over the fateful fact a moment, then shook his head, with a glance at the broad chest and muscular limbs stretched out before him:

"I'm not afraid, but it's difficult to believe all at once. it don't seem possible for such a little wound to kill me."

I'm so strong

Merry Mercutio's dying words glanced through my memory as he spoke: ""Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough." And John would have said the same could he have seen the ominous black holes between his shoulders; he never had, but, seeing the ghastly sights about him, could not believe his own wound more fatal than these, for all the suffering it caused him.

"Shall I write to your mother, now?" I asked, thinking that these sudden tidings might change all plans and purposes. But they did not; for the man received the order of the Divine Commander to march with the same unquestioning obedience with which the soldier had received that of the human one; doubtless remembering that the first led him to life, and the last to death.

"No, ma'am; to Jack just the same; he'll break it to her best, and I'll add a line to her myself when you get done."

So I wrote the letter which he dictated, finding it better than any I had sent; for, though here and there a little ungrammatical or inelegant, each sentence came to me briefly worded, but most expressive; full of excellent counsel to the boy, tenderly bequeathing "mother and Lizzie" to his care, and bidding him good-bye in words the sadder for their simplicity. He added a few lines, with steady hand, and, as I sealed it, said, with a patient sort of sigh: "I hope the answer will come in time for me to see it"; then, turning away his face, laid the flowers against his lips, as if to hide some quiver of emotion at the thought of such a sudden sundering of all the dear home ties.

These things had happened two days before; now John was dying, and the letter had not come. I had been summoned to many death-beds in my life, but to none that made my heart ache as it did then, since my mother called me to watch the departure of a spirit akin to this in its gentleness and patient strength. As I went in, John stretched out both hands: "I knew you'd come! I guess I'm moving on, ma'am."

He was; and so rapidly that, even while he spoke, over his face I saw the gray veil falling that no human hand can lift. I sat down by him, wiped the drops from his forehead, stirred the air about him with the slow wave of a fan, and waited to help him die. He stood in sore need of help and I could do so little; for, as the doctor had foretold, the strong body rebelled against death, and fought every inch of the way, forcing him to draw each breath with a spasm, and clench his hands with an imploring look, as if he asked: "How long must I endure this, and be still!" For hours he suffered dumbly, without a moment's

respite, or a moment's murmuring; his limbs grew cold, his face damp, his lips white, and, again and again, he tore the covering off his breast, as if the lightest weight added to his agony; yet through it all, his eyes never lost their perfect serenity, and the man's soul seemed to sit therein, undaunted by the ills that vexed his flesh.

One by one, the men woke, and round the room appeared a circle of pale faces and watchful eyes, full of awe and pity; for, though a stranger, John was beloved by all. Each man there had wondered at his patience, respected his piety, admired his fortitude, and now lamented his hard death; for the influence of an upright nature had made itself deeply felt, even in one little week. Presently the Jonathan who so loved this comely David came creeping from his bed for a last look and word. The kind soul was full of trouble, as the choke in his voice, the grasp of his hand, betrayed; but there were no tears, and the farewell of the friends was the more touching for its brevity.

"Old boy, how are you?" faltered the one.

"Most through, thank heaven!" whispered the other.

"Can I say or do anything for you anywheres?"

"Take my things home, and tell them that I did my best." "I will! I will!"

"Good-bye, Ned."

"Good-bye, John, good-bye!"

They kissed each other, tenderly as women, and so parted, for poor Ned could not stay to see his comrade die. For a little while, there was no sound in the room but the drip of water, from a stump or two, and John's distressful gasps, as he slowly breathed his life away. I thought him nearly gone, and had just laid down the fan, believing its help to be no longer needed, when suddenly he rose up in his bed, and cried out with a bitter cry that broke the silence, sharply startling every one with its agonized appeal:

"For God's sake, give me air!"

It was the only cry pain or death had wrung from him, the only boon he had asked; and none of us could grant it, for all the airs that blew were useless now. Dan flung up the window. The first red streak of dawn was warming the gray east, a herald of the coming sun; John saw it, and with the love of light which lingers in us to the end, seemed to read in it a sign of hope of help, for over his whole face there broke that mysterious expression, brighter than any smile, which often comes to eyes that look their last. He laid himself gently down; and, stretching out his strong right arm, as if to grasp and bring the blessed air to his lips in a fuller flow, lapsed into a merciful unconsciousness, which assured us that for him suffering was forever past. He died then; for, though the heavy breaths still tore their way up for a little longer, they

were but the waves of an ebbing tide that beat unfelt against the wreck which an immortal voyager had deserted with a smile. He never spoke again, but to the end held my hand close, so close that when he was asleep at last, I could not draw it away. Dan helped me, warning me as he did so that it was unsafe for dead and living flesh to lie so long together; but though my hand was strangely cold and stiff, and four white marks remained across its back, even when warmth and color had returned elsewhere, I could not but be glad that, through its touch, the presence of human sympathy, perhaps, had lightened that hard hour.

When they had made him ready for the grave, John lay in state for half an hour, a thing which seldom happened in that busy place; but a universal sentiment of reverence and affection seemed to fill the hearts of all who had known or heard of him; and when the rumor of his death went through the house, always astir, many came to see him, and I felt a tender sort of pride in my lost patient; for he looked a most heroic figure, lying there stately and still as the statue of some young knight asleep upon his tomb. The lovely expression which so often beautifies dead faces soon replaced the marks of pain, and I longed for those who loved him best to see him when half an hour's acquaintance with Death had made them friends. As we stood looking at him, the ward-master handed me a letter, saying it had been forgotten the night before. It was John's letter, come just an hour too late to gladden the eyes that had longed and looked for it so eagerly! but he had it; for, after I had cut some brown locks for his mother, and taken off the ring to send her, telling how well the talisman had done its work, I kissed this good son for her sake, and laid the letter in his hand, still folded as when I drew my own away, feeling that its place was there, and making myself happy with the thought, that, even in his solitary grave in the Government Lot," he would not be without some token of the love which makes life beautiful and outlives death. Then I left him, glad to have known so genuine a man, and carrying with me an enduring memory of the brave Virginia blacksmith, as he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that long day which knows no night.

WHY THE REV. JOHN WESLEY DEPARTED FROM SAVANNAH.

MR.

[The History of Georgia. 1883.]

R. WESLEY enjoyed wonderful health. His constitution seemed to improve under hardships and labors which would have impaired the stoutest physical powers. Of the three hundred acres set apart in Savannah for glebe land he cut off what he deemed sufficient for a good garden, and there he frequently worked with his own hands. He ate

moderately, slept little, and left not a moment of his time unemployed. To the changing seasons, and in all kinds of weather, he exposed himself with the utmost indifference. His journeys into South Carolina were sometimes performed on foot, and with no shelter at night save the friendly boughs of a tree. His energy, resolution, self-denial, and endurance were at times conspicuous.

The circumstances which brought the usefulness and services of Mr. Wesley as a clergyman in Savannah to an abrupt and a notorious conclusion may be thus briefly narrated. With Mr. Causton, the chief bailiff and keeper of the public stores, and with the members of his family, the missionary associated on friendly terms. Miss Sophia Hopkins, a niece of Mrs. Causton, and a young woman of uncommon personal and intellectual charms, had been his pupil. He gave her French lessons. Under his religious ministrations she became a professed convert and united herself with the church. It would appear that this constant association with a pretty, fascinating maiden eventually excited tender emotions in the breast of the youthful and susceptible ecclesiastic. He was evidently on the eve of declaring his affection when his friend, Mr. Delamotte, excited his apprehensions by expressing doubts in regard to the sincerity of Miss Hopkins's religious convictions. He also cautioned him against cherishing or avowing too fond an attachment for her. Taking counsel of the Moravian elders, they too advised him not to contemplate a matrimonial alliance with her. Thus admonished, Mr. Wesley became more guarded in his conduct and more reserved in his intercourse. Perceiving the change in his deportment, Miss Hopkins was piqued, mortified, and angered. Something closely resembling a rupture ensued; and, not long afterwards, this charming and coquettish young lady gave her hand to a Mr. Williamson.

A few months subsequent to her marriage Mr. Wesley "observed some things which he thought reproveable in her behavior." He mentioned them to her. "At this," writes that clergyman in his Journal, "she appeared extremely angry and said she did not expect such usage from me." The next day Mrs. Causton made excuses for her niece, and expressed much regret at what had transpired.

Having, after the lapse of a few weeks, "repelled Mrs. Williamson from the Holy Communion," Mr. Wesley was arrested under the following warrant issued by the recorder:

"GEORGIA. SAVANNAH. S. S.

"To all Constables, Tythingmen, and others whom these may concern: "You and each of you are hereby required to take the body of John Wesley, Clerk: and bring him before one of the Bailiffs of the said Town to answer the complaint of William Williamson and Sophia his