‘Thou bidd’st me now in peace depart;
For I have known my precious Lord,
Have clasped Thee, Saviour, in my heart,
My eyes Thy glorious joy have seen,’
He spake, he died, and entered in.”
The principal facts in Hervey’s life have been narrated; and eulogy is not needed. His devout and loving piety has been amply illustrated in the numerous extracts from his letters. In learning, he was inferior to few. His acquaintance with the Latin authors was extensive; and it was one of his peculiarities, when he was called to tea, to bring with him his Hebrew Bible or Greek Testament, and lovingly instruct the members of his family, from the sacred text. His kindness to the poor was only bounded by his means. Private fortune he had none; and, after the payment of his curate, his church emoluments were small; but all the profits arising from the sale of his books,—no inconsiderable sum,—were devoted to the cause of charity; and one of his last directions was, that all future profits should be constantly applied to the same sacred purpose. As the master of a family, his example was worthy of imitation. Twice a day his domestics were summoned for holy worship. At nine every night, he spent about a quarter of an hour in expounding a text of Scripture, and concluded with a prayer. At eight next morning, each of his servants was required to repeat the text of the previous evening, when he gave a summary of his exposition, and again engaged in prayer. As a friend, he was affectionate and faithful. “Though always ill,” said Dr. Stonehouse, “Hervey was always cheerful.” “I am always weak and ill,” he himself remarked; “half dead while I live; yet my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.” His religion, however, led him to live a life of comparative retirement. The gentlemen of his neighbourhood showed him great respect; but he was seldom among their table guests; observing, “I can hardly name a polite family where the conversation ever turns on the things of God. I hear much frothy chit-chat; but not a word of Christ. And I am determined not to visit those companies where there is not room for my Master as well as for myself.”
His ministerial duties were all performed with the greatest strictness. Few of his sermons have been printed,[258] for the simple reason, that, except in outline and in shorthand, few were written; but, in the pulpit, he was always earnest, fervent, and affectionate, and often eloquent. He spake, because he believed and felt. Besides his Sunday preaching, he set up a week-night lecture; catechized the children; and, to the utmost of his ability, visited the homes of his parishioners. “Mr. Hervey,” said the Rev. Henry Venn, “was the most extraordinary man I ever saw.”[259] Probably there was a little of extravagance in this gushing eulogy; but there must have been distinguished excellence to prompt such a man as Venn to utter it. In the same way, the rapturous effusions of John Ryland must be received with caution; and likewise not a few of the hyperbolical encomiums of Mr. Brown; but we heartily endorse the judgment of the late Rev. David McNicol:—
“If Seneca is right in placing the praise of goodness above that of greatness, Mr. Hervey has secured to himself, for ages, the noblest kind of estimation. As a man, he was the delight of all who had the happiness to be numbered among his acquaintance. Friendship in him was Christian love, softened with a tenderness peculiar to himself, and placed on a select object; a love accompanied by the most ingenuous confidence, and exercised with unwearied honesty. In every other relation also of the circle in which he moved, he was equally remarkable for his courtesy and virtue.”
Hervey was one of the most godly men of the age in which he lived; and certainly, he was one of the most popular and successful authors. It is a curious fact, that, at least, four of the Oxford Methodists were gifted with poetic genius,—the two Wesleys, Gambold, and Hervey. In early life, Hervey wrote several short poems, some of them beautiful, and sent several of his hymns to his friend Whitefield; but, strangely enough, he ceased to cultivate his talent, from a fear lest his poetry should feed the pride and vanity of his heart. Throughout life, however, his love of nature was that of an enthusiast; and his “Meditations,” especially, to a great extent, are poetry in prose. Devoutly he blesses the Providence of God, for his well-used microscope, which, in the gardens and fields about Weston-Favel, he almost always took with him. He believed and intimated that the discovery of so much of the wisdom, power, and goodness of the great Creator, even in the minutest parts of vegetable and animalcular creation, helped to attune his soul to sing the song of the four-and-twenty elders, “Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power; for Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created.”
“His character and career,” observes a certain writer, “were a contrast to those of Whitefield and of Wesley. He was essentially contemplative; 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 Whitefield, like a rushing and resistless 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 messenger of peace.”