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was in her last conflict, unable to speak, but I believe quite sensible. Her look was calm and serene, and her eyes fixed upward, while we commended her soul to God. From three to four the silver cord was loosing, and the wheel breaking at the cistern; and then, without any struggle, or sigh, or groan, the soul was set at liberty. We stood round the bed, and fulfilled her last request, uttered a little before she lost her speech:

Children, as soon as I am released, sing a psalm of praise to God." He performed the funeral service himself, and thus feelingly describes it: "Almost an innumerable company of people being gathered together, about five in the afternoon I committed to the earth the body of my mother to sleep with her fathers. The portion of Scripture from which I afterwards spoke was, I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened, and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. It was one of the most solemn assemblies I ever saw, or expect to see, on this side eternity."

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The epitaph which her sons placed upon her tomb-stone is remarkable. Instead of noticing the virtues of so extraordinary and exemplary a woman, they chose to record what they were pleased to call her conversion, and to represent her as if she had lived in ignorance of real - Christianity during the life of her excellent husband.

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Here lies the body of Mrs. Susannah Wesley, the youngest and last surviving daughter of Dr. Samuel Annesley.

Mrs. Wesley had had her share of sorrow. During her husband's life she had struggled with narrow circumstances, and at his death she was left dependent upon her children. Of nineteen children she had wept over the early graves of far the greater number: she had survived her son Samuel, and she had the keener anguish of seeing two of her daughters unhappy, and perhaps of foreseeing the unhappiness of the third; an unhappiness the more to be deplored, because it was not altogether undeserved.

Among Wesley's pupils at Lincoln was a young man, by name Hall, of good person, considerable talents, and manners which were in a high degree

In sure and stedfast hope to rise

And claim her mansion in the skies,
A Christian here her flesh laid down,
The cross exchanging for a crown.

True daughter of affliction she,
Inured to pain and misery,

Mourn'd a long night of griefs and fears,
A legal night of seventy years.

The Father then reveal'd his Son,
Him in the broken bread made known,
She knew and felt her sins forgiven,
And found the earnest of her Heaven.

Meet for the fellowship above,
She heard the call, "Arise, my Love!"
I come, her dying looks replied,

And lamb-like as her Lord she died.

The third stanza alludes to her persuasion that she had received an assurance of the forgiveness of her sins at the moment when her son. in-law Hall was administering the sacrament of the Lord's Supper to her. See vol. i. p. 291.

prepossessing, to those who did not see beneath the surface of such things. Wesley was much attached to him; he thought him humble and teachable, and in all manner of conversation holy and unblameable. There were indeed parts of his conduct which might have led a wary man to suspect either his sanity or his sincerity; but the tutor was too sincere himself, and too enthusiastic, to entertain the suspicion which some of his extravagancies might justly have excited. He considered them as "starts of thought which were not of God, though they at first appeared to be;" and was satisfied, because the young man "was easily convinced, and his imaginations died away." Samuel formed a truer judgement. "I never liked the man," says he, "from the first time I saw him. His smoothness never suited my roughness. He appeared always to dread me as a wit and a jester : this with me is a sure sign of guilt and hypocrisy. He never could meet my eye in full light. Conscious that there was something foul at bottom, he was afraid I should see it, if I looked keenly into his eye." John, however, took him to his bosom. He became a visitor at Epworth, won the affections of the youngest sister Kezia, obtained her promise to marry him, fixed the day, and then, and not till then, communicated the matter to her brother and her parents, affirming vehemently that "the thing was of God; that he was certain it was God's will; God had revealed to him that he must marry, and that Kezia was the very person." Enthusiastic as Wesley himself was, the declaration startled him,

and the more so, because nothing could be more opposite to some of Hall's former extravagancies. Writing to him many years afterwards, when he had thrown off all restraints of outward decency, he says, “Hence I date your fall. Here were several faults in one. You leaned altogether to your own understanding, not consulting either me, who was then the guide of your soul, or the parents of your intended wife, till you had settled the whole affair. And while you followed the voice of Nature, you said it was the voice of God."

In spite, however, of the ominous fanaticism or impudent hypocrisy which Mr. Hall had manifested, neither Wesley nor the parents attempted to oppose the match: it was an advantageous one, and the girl's affections were too deeply engaged. But to the utter astonishment of all parties, in the course of a few days, Mr. Hall changed his mind, and pretending, with blasphemous ef frontery, that the Almighty had changed His, declared that a second revelation had countermanded the first, and instructed him to marry not her, but her sister Martha. The family, and especially the brothers, opposed this infamous proposal with proper indignation; and Charles addressed a poem to

TO MISS MARTHA WESLEY.

When want, and pain, and death, besiege our gate,
And every solemn moment teems with fate,
While clouds and darkness fill the space between,
Perplex th' event, and shade the folded scene,
In humble silence wait th' unuttered voice,
Suspend thy will, and check thy forward choice;

the new object of his choice, which must have stung her like a scorpion whenever the recollection

Yet, wisely fearful, for th' event prepare,
And learn the dictates of a brother's care.
How fierce thy conflict, how severe thy flight!
When hell assails the foremost sons of light!
When he, who long in virtue's paths had trod,
Deaf to the voice of conscience and of God,
Drops the fair mask, proves traitor to his vow,
And thou the temptress, and the tempted thou!
Prepare thee then to meet th' infernal war,
And dare beyond what woman knows to dare;
Guard each avenue to thy flutt'ring heart,
And act the sister's and the Christian's part.
Heav'n is the guard of virtue; scorn to yield,
When screen'd by Heav'n's impenetrable shield:
Secure in this, defy th' impending storm,
Tho' Satan tempt thee in an angel's form.
And oh! I see the fiery trial near:
I see the saint, in all his forms, appear!
By nature, by religion taught to please,
With conquest flush'd, and obstinate to press,
He lists his virtues in the cause of hell,
Heav'n, with celestial arms, presumes t'assail,
To veil, with semblance fair, the fiend within,
And make his God subservient to his sin!
Trembling, I hear his horrid vows renew'd,
I see him come, by Delia's groans pursued;
Poor injur❜d Delia! all her groans are vain!
Or he denies, or list'ning, mocks her pain,
What tho' her eyes with ceaseless tears o'erflow,
Her bosom heave with agonising woe!

What tho' the horror of his falsehood near,

Tear up her faith, and plunge her in despair!

Yet, can he think (so blind to Heav'n's decree,
And the sure fate of cursed apostacy)

Soon as he tells the secret of his breast,

And puts the angel off, and stands confess'd;

When love, and grief, and shame, and anguish meet,
To make his crimes and Delia's wrongs complete,
That then the injur'd maid will cease to grieve,
Behold him in a sister's arms—and live?

Mistaken wretch! by thy unkindness hurl'd

From ease, from love, from thee, and from the world,

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