“Though the days are come upon me, in which I have reason to say of worldly things, I have no pleasure in them; yet, I find a secret satisfaction in this consideration, that, to you and to others, I may be permitted, even when dead, to speak in my little treatises. May they, when the author is gone hence, testify, with some small degree of efficacy, concerning Jesus! May they fan the flame of love to His person, and strengthen the principle of faith in His merits! Once more, dear sir, adieu! “J. HERVEY.” Hervey was afflicted in person; he was also afflicted in the sufferings of his friends. Hence the following, written in the month of December, 1747. “Your last found me on the recovering hand, getting strength and spirits, though by slow degrees. Soon after I received your favour, a messenger came from London, bringing us the alarming news, that my youngest brother was extremely ill. My father’s bowels yearned, and his heart bled; but the infirmities of age, and an unwieldy constitution, hindered him from taking the journey. Upon me, therefore, the office fell. Feeble and languid as I was, there was no rejecting such a call. Accordingly, I took coach, and, in two days, arrived safe in London, where I found my poor brother (the packer) seized with a most violent fever. He was attended by two eminent physicians; but they proved vain helpers. For a considerable time, his stout constitution struggled with the disease; but, at last, was forced to yield. After attending his sick-bed for several days, I had the melancholy task of closing his dear eyes, and resigning him up to death. Oh, the uncertainty of mortal things! Who could have thought that I should survive my brother? I, sickly and enervated; he, always lively and vigorous. In flourishing circumstances, and blessed with prosperity in his business; but now removed to the dark, inactive, silent tomb! Lately married to a beautiful and blooming bride, but now a companion for creeping things! “Scarce was I returned to Weston, but another awful Providence fetched me from home. My very worthy physician, Dr. Stonehouse, who lives and practises in Northampton, had the misfortune to lose an amiable and excellent wife. She also was snatched away in the morning of life (aged twenty-five), and dead before I so much as heard of her being disordered. At this valuable friend’s house, I was desired to abide some time, in order to assist in writing letters for him, and dispatching his necessary affairs; in comforting him concerning the deceased, and in endeavouring to improve the awakening visitation to our mutual good.[183]