“Your present circumstances almost distress me. I think it
requires more grace heartily to say, ‘Father, Thy will be
done,’ in such a situation, than to die a martyr forty times.
But, my dear friend, though your body is weak and confined at
home, your pen hath been active, and your works walk abroad.
I hear of them from all quarters. God hath blessed, and will
bless them. Let that comfort you, and, if health any way
permits, pray write again. Fear not, my dear, dear man; let
faith and patience hold out a little longer, and then the
struggle shall be over. Yet a little while, and you shall
join with that sweet singer, Dr. Watts, who, whilst on earth,
dragged a crazy load along, as well as you, for many years. I
am now at Ashby, with good Lady Huntingdon. Her ladyship has a
great regard for you, and begs you would come and stay a week
at her house. She will take great care of you.”
Hervey was ill, and the warm-hearted Whitefield never loved him so
much as now. Hitherto, Lady Huntingdon had not corresponded with
Hervey, though she had long entertained a great regard for him. One
or two letters had passed between them, but no regular correspondence
took place till the beginning of the year 1750. Again and again, had
Whitefield conveyed her ladyship’s request that he would write to her;
and, at length, on February 2, 1750, Hervey yielded, and commenced a
correspondence, which was continued, without interruption, until his
death. Whitefield was delighted, and wrote:—“I am glad you have opened a
correspondence with our elect lady. Keep it open, I entreat you, my dear
friend.”