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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. 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

VOL. 11.

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 :

Can we of ourselves resign
The most precious loan divine ?
With thy loveliest creature part ?
Lord, thou seest our bleeding heart.

Whom thyself hast planted there,
From our bleeding heart to tear ;
This most sensibly we feel,
This we own impossible.

Dearest of thy gifts below,
Nature cannot let her go;
Nature, till by grace subdued,
Will not give her back to God.

But we would receive the power
Every blessing to restore ;
Would to thy decision bow,
Would be meekly willing now.

If thou wilt thine own revoke,
Now inflict the sudden stroke;
Take our eyes' and heart's desire,
Let her in thine arms expire,

Stripp'd of all, we come to thee,
As our day our strength shall be ;
Jesus, Lord, we come to prove
All the virtue of thy love.

When the creature-streams are dry,
Thou thyself our wants supply :
Thou of life the Fountain art,
Rise eternal in our heart.

Hear us, then, thou Man of grief;
O make haste to our relief!
After thee for help we cry ;
Come before our sister die.

Jesus, evermore the same,
Manifest thy saving name;
Good Physician from above
Heal the object of thy love!

Humbly prostrate at thy feet,
We our will to thine submit:
Yet before thy will is shown,
Trembling, we present our own.

Till thy Love's design we see,
Earnest, but resign’d to thee,
Suffer us for life to pray;
Bless us with her longer stay.

Let her long a witness live,
That thou canst on earth forgive;
Live thine utmost love to see,
Live to serve thy church and thee.

Then, when all her work is done,
Thou thy faithful servant crown;
Take her, Jesus, to thy breast,
Take us all to endless rest.

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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 !
Let every tongue my Saviour bless,
So strong to help in danger's hour,
So present in his healing power,
And from the margin of the grave
So good a dying worm to save !

Can I forget the solemn day,
When grappling with my foe I lay ?
O’er my weak flesh, from foot to head,
The loathsome leprosy was spread,
The foulest plague our race can feel,
The deadliest fruit of sin and hell.

The poison boil'd in every vein ;
The fire broke out in raging pain;
I sunk oppress'd through all my powers,
With bruises, wounds, and putrid sores ;

My body rack'd in every part,
And sick to death my fainting heart.

Jesus beheld my last distress,
And turn’d the current of disease ;
He stopp'd my spirit on the wing,
And chased away the grisly king :
His wonder-working arm I own,
And give the praise to God alone.

He in the kind Physician came,
(Bow all to Jesu's balmy name !)
Àmidst my weeping friends He stood,
And mix'd the cordial with his blood,
Display'd his dead-reviving art,
And pour'd his life into my heart.

Brought from the gates of death, I give
My life to Him by whom I live;
Raised from a restless bed of pain,
I render Him my strength again;
And only wait to prove his grace,
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 ;
Him we call'd not ours, but thine ;
Him we promised to resign.

Meekly we our vow repeat;
Nature shall to grace submit;
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,
Can we make the fond request?
Dare we pray for a reprieve?
Need we ask that he may live?

God we absolutely trust,
Wise, and merciful, and just;
All thy works to thee are known,
All thy blessed will be done.

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