he would be out for the air. I hope Mr. Hutchinson is better. But I can scarce mention anybody now, but dear Mr. Wesley. Pray let me know how it goes with you. My wife truly joins in sympathy and love. Night and day indeed you are remembered by, my dear friend, "Yours," &c. "Dec. 20th, 1753. My dear Friend,-I most sincerely rejoice, and have given private and public thanks, for the recovery of your dear yoke-fellow. My pleasure is increased by seeing your brother so well as I found him on Tuesday at Lewisham. O that you may both spring afresh, and your latter end increase more and more! Talk not of having no more work to do in the vineyard. I hope all our work is but just beginning. I am sure it is high time for me to begin to do something for Him who hath done and suffered so much for me. Near forty years old, and such a dwarf! The winter come already, and so little done in the summer! I am ashamed, I blush, and am confounded; and yet God blesseth us here. Truly, his outgoings are seen in the Tabernacle. The top-stone is brought forth. We will now cry, Grace! grace!' I must away. Our joint respects attend you all. I hope Mr. Hutchinson mends. I hear his brother is dead. Lord, make us, make me also ready! My most dutiful respects await our elect Lady. God willing, she shall hear soon from, my dear friend, "Yours," &c., "in our common Lord." Scarcely was Mrs. Wesley so far recovered as to be considered out of danger, when her infant son was attacked by the fearful disease. This was a severe affliction to both the parents; for he was their only child; their first-born; one year and four months old. He had shown a mental precocity with regard to music, of which there are few examples, having both sung a tune, and beaten time, at the age of twelve months. He bore the honoured name of John Wesley. Intelligence of his sickness was conveyed to the father in London, by the following letter, written by Miss Rebecca Gwynne, Mrs. Wesley's sister : "Sunday night, Dec. 30th. As we suppose my dear brother Wesley will be glad to know how the poor little boy does, I cannot help writing by this post to inform you, that he rested tolerably last night; but has the distemper very х X/24.0 thick; and the Doctor says he cannot tell what sort it will prove till the ninth day is passed, being so treacherous a disorder. About Wednesday we hope the worst will be over. My sister desires her love and thanks to all friends who were so kind as to remember her. My eyes are so weak, that I can only add our love, and desires to see you as soon as possible." To this letter Mrs. Wesley affixed the following postscript:-"Many thanks I return my dearest friend for his last; and I trust all your prayers will be answered on me. Nothing is worth living for, but to enjoy and glorify our God. O that this may be the end for which my life is lengthened! I found no desire for a longer continuance on earth, than till I found my soul meet for the inheritance of the saints in light; and that I firmly believe Christ would have granted even me, had He called me hence in my late dangerous illness. To walk always in the light of God's countenance is most desirable; but some seem more highly favoured in that than others. I long to be one of those; but when will it be? You have been short in gratitude in not writing to my worthy Doctor, who is daily here to see dear Jacky. My heart yearns for him so, that I wish I could bear the distemper again, instead of him: but he is in our great Preserver's hands, who cares for him. The Lord bless you. Farewell." The suffering little innocent only survived the writing of this letter eight days, when his redeemed spirit entered into rest. His remains were interred before the father returned to Bristol. Some of his light and delicate hair, folded in paper, lies before the writer of this narrative. This sacred family relic bears the following inscription, neatly written by the bereaved mother:-"My dear Jacky Wesley's hair: who died of the small-pox, on Monday, Jan. 7th, 1753-4, aged a year, four months, and seventeen days. I shall go to him; but he never shall return to me." It was not to be expected that Mr. Charles Wesley could pass through these scenes of domestic affliction, bereavement, and deliverance,-of chastisement and mercy,-without pouring forth the feelings of his heart in sacred verse. It was in devotional poetry that his emotions, both of joy and sorrow, found their most natural and appropriate expression. Accordingly we find that he composed two hymns, under the title of "Oblation of a sick Friend," which describe the working of his mind while the wife of his bosom was suspended between life and death. They are remarkable for their tenderness and piety. The following stanzas are a specimen : Jesus, evermore the same, Humbly prostrate at thy feet, Till thy Love's design we see, Let her long a witness live, Live to serve thy church and thee. Then, when all her work is done, Two hymns he wrote "For one visited with sickness; which were doubtless intended for the use of Mrs. Wesley, suffering on the bed of languishing and pain. Two more he placed in her hands, as a "Thanksgiving after recovery from the small-pox." The following is the second of them : Sing to the Prince of life and peace! Can I forget the solemn day, The poison boil'd in every vein ; My body rack'd in every part, Jesus beheld my last distress, He in the kind Physician came, Brought from the gates of death, I give And only breathe to breathe his praise. He wrote also a "Prayer for a dying child," of which the following is a specimen : When thou didst our Isaac give, Him we trembled to receive; Meekly we our vow repeat; Let him on the altar lie; Let the victim live, or die! Yet thou know'st what pangs of love In a father's bosom move; What the agony to part Struggling in a mother's heart. Sorely tempted and distress'd, God we absolutely trust, |