"Weep with Those who Weep."
Bro. W. Allen writes from Pequot, Calumet Co., Wis., March 20th, 1859: "Bro. Smith, and friends of the Bible and lovers of truth: Often have I thought of writing a few lines to the Review, to at least show my gratitude for your kindness and benevolence towards me. But two things have stood in my way. First of these is my limited education; the second, is because I have never been able to send a few dollars for the support of your useful paper without absolutely distressing my family. But I have ardently desired to render my most sincere thanks to those who have contributed to the Herald for the benefit of the poor. I feel I am one of that number, and wish to feast weekly on the crumbs that fall from my master's table. I have previously written to you that the cause of our leaving our native home and friends, and taking up our abode in the wilds of Wisconsin, was sickness and death in our family, with other misfortunes. "In the winter of 1852 the typhoid fever visited my family, and took from our embrace two beloved sons in the bloom and vigor of life; one 20, and the other 22 years. To them we had looked with much confidence in our declining years; but our hopes were cut off. All our care, sorrow and tears, mingled with those of numerous relatives and friends who surrounded us at that time, could not retain them. But the monster, death, did not stop its torturing ravages there. It has pursued my family even in this secluded and lonely retreat, and taken from us another lovely son of but 19 years. Charles E. Allen was taken sick the 11th of Feb. We called a physician as soon as circumstances would admit, who pronounced it the typhoid fever. But all he could do did not check its rage. Our dear child soon became deranged. Our anxiety for him was beyond my power of expression. In this extremity I thought of the words of James. 'Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, &c., and the prayer of faith shall save the sick.' My anxious mind wandered through the adjoining neighborhood, where my son who lives in Galva, Ills., labored one year ago. There were over one hundred then who professed to find peace in believing in Jesus. But who of them should I now call upon to pray for my dying son? Who would have faith to believe that God would hear and answer their prayers? Some would perhaps ridicule the very idea of saving the sick by prayer. Once during his sickness, I, with two or three others knelt down in the room where he lay, and offered up our prayers. I scarcely dared ask his recovery to health, for I believed that for more than one year past he had been seeking an interest in the kingdom of Christ. But I prayed for the return of his right mind, as I often did in some lonely place, as our physician found fault with our attending prayer in his presence. His anxious mother sat beside him with her hand on his fevered forehead. She states that notwithstanding the terrible pain of body, and burning fever, he was perfectly calm and composed, seeming to listen to catch every word that was uttered. About the sixth day of his illness another physician was called to see him. He pronounced his complaint to be the lung and brain fever, or inflammation on the lungs. But doctors' skill was not sufficient. All our efforts to save our loved son were in vain, and the ninth day he cast the last lingering look on his dear weeping parents and bade this world adieu. O that some dear christian friend who can feel the mission would speak a comforting word to our mourning souls, tell us why it is that dark clouds hover around when in family prayer, or why it is that the horizon of our minds is not more clear. "Yours in love, and in the gospel of truth." [We bespeak for this afflicted brother the prayers and sympathy of the church. Has not some one a word of consolation and encouragement for him, such as his loneliness and deep afflictions seem to require?—Ed.]