With reference to this period she says in her journal:—"The spirit of God strove with me when but a little child. One time, I remember, while repeating my prayers to my aunt, the grace of God shone so sweetly upon me, I was melted down into tenderness before the Lord; and it seemed as if the glory of the Lord shone round about me, while I repeated the well-known hymn
'Glory to Thee, my God, this night.'
At another time, the Spirit of prayer was so poured upon me my sleep for a season fled. Thus the Lord brooded upon my infant mind. Glory be to his adorable name!"
Shortly after her return to York she heard the venerable founder of Methodism preach in Peaseholm Green Chapel; and though at that early age incompetent to retain any recollection of the sermon, his saintly appearance made on her imagination a vivid impression, which was perpetuated through life, and often mentioned in the family circle with the liveliest feelings of pleasure. On this occasion, the last on which he preached in York, Mr. Wesley appears to have been in one of his happiest moods, as he remarks in his journal, "The word was as fire, and all that heard it seemed to feel the power thereof;" a circumstance which no doubt greatly contributed to fix the memory of his features upon the mind of a child so young. And still more so, as the venerable man, on descending from the pulpit, placed his hand upon her head, and gave her his blessing. The Rev. J. Burdsall, who was also present, once communicated to the writer an amusing and interesting incident, that happened in course of the service, which illustrates Mr. Wesley's love of harmony, even when, he had lost the power to create it. It is well known that he delighted to hear the men and women each take their proper part in congregational singing; but it seems in this instance, the men in the warmth of their feelings had transgressed the limits assigned them. Mr. W., whose ear was offended by the slightest discord, somewhat sharply rebuked them. As this failed to produce the desired amendment, he stopped again, and said, "Listen to brother Masterman," who was at that time the leading singer. Still dissatisfied, he stopped a third time, and said, "Listen to me," at the same time taking up the strain, but as his voice was cracked, and broken with age, it afforded such a miserable example as to excite a general titter.
As a child Mary was distinguished by unusual vivacity of disposition, and her fondness for fun and frolic often betrayed her into trouble. At times she was wilful and passionate,—a spirit wisely checked by her mother, whose discipline was equally strict and judicious. Such ebullitions were transient, and invariably followed by feelings of regret and sorrow. Adverting to this subject in after life she said with deep gratitude, "I had a good mother and father to keep me in, and restraining grace." On several occasions her life was placed in imminent peril, and, but for that merciful providence, which specially watches over the "little ones," she must have fallen a victim to her thoughtlessness. One of these occurred when she was at school; where, by some means her dress caught fire; happily the smoke and smell of burning attracted the attention of her teacher who rushed to her rescue, and succeeded in extinguishing the flames, but not until her outer garments were completely consumed. Her education was very slender, being confined to the simplest rudiments of human knowledge,—a circumstance she often regretted, although in after life the disadvantage was in a great measure overcome by diligent and select reading.
When about eight years of age, the development of her early religious feelings received a partial check through the pernicious influence of a servant girl, who perceiving her love for singing, taught her, without the knowledge of her parents, a number of foolish songs. Two years later she gave decided indications of serious thought. She began to take pleasure in being alone, and acquired a remarkable love of solitude, which characterized her through life,—a feeling which was strengthened by reading an article in one of the early "Arminian Magazines." Sometimes she would steal off to the cottage of a pious old churchwoman of the name of Halifax, who lived at a short distance from her father's house; and listened with delight, while the good old lady read to her out of the Psalms, and talked about heavenly things. On one of these occasions she was so deeply affected by a sense of her sinfulness and accountability, that pointing to the cat which lay by the fireside, she exclaimed, "I wish I was that cat;" and when asked why, replied, "Because it has not a soul to save." The old lady gently rebuked the foolish thought, and, shewing her its wickedness, endeavoured to lead her to Him, who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me." Not long after she began to meet in her father's class, and received her first ticket at the hands of the Rev. Francis Wrigley, at that time Superintendent of the York circuit. By weekly intercourse with the people of God, her aspirations after divine sources of happiness gradually strengthened until she was twelve years old, when they assumed a more definite form; although, in consequence of her tender age, her views of evangelical truth were necessarily crude and defective; for she still "spake as a child, understood as a child, reasoned as a child," It was during a few days' visit to her aunt Elizabeth, who now resided in the suburbs of York, having married Mr. J. Hawkins of that city shortly after her father's death, that she became so unhappy on account of her sinful and miserable condition, that she could not refrain from much weeping. The thought of entering eternity without a change of heart filled her with alarm. Every looming cloud had a voice which spoke of the judgment to come; every unpropitious event awakened painful forebodings. Her fears, which were the genuine fruits of divine influence, were further aggravated by the popular excitement of the times. France was threatening war with England, and the prevailing apprehensions of the multitude communicated themselves with double force to the heart of the sorrowing child. "What," thought she, "if they should come now, and I should be killed in my sins." Indeed her trouble increased to such a degree that her aunt was grieved, imagining that her mother would think she had been unkindly treated. She therefore resolved to take her home. On the way a number of circumstances occurred which to Mary's childish imagination were pregnant with evil, and prognosticated nothing less than the day of general doom. The city was in a state of unusual commotion, a report had gained ground that the invader was at hand, some foolish person had caused the massive portcullis of the city gate to be let down, several recruiting parties were parading the streets, two of these she met, and the shrill blasts of a few mounted trumpeters, together with a dense and portentous cloud, which just at the moment spread itself upon the horizon, completed her dismay. She reached home in tears. Her mother, whose solicitude was awakened, inquired the cause. She replied, "Mother, I can't tell you, but nothing in this world will make me happy." Suspecting the real state of her feelings, her mother conversed kindly with her, and administered suitable consolation, but in vain. After committing herself to God in earnest prayer, she retired to rest with the conviction, that she was the greatest sinner in the world; but the next morning, which was the holy Sabbath, broke upon her with healing in its wings. She awoke with the words in her mind,
"What a blessing to know that my Jesus is mine."
Her soul was immediately filled with a calm sweet joy, which she was unable to describe. She arose from her bed, and went to the house of God, her heart still glowing with these newly awakened emotions; and while on her way thought within herself, "O that I had a voice that would reach to all the world, I would tell them how happy I am." This occurred on the 12th of February, 1795. But the transport of her feelings, after enduring for a season, at length subsided; yet not without leaving a permanent though perhaps not easily defined impression. It may be asked was this conversion? was it genuine? and in a child so young? We answer it would be very difficult to prove that it was not. One thing is certain, that from this time there was a settled purpose to serve the Lord, which spite of fluctuating feeling and periods of wintry coldness was steadily kept in view; ever and anon gathering strength until it ripened into maturity. The sapling, because it bends to the breeze is not therefore destitute of life; unless it be torn up by the roots, or scorched and withered by the noon-day sun, or absolutely frozen by the winter's cold, it will gradually wax and grow until its massive trunk is able to bid defiance to the storm. Conversing on this subject with one of her children at a late period in life, when her judgment was matured, and her views of divine truth rendered more clear by her approximation to a better world, she said, "I lost my peace because I grieved the Lord by a trifling disposition, but the Lord did not leave me;" then, employing the language of the lamented David Stoner, she added, "I have been converted a hundred times." To another of her children, after using similar language she said with peculiar, emphasis, "I have been aiming to please God all my life, I can say that." Her conviction was that the work was real, but that at the time, she did not understand the nature of it; and hence from causes clearly ascertainable, it was as in many similar cases, soon overshadowed by circumstances of doubt. The truth is, children are just as capable of experiencing the grace of God as persons of riper years; but they are not capable of defining their feelings, or of understanding the great doctrines of salvation,—and for this very reason, they are more liable to be subjected to fluctuations both of feeling and purpose. It would be well if some older people, who do not take the pains to obtain a clear and intelligent view of the religion they profess, were not equally unstable and from the same cause; if there was no occasion for the apostolic admonition, "Be not children in understanding; howbeit in malice be ye children, but in understanding be men." The feelings of children, when employed about the great subjects of religion and eternity, are not lightly to be discouraged, even when mixed up with much that a maturer judgment must condemn; they should be fostered with solicitous care. The tender plant requires gentle culture; touch it not too rudely lest you check its development; watch it carefully; support its weak and fragile stem; tenderly remove what is injurious; and give it plenty of scope, that it may put forth its young fresh leaves; and it will bloom by and by with all the richer fragrance and beauty. "Forbid them not," cries the Saviour. Let them come with their first fruits, and lay the offering of their childhood unsullied by unholy communion with the world at the Master's feet. Let them come with their cherry lips, and sparkling eyes, and loving hearts. Let them come before age has curdled their blood, and the pleasures of life have blunted the keenness of their susceptibilities. Let them come, let them come. The Saviour welcomes their approach. The fragrance of the sacrifice they bring is precious in his sight, and while he folds the little ones in his arms, he lifts his eyes to heaven, and "rejoicing in spirit, says, I thank thee O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes, even so Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight."
Providentially Mary Burdsall was under judicious direction, and retained her religious purpose although she lost the sweetness of her enjoyment. Her experience assumed that unsettled phase which often characterises the earlier stages of youthful piety. Now miserable from a consciousness of having grieved the Spirit of God, and again hopeful, confident, and happy. Sometimes she was driven even to despair, and admitted the thought that the day of grace was past for ever. One day while in this state of feeling she overheard her father conversing with a friend on the awful case of Francis Spira,[Footnote: "Francis Spira an advocate of Padua, Ann. 1545, that being desperate, by no counsell of learned men could be comforted; he felt, as he said, the pains of hell in his soule, in all other things he discoursed aright; but in this most mad. Frismelica, Bullovat, and some other excellent physicians, could neither make him eat, drink or sleep; no persuasion could ease him. Never pleaded any man so well for himself, as this man did against himself; and so he desperately died. Springer, a lawyer, hath written his life."—Burton's Anatomy of Melancholie.] her mind was filled with great horror, and she was constrained to seek refuge in prayer. While she was pleading with God the words were applied, "Turn ye at my reproof," and the snare was broken. During this period of mental conflict she steadfastly maintained her connexion with the church; and thus escaped that total loss of spiritual feeling, into which many, in similar circumstances, plunge themselves by withdrawing from the circle of religious influence. Her exceeding volatility of temper, which was the cause of her instability, often occasioned her bitter reflections; and as it was a source of trouble to herself, excited the anxiety of her mother, who frequently said to her, "There's a wide world will tame thee." Her own words in reference to this stage of her history were, "They never turned me out of class, but from my thoughtlessness and giddiness, I am sure, I was not a proper Methodist." Still the struggle between grace and nature was secretly going on; and every new proof of her own weakness but contributed to strengthen and establish her resolves.
About this time she became acquainted with Miss Barrett, afterwards Mrs. Zech. Taft, from whose counsels and example she derived much advantage. Her first introduction to this excellent woman occurred while on a visit to her uncle Mr. Wm. Stables, who had succeeded to his father's farm at Sandygate. It seems her uncle and aunt were invited to meet Miss B. at a social party at Harewood, but being otherwise engaged, it was agreed that Mary should go in their stead, accompanied by her aunt's sister. As she left the house her uncle said, "I hope they'll convert thee." On arriving at the place where the party was assembled she found a room full of strangers, and among them Miss B., to whom she was specially introduced as Richard Burdsall's daughter.