And this is a hymn of Wesley's

ON THE ADMISSION OF ANY PERSON INTO THE

SOCIETY.

Brother in Christ, and well beloved,

To Jesus and his servants dear, Enter and shew thyself approved, Enter, and find that God is here.

'Scaped from the World, redeemed from sin, By fiends pursued, by men abhorred, Come in, poor fugitive, come in,

And share the portion of thy Lord.

Welcome from Earth!-Lo, the right hand
Of fellowship to thee we give;
With open arms and hearts we stand,
And thee in Jesus' name receive.

Say, is thy heart resolved as ours?

Then let it burn with sacred love; Then let it taste the heavenly powers, Partaker of the joys above.

Jesu attend; Thyself reveal!

Are we not met in thy great Name? Thee in the midst we wait to feel,

We wait to catch the spreading flame.

Thou God, who answerest by fire,

The spirit of burning now impart, And let the flames of pure desire

Rise from the altar of our heart.

Truly our fellowship below

With Thee and with our Father is: In Thee eternal life we know

And Heaven's unutterable bliss.

In part we only know Thee here,

But wait thy coming from above,And I shall then behold Thee near, And I shall all be lost in love.

The following passages are from a tract by John Wesley, printed and published at Bristol in 1747, and sold for a penny, under the title of

THE CHARACTER OF A METHODIST.
To the Reader.

Since the name first came abroad into the world, many have been at a loss to know what a Methodist is: What are the Principles and Practice of those who are commonly called by that name; and what the distinguishing marks of this sect, which is everywhere spoken of?

And it being generally believed that I was able to give the clearest account of these things (as having been one of the first to whom that name was given, and the person by whom the rest were supposed to be directed), I have been called upon, in all manner of ways and with the utmost earnestness, so to do. I yield at last to the continued importunity, both of friends and enemies; and do now give the clearest account I can, in the presence of the Lord and Judge of Heaven and Earth, of the Principles and Practice whereby those who are called Methodists are distinguished from other men.

I say, those who are called Methodists; for let it be well observed, that this is not a name which they take to themselves, but one fixed upon them by way of reproach, without their approbation or consent. It was first given to three or four young men at Oxford by a student of Christchurch: either in allusion to the ancient sect of physicians so called (from their teaching that almost all diseases might be cured by a specific method of diet and exercise), or from their observing a more regular method of study and behaviour than was usual with those of their age and station.

I shall still rejoice (so little ambitious am I to be at the head of any sect or party) if the very name might never be mentioned more, but be buried in eternal oblivion. But if that cannot be, at least let those who will use it know the meaning of the word they use. Let us not always be fighting in the dark. Come, and let us look one another in the face. And perhaps some of you who hate what I am called, may love what I am (by the Grace of God): or, rather what I follow after, if that I apprehend that for which I am also apprehended of Christ Jesus.

1. The distinguishing marks of a Methodist are not his opinions of any sort. His assenting to this or that scheme of religion, his embracing any particular set of notions, his espousing the judgment of one man or another, are all quite wide of the point. Whosoever, therefore, imagines that a Methodist is a man of such or such an opinion, is grossly ignorant of the whole affair; he mistakes the truth totally. We believe, indeed, that all Scripture is given by Inspiration of God; and herein we are distinguished from Jews, Turks, and infidels. We believe this written Word of God to be the only and sufficient Rule, both of Christian faith and practice; and herein we are fundamentally distinguished from those of the Romish Church. We believe Christ to be the Eternal Supreme God; and herein are we distinguished from the Socinians and Arians. But as to all opinions which do not strike at the root of Christianity, we think and let think. So that whatsoever they are, whether right or wrong, they are no distinguishing marks of a Methodist.

2. Neither are Words or Phrases of any sort. We do not place our Religion, or any part of it, in being attached to any peculiar mode of speaking, any quaint or uncommon set of expressions. The most obvious, easy, common words wherein our meaning can be conveyed, we prefer before others both on ordinary occasions and when we speak of the things of God. We never, therefore, willingly or designedly deviate from the most usual way of speaking, unless when we express Scripture truths in Scripture words (which, we presume, no Christian will condemn). Neither do we affect to use any particular expressions of Scripture more frequently than others, unless they are such as are more frequently used by the inspired writers themselves. So that it is as gross an error to place the marks of a Methodist in his Words as in Opinions of any sort.

3. Nor do we desire to be distinguished by actions, customs, or usages of any indifferent nature. Our religion does not lie in doing what God has not enjoined, or abstaining from what He hath not forbidden. It does not lie in the form of our apparel, in the posture of our body, or the covering of our heads; nor yet in abstaining from marriage, nor from meats and drinks, which are all good if received with thanksgiving. Therefore, neither will any man, who knows whereof he affirms, fix the mark of a Methodist here; in any actions or customs purely indifferent, undetermined by the Word of God.

4. Nor, lastly, is he to be distinguished by laying the whole stress of religion upon any single part of it. If you say,

5. What then is the mark? Who is a Methodist, according to your own account? I answer: A Methodist is one who has the love of God in his heart, by the Holy Ghost given unto him; one who loves the Lord his God with all his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his mind, and with all his strength. .

6. He is therefore happy in God, yea, always happy, as having in Him a well of water springing up into everlasting life, and overflowing his soul with peace and joy. . . He rejoiceth, also, whenever he looks forward, in hope of the glory that shall be revealed.

7. And he who hath this hope thus full of immortality, in everything giveth thanks, as knowing that this (whatsoever it is) is the will of God, in Christ Jesus, concerning him. From Him, therefore, he cheerfully receives all, saying, Good is the will of the Lord, and whether the Lord giveth or taketh away, equally blessing the name of the Lord.

8. For, indeed, he prays without ceasing. It is given him always to pray and not to faint. Not that he is always in a house of prayer, though he neglects no opportunity of being there. Neither is he always on his knees, although he often is, or on his face, before the Lord his God. Nor yet is he always crying aloud to God, or calling upon Him in words; for many times the Spirit maketh intercession for him with groans that cannot be uttered; but at all times the language of his heart is this: Thou brightness of the eternal glory, unto Thee is my mouth, though without a voice, and my silence speaketh to Thee.

9. And while he thus always exercises his love to God by prayer without ceasing, rejoicing evermore, and in everything giving thanks, this commandment is written in his heart: that he who loveth God love his brother also; and he accordingly loves his neighbour as himself; he loves every man as his own soul. . .

10. For he is pure in heart. The love of God has purified his heart from all revengeful passions, from envy, malice, and wrath, from every unkind temper or malign affection; it hath cleansed him from contention. . . . For all his desire is unto God, and to the remembrance of His name.

11. Agreeable to this, his one desire is the one design of his life, namely, not to do his own will, but the will of Him that sent him.

12. And the tree is known by its fruit; for as he loves God, so he keeps His commandments. . It is his daily crown of rejoicing to do the will of God on earth as it is done in heaven.

13. Whatsoever he doth, it is all to the glory of God. Nor do the customs of this world hinder his running the race which is set before him. He knows that vice does not lose its nature, though it become ever so fashionable; and remembers that every man is to give an account of himself to God. He cannot, therefore, even follow a multitude to do evil; he cannot fare sumptuously every day, or make provision for the flesh to fulfil the lusts thereof. He cannot lay up treasures upon earth, no more than he can take fire into his bosom. He cannot adorn himself on any pretence with gold or costly apparel. He cannot join in or countenance any diversion which has the least tendency to vice of any kind. He cannot speak evil of his neighbour, no more than he can lie, either for God or man. He cannot utter an unkind word of any

one; for love keeps the door of his lips. He cannot speak idle words; no corrupt communication ever comes out of his mouth.

Lastly, as he has time, he does good unto all men, unto neighbours and strangers, friends and enemies, and that in every possible kind.

These are the principles and practices of our sect; these are the marks of a true Methodist. By these alone do those who are in derision so called desire to be distinguished from other men. If any man say, "Why, these are only the common fundamental principles of Christianity!" thou hast said: so I mean; this is the very truth, I know they are no other; and I would to God both thou and all men knew that I and all who follow my judgment do vehemently refuse to be distinguished from other men by any but the common principles of Christianity. . . . By these marks, by these fruits of a living faith, do we labour to distinguish ourselves from the unbelieving world, from all those whose minds or lives are not according to the Gospel of Christ. But from real Christians, of whatsoever denomination they be, we earnestly desire not to be distinguished at all, nor from any who sincerely follow after what they know they have not yet attained.

land and Scotland. In 1742 he visited Wales, which is still a stronghold of his followers. At Abergavenny he married a Welsh lady, a widow, who died in 1768. The marriage was unhappy.

At the age of forty-one Charles Wesley was married happily in Brecknockshire to Miss Sarah Gwynne. John married, about 1750, a widow with four children and a fortune, which he caused to be settled on herself. This lady plagued Wesley for twenty years with violent and causeless jealousy, and then abruptly left him. She lived ten years after the separation.

Between 1744 and 1748 Whitefield was again absent on a visit to America. He then became chaplain to Selina, Countess of Huntingdon. Before his return from a seventh visit to America, George Whitefield died, twenty years before John Wesley, of an asthmatic attack, at Boston, in 1770.

John Wesley died on the 2nd of March, 1791, in the sixty-fifth year of his ministry, and eightyeighth year of his age. During more than fifty years that he had spent in carrying his influence for good from place to place, he travelled about four thousand five hundred miles a year, chiefly on horseback. He had also for more than fifty years preached two, three, or four sermons a day, that is to say, more than forty thousand during his ministry; and he left behind him an organised religious society of 550 itinerant preachers and 140,000 members, in the United Kingdom and America.

1

Pope's "Essay on Man," Butler's "Analogy," and Wesley's preaching, all arose out of the reaction against stagnant religion, and the scepticism which had that for one of its sources. Wesley's success was due to the living power of an intense faith brought directly into contact with large masses of the people. His plea for lives that really worked out into actions the essential duties of a Christian had not only its hundred and forty thousand answers from men who understood and felt this direct way of bringing the Bible home to them, but among thousands of those who disapproved of Wesley's teaching, by the image of a living faith that he upheld with enthusiasm unabated during half a century of public work, religious life insensibly was quickened.

"The Ruins of Rome," by the Rev. John Dyer, whose "Grongar Hill" had been published in 1726, appeared about the time when Wesley began to preach, and three or four years after the "Essay on Man" and Butler's "Analogy." The date is 1740, and its quiet, religious spirit represents culture and taste thoughtfully spent upon reflection on the transitory glories of the world. John Dyer, who earlier in life had trained himself for a career in art, and visited Rome, sketched with his pencil what he better illustrated with his pen at a time when he was about to enter the Church as a clergyman. He began in 1740, at Calthorp, in Lincolnshire, with a living of £80 a year. For ten years he had no better income, and at his richest, Dyer received from two livings only £250 a year. The following lines contain the main thought of his poem :

1 See "Shorter English Poems," pp. 368-70.

RUINS OF ROME.

From the Illustration in Dyer's Poems (1761).

RUINS OF ROME.

See the tall obelisks from Memphis old, One stone enormous each, or Thebes convey'd; Like Albion's spires they rush into the skies." And there the temple, where the summon'd state In deep of night conven'd: ev'n yet methinks The vehement orator in rent attire Persuasion pours, Ambition sinks her crest, And lo the villain, like a troubled sea That tosses up her mire! Ever disguis'd, Shall Treason walk? shall proud Oppression yoke The neck of Virtue? Lo the wretch, abashed, Self-betray'd Catiline!

O Liberty,

Parent of Happiness, celestial born;
When the first man became a living soul,
His sacred genius thou; be Britain's care;
With her, secure, prolong thy lov'd retreat:
Thence bless mankind; while yet among her son
Ev'n yet there are, to shield thine equal laws,
Whose bosom kindle at the sacred names
Of Cecil, Raleigh, Walsingham and Drake.
May others more delight in tuneful airs;
In masque and dance excel; to sculptur'd stone

2 Compare line 51 of "Grongar Hill: "

"Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires."

Give with superior skill the living look;
More pompous piles erect, or pencil soft
With warmer touch the visionary board:
But thou, thy nobler Britons teach to rule;
To check the ravage of tyrannic sway;

To quell the proud; to spread the joys of peace,
And various blessings of ingenious trade.
Be these our arts; and ever may we guard,
Ever defend thee with undaunted heart.

Inestimable good! who giv'st us Truth,
Whose hand upleads to light, divinest Truth,
Array'd in ev'ry charm: whose hand benign
Teaches unwearied toil to clothe the fields,
And on his various fruits inscribes the name
Of Property: O nobly hailed of old
By thy majestic daughters, Judah fair,
And Tyrus and Sidonia, lovely nymphs,
And Libya bright, and all-enchanting Greece,
Whose num'rous towns and isles, and peopled seas,
Rejoiced around her lyre; th' heroic note
(Smit with sublime delight) Ausonia caught,
And planned imperial Rome. Thy hand benign
Reared up her tow'ry battlements in strength;
Bent her wide bridges o'er the swelling stream
Of Tuscan Tiber; thine those solemn domes
Devoted to the voice of humbler prayer;
And thine those piles undecked, capacious, vast,
In days of dearth where tender Charity
Dispensed her timely succours to the poor.
Thine too those musically-falling founts
To slake the clammy lip; adown they fall,
Musical ever; while from yon blue hills
Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts
Turn their innumerable arches o'er
The spacious desert, brightening in the sun,
Proud and more proud in their august approach
High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns,
Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind,
And here united pour their silver streams
Among the figured rocks, in murmuring falls,
Musical ever. These thy beauteous works:
And what beside felicity could tell

Of human benefit. More late the rest;
At various times their turrets chanced to rise,
When impious tyranny vouchsafed to smile.

Behold by Tiber's flood, where modern Rome Couches beneath the ruins: there of old With arms and trophies gleamed the field of Mars: There to their daily sports the noble youth Rushed emulous; to fling the pointed lance; To vault the steed; or with the kindling wheel In dusty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal; Or wrestling, cope with adverse swelling breasts, Strong grappling arms, close heads and distant feet; Or clash the lifted gauntlets: there they formed Their ardent virtues: in the bossy piles, The proud triumphal arches, all their wars, Their conquests, honours, in the sculptures live. And see from ev'ry gate those ancient roads, With tombs high verged, the solemn paths of Fame: Deserve they not regard? O'er whose broad flints Such crowds have rolled, so many storms of war; So many pomps; so many wond'ring realms: Yet still thro' mountains pierc'd, o'er valleys rais'd, In even state to distant seas around

They stretch their pavements. Lo the fane of Peace,
Built by that prince, who to the trust of power
Was honest, the delight of human kind.
Three nodding aisles remain; the rest an heap
Of sand and weeds; her shrines, her radiant roofs,
And columns proud, that from her spacious floor,
As from a shining sea, majestic rose

An hundred foot aloft, like stately beech
Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake,
Charming the mimic painter: on the walls
Hung Salem's sacred spoils; the golden board,
And golden trumpets, now concealed, entombed
By the sunk roof.-O'er which in distant view
The Etruscan mountains swell, with ruins crowned
Of ancient towns; and blue Soracte spires,
Wrapping his sides in tempests. Eastward hence,
Nigh where the Cestian pyramid divides
The mould'ring wall, behold yon fabric huge,
Whose dust the solemn antiquarian turns,
And thence, in broken sculptures cast abroad,
Like Sybil's leaves, collects the builder's name
Rejoiced, and the green medals frequent found
Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame :

The stately pines, that spread their branches wide
In the dun ruins of its ample halls,

Appear but tufts; as may whate'er is high
Sink in comparison, minute and vile.

These, and unnumbered, yet their brows uplift, Rent of their graces; as Britannia's oaks

On Merlin's mount, or Snowdon's rugged sides,
Stand in the clouds, their branches scatter'd round.
After the tempest; Mausoleums, Cirques,
Naumachios, Forums; Trajan's column tall,
From whose low base the sculptures wind aloft,
And lead through various toils, up the rough steep.
Its hero to the skies; and his dark tower
Whose execrable hand the city fired,
And while the dreadful conflagration blazed,
Played to the flames; and Phoebus' lettered dome
And the rough reliques of Carina's street,
Where now the shepherd to his nibbling sheep
Sits piping with his oaten reed; as erst
There piped the shepherd to his nibbling sheep,
When the humble roof Anchises' son explored
Of good Evander, wealth-despising king,
Amid the thickets. So revolves the scene;
So Time ordains, who rolls the things of pride
From dust again to dust. Behold that heap
Of mould'ring urns (their ashes blown away,
Dust of the mighty) the same story tell;
And at its base, from whence the serpent glides
Down the green desert street, yon hoary monk
Laments the same, the vision as he views,
The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the slave
Rests from his labours; where the insulting proud
Resigns his power; the miser drops his hoard;
Where human folly sleeps.-There is a mood,
(I sing not to the vacant and the young)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy,
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
When tribulation clothes the child of man,
When age descends with sorrow to the grave,
'Tis sweetly soothing sympathy to pain,
A gently wakening call to health and ease.
How musical! when all-devouring Time,

Here sitting on his throne of ruins hoar,

While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre,
How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy!
Cool evening comes; the setting sun displays
His visible great round between yon towers,
As through two shady cliffs; away, my Muse,
Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight

The many-figured sculptures of the path
Half beauteous, half effaced. The traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land

Oft hence conveys; and every realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods,
Deck their long galleries and winding groves;
Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts,
Yet still profuse of graces teems the waste.
Suffice it now th' Esquilian mount to reach
With weary wing, and seek the sacred rests
Of Maro's humble tenement; a low

Plain wall remains; a little sun-gilt heap,
Grotesque and wild; the gourd and olive brown
Weave the light roof: the gourd and olive fan
Their am'rous foliage, mingling with the vine,
Who drops her purple clusters through the green.
Here let him lie, with pleasing fancy soothed:
Here flowed his fountain; here his laurels grew;
Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard,
Framed the celestial song, or social walked
With Horace and the ruler of the world.
Happy Augustus! who so well inspired
Could'st throw thy pomps and royalties aside,
Attentive to the wise, the great of soul,
And dignify thy mind. Thrice glorious days,
Auspicious to the Muses! Then revered,
Then hallow'd was the fount, or secret shade,
Or open mountain, or whatever scene
The poet chose to tune the ennobling rime
Melodious; e'en the rugged sons of war,
E'en the rude hinds revered the poet's name:
But now-another age, alas! is ours.
Yet will the Muse a little longer soar,

Unless the clouds of care weigh down her wing,
Since nature's stores are shut with cruel hand,
And each aggrieves his brother; since in vain
The thirsty pilgrim at the fountains asks
The o'erflowing wave. Enough-the plaint disdain.

Dr. Edward Young, who took orders in 1727, and became chaplain to George II., was presented by his college, in 1730, to the rectory of Welwyn, Herts, and married, in 1731, Lady Elizabeth Lee, the daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, and widow of Colonel Lee. Young's wife had, by her former marriage, a daughter, who was married, in 1735, to Mr. Temple, son of Lord Palmerston. She died at Lyons, of consumption, when on the way to Nice for warmer climate, in the following year, 1736. Young was with her at the time; as he says in the "Night Thoughts:"

"I flew, I snatched her from the rigid north, And bore her nearer to the sun."

This step-daughter is the Narcissa of the third book of Young's "Night Thoughts." The Philander

I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought
From wave to wave of fancied misery

At random drove, her helm of reason lost :
Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) severer for severe :
The day too short, for my distress! and Night,
Even in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world:
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear an object finds:
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled;
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Silence and darkness! solemn sisters! twins
From ancient night, who nurse the tender thought
To reason, and on reason build resolve
(That column of true majesty in man),

Assist me: I will thank you in the grave;

The grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall
A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.

But what are ye?-Thou, who didst put to flight
Primæval silence, when the morning stars
Exulted, shouted o'er the rising ball;

O Thou! whose Word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.

Through this opaque of nature, and of soul,
This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe),
Lead it through various scenes of life and death;
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire.
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song;
Teach my best reason, reason; my best will,
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear.
Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poured
On this devoted head, be poured in vain.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time,
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue,
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,