Soldier Methodists

A GREAT religious movement in, of course, misread if it is translated into merely personal terras. It resembles the stirring of a sea-tide. It is the result of planetary forces. It rises from unsounded deeps. It makes itself felt at widely distant points. It fills, with its sound and foam, at the same moment a hundred little bays. Certainly the great religious movement of the eighteenth century, though it has the Wesleys and Whitefleld as its most commanding figures, extended far beyond their personal influence. It ran like some viewless contagion through the very air; and some of its developments, with which neither Whitefield nor the Wesleys had personally much to do, were of a remarkable character.

The forces of the great revival, for example, reached the army and produced there some very picturesque results. The British Army in Flanders is best known to the man in the street by the famous saying in “Tristram Shandy” describing its swearing performances. That unfortunate army, with the Duke of Cumberland for Commander-in-chief, marching and fighting beside strange allies, on foreign soil, and for a cause about which it knew little and cared less, was, no doubt, in very evil conditions. Religion amongst the Huguenots of Henry of Navarre, or Cromwell’s Ironsides, or the sturdy Dutch Protestants of William of Orange, is thinkable. But who can imagine any of the tempers and emotions of religion breaking out spontaneously in the ill-led, hard-swearing, hard-drinking, hard-fighting British Army in Flanders in the days of Fontenoy and Dettingen! And yet the literature of Methodism gives us glimpses of the inner life of that army of which historians are unconscious, but which have amazing human interest.

In May 1744, for example, with Dettingen a year behind and Fontenoy not quite a year in front, the British Army lay camped on the side of a hill near Brussels, and not far from Waterloo. One afternoon a cluster of red-coats set up a little flag on the hill-slope across the valley and began to sing. The soldiers came streaming from the camp and gathered round. A British private, the very type of his class — square-bodied, short-necked, with broad face, scanty eyebrows, and inexpressive eyes — began to preach. His voice carried far, but it was the voice of an untaught man. He talked in such English as a peasant might use, and which peasants would have understood, of sin and judgment, of Christ and His salvation. The crowd about him — war-battered soldiers, familiar with the hardships of the march, the roughness of camp life, the perils of the battle-line — hung breathlessly on his lips. They numbered some thousands; the sound of their singing filled the valley.

And this scene was repeated in British camps every day — sometimes twice, sometimes thrice a day! The preacher was John Haime, afterwards one of Wesley’s helpers, and already, though he had not yet seen Wesley’s face, one of the fruits of the great religious movement of which Wesley was the symbol.

Here, again, is a little battle vignette, taken from the bloody field of Fontenoy: Two Methodist soldiers meet each other in the darkness after the fight is over. They had both taken part in that long and bloody struggle on the road which runs betwixt Fontenoy and the wood of Barri. They had stood in the stubborn ranks, while scourged on front and flank by the French guns; they had fallen back at last with the broken but unconquerable fragments of the British column. Haime tells the story of how they fared in the battle: —

“When W. Clements had his arm broken by a musket-ball, they would have carried him out of the battle. But he said, ‘No; I have an arm lelt to hold my sword. I will not go yet’ When a second shot broke his other arm he said, ‘I am as happy as I can be out of paradise.’ John Evans, having both his legs taken off by a cannon-ball, was laid across a cannon to die; where, as long as he could speak, he was praising God with joyful lips.

“For my own part I stood the hottest fire of the enemy for about seven hours. But I told my comrades, ‘The French have no ball that will kill me this day.’ After about seven hours a cannon-ball killed my horse under me. An officer cried out aloud, ‘Haime, where is your God now?’ I answered, ‘Sir, He is here with me, and He will bring me out of this battle.’ Presently a cannon-ball took off his head. My horse fell upon me and some cried out, ‘Haime is gone!’ But I replied, ‘He is not gone yet....’ I had a long way to go through all our horse, the balls flying on every side. And all the way lay multitudes bleeding, groaning, or just dead. Surely I was in the fiery furnace; but it did not singe a hair of my head. The hotter the battle grew, the more strength was given me. I was as full of joy as I could contain.”

Then Hainie tells how he meets his comrade in the confusion of the night, after the sound of the guns had died away: —

“As I was quitting the field I met one of our brethren with a little dish in his hand, seeking water. I did not know him at first, being covered with blood. He smiled and said, ‘Brother Haime, I have got a sore wound.’ I asked, ‘Have you got Christ in your heart?’ He said, ‘I have, and I have had Him all this day. I have seen many good and glorious days, with much of God, but I never saw more of it than this day. Glory be to God for all His mercies!’ “’

What stranger illustration of the supernatural power of religion can be imagined than that aflforded by the picture of these two smoke-blackened soldiers, who, coming out of a great fight, tell each other how signally they have realised the comforting presence of God all through it!

The fashion in which the great revival affected the army, the material upon which it worked there, the phenomena it produced, are best illustrated by personal narrative. Wesley, who had a wise interest in religion as translated into the terms of personal experience, made his helpers write the story of their religious life, and published many of these in The Arminian Magazine, and amongst these are the biographies of some who had been soldiers. They are true human documents in the modern sense, marked with reality in every sentence, and as the records of actual human beings caught in the sweep of a great religious movement they are of real historical value.

As an example may be taken the story of Stanniforth, who was a soldier till he was twenty-nine years of age, and a preacher of the Gospel under Wesley for fifty years afterwards.

It is hardly possible to imagine a rougher or more ‘Lives of Early Methodist Preachers, vol. i. p. 169. hopeless bit of huniniiity than Stauniforth in bis younger days, as described by himself. The son of a Sheffield cutler — wild, sullen, untaught, ungrateful — he sinned grossly, and sinned without remorse. He had the appetites of an animal, and apparently no more moral sense than an aninuil. He drifted into soldiership, drawn by the charms of rough soldier companionship. In the story of his youth a mother’s figure is dimly seen, who wept over her lawless son, hung round vile haunts to fetch the worthless lad home, mourned over his vices, bought him off, at the cost of all her little savings, when he had enlisted. “All this,” records Stauniforth, “made not the least impression upon me. I felt no gratitude to either God or man.” He re-enlisted, and marched off, leaving his broken-hearted mother weeping in the streets; and Stauniforth, in his autobiography, adds one dreadful touch. “I was not only tierce and passionate, but also sullen and malicious without any feeling of humanity. Instead of weeping with my mother, I even rejoiced in her sorrow!”

Stanniforth’s story gives us a grim picture of the brutal life, and of the brutal vices, of a British soldier in the eighteenth century. He was of a wild and stubborn spirit, familiar with the military prison and the cruel military punishments of that day; and more than once narrowly escaped being shot off-hand for breaches of soldiery duty. In 1743 his regiment sailed for Flanders and joined the army a few days after the battle of Dettingen. If the British Army of Flanders swore terribly in those days. Private Stauniforth certainly contributed more than his personal share to its exercises in blasphemy. The far-off and broken-hearted mother sent him sorrowful letters, and little gifts of her hard-earned savings; but this drunken, plundering, blaspheming private had no touch of gratitude for her love.

At this stage Stauniforth made the acquaintance of another private, a lad from Barnard Castle, named Mark Bond, who was in every detail of training, character, and temper the exact opposite of Stauniforth. But betwixt the two there sprang up a friendship of the antique sort, and such as cannot be easily paralleled. Bond and Stanniforth were simply Damon and Pythias translated into the eighteenth century, and transformed into British privates. Bond’s story was very simple. He was the son of godly parents and feared God from three years old. As a child he was assailed with strange and terrible temptations. He was, in Stanniforth’s words, “violently and continually importuned to curse God”; and one fatal day, when he was not yet seven years old, he went into a field, crept under the hedge, and with his childish lips whispered the dreadful words — words, which, to his boyish conscience, sealed his doom, and which certainly blackened his life for many years to come. Where did this child of seven learn anything about ‘’blaspheming God”? He kept his dreadful secret; concluded his perdition was certain, and carried an almost broken heart about with him. At eighteen he enlisted with the hope that he would be soon killed! Soldiership was for him a circuitous form of suicide. This sad-faced private, who plodded silently in the ranks, who never drank or swore, and was always meditating on that far-off childish blasphemy, is surely a very odd figure in the army of that day.

Bond came under the teaching of the soldier-preacher Haime, and stepped into the gladness and freedom of a divine forgiveness. And the new forces in him must find utterance. He must tell some one of his deliverance: and by some strange impulse he chose the worst man in the company, Stanniforth, as his confidant. A stranger story to stranger ears was never yet told. “He came to me,” records Stanniforth, “and recorded what God had done for his soul. But this was an unknown language to me; I understood it not; and soon as he was gone I used to make sport of all he said.” But Bond was patient and invincible in his affection for his wild comrade; and at last he conquered him.

“‘He met me one time,’ says Stanniforth, ‘when I was in distress, having neither food, money, nor credit. On his coming and asking me to go and hear the preaching, I said, “You had better give me something to eat or drinlc; for I am both hungry and dry.” He took me to a sutler’s, and gave me both meat and drink. Then he took me by the hand, and led me to a place erected about half a mile from the camp. I had no desire to hear anything of religion, but on the contrary went with great reluctance. Who it was that was preaching I do not know. But this I know, that God spake to my heart. In a few minutes I was in deep distress — full of sorrow, under a deep sense of sin and danger, but mixed with a desire for mercy. And, now, I that never prayed in my life was continually calling upon God. In time past I could shed tears for nothing; but now the rock was rent; a fountain was opened, and tears of contrition ran plentifully down my cheeks. A cry after God ws put Into my heart, which has never yet ceased, and, I trust, never will.’ “’

Bond rejoiced over his troubled comrade with ruuuing tears. A strange and instant transformation took place in Stauuiforth’s habits. The rough, drunken, plundering, hard-swearing i)rivate was a new man. He drank no more. He fell strangely silent. He had the sharpest hunger for religious .services. He went to one of the little soldier-gatherings, and stood, awkward and solitary, among.st his comrades. One came up and asked him how long he had come to the preaching. “I answered, ‘last night was the first time.’ He took me aside, and said, ‘Let’s go to prayer.’ I said, ‘I cannot pray; I never prayed in my life.’” His comrade made him kneel down beside him, and just then Bond came up. After prayer Stanniforth was asked if he had a Bible, or any good book. “I said, ‘No.’ I knew not that I ever had read any.” Bond had as his chief treasure a piece of an old Bible. “Take it,” he said; “I can do better without it than thou.”

Stanniforth was still wholly uncomforted, but his comrades tried in vain to tempt him back to his old haunts. “I had now a tender conscience,” he says; “I could neither drink, swear, game, nor plunder any more. I would not take so much as an apple, a bunch of grapes — not anything that was not my own.”

Bond took charge, not only of the spiritual condition of his troubled comrade, but of his affairs generally. “He inquired into all my affairs, and, finding I had contracted some debts, said, ‘The followers of Christ must be first just, and then charitable. We will put both our pay together, and live as hard as we can; and what we spare will pay the debt.’” What finer examine of chivalrous friendship can be imagined!

The two comrades were now on fire with a comman impulse; they must rebuke sin. They must tell the strange and wonderful story of Christ and His love. Old comrades listened, stared, were melted, joined them; and,

-’“Lives of Early Methodist Preachers,” vol. ii. p. 156. as Stanniforth records, “the flame spread through all the camp, so that we had a large number of hearers.”

At (iheiit, where the army was in camp tor some weeks, Bond and Stanniforth hired two rooms, one for preaching, one for private meetings, and here little crowds of soldiers met twice every day. All this time, however, Stanniforth himself was in the deepest spiritual distress. His spiritual condition, indeed, was a paradox. He was living a godly life yet carrying the burden of unforgiven sin. By a strange gate he at last found enti-ance into a world of light.

“I thought myself the most miserable creature on earth, far beneath the brute and inanimate creatures; all of which answered the end of their creation, which I have never done! From twelve at night till two it was my turn to stand sentinel at a dangerous post. I had a fellow-sentinel; but I desired him to go away, which he willingly did. As soon as I was alone I kneeled down, and determined not to rise, but to continue crying and wrestling with God till He had mercy on me. How long I was in that agony I cannot tell. But as I looked up to heaven I saw the clouds open exceeding bright, and I saw Jesus hanging on the cross. At the same moment these words were applied to my heart, ‘Thy sins are forgiven thee.’ My chains fell off; my heart was free. All guilt was gone, and my soul was filled with unutterable peace. I loved God and all mankind, and the fear of death and hell was vanished away. I was filled with wonder and astonishment.’”

Who is not moved by this picture of a lonely sentinel at midnight keeping watch in front of an enemy’s camp, praying, weeping, struggling? And suddenly there breaks upon him out of the darkness a vision as wonderful as that which fell upon Paul outside the gates of Damascus. Was the vision real? Who can undertake to say how God may manifest Him.self to such a soul as that of this untaught and despairing soldier? When Bond the next morning met his comrade, no words of explanation were needed. Stanniforth’s face told the tale. “I know God has .set your soul at liberty,” cried Bond. “I see it in your countenance.”

The work spread now with new energy. The meetings were more frequent, and drew larger crowds. “God increased our number every day, so that we had some in almost every regiment.”

‘“Lives of Early Methodist Preachers,” vol. ii. p. 161.

Stanniforth had his first experience of battle at Foutenoy. Just before the fight began his regiment was ordered to stand at ease. The men threw themselves on the ground. Stanniforth tells how he went a few paces ahead, flung himself with his face in the grass, and “prayed that God would deliver me from all fear, and enable me to behave as a Christian and good soldier. Glory be to God, He heard my cry, and took away all my fear I I came into the ranks again, and had both peace and joy in the Holy Ghost.”

And how did these preaching and praying Methodist soldiers fight? On that subject there is abundant evidence. Wesley records dining with the colonel of one of the regiments which served in Flanders, who told him, “No men fight like those who fear God. I had rather command five hundred such than any regiment in the army.” Their religion touched the rough spirits of these soldier Methodists to a strange, tenderness, even towards their enemies. “On the 29th,” says Haime, “we marched close to the enemy, and when I saw them in their camp my bowels moved toward them in love and pity for their souls.” That was a strange and noble mood of feeling for a British private in sight of the enemy’s columns!

“‘Some days before the late battle,’ says another of these Methodist soldiers, ‘one of them, standing at his tent-door, broke out into raptures of joy, knowing his departure was at hand, and was so filled with the love of God that he danced before his comrades. In the battle, before he died, he openly declared, “I am going to rest from my labours in the bosom of Jesus.” I believe nothing like this was ever heard of before, in the midst of so wicked an army as ours. Some were crying out in their wounds, “I am going to my Beloved.” Others, “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly.” And many that were not wounded were crying to their Lord to take them to Himself. There was such boldness in the battle among this little despised flock that it made the officers, as well as common soldiers, amazed. And they acknowledge it to this day.’

Fontenoy is one of the most bloody fights in history. It is diflBcult to name a battle in which there was less of leadership amongst the generals, and more of dogged courage in the ranks. Stanniforth ’s regiment shared in the fiercest struggle of the day. “All the day,” he records,

‘“Lives of Early Methodist Preachers,” vol. ii. p. 168.

“I was in great spirits, and as composed in my mind as if I had been hearing a sermon. I neither desired life nor death, but was entirely happy in God.” After the fight was over the surviving Methodists gathered together.

“We then began to inquire who of our society was gone home. We missed many out of our regiment. One was saying, ‘Oh how happy I am!’ And just as he spoke a cannon-ball came and took off his head. We lost four preachers and many of the society. But my dear companion, with the other bretheren in the regiment, were still as the heart of one man. Such was the religion of the soldiers at this time, before any of them were corrupted by new opinions! I then thought, ‘This state of life is the only one to love and serve God in. I would not change it for any other under the sun, upon any consideration whatever.’

Stanniforth’s regiment was recalled to England by the rising of the Highlands in favour of Prince Charlie. After Culloden, the regiment was in barracks at Canterbury, and Stanniforth fell in love, was married; but on his very wedding-day was called upon to join his regiment, then under sudden orders for Holland. He kissed his new-married wife and marched off. He took part in the fierce and utterly useless fight in front of Maestricht, and here he lost his faithful comrade Bond. The commander, Prince Charles, abandoned his rear-guard to destruction, and marched off with his main body. “We lay waiting for orders to retreat,” says Stanniforth, “but the Prince forgot to send them, being busy with his cups and his ladies.” The I’ear-guard was attacked by overwhelming forces, fought stubbornly until almost cut to pieces, and then fell back. Says Stanniforth: —

“All this time I found a constant waiting upon God. All fear was removed. I had no tremor on my spirits, and the presence of God was with me all the day long. My dear compaion was on my right hand, and had been all the night. As we were both in the front rank, a musket-ball came and went through his leg. He fell down at my feet, looked up in my face with a smile, and said, ‘My dear, I am wounded.’ I and another took him in our arms, and carried him out of the ranks, while he was exhorting me to stand fast in the Lord. We laid him down, took our leave of him, and fell into our ranks again. In our farther retreat I again met with my dear friend, who had received another ball through his thigh. But his heart was full of love, and his eyes full of heaven. I may justly say, ‘Here fell a great Christian, a good soldier, a faithful friend.’”

‘/6id., p. 169.

After his discharge from the army Stanniforth became one of Wesley’s preachers, and carried into his preaching the energy and courage of his soldier days. He died an old man, almost his last words being a fragment of a Methodist hymn: —

“My God I am Thine; What a comfort divine, What a blessing to know that my Jesus Is mine.”

Haime was a soldier of another type, and went through very curious experiences. He was a Dorsetshire lad, violent in temi)er, gross in speech, utterly lawless in conduct. He, like Bond, was visited with what is to-day an almost unthiukable spiritual experience — a violent temptation to blaspheme God. He yielded at last, in the silence of his heart framed the dreadful words, and was then told by the tempter, “Thou art inevitably damned.” The unhap])y youth was broken-hearted. He swung for a time betwixt plans of suicide and wild rushes into vicious pleasure. The terrors of sin haunted him. He had experiences which can hardly be paralleled out of monkish literature,

“One night, as I was going to bed, I durst not lie down without prayer. So, falling upon my knees, I began to consider, ‘What can I pray for? I have neither the will nor the power to do anything good.’ Then it darted into my mind, ‘I will not pray, neither will I be beholden to God for mercy.’ I arose from my knees without prayer, and laid me down; but not in peace. I never had such a night before. I was as if my very body had been in a fire; and I had a hell in my conscience. I was thoroughly persuaded the devil was in the room.”

He was violently tempted to repeat the act of blasphemy against God, and one day when the temptation was upon him in overpowering violence he records, “Having a stick in my hand, I threw it towards heaven, against God, with the utmost enmity. Immediately I saw in the clear element a creature like a swan, but much larger, part black, part brown. It flew at me, and went just over my head. Then it went about forty yards, lighted on the ground, and stood staring upon me. This was in a clear day, about twelve o’clock.”

Haime now enlisted in a dragon regiment, leaving his wife and children. When his regiment was on the march to Scotland the first gleam of light broke into the unhappy soldier’s darkness. He came across Bunyan’s “Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners”; and across the space of more than a hundred years the voice of the Bedfordshire tinker talked to the heart of this tormented soldier.

“One day, as I walked by the Tweed side, I cried aloud, being all athirst for God, ‘Oh that Thou wouldst hear my prayer, and let my cry come up before Thee!’ The Lord heard. He sent a gracious answer. He lifted me up out of the dungeon. He took away my sorrow and fear, and filled my soul with peace and joy in the Holy Ghost. The stream glided swiftly along, and all nature seemed to rejoice with me. I was truly free; and had I had any to guide me I need never more have come into bondage.”

But the gleam of light soon faded, and again poor Haime walked in a world of terrors. “Many times,” he says, “I stopped in the street afraid to go one step farther lest 1 should step into hell.”

What is the secret of the experiences of such men as Haime and Bond? They were not born under the shadow of any dreadful creed. No gloomy theology poisoned their imagination. They practically had no theology, good or bad. The secret lies in the dim, unconscious sense of the terrors of an offended God, awakened in the human conscience, unaccompanied by any vision of the forgiving mercy of God in Christ.

Haime’s regiment was ordered to Flanders, and slowly, with many struggles and many relapses, he found his way into light and gladness. He wrote to Wesley, and Wesley’s reply is interesting as furnishing a glimpse of the correspondence he carried on with multitudes of all ranks.

“‘It is a great blessing,’ wrote Wesley, ‘whereof God has already made you a partaker; but if you continue waiting upoa Him you will see greater things than these. This is only the beginning of the kingdom of Heaven which He will set up in your heart. If He give you any companion in the narrow way, it is well; and it is well if He do not. So much the more will He teach and strengthen you by Himself. He will strengthen you in the secret of your heart. But by all means, miss no opportunity. Speak and spare not. Declare what God has done for your soul. Regard not worldly prudence. Be not ashamed of Christ, or of His word, or of His servants. Speak the truth in love, even in the midst of a crooked generation.’

‘“Lives of Early Methodist Preachers,” vol. ii. p. 158.

Haime acted on Wesley’s counsel, and commenced to speak of Christ to his comrades. He took part in the battle of Dettingen, and his account of it is curiously interesting.

“I had no sooner joined the regiment than my left-hand man was shot dead. 1 cried to God, and said, ‘In Thee have I trusted; let me never he confounded.’ My heart was filled with love, peace, and joy more than tongue can express. I was in a new world. I could truly say, ‘Unto you that believe He is precious.’ I stood the fire of the enemy seven hours. And when the battle was over I was sent out with a party of men to find the baggage-waggon, but returned without success. In the meanwhile the army was gone, and I knew not which way. I went to the field where the battle was fought, but such a scene of human misery did I never behold! It was enough to melt the most obdurate heart. I knew not now which way to take, being afraid of falling into the hands of the enemy. But as it began to rain hard, I set out, though not knowing where to go; till, hearing the beat of the drum, I went towards it, and soon rejoined the army. But I could not find the tent which I belonged to, nor persuade them to take me in at any other. So, being very wet and much fatigued, I wrapped myself up in my cloak and lay down and fell asleep. And though it still rained upon me, and the water ran under me, I had as sweet a night’s rest as ever I had in my life.”

After the battle the army fell back to Flanders, and remained in quarters near Ghent. Haime tells the story of how he began meetings there: —

“Being in Ghent, I went one Sunday morning to the English Church at the usual time. But neither minister nor people came. As I was walking in the church, two men belonging to the train came in, John Evans and Pitman Stag. One of them said, ‘The people are long in coming.’ I said, ‘Yet they think, however they live, of going to heaven when they die. But most of them, I fear, will be sadly disappointed.’ They stared at me, and asked me what I meant. I told them, ‘Nothing unholy can dwell with a holy God.’ We had a little more talk, and appointed to meet in the evening. We took a room without delay, and met every night to pray and read the Holy Scriptures. In a little time we were as speckled birds, as ‘men wondered at.’ But some began to listen under the window, and soon after desired to meet with us. Our meetings were soon sweeter than our food.”

It must have been diflBcult to maintain, religious services amongst troops constantly on the march; but Haime explains their methods. “Our general plan was, as soon as we were settled in any camp, to build a tabernacle, containing two, three, or four rooms, as we saw convenient. One day three oflScers came to see our chapel, as they called it. They asked many questions. One in particular asked me what I preached. I answered, ‘I preach against swearing, whoring, and drunkenness; and exhort men to repent of all their sins, that they may not perish.’ He began swearing horribly, and said, if it were in his power, he would have me whipped to death. I told him, ‘Sir you have a commission over men; but I have a commission from God to tell you, you must either repent of your sins or perish everlastingly.’”

The fire, fed with such courage, spread. “We had now,” says Haime, “three hundred in the society, and six preachers beside myself.” Fonteuoy sadly reduced the little godly band; but still the good work was maintained. OflScers not seldom were amongst Haime’s hearers, and one day the Duke of Cumberland came and stood amongst the crowd who listened.

But human experience is liable to tragical changes. Haime was tempted, and fell. He gives the date with sorrowful exactness. “April 6, 1746, I was off my watch, and fell by a grievous temptation. It came as quick as lightning, I knew not if I were in my senses; but I fell, and the Spirit of God departed from me.” For twenty years poor Haime walked in the shadow of that fall. He passed through religious experiences which resemble nothing so much as the darkest circles in Dante’s inferno. His grief broke his health and affected his very senses.

“I could not see the sun for more than eight months. Even in the clearest summer day it always appeared to me like a mass of blood. At the same time I lost the use of my knees. I cannot describe what I felt. I could truly say, ‘Thou hast sent fire into my bones.’ I was often as hot as if I were burning to death. Many times I looked to see if my clothes were set on fire. I have gone into a river to cool myself; but it was all the same. For what could quench the wrath of His indignation that was let loose upon me? At other times, in the midst of summer, I have been so cold that I knew not how to bear it. All the clothes I could put on had no effect, but my flesh shivered, and my very bones quaked. God grant, reader, thou and I may never feel how hot or how cold it is in hell!”

But no matter in what deep waters poor Haime waded, he still preached, warned, exhorted. “Some may inquire, what could move nie to preach while I was in such a forlorn condition? They must ask of God, for what I cannot tell. His ways herein are past finding out.” He tells again: “When Satan has strongly suggested, just as I was going to preach, ‘1 will have thee at last,’ I have answered (sometimes with too much anger), ‘I will have another out of thy haud first.’ And many, while I was myself in the deep, were truly convinced, and converted to God.”

It is not easy to imagine a figure at once more pathetic and more heroic than that of this soldier-preacher, carrying the burden of that far-off sin, and yet preaching” to others a Gospel he did not himself realise. After his discharge from the army Haime went to Wesley and asked to be accepted as one of his preachers. Wesley looked with his shrewd but kindly eyes on the worn face of the veteran, and accepted him. Later he made him for a while his personal companion, and took him with him when travelling. Haime found his way into clear experience at last and died when nearly eighty years of age. His last prayer, spoken with failing voice, was: “O Almighty God, Who dwellest in light which no mortal can approach, and where no unclean thing can enter, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts; grant us continually sweet peace, quietness, and assurance of Thy favour!”

Such men as Haime, Stanniforth, and Bond are types of a class; they are figures which symbolise the forces of a spiritual revolution. These men, during the early stages of their religious life at all events, owed little to Wesley personally. Haime, in his first letter to Wesley, says: “I am a stranger to you in the flesh. I know not if T have seen you above once, when I saw you preaching on Kenniiigton Common. And then T hated you as much now as (by the grace of God) T love you.” They went through dreadful struggles before they saw his face. But Wesley was their natural leader. His sympathy with the army was always alert and keen. He records in his Journal, speaking of Ireland, “The first call is to the soldiery.” Wesley’s character was one that specially appealed to what may be called the soldierly imagination — his courage, his instinct for discipline, his look and accent of command. He was the one visible figure, too, in the whole spiritual movement by which these soldiers were aflfected. They talked of him on the march, wrote to him from their camps, passed from hand to hand as treasures the letters he had written to some of them. And when they were discharged they naturally joined his Societies.

These brave Methodist soldiers lie in forgotten graves scattered over the ‘Continent; but it is worth while to recall their memory. They show how the new spiritual forces sweeping through England reached classes that seemed quite beyond the reach of the preachers and leaders of that movement.