The history of the Oxford Methodists is not, however, an unspotted one. Clayton’s high churchism was not an excellency to be admired. Broughton’s usefulness was crippled and cut short by his imperfect, stunted, stereotyped views of Christian truth. Westley Hall, though we hope he died a penitent, was, throughout the greatest part of his vicious life, an unmitigated scamp. John Whitelamb sunk down into an ecclesiastical village drone. Gambold, though good, was visionary, and throughout life was injured by his Moravian maggots. And Ingham, for many years one of the most successful of evangelists, through the ill judged connections that he formed, died beneath a cloud. But, with all these drawbacks, the reader is challenged to produce a band of godly friends, whose lives and labours have, upon the whole, issued in such an amount of blessing to mankind as that which has resulted from the lives and labours of the students who, in 1735, were known as “Oxford Methodists.” They were widely scattered; their views were different; they were often brought into painful collision with each other; but, with the one or two exceptions mentioned, they were all sincere, earnest, laborious, successful ministers of Christ; and five or six of them must for ever occupy a high position in the history of the Christian church. Clayton shunned the Wesleys; Broughton opposed them; Ingham left them; Hervey, though with Christian courtesy, wrote against them; Gambold, at one period, hesitated not to say that he was ashamed of them; and even Whitefield, for a little while, was alienated from them; but we earnestly hope and have little doubt that they have all long been re-united in that blessed world where friends are free from misconceptions, and where the din of controversial strife does not exist—a world where all churches are merged into one grand Church, the members of which make one vast, happy, and harmonious family, and sing in the same ceaseless tune the same great song for ever—the song of Moses and of the Lamb.