He passed and repassed from England to America several times, and was everywhere as a flame of fire. The languid zeal of lukewarm churches was revived, and the careless and immoral led into new lives. He was soon looked up to as an apostle by thousands who dated their first religious impressions from the time when they listened to his fervid words. But opposition was not wanting, and once he very nearly received the crown of martyrdom.
After he had finished preaching in Dublin, he was attacked by an immense mob of infuriated Papists. His friends fled for their lives, and left him to the mercy of the rioters. Stones from every direction struck him, until he was breathless and dripping with blood. He found a momentary refuge, when almost at the point of death, but the inmates of the house which he had entered, fearing it would be demolished, entreated him to leave. He was offered a disguise, but refused it, and in his proper dress passed through whole streets of threatening Papists, and as soon as he had reached a place of safety, and had his wounds dressed, began to preach again!
Thus year after year passed, crowded full of labors. He considered it an indication of great feebleness that for a short time he could only preach one sermon a day. Thousands in Europe and America called him blessed, and everywhere countless multitudes crowded to hear him speak of the grace of God. For the lifetime of an ordinary generation his unequaled power and untiring labor continued. After speaking he frequently vomited great quantities of blood, which he regarded as relieving his over-taxed lungs.
His death was romantic and beautiful, as befitted such a life. There are few more touching, and yet more happy in the records of biography.
He preached his last field sermon at Exeter. It was continued for two hours, and was among his most powerful efforts. He reached Newburyport, Mass., the same evening, where he intended to preach the next day. While at supper, the pavement, and the hall of the house where he sat, were crowded with people impatient to hear the wonderful orator. But he was exhausted, and said to one of the clergymen who accompanied him, “Brother, you must speak to these dear people; I cannot say a word.” He took a candle and started for his room, but before he reached it, his generous heart reproached him for even seeming to desert the people who were hungering for the bread of life. He paused on the stairway, while the piece of candle he had taken when he started cast its flickering light on the crowd below, and began to speak. The people gazed with tearful awe and affection on his venerable form. His musical and pathetic voice flowed on in words of tenderness and exhortation until the candle went out in its socket. Before the morning he was dead!
His remembrance did not die with him. Europe and America vied together in mourning for him, and Methodists, Churchmen, and Dissenters revered him as a departed prophet.
What was the secret of his unparalleled power with the people? Clearly its spring was his own profound and overwhelming emotions. It is sometimes thought that his almost perfect elocution explains the fascination he exerted, but it does not. He is classed by many as one who committed and recited his discourses. But it may be safely assumed that he could not have commanded one tithe of his success in that manner. He may have done this at the beginning of his career, before his marvelous genius was fully developed, but not after. It is indeed given as a reason of his embarrassment when he began to preach in the open air, that he had not long been accustomed to preach extempore. He says that often, in his own apprehension, he had not a word to say either to God or man. Think of a person who has a fully committed sermon, making such an assertion, and afterwards thanking God for giving him words and wisdom!
The very best possible evidence that his sermons took their external form at the moment, was that he complained of the reports that were made of them. If they had been written before preaching, he would have had the means of making these as perfect as desired. Yet he repeated sermons on particular subjects very often. Foote and Garrick estimated that they improved up to the thirtieth and fortieth repetition. Going over the same ground so often, many striking phrases would doubtless fix themselves in his mind, but he would still be free to introduce new matters as he wished. His illustrations, too, many of which were gathered from his own wide experience, would be given in nearly the same manner on successive occasions. But he was a fine talker, and by his unlimited practice in speech improved the power of language to such an extent that it was fully capable of expressing the ocean of feeling that flowed in his soul. His published sermons show few traces of the pen, but bear every mark of impassioned utterance. Untroubled by doubt, all that he preached was felt to be present reality. He was a pure and holy man, moved by the Spirit to the work he entered on, and endowed with a heart of fire, a soul of love, and a power of expression such as is given to few mortals. No wonder that the multitude felt him to be little less than inspired.
JOHN WESLEY.
Both Henry and Whitefield were men of such vast genius as to be lifted above ordinary rules. When we look upon them we feel imitation to be almost hopeless. But we will give an instance of an altogether different kind, and thus show how easily unwritten speech may be the medium of every species of address. John Wesley was not an impassioned or impetuous orator, and yet he wielded an almost boundless influence. He was fluent and easy in his language, but exact and logical, leaving no careless word on which an enemy might seize. Yet his power was great, and even the scenes of excitement that marked the preaching of Whitefield, and other early Methodists, were even surpassed under his clear calm words.