I know not teach thou me," and thou wert rewarded with a divine intimation, "This is the way!" Thou didst thus hate thy father and thy mother and thy house, and take up thy cross for Christ's sake and the gospel's; but thy more than natural, thy Christian firmness, reaped its recompense even here, for thou receivedst a hundredfold now, even in this time, houses and brethren, and sisters and mothers, and children, and long since, in heaven, eternal life. Stoic fortitude, Roman daring, hide your heads before such firmness as this. Epictetus is a jest, and Regulus, "egregius exul," a fable, when compared with this plain narrative of modern heroism. Here, however, was one of the leading features of John Wesley's character, broadly portrayed, deeply coloured, boldly thrown up from the canvass, and giving happy omen of his future career.

The firmness which marked his decision here, the same which forbade discouragement and retractation at Oxford, where, after a short absence, he found his flock of twentyseven persons reduced to five, and which made him resist the authorities at Georgia, was peculiarly shown in his relations to the Church of England throughout his life. In the line of remarks this topic opens, we shall describe simply the facts of the case, and neither apologize for Wesley nor condemn the Church. He was never a Dissenter in his own view of the word, and never wished his followers to be. Nevertheless there is a prevailing order in the proceedings of every community, and this order, in his own Church, he did not hesitate to disturb, at the instance of what he deemed sufficiently valid reasons. Whatever his followers may urge in defence of his measures, they were obviously at odds with ecclesiastical order.

We have a very remarkable conversation of John Wesley with the Bishop of Bristol, in the year 1739, on the subject of justification by faith, in which, after disposing of that topic, Wesley's proceedings are canvassed; the whole going in proof of two things: the one how careful he was in the outset of his career to encroach as little as possible upon canonical order; and the other, that at the call of apprehended duty he was prepared to go any lengths in violation of it.

The history of Wesley's relations to the Established Church is traced with elaborate skill in a series of papers in the "Wesleyan Methodist Magazine" for 1829, to which we must refer our readers, and one sentence alone from which we will extract:-"While his attachment to the Church was truly conscientious, equally so was his determination to innovate as Providence should direct him. His language equally with his actions indicated the self-impelling convictions of the Reformer." This is just the philosophy of the case as clearly put by the author, and felt by Mr. Wesley. But so completely had the venerable leader of the movement habituated himself to the independent action of his society that nothing could have been more in accordance with the current of his life, principles, and anticipations, (see "Minutes of Conference" for 1744,) nor more certainly have secured his approval, than the distinctive position this body has since taken up, neither controlled by the Church of England nor hostile to it. That body seems to have embodied in the happiest way the spirit and pattern of its founder, when it defined its general policy toward the Establishment in the following terms:-" Methodism exists in a friendly relation with the Establishment. In all its official writings and sanc

tioned publications, though often called to defend itself against intemperate clergymen, it treats the Church itself with respect and veneration, and cordially rejoices in the advance of its religious character and legitimate moral influence."

In the unbending firmness of our hero we see much of the gracious man,-the man whose heart is established with grace, but we see also in it largely the man John Wesley. We fancy we perceive in it no less somewhat of the sturdiness of the national character. John Bull will not be badgered and brow-beaten any more than he will be coaxed and cajoled into what his strong determination opposes; and Wesley, in his nervous English, his practical wisdom, his steady good sense, and his unconquerable will, displayed some of the most respectable and salient points of the Saxon character, belonging by unmistakable evidence to that family of the Bulls, which, notwithstanding all its faults, has no few qualities to admire. There is in his rigid firmness, moreover, something of his puritan ancestry, one point at least in which Bishop Warburton was right. His blood was vitiated with their stubborn humour, if it be a vice. He belonged to the tribe of Ishmael by both father's and mother's side at a single remove, and he could not be expected to turn out other than he did. But we pause. John Wesley was frank, generous, open, simple as a child; confiding, plastic, and persuasible where a man had right upon his side, but where himself was right he was positive—to a fault?-no, to perfection; and it had been a less miracle to move a mountain into the sea than to move him from his purpose. This goes far to explain the man and his work. To no one was Regent Murray's saying at

the grave of John Knox ever more applicable than to our intrepid modern John:

"There lies one who never feared the face of man."

Unbounded benevolence was another leading trait in his character. This was the basis of his life, the spring of his self-denial and his labours. A recluse at Oxford, musty folios and metaphysics could not extinguish the smouldering fire within

"He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man."

Afterward the fire burst forth; he kindled as he flew over the world, a flaming seraph of mercy to mankind.

At the University his benevolence led him into frightful prisons and condemned cells, into hospital and lazar-house; from the society of the common-room and beloved books to converse with felons and miserable sufferers. It curtailed his bread and his dress, it debarred him of the comfort of a well-shorn head, it led to a course of self-sacrifice and effort for the benefit of the wretched and the sinful, which put his sincerity sorely to the test, and lasted with his life. His heart bled for the world; he saw sin bursting out in blotches of sorrow all over the face of society, and he longed to purify, console, and heal. He could not look upon men drawn unto death and ready to be slain without attempting their rescue. He saw no hope for their bodies or their souls but in the labours and voluntary gifts of Christians for their salvation. He felt for their fate; but, eminently practical, he felt in bed and board, in clothing and comfort. His was sumptuary sensibility more than tearful, active compassion rather than passive. Merely because more easy of illustration, and not for a

moment putting it in comparison with the ardour of his soul to do good, we adduce his monetary benevolence in proof of our point-a benevolence which would give all, do all, reserve nothing, provided it could but win a revenue of glory to God and happiness to wretched men. Never did any man part with money more freely. His charities knew no limit but his means. He gave away all that he had beyond bare provision for his present wants. He began this procedure early, and never left off till he had done with earth. In his first year at college he received £30, and making £28 suffice for his necessities, he gave away in charities £2. The next year he received £60, but still making £28 meet his expenditure, he gave away £32. The third year he received £90 and gave away £62. His receipts in the fourth year increased by the same sum as before, and out of £120 he gave away all but his primitive £28. And thus he acted through life, having given away in charities, it is believed, as much as £30,000, without a moment's thought for himself, his hands open as day, his heart the dwelling-place of kind

ness.

His generous and unstinted liberality finds its most convincing proof in his circumstances at death. He had often and publicly declared that his own hands should be his executors, and that if he died worth £10 beyond the value of his books and other inconsiderable items, he would give the world leave to call him a thief and a robber. He made all he could, and his publications were numerous and profitable; he saved all he could, not wasting so much as a sheet of paper; and then he gave all he could, with an angel's sublime disregard of gold and silver and the wealth the world sets such store by. The notion that he must be enriching himself prevailed even among