The Missionaries 1

I was born on October 14, 1806 ; and was the youngest but
one of twelve, four of whom died in infancy. Ellen, who lived
the longest of the four, died at the age of four years. She was
remarkably beautiful, so much so that strangers passing by
would stop to admire her. A short time before her death, she
was upon her knees upon the bed, looking over the bed's
head, when mother said to her, "Ellen, what are you looking
at?''
"O mother ! " Ellen replied, "I have seen four pretty ladies -
I should like to go with them." Soon after the lovely child died,
and now she is with the angels in Heaven who circle the throne
of God.  "I say unto you, that in heaven, the angels do always
behold the face of my Father which is in heaven."  

During our residence at Linton, I was nearly burnt to death. One
cold windy day, I had, in company with another boy, been out
playing; we returned, to his father's house, very cold, and
commenced mending the fire. We were alone when the
dreadful accident occurred; I was lifting the kettle from off the
reckon, when my apron caught fire. The boy was frightened,
ran out of the house, shut the door, and looked through the
window. I ran round the house several times, then opened the
door, and, facing a strong wind, ran across the street, and the
length of twelve houses, before I was caught and the fire
quenched.  I distinctly remember being laid upon the floor,
and having my wounds saturated with treacle, in order to
extract the fire. My right side close up to the pit of the arm, and
my arm down to the elbow, were severely burnt, so much so,
that all feeling for a time was gone. The doctor lived at a
considerable distance ; and when he came, his advice was
that I should be allowed quietly to die ; for he said that he was
certain I should never recover. My mother said, "My child will
get better; and if you will not dress his wounds, I will!" The
doctor then cut away the burnt flesh, and left me to the skill and
care of my best earthly friend, my mother. I was happy, and
longed to die and be at rest; but it was the will of God that I
should recover.  What torture I endured, the twelve months
I was confined to my bed!  And what trouble and expense I
must have been to my dear parents!  The healing of the arm-pit
was more than my dear mother could manage; and after many
painful and unsuccessful attempts to keep the arm from
adhering to my side, the struggle was given up, and the arm,
down to the elbow, was allowed to grow to my side.

When I was about seven years old, I was sent to the cotton
factory to do the best I could to make a living. My right arm
was grown to my side; my jacket gave me pain, and hung
upon my back as if it did not belong to me; my head was
tapering and long, and altogether I had a singular appearance;
and sometimes I was told that I should be rather short of sense
or stupid.  These things, with what I had suffered, and the long,
long dreary mill hours — thirteen and often fourteen hours per
day — made me sorrowful and dejected in spirit.  Still, I was
fond of reading; I could sing beautifully ; and mother, being a
good singer, used to sing with me. I was a favourite at the
Sunday-school ; I often got promoted ; and when a prize was
offered I usually won it so much so that there was no one like
me in a school of four hundred boys; so that, whatever my
looks might be, or whatever persons might say, I knew that I
was not, in the common acceptation of the term, short of sense
or stupid.  Yes; the Sunday-school, the chapel on the other
side of the road, the benches, the pews, the tunes that were
sung, the addresses that were delivered, sermons preached,
and the families that regularly attended, are all written in
imperishable characters upon my memory and heart.

We moved to Rawtenstall which was only seven miles away
but everything there was new to me. Here my brother
Benjamin died. He was eighteen months older than me and
we loved each other very much indeed.  Though he had been
very industrious, and strictly moral, when he became ill he
struggled to seek God. I remember his struggles for
acceptance with God. He had begun to meet in class with
Mr. Giles Waldwark, a man full of faith and the Holy Ghost.
The class met at Longholme, on the Tuesday night, and
Benjamin's case was the subject of mutual and faithful prayer.
One of the members was praying that Benjamin's soul might
be set at perfect liberty, when Giles cried out, at the top pitch
of his powerful voice, "It’s done Lord!  It's done Lord!" And so
it was. While they were thus pleading, Benjamin found that
peace which passes all understanding, and experienced
unspeakable joy. On my father's return from work that night he
asked how Benjamin was. The answer was, “Bless the Lord,
father, though very poorly in body, yet happy in soul."  My
father, clasping his hands and lifting his eyes toward heaven
said, "Let us praise God."  Everyone got up on their feet.  We
sang the Doxology, and father engaged in prayer.  We left
Burnley in the summer of 1824. My brother's health failed at the
Christmas of 1825. The disease, rapid consumption
(which is now called tuberculosis) made fearful strides;
but God very graciously carried on his work, and Benjamin's
soul was entirely sanctified. On Saturday, March 4th, 1826,
Benjamin died. What a day of hallowed triumph!  About six
in the evening, as we were all standing round his bed, a fit of
coughing seized him; he had just time to say,
" Bless God, mother; this will try me ! " The phlegm stuck in his
 throat, and his whole frame was convulsed and distorted again
 and again — until my sister Ellen cried out, " O God, do not
 let him breathe again!" It was a solemn moment; it was his last
 struggle: and, with a look of inexpressible serenity, he laid his
 head upon his pillow, and was at rest. After a silent pause, my
 dear father raised his hands, and exclaimed, "Bless the Lord,
there's another (soul safely) landed!" Benjamin died in his 21st
year ; and his was the first corpse interred in the yard of the
New Wesleyan Chapel, then not opened, at Rawtenstall.  My
brother's death gave me real comfort; he was safe; and had he
been spared great suffering. I saw nothing but poverty and toil
before him. He was too ill to have earned a living.  
He was, at best, a weak and sickly youth.
I, during his illness if anyone prayed for
his restoration, I did not — I could not say Amen. I was, during
his illness, his almost constant attendant. When he was dead,
in the house, I frequently ran up into his room, kissed his cold
face, wept tears of joy, and reluctantly returned. At the funeral,
when the friends were singing that incomparable hymn,
"The morning flowers display their sweets," it was with the
utmost difficulty that I could restrain myself from singing aloud.
In respect to him I could adopt the following lines : —

Again we lift our voice,
And shout our solemn joys:
Cause of highest raptures this,
Raptures that shall never fail;
See a soul escaped to bliss,
Keep the Christian festival.
Thou in thy youthful prime,
Hast leaped the bounds of time:
Suddenly from earth released,
Lo! we now rejoice for thee ;
Taken to an early rest,
Caught into Eternity.

Of all the preachers I ever sat under, the Rev. Henry Fish
made the deepest impression on my mind and heart. His
ability, fidelity, earnestness, and, above all, the anointing
present in his word, used to prostrate my soul in the dust, and
fill me with longing desire, and, for the moment, with firm
resolve to be the Lord's. It was then my settled conviction, that,
if converted, I should be happy and useful.  Towards the close
of a powerful sermon preached by Mr. Fish, one Sabbath
evening, I resolved to remain at the prayer-meeting, under the
full conviction that I should find peace that night; and it was also
deeply impressed on my mind that, unless I then gave God
my heart, I should grieve the Holy Spirit, and destroy those
powerful and holy feelings which I was then experiencing. But I
yielded to temptation ; and, by taking a quiet walk with a friend,
and engaging in worldly conversation, I deliberately grieved
the Holy Spirit of God: and though, afterwards, I was truly
converted, those powerful and melting feelings, in the same
degree, never have returned; and it was through a series of
severe personal privations and sufferings that I was brought to
submit to the yoke of Jesus, my Lord and Saviour.

About this time, while at work in the card-room, I, by some
means, gave the wrist of my right hand a severe wrench. I
went to the nearest doctor of any note. He said my wrist was
out of joint, and he employed three men to assist him in putting
it right. I waited a week, but the hand swelling, and my wrist
giving me great pain, I went to the famed Whitworth doctor. He
swore "the fool had broken the wrist.”  He then set it, and sent
me home, with instructions to come again in a few days. Again
and again I went from RawtenstalL to Whitworth, weeping, and
sometimes kneeling down behind a wall or hedge to ask God
to direct and bless me.  My parents were poor, and the doctor
said I must go to live for a time at Whitworth, or he would give
up the case. I ventured to consult him about my arm which was
grown to my side. He said he could relieve the case, but it
would cost 100 guineas. I went home weeping, very much
dejected ; but my extreme sadness was God’s opportunity.
Whilst walking in the lane one day, with my hand in a sling,
a woman unknown to me began to question me about my
hand. She said that I had better go to the Manchester Infirmary; that
it would cost me nothing, and that there I should have the best
advice. I made my case and desire known to my master,
Thomas Kay, Esq., and he obtained from W. Townend, Esq.,
 a recommendation to admit me as an in-patient. On the
Saturday following, with a shilling in my pocket, cleanly, but
poorly clad, and with the blessing of my parents, I left home
for the great town of Manchester. Going by Heywood, I spent
the Sabbath with my brother Thomas, and early on Monday
morning left for Manchester. I found my way to the Infirmary
gates, but found I was two hours before the time to receive
patients.

While I was walking about, I met with an old schoolfellow from
Burnley; he was unemployed and without money or food. I
bought a pound of bread, which we ate between us, and I
gave him sixpence, as I did not expect to need money.
The hour came, and full of wonder, hope, and fear, I ventured
amongst the crowd of sick and lame people that were waiting
for medicine and for the arrival of the doctors. I called that
morning on William Townend, Esq. He asked my name.  I
replied, Joseph Townend.
'*No," said he, kindly, "my name is William Townend." I
replied, " Yes, sir, I am aware of that ; but my name is Joseph
Townend."  He then directed an assistant to go into the hall
with me, and to speak for me to the governor of the house. At
length, my turn came to go in before the doctor. There sat an
elderly, plain, honest-looking gentleman, with a
 broad- brimmed hat on his head, and minus one or two of his
front teeth.  He said to me — " Well, my lad, what's the matter
with thee? " I showed him my wrist. He said, "You might do for
 an out- patient."
I said, "My arm is stuck fast to my side, sir."
He replied, "What! Stuck? How's that? Be quick take your
jacket off!" When he saw my arm and side, he said, "Well, well!
how is this?" I told him it was from a burn when I was a little
boy. He inquired who was the doctor. I said, " My mother, sir."
He replied, " It's like thy mother — it's like thy mother!" My
case was so bad that it was thought by some to be hopeless ;
and it was said that if my appetite failed, all was over. I drank
diluted Feruyian bark like water, and ate as if I had been at
hard labour in the open air. Lying flat upon my back, it was
very difficult to take my food, and especially hot liquids ; but
necessity is the mother of invention. My shoulder blades were
raw with lying upon my back ; I could not wear anything in the
shape of linen. My wounds had to be dressed twice every day
for a long time, and the pus from the sores frequently dropped
through the bed upon the floor. My good old doctor treated me
with fatherly affection; and the house-surgeon for six weeks
dressed my sores with the greatest tenderness and regularity.
I always accounted for his harsh treatment, at the first dressing,
on the ground of his extreme sensitiveness.

About six weeks after the operation, he had taken off the
plasters, and, eyeing the sore, he exclaimed,
"Oh, there's a speck of healing in the middle of the sore,
like a small island in the middle of the ocean."

My side was healed, but the pit of the arm was not. My
wrist had been lost sight of; it was weak, and the bone used to
ache. My old doctor said, "Well, Joe, thou's been a good
patient.  Go to Blackpool, and wash it in the salt water,
and thou wilt see it will soon be well. It's a fine cure, my lad ;
but I'll never cut another case like thine." With the tears running
off my face, I gave him my left hand, but I could not speak. I
called in at the neighbouring wards, bidding them all
good-bye ; and descended the great staircase, with my
bundle in my hand, unable to wipe the tears as they fell upon
the steps. With my hand behind my ear, the elbow nearly
 horizontal with the shoulder, for the arm-pit was not healed, I
made my way to Hanging-ditch, to take the coach home.
My visit to the sea-side was of essential service ; my general
health was recruited, my wrist strengthened, and with six
shillings in my pocket, I walked home forty miles in one day.
I dreaded the factory, and my parents, though very poor, were
not willing for me to go to the mill again. For my sake, mother
began her confectionery business again. I was truly ashamed
of it. And then such remarks were made, as "A Methodist
selling nuts and gingerbread ! "  "Well, Joe, lad ! I'll
spend a penny with thee for pity's sake.” Wearied and jaded,
I resolved I would ask Mr. Kay for a situation in the warehouse.
Master was sharp, and (sometimes I thought) severe ; but it
was just such a place as I wanted ; I was not ashamed of it ; I
could manage it. I got a suit of new clothes, and began to look
up in the world.  Three years after leaving the Infirmary, I was
united in solemn wedlock to my dear Sarah, in the parish
church, Bury, Lancashire, July 31, 1830.