understand the men's bluebacks. Miss Weston could not refuse; so she printed them a letter too; and many a reply she had from | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047547 | the boys, telling her of their trials and difficulties, and the help her letters had been to them. Before Miss Weston had been long at work she thought it would be useful if she went on board the vessels, and had a chat about temperance with the men. But there was a good deal of difficulty in the way to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047548 | begin with. A man would have been allowed readily enough, but a _woman_ to invade her Majesty's ships,--it was not to be thought of! At length Admiral Sir King Hall became interested in the subject. He determined to hear what Miss Weston had to say to the men, and, if he was satisfied that her teaching would benefit them, to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047549 | assist her in her object. He got together a meeting of dockyard workmen, and asked her to speak to them. So pleased was he with her address that the word went abroad to all the ships in the harbour: "Don't be afraid to let Miss Weston come on board and speak to your ship's company. I'll stand security for her." | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047550 | She had some grand audiences on the ships, those she addressed sometimes numbering as many as . One day when she went out to the _Vanguard_ that vessel was getting up steam ready to go away, having received sudden orders to put out to sea. But, when the captain heard Miss Weston was there to keep an appointment, he put | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047551 | out the accommodation ladder, took her on board, had the notice piped that she had come to give an address; and soon a crowd of sailors was swarming round her in the upper deck battery, standing, sitting, lying, kneeling--all earnestly listening. Then the pledge book was brought out and placed on one of the big guns, and about forty signed. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047552 | On H.M.S. _Topaze_ the grog tub was used as a table for signing the pledge book, one sailor remarking (to the tub): "Sixty odd nails in your coffin to-day, old fellow! If they all hold firm I would not give much for your life." At the present day on board every ship in the service there is a branch of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047553 | the Royal Navy Temperance Society, and thus our sailors are being encouraged to become sober as well as gallant men. Having seen to Jack's welfare afloat, the next thing was to look after him on shore; for though the song says:-- If love's the best of all that can a man befall; Then Jack's the king of all--for they all | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047554 | love Jack; yet as a matter of fact there are always sharks on the look-out to cheat and rob Jack whenever he has money in his pocket. Miss Weston took counsel with some officers in the service, and engaged a room for meetings at Devonport. The first Sunday one boy alone came, and next Sunday not a solitary lad made | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047555 | his appearance; so Miss Wintz, in whose house she was staying, offered a kitchen as more homely, and tea and cake as an attraction. Soon the audience reached a dozen; then all the chairs were filled, and very soon the meetings became so large that the kitchen would not contain all who came; and then a bigger building was provided. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047556 | Of course money was needed to enable Miss Weston to develop her scheme to such an extent. But she just asked in the right way; and before long, from one source and another, a sum of nearly was subscribed, which bought and fitted up a Sailors' Institute and Rest. Great was the rejoicing of Jack ashore to have a place | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047557 | where he could thoroughly enjoy himself without fear of being plundered or getting drunk. In fact, so great was the enthusiasm that, the night before the house was to be opened, three sailors presented themselves, and said they had asked for special leave to be ashore that night, that they might be the first to sleep in the building. It | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047558 | turned out that they were the right sort of jacks; for, when the attendant went round to see if all was safe for the night, he found the three seated together, one of them reading aloud the Bible. Not only has this home prospered, but similar homes have been founded in other places. In Portsmouth Miss Weston's Sailors' Rest is | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047559 | one of the most noted buildings in the town; whilst the principle that Jack, who fights our battles at sea, and keeps our country prosperous by his labours aboard ship, needs to be made happy when he is ashore is far more fully acknowledged than it used to be. Miss Weston's homes are as bright almost as the sunshine. Cheap | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047560 | and good food, tea and coffee both hot and fresh, plenty of light, lots of periodicals and games; and, for those who wish it, short meetings for prayer and praise. There is a great deal more to tell about Miss Weston, but my space is short; those, however, who wish to know more will find plenty of information in the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047561 | little alled _Our Blue Jackets_. A GREAT COMMANDER ON A FAMOUS BATTLEFIELD THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON AT WATERLOO. It was on Sunday, 18th June, , that the famous battle of Waterloo was fought. The British army of , men and the French army of , lay on the open field the night before that memorable struggle. It had been a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047562 | wet and stormy night; at dawn the rain was falling heavily, the ground was saturated, and the troops in the rival armies were thoroughly drenched. About nine o'clock it cleared up, but on account of the rainfall no movement was made by the French till towards twelve o'clock. On the night of the 17th the Duke of Wellington made every | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047563 | portion of his army take up the position it was to occupy on the following day. He slept a few hours at the village of Waterloo and rose early in the morning to write letters, giving orders what was to be done in case the battle was lost: although he felt sure of winning. Before leaving the village he saw | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047564 | to the preparation of hospitals for the wounded, and to the arrangements made for the distribution of the reserves of ammunition. Then mounting his favourite charger, Copenhagen, he rode to the positions where his men were posted, and made a careful and thorough inspection. The farm house of Hougoumont, where some of the most furious fighting of the day took | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047565 | place, received his special attention. Having thus done all that a commander could do to ensure the success of the day, he rode back to the high ground from which he could command a full view of the battle, and with a face calm and serene waited for the French attack. It was this serenity which had so great an | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047566 | effect on his troops. They knew their great commander, and had confidence in him, and this aided them during that eventful day in holding their positions with that stubborn courage which destroyed all the hopes of the Emperor Napoleon. At Waterloo for the first time the two greatest commanders of the age met face to face. Here across the valley | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047567 | they watched each other in stern anticipation as the church bells called worshippers together for prayer. At about half-past eleven Napoleon's troops advanced to the attack; and from this time till six or seven o'clock a series of terrific charges continued to be made by the French, resisted and defeated by the steady bravery of the British and Germans. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047568 | duke was often in the thick of the fight, and in so great danger that his staff advised him for the good of the army to withdraw to a somewhat safer position. Passing one of the squares of grenadiers a shell fell among them, and the duke waited to see the result. Several soldiers were blown to pieces by the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047569 | bursting of the shell, but Wellington seemed quite unmoved either by the terrible sight or his own danger. All day long the duke was cool as if he had been riding among his men in Hyde Park. Wherever he went a murmur of "Silence! stand to your front!" was heard, and at his presence men grew steady as on parade. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047570 | Again and again commanders told him of the fearful havoc made in the ranks of their brigades, and asked either for support or to be allowed to withdraw their men. They generally received this answer, "It is impossible; you must hold the ground to the last man". When asked by some of his staff what they should do if he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047571 | fell, he gave the same answer, "My plan is simply to stand my ground here to the last man". The duke seemed to bear a charmed life. Every member of his staff but one was during the day either killed or wounded, whilst he escaped unhurt. Wherever the danger seemed greatest there was the duke to be found inspiriting his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047572 | men, restraining them, or putting fresh heart into them. "Hard pounding this, gentlemen!" he remarked to a battalion on which the French shells were falling with destructive fury; "but we will try who can pound the longest." "Wait a little longer, my lads," was the duke's reply to the murmur which reached him from some of his troops who had | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047573 | suffered heavily from the French fire and were anxious to charge, "and you shall have your wish." Once when the fire was concentrated on the spot where he was with his staff he told them to separate a little, so as to afford a less conspicuous mark for the enemy. At another time, when some German troops hesitated to advance | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047574 | against the French, the duke put himself at their head. When Napoleon's Old Guard was advancing up the hill, the only sight they could see was the duke and a few mounted officers, till a voice was heard, "Up, guards, and at them!" And the best men in the whole French army, the pick of the bravest of the brave, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047575 | fell back before the onset of the British guards. At about eight o'clock the duke gave the joyful signal for an advance all along the line. For nearly nine hours the British had been stormed at with shot and shell, had been charged again and again, and had stood firm though impatient. Now they received the signal with a fierce | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047576 | delight, and dashed forward against the enemy with a fury which nothing could resist. The duke was amongst the first to advance, and spoke joyously to the men as he rode along. The bullets were whistling around him, and one of his staff ventured to point out to him the terrible danger he was running. "Never mind," said the duke, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047577 | "let them fire away: the battle's won, and my life is of no consequence now." About , men out of Wellington's army were killed or wounded on the day of this great battle. But Europe was saved. The duke, who appeared so calm and unmoved in battle, thus wrote just afterwards, when the excitement of the conflict was over: "My | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047578 | heart is broken at the terrible loss I have sustained in my old friends and companions and my poor soldiers. Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won." A PRINCE OF PREACHERS. THE STORY OF JOHN WESLEY. "I do intend to be more particularly careful of the soul of this child that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047579 | Thou hast so mercifully provided for than ever I have been, that I may do my endeavour to instil into his mind the principles of Thy true religion and virtue. Lord, give me grace to do it sincerely and prudently, and bless my attempts with good success!" Thus wrote Susanna Wesley of her son John. The child had been nearly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047580 | burned to death when he was about six years old in a fire that broke out at the Rectory of Epworth, where John and Charles Wesley and a large family were born. Mrs. Wesley devoted herself to the training of her children, taught them to cry softly even when they were a year old, and conquered their wills even earlier | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047581 | than that. Her one great object was so to prepare her little ones for the journey of life that they might be God's children both in this world and the next. To that end she devoted all her endeavours. Is it wonderful that, with her example before their eyes and her fervent prayers to help them, the Wesleys made a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047582 | mark upon the world? John Wesley--"the brand plucked out of the burning," as he termed himself--when a boy was remarkable for his piety. At eight his father admitted him to the Holy Communion. He had thus early learned the lesson of self-control; for his mother tells us that having smallpox at this age he bore his disease bravely, "like a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047583 | man and indeed like a Christian, without any complaint, though he seemed angry at the smallpox when they were sore, as we guessed by his looking sourly at them". At the age of ten John Wesley went to Charterhouse School. For a long time after he got there he had little to live on but dry bread, as the elder | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047584 | boys had a habit of taking the little boys' meat; but so far from this hurting him he said, in after life, that he thought it was good for his health! Although he was not at school remarkable for the piety he had shown earlier, yet he never gave up reading his Bible daily and saying his prayers morning and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047585 | evening. At the age of twenty-two he began to think of entering the ministry, and wrote to his parents about it. He also commenced to regulate the whole tone of his life. "I set apart," he writes, "an hour or two a day for religious retirement; I communicated every week; I watched against all sin, whether in word or deed. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047586 | I began to aim at and pray for inward holiness." In September, , when he had just passed his twenty-second year, he was ordained. Thirteen years later John Wesley began that series of journeys to all parts of the kingdom for the purpose of preaching the Gospel, which continued for over half a century. In that time it is said | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047587 | that he travelled , miles, and preached more than , sermons--an average of more than two for every day of the year. As to the numbers who flocked to hear some of his addresses they can best be realised by those who have attended an international football match, when , persons are actually assembled in one field, or at a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047588 | review, when a like number of people are together. It seems impossible to realise that one voice could reach such a multitude; yet it is a fact that some of John Wesley's open-air congregations consisted of over , persons. Those were the early days of Methodism, when Whitefield and Wesley were preaching the Gospel, and giving it a new meaning | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047589 | to the multitude. Here is Wesley's record of one day's work: "May, , Sunday, .--I preached at Astbury at five, and at seven proclaimed at Congleton Cross Jesus Christ our wisdom and righteousness and sanctification and redemption. It rained most of the time that I was speaking; but that did not hinder abundance of people from quietly attending. Between twelve | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047590 | and one I preached near Macclesfield, and in the evening at Woodly-green." His addresses were so fervent that they acted at times like an electric shock. Some would drop down as if thunderstruck, others would cry aloud, whilst others again would have convulsions. People did not understand such a state of things. Bishop Butler, author of the _Analogy of Religion_, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047591 | was ill pleased at a style of preaching so different from that to which the people of the day were accustomed; and told Wesley so. But the mission of John Wesley was to rouse the masses. This he did, though at great peril to his own life; for his preaching often produced strong opposition. Thus in June, , at Wednesbury | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047592 | the mob assembled at the house where he was staying, and shouted "Bring out the minister; we will have the minister!" But Wesley was not a bit frightend. He asked that their captain might be brought in to him, and after a little talk the man who came in like a lion went out like a lamb. Then Wesley went | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047593 | out to the angry crowd, and standing on a chair asked, "What do you want with me?" "We want you to go with us to the justice!" cried some. "That I will, with all my heart," he replied. Then he spoke a few words to them; and the people shouted: "The gentleman is an honest gentleman, and we will spill | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047594 | our blood in his defence". But they changed their minds later on; for they met a Walsall crowd on their way, who attacked Wesley savagely, and those who had been loud in their promises to protect him--fled! Left to the mercy of the rable, he was dragged to Walsall. One man hit him in the mouth with such force that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047595 | the blood streamed from the wound; another struck him on the breast; a third seized him and tried to pull him down. "Are you willing," cried Wesley, "to hear me?" "No, no!" they answered; "knock out his brains, down with him, kill him at once!" "What evil," asked Wesley, "have I done? Which of you all have I wronged by | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047596 | word or deed?" Then he began to pray; and one of the ringleaders said to him:-- "Sir, I will spend my life for you; follow me, and no one shall hurt a hair of your head." Others took his part also--one, fortunately, being a prizefighter. Wesley thus describes the finish of this remarkable adventure:-- "A little before ten o'clock God | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047597 | brought me safe to Wednesbury, having lost only one flap of my waistcoat, and a little skin from one of my hands. From the beginning to the end I found the same presence of mind as if I had been sitting in my own study. But I took no thought from one moment to another; only once it came into | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047598 | my mind that, if they should throw me into the river, it would spoil the papers that were in my pocket. For myself I did not doubt but I should swim across, having but a thin coat and a light pair of shoes." At Pensford the rabble made a bull savage, and then tried to make it attack his congregation; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047599 | at Whitechapel they drove cows among the listeners and threw stones, one of which hit Wesley between the eyes; but after he had wiped away the blood he went on with his address, telling the people that "God hath not given us the spirit of fear". At St. Ives in Cornwall there was a great uproar, but Wesley went amongst | 60 | gutenberg |
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