"'Spared to keep the people,' says my dear friend? Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes? The longer our time, the greater our danger of failing. I have always feared for myself that I should live a little too long. Now I fear it for my brethren also.
"Be not too sanguine for the American Methodists. First, know their real condition. You justly fear that our Methodists should get into the prelatical spirit. I fear the fanatical spirit also. I cannot explain this in writing.
"You think I know nothing about the peace; I think you know nothing about it. Yet I wish your poem a good sale.[14]
"Happy would Sally be to die like her god-sister. I am not without hope that she will live to be a Christian. She presents her duty. We all join in love. I need no invitation to Madeley. While I had strength I wanted opportunity. Now I have neither."
For two or three years longer this question, 'What was to become of the Methodists after Wesley's death,' continued to exercise his brother Charles. Perhaps some anxiety would have been spared him had he acted more upon the advice he gave to Fletcher: "The less you think about it the better, for we penetrate, we prophesy, in vain. You must stand still, and see the design, the salvation of God." To this he seems finally to have come, for in one of his last letters to his brother he says: "Keep your authority while you live; and, after your death, detur digniori, or rather, dignioribus. You cannot settle the succession; you cannot divine how God will settle it." Meanwhile, so far as Fletcher was concerned, he had little to learn, even from his dearest friend and counsellor, as to waiting for the Lord. No man was ever less inclined to "penetrate or prophesy." Whether he lived, he lived unto the Lord; whether he died, he died unto the Lord; living or dying, he was the Lord's. No room was left for anxiety about the future.
The summer of 1785 was an unhealthy one at Madeley. There was a good deal of fever about, "a bad, putrid fever," and Fletcher and his wife were much engaged among the sick. Two persons died within a few yards of the vicarage. Mrs. Fletcher visited them in their illness, and took the fever. "Now," she says, "I had a fresh instance of the tender care and love of my blessed partner; sickness was made pleasant by his kind attention." During this illness many thoughts passed through her mind for which she could scarcely account. Something seemed to tell her that she must yet drink deeper of the cup. She adds, "My dear husband and I are led to offer ourselves to do and suffer all the will of God." The time was fast approaching when this submission to the will of God was to have its crowning test.
On Thursday, August 4th, Fletcher was busy amongst his flock from three in the afternoon till nine at night. On returning home he said, "I have taken cold." During the two following days he went about much as usual, though with some difficulty. On Saturday night he was very feverish, and his wife begged him not to go to church in the morning, but to let one of the Methodist preachers who was staying with them preach in the churchyard; but he replied that it was the will of the Lord that he should go. The morning came, and he began the service at the usual hour. While reading the prayers he almost fainted. His wife pressed through the crowd, and entreated him to leave the reading-desk and come home. In his gentle manner he bade her let him go on. The windows were opened, and he seemed a little refreshed as he proceeded with the service. When prayers were ended he ascended the pulpit, and gave out his text, "How excellent is Thy lovingkindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Thy wings." After the sermon he went up the aisle to the communion table, saying, "I am going to throw myself under the wings of the cherubim, before the mercy-seat." The congregation was large, and the service lasted till nearly two o'clock. He was often obliged to stop for want of power to speak. The people were deeply affected; nearly all were in tears.
As soon as the service was over he was hurried away to bed, and immediately fainted. During the three following days he was restless in body, but in mind alternately calm, and filled with holy joy. Again and again he would say, "God is love, God is love." His symptoms were still thought to be not unfavourable. On Thursday, the 11th, his speech began to fail, but when he could say nothing else to be understood, he would repeat "God is love." The next day his faithful wife felt a sword pierce through her soul as she found his body covered with spots. She knelt by his bed, with her hand in his, and entreated the Lord to be with them both. On the afternoon of Saturday he stretched out his hand to each of the friends who stood around him. His wife said to him: "My dear, I ask not for myself, but for the sake of others; if Jesus is very present with thee, lift thy right hand." He did so. She added, "If the prospect of glory opens before thee, repeat the sign." He raised his hand again; and, in half a minute, a second time.
The end was fast drawing near. It was Sunday evening, and the church was filled with a weeping congregation offering up their prayers for their dying pastor. At the conclusion of the service the people lingered about the vicarage, and seemed unable to go to their homes. Many of them were admitted to the house, and allowed to pass by the open door of his room, where they could see him, propped up with pillows in his bed. His countenance continued unaltered, but his weakness perceptibly increased. He sank into a kind of sleep, and at half-past ten o'clock on Sunday night, August 14th, 1785, Fletcher of Madeley breathed his last, in the fifty-sixth year of his age.