"AS A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED."
John Wesley was not without compassion for a friend and disciple
for whom he had something of a fatherly affection. He too had been
called upon to renounce the woman he loved, the excellent, gifted,
enthusiastic Grace Murray, whose humble origin was forgotten in the
force and purity of her character. He had been her affianced husband,
had thought of her for a long time as his future wife, lived in daily
companionship with her on his pious pilgrimages, made her his helpmeet
in good works; and yet, on the assertion of a superior claim, he had
given her to another. That bitter experience enabled him to measure the
pain of Stobart's renunciation. He watched his friend's course with
anxious care, lest heart should fail and feet stumble on the stony road
of self-sacrifice; and their intercourse, while the great itinerant
remained in London, was even closer than it had been before.
Mr. Wesley had much to do that winter at his home by the Foundery
Chapel. He had his literary work, the preparation of his books for
the press, since each year of his life added to the list of those
religious works, some of them written, others only edited, by himself,
which were published at his risk, and which for several years resulted
in pecuniary loss, though they were afterwards a revenue. He had the
services of the chapel, which were numerous and at different hours, and
he had his work abroad, preaching in many other parts of London.
It was in the early morning after one of his five-o'clock services at
the Foundery that he was told a lady desired to see him. He had but
just come in from the chapel, and his breakfast was on the table in
the neat parlour where he lived and worked, a Spartan breakfast of
oatmeal porridge, with the luxury of a small pot of tea and a little
dry toast. It was only half-past six, and Mrs. Wesley had not left her
chamber--a fortunate circumstance, perhaps, since the visitor was young
and beautiful.
Mr. Wesley had many uninvited visitors, and it was nothing new for him
to be intruded on even at so early an hour. He rose to receive the
lady, and motioned her to a seat with a stately graciousness. He was
a small man, attired with an exquisite neatness in a stuff cassock
and breeches, and black silk stockings, and shoes with large silver
buckles. His benign countenance was framed in dark auburn hair that
fell in waving masses, like John Milton's, and at this period showed no
touch of grey.
"In what matter can I have the honour to serve you, madam?" he asked,
scanning the pale face opposite him, and wondering at its beauty.
It had not the bloom of health which should have gone with the lady's
youth, but it was as perfect in every line as the Belvidere Apollo, and
the eyes, with their look of mournful deprecation, were the loveliest
he had ever seen--lovelier than Grace Murray's, which had once been
_his_ loveliest.
"I have come to you in great trouble of mind, sir," the lady began in a
low voice, but with such perfect enunciation, such beauty of tone, that
every syllable had full value. "I am a very unhappy woman."
"Many have come to me in the same sad plight, madam, and I have found
but one way of helping them. 'Tis to lead them to the foot of the
Cross. There alone can they find the Friend who can make their sorrows
here their education for heaven."
"Oh, sir, if I believed in heaven, and that I should meet the dead whom
I love there, I should have no sorrows. I should only have to wait."
"Alas, madam, can it be that you are without that blessed hope--that
this world, with its cruel inequalities and injustices, is the only
world your mind can conceive? Can you look upon the martyrdom of
so many of your fellow creatures--diseased, deformed, blind, dumb,
imbecile, or held for a lifetime in the bondage of abject poverty,
never knowing respite from toil, or the possibility of comfort,--can
you contemplate these outcasts, and yet believe there are no
compensations hereafter, and that a God of infinite mercy can overlook
their sufferings?"
"You believe in a heaven for these--a land of Beulah, where _they_ will
have the fat things? But what if one of these be a blasphemer? What if
he curse God and die? What will be his destiny then, sir? Oh, I know
your answer. The worm that dieth not--the fire that is not quenched.
What of your scheme of compensations then, sir?"
"Did you come here to shake my faith, madam, or to ask for spiritual
aid from me?" Wesley asked severely.
His searching gaze had taken in every detail of her appearance: the
lovely face, whose ivory pallor was accentuated by a black silk hood;
the grey lute-string gown, whose Quaker hue could not disguise the
richness of the fabric; the diamond hoop-rings that flashed from under
a black silk mitten. Dress, bearing, accent stamped the woman of
quality.
"I meant no affront, sir. I talk at random, as women mostly do. I came
here in weariness of spirit, and I scarce know how you can help me. I
came because I have heard much of your merits, your amiable character,
your willingness to befriend sinners. And I have listened to your
sermons at West Street Chapel in the month last past with admiration
and respect."
"But without belief in Him whose message I bring? Oh, madam, you might
as well be at the playhouse laughing at that vulgar buffoon Samuel
Foote. My sermons can do you no good."
"Nay, sir, if I thought that I should not be here this morning. I rose
after a sleepless night and came through the darkness to hear you
preach. If I cannot believe all that you believe, I can appreciate the
wisdom and the purity of your discourse."
"Look into your heart, madam, and if you can find faith there; but as a
grain of mustard seed----"
"Alas, sir, I look into my heart and find only emptiness. My sorrows
are not such as the world pities. My heart aches with the monotony
of life. I stand alone, unloved and unloving. I have tasted all the
pleasures this world can offer, have enjoyed all, and wearied of all. I
come to you in my weariness as the first preacher I have ever listened
to with interest. Mr. Whitefield's discourse, whom I heard but once,
only shocked me."
"Come, and come again, madam, and may my poor eloquence lead you to
Christ. I should rejoice for more reasons than I can tell you, if,
among the many souls that I have been the means of snatching from the
brink of hell, Lady Kilrush should be one."
"What, Mr. Wesley, you know me?"
"Yes, madam, I remember the Bartolozzi head which was in all the
printsellers' windows two years ago; and I should be more a stranger to
this town than I am if I had not heard of the beautiful Lady Kilrush
and her infidel opinions."
"You have heard of me from my lord's cousin, Mr. Stobart, perhaps."
"Mr. Stobart has spoken of your ladyship, deploring, as I do, the gulf
that yawns between you and him."
"That gulf has widened, sir; for I have seen Mr. Stobart only once
since he came from America."
"He has been travelling about England with me--and only came to London
last October. I know, madam, that his respect for your person is only
less than his grief at your unhappy opinions."
"We cannot change the fabric of our minds, sir."
"_We_ cannot; but God can."
"You believe in instantaneous conversions--in a single act of faith
that can make a Christian in a moment?"
"The Scriptures warrant that belief, madam. All the conversions related
in the Gospel were instantaneous. Yet I will own that I was once
unwilling to believe in the miracle of Christian perfection attained by
a single impulse of the soul. But in the long course of my ministry I
have seen so many blessed examples that I can no longer doubt that the
Divine Spirit works wonders as great in this degenerate age as on that
day of Pentecost, the birthday of the Christian Church. Instead of the
miracle of fiery tongues, we have the miracle of changed hearts."
"And you think that Christian perfection attained in a moment will
stand the wear and tear of life, and be strong enough to resist the
world, the flesh, and the devil?" Antonia asked, with an incredulous
smile.
"Nay, madam, I dare not affirm that all who think themselves justified
are secure of salvation. These sudden recruits are sometimes deserters.
I do not hold the tenets of the Moravians, who declare that the
converted sinner cannot fall away, whereas, after our justification by
faith, we are every moment pleasing or displeasing unto God according
to our works, according to the whole of our present inward tempers and
outward behaviour. But I have never despaired of a sinner, madam; nor
can I believe that a spirit so bright as yours will be lost eternally.
Long or late the hour of sanctifying Grace must come."
"Perhaps, Mr. Wesley, had you been reared as I was--taught to doubt
the existence of a God before I was old enough to read the Gospel--you
would be no less a sceptic than I am."
"I was indeed more fortunate--for I was born into a household of
faith. Yet I have never hardened my heart against the man or woman
whose education has only taught them to doubt, for I have sometimes
thought, with unspeakable fear, that, had I given my mind to the study
of mathematics or geometry, I too might have been one of those nice
philosophers who will accept no creed that cannot be demonstrated like
a proposition in Euclid. I thank God that I learnt to love Him, and
to walk in His ways, before I learnt to pry into the mysteries of His
Being or to question His dealings with mankind."
"No doubt that is happiest, sir--to shut one's mind against facts and
believe in miracles."
And then, gradually won to fullest confidence by his quick sympathy,
Antonia told John Wesley much of her life story, only avoiding, with
an exquisite delicacy, all those passages which touched the secrets of
a woman's heart. She told him how she had been left alone in the world
with all the power that riches can give to a young woman, how she had
tried all the resources of wealth, and found all wanting, even her
experience of mission work among the outcast poor.
"I doubt you were happier engaged in that work than you have ever been
in the mansions of the great," he said.
"No, Mr. Wesley, I will not pretend as much. While the pleasures of the
great world were new I loved them dearly; but a third season brought
satiety, and I sickened of it all. I know not why I sickened of my
visits to the poor, for my heart was ever touched by their sufferings,
and sometimes by their patience. It may be that it was because I was
alone, and without an adviser, after Mr. Stobart left England."
"Will you resume that work now, madam? I doubt you are familiar with
the parable of the talents, and know that to have youth and wealth,
intellect and energy, and not to use them for others' good----"
"Oh, it is hateful! Be sure, sir, I know what a wretch I am. I spent
last summer in Ireland, where the poor love me; but I hardly ever went
near them. I did not let them starve. My steward and my waiting-woman
carried them all they wanted, while I dawdled in my rose-garden or
yawned over a novel. I was discouraged somehow. Those poor creatures
are all Roman Catholics. They would talk to me of a creed which I had
been taught to despise. There was a gulf between us."
"But you will resume your charitable work in London, where the people's
religion need not offend you, since they are mostly heathens."
"Not at Lambeth! I cannot go back to Lambeth Marsh."
She knew that Stobart was spending all his days in the old places. Not
for worlds could she go back to the work which she had shared with him,
and which had once been so full of innocent happiness.
"Your ladyship can choose your district. The field is wide enough. Will
you visit the sick poor in this neighbourhood, and will you accept my
help and counsel?"
"With a glad heart, sir. I sorely need a friend."
"But you will not go as a heathen among heathens? You will carry the
Gospel with you."
"Yes, sir. If it will help your views that I should read the New
Testament to your people, I would as leave do so as not. Indeed, I have
read the Gospel to those who have asked me; and be sure I have never
been so foolish as to obtrude my opinions upon them. 'Tis only by close
questioning they have ever discovered my barren creed." And then she
went on with a sigh, "Ah, sir, if you knew how I envy you the faith
which opens new worlds, now that I have lost all interest in this one."
"Do not despair of yourself, madam. I do not despair of you. The Lady
Kilrush I had pictured to myself was an arrogant unbeliever, possessed
by a devil of pride, and glorying in her infidelity. There is hope for
the sceptic who has discovered how poor a thing this life is when we
think it is all."
She rose to take leave, and Wesley conducted her to the street, where a
hackney coach was in waiting. He begged her to call upon him as often
as she pleased during his stay in London, which would not be long; and
he promised to send her the names and addresses, and particulars as to
character and necessities, of the invalids whom he would advise her to
visit.
"On second thoughts I will not send you amongst the unconverted," he
said, "but to some faithful Christians whose piety I doubt you will
admire, however you may despise their simplicity."
He went back to his study full of thought. Antonia's conversation had
surprised and interested him. Unlucky as he had been in his own too
hasty choice of a wife, he was a shrewd judge of women, and he felt
assured that this was a good woman. Would it not then be a hard measure
were he to come between George Stobart and an attachment which death
had legitimatised? And what better chance could there be for this
woman's conversion than her union with an honest, believing Christian?
The Society's stringent rule had been inspired by the evil wrought by
women of a very different stamp from this one.
And yet was not this avowed infidel, so beautiful, so winning in her
proud gentleness, only the Philistine Delilah in a new guise? The
temptress, the lying spirit that betrayed the strong man of old, was
there, perhaps, waiting to ensnare George Stobart's soul.
"I must see of what spirit she is," Wesley told himself, "and if she
may yet be numbered among the children of light."
* * * * *
A new phase of Antonia's life began after her interview with John
Wesley. All that she had done in the past, in those dens of misery and
crime by the Marsh, was as nothing compared with her work under his
direction. At Lambeth she had but exercised a fine lady's capricious
benevolence, obeying the whim of the moment: a creature of impulse,
too lavish where her heart was touched, too easily revolted by the
ugliness of vice. In the squalid regions that lay around the Foundery
her charities were administered upon a different system. One of Mr.
Wesley's best gifts was the faculty of order, and all things done
under his direction were done with an admirable method and proportion.
His Loan Society, which made advances of twenty shillings and upwards
to the respectable poor--to be repaid in weekly instalments--his
Dispensary, his day and night-classes all testified to his power
of organization. From the days when a poor scholar at Oxford, he
lived like an anchorite of the desert in order that he might feed
starving prisoners and rescue fallen women, he had been experienced in
systematic charity. From him, in the hours he could spare her before
starting on his northern pilgrimage, she learnt how to distribute her
alms with an unfailing justice, and how to make the best use of her
time. Her visits in those homes of sickness and penury, which might
have been hopelessly dreary without his directing spirit, became full
of interest in the light of his all-comprehending mind.
She sold three of her dress carriages and dismissed her second
coachman. A hackney coach carried her to Moorfields every day, and she
employed the greater part of the day in visiting the poor. She was
often among Wesley's hearers at the evening service at the Foundery.
His sermons touched her heart and almost convinced her reason. His
simplicity of style and force of argument impressed her more than
Whitefield's dramatic oratory. Mr. Wesley had no deep-drawn "Oh!" for
Garrick to envy. His action was calm and pleasing, his voice clear and
manly. He appealed to the heart and mind of his hearers by no studied
effects, no flights of rhetoric, yet he never failed to hold them in
the spell of that simple eloquence.
Antonia was interested in the congregation as well as in the preacher.
She was moved by the spectacle of all those fervent worshippers--mostly
in the lower ranks of life--men and women of scantiest leisure, who
gave much when they spent their evenings in the chapel; instead of at
the playhouse, or by the fireside in the cosy parlour with cards and
congenial company. For the first time she began to understand what
the religious life meant, the life in which all earthly things are
secondary. The earnest faces, the voices of a vast concourse singing
Charles Wesley's exquisite hymns, moved her deeply.
Her work took her mostly among the humble members of that Methodist
Society which had begun twenty years before by the gathering together
of eight or ten awakened souls, yearning for help and counsel, groaning
under the burden of sin, and which was now so widespread a multitude.
In the garrets and cellars, where she sat beside the bed of the sick
and the dying, she found a fervour of unquestioning faith that startled
and touched her. For these sufferers the Gospel she read was no history
of things long past and done with, no story of a vanished life. It was
the message of a living Friend, a Redeemer waiting to give them welcome
in the Kingdom of the just made perfect, the world where there is no
death. He who had promised the penitent thief a dwelling in Paradise
was at the door of the death chamber; and to die was to pass to a life
more beautiful than a child's dream of heaven.
As the days and weeks went by, that Gospel story read so often under
such solemn influences, with death hovering near, took a deeper hold
upon Antonia's imagination. The message that she carried to others
was for her also. She learnt to love the wise Teacher, the beneficent
Healer, the Saviour of mankind. That name of Saviour pleased her. From
the theologian's point of view she was, perhaps, no more a Christian
than she had ever been. She dared not tell John Wesley, whom she
revered, and who now accepted her as a brand snatched from the burning,
that her faith was not his faith, that she was neither convinced of sin
nor assured of Grace.
Her awakening had been no sudden act, like the descent of the Spirit
at Pentecost, but a gradual change in her whole nature, the widening
of her sympathies, the growth of pity and of love. It was not of
Christ the Sacrifice she thought, not of His atoning blood; but of
Jesus the Great Exemplar, of Jesus who went about doing good. She
would not question how it came to pass, but she believed that, in the
dim long-ago, Divinity walked among mankind and wore the shape of
man; to what end, except to make men better, she knew not. In all her
conversation with Wesley's converts, however exalted their ideas might
be, that earthly image was in her mind, Jesus, human and compassionate,
the Comforter of human sorrows, the Sinless One who loved sinners.
Wesley rejoiced with exceeding joy in her conversion. He had met her
from time to time in the dwellings of the poor, had sat with her beside
the bed of the dying, had seen her often among his congregation; and
he believed that the work of Grace had begun, and that it needed but
good influences to ensure her final perseverance and justification by
faith. He wrote to George Stobart the night before he left London for
the North.
* * * * *
"You have passed through a fiery trial, dear friend, and
I admire your fortitude in renouncing a passion that was
stronger than all things, except your hope of salvation. The
lady you love has become my friend and fellow-worker, and I
dare venture to believe that she has escaped from darkness
into light, and that you may now enjoy her society without
peril to your soul. Let me hear by-and-by how your suit
prospers. Her ladyship is a woman of rare gifts, and of a
noble character.
"Yours in Christ,
"J. W."