Soon after this I went to _London_, for eight weeks, where I heard Mr. _Jones_ (of _Southwark_) preach, and was affected at hearing of the sufferings of Christ, much as I used to be at seeing or reading of a tragedy. I was afterwards asked to hear Mr. _Romaine_. I did so, but could not understand him. The night I left _London_, some persons were debating about the Millennium. One of them repeated part of the 20th chapter of the _Revelation_. I was struck at the awful words, and thought if Christ was then to come, I was not prepared to meet him. I went home very serious, and began to search the scriptures, and to be more strict than ever. I was often troubled, but knew not the cause, and was ashamed to confess my fears. My friends thought I had a fever on my spirits, and I thought so too; but as I read much, I began to fear, that with all my religion, I was not converted. I wanted to go to _London_, that I might hear Mr. _Romaine_. A year after I went to _London_ with my father-in-law. At the inn where we lay, I saw Mr. _Whitefield_’s sermons. I read what I could, and determined to hear him. He was not in town; but I was much affected with Mr. _Dyer_’s preaching. Afterwards I not only went to St. _Dunstan_’s, but to all the methodist places of worship I knew, and one evening heard Mr. _Walsh_, at _West-street_. He preached the necessity of that _holiness, without which none can see the Lord_. His words were as arrows in my heart: I found all my former righteousness deficient: I knew this could not obtain mercy; but I did not feel I deserved hell. I wrote to Mr. _Romaine_ to know, what I should do to be saved? He desired to see me, and told me, two things were necessary, to know my want of Christ, and my interest in him. I went home with the greatest reluctance; for I knew no Christians in the town where I lived. My former acquaintance thought me mad: my mother was greatly alarmed. Not long after I went to _Norwich_ for a few days, and found out Mr. _Mitchell_. He spoke to me of the peace which faith brings to the conscience. I knew myself a stranger to this; but would willingly have suffered the rack, so I might attain it. I went home, and was, for five or six weeks, in a most unhappy situation. Before, I was not bad enough to come to Christ; now, I was too bad for him to receive; yet the Lord dealt tenderly with me, and at different times brought many encouraging scriptures to my mind. But still the stupidity and unbelief I felt caused me to mourn in secret. Still I was constrained to say,
“Scarce I begin my sad complaint, When all my warmest wishes faint: Hardly I lift my weeping eye, When all my kindling ardors die: Nor hopes nor fears my bosom move, For still I cannot, cannot love!”
I could not rest thus, though I concluded, it would always be the case: I expected to be miserable all my life, and to perish at the last: I found it as easy to reach heaven with my hand, as to believe Jesus died for _me_. I felt, _no one can come to Christ, except the Father draw him_. Now I knew, it was the work of God, to believe on him whom he hath sent. I prayed he would work faith in _me_, but seemed as distant from God as hell from heaven: I was cut off from all self-dependence: I was a sinner stript of all.
I was on my knees striving to pray, when I heard inwardly a voice say, “Thy sins are forgiven thee.” I felt the truth of it in my heart, and in a moment prayer was lost in praise. I called upon the angels to join with me, in blessing him who died for _me_! He caused his goodness to pass before me, and I rejoiced with joy unspeakable.
Yet in a few hours after I began to fear I had deceived myself, and all was delusive. I was much distressed, and had recourse to prayer, and the Lord repeated his mercies, and impressed the same words on my mind, more strongly than before. I was more assured of his forgiving love, and enjoyed much peace in believing. I now thought, I never could sin more. My mind was taken up with God, and I conversed with him as a man would with his friend. My confidence in him was unshaken, and my hope full of immortality.
I wanted others to rejoice with me; but they were _strangers to Jesus_, and _intermeddled not with_ my _joy_. I lamented being alone. My nearest friends thought I carried things too far. My mother was more alarmed; for I could not speak but on religious subjects. A neighbouring clergyman advised her to confine me, if I offered to hear the Methodists. This I did at all opportunities, though none was nearer than four miles off. Her tenderness gave me much pain. I was sorry to grieve her in any thing; and yet I did not dare to oblige her, by acting contrary to my conscience. I could not play at cards, nor join in trifling discourse, though my refusal was deemed preciseness.