time, since you left me, much more comfortably than I expected. God is very gracious to me. He gives me such a measure of sweet quietness, as composes and tranquillises my spirits. 'Blessed is the man who trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is: for he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit.' Sometimes I have fears that the precious promises of God's Word cannot belong to one so vile and rebellious. But I am generally able to flee to the blood of sprinkling-to trust in Him in whom all the promises of God are yea and amen, and to say, 'Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.' Yes, my dear sister, on God's part all is mercy, mercy! The world has changed with me. But the memory of the blessed saint is pleasant, though mournful to the soul. The prospect of heaven makes the dark shades of my picture orighter.

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"September 25. The desolating stroke my soul was dreading, when I last wrote in this journal has fallen upon me. Yes, it has fallen upon me-and I live! What shall I say? The right hand of the Lord doeth valiantly, or I should now have dwelt in silence. Wonderful grace! He that hath loved me bore me through. His everlasting arm was under me. He taught and enabled me to say, 'Thy

will be done.' To him be glory. The being I lovel better than myself has left me in this wilderness. He on whom I leaned has gone over the Jordan. But another arm, mightier than his, sustains me. I can say, I humbly believe, with truth, 'Nevertheless I am not alone, for God is with me.' And I must again cry, Grace! grace! I am a wonder to myself. Oh the infinite grace of God! A worm is in the furnace and is not consumed! And must I not love this 'strong Deliverer' better than all? Shall I not cheerfully give up my comforts at his command?

"October 3. When I can, I intend writing some of the particulars of my blessed husband's departure, for future satisfaction, should I live. When I look at my loss only, I sink. What I lost in that holy man of God, that amiable companion, that faithful friend, that prudent counsellor, that devoted husband, God knows! What the church has lost, in his eminent consecration of himself to his work, his love to the poor, his compassion to the afflicted, his meekness and humility, his zeal and disinterestedness, his fervent prayers, his lovely and almost spotless example, God knows! Oh it is pleasant for memory to dwell on the recollection of what he was! 'Tis a beautiful picture, on which I must ever fasten the eye of my fond remembrance with satisfaction. But that light is removed: put out, I do not say. Oh no! He lives to die no more. And I am perimitted to hope I shall, ere long, go to him, an dwell with him for ever in heaven! God is car

rying on an infinitely perfect plan of government. The removal of my beloved husband, in the midst of his usefulness, is a part of that plan. Shall I not lay my hand on my mouth, and say, 'Thy will be done?" "

TO A FRIEND WHO HAD LOST HER HUSBAND.

"Boston, January 25th, 1820.

"My dear Friend and Sister,

"Ever since that sorrowful event which numbered me among those who can more emphatically than other classes of mourners, say, 'Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness," I have felt desirous of writing to you. Not because I expected to offer any consolation to your mind, with which it is not already much better acquainted than mine, but from that natural feeling of sympathy, which is excited towards those whose trials are similar to our own. And now that I have taken up my pen, the reflection that my time might be better occupied than in obtruding myself upon you, and thus opening anew the fountains of your grief (if, indeed, they have ever been closed in any measure,) by the recital of my own sufferings, almost induces me to lay it down again. However, I do not mean to pain you, and agonize myself, in this way. Profitable as it may be for common mourners, to dwell often and long upon the circumstances of their bereavements, in order to cherish the impressions which such dispensations may have made on their

earts, it is not profitable for us.

Such sorrow as urs is in no danger of being suddenly diverted. The danger is on the other side, of its pressing so constantly and heavily on the spirit, as to crush the feeble body to the grave. And would it not have been so with us, my dear friend, were it not that the hand of the Lord has been upon us for good?

"I have wished, and still wish, to know how you do, what are your circumstances, and how your mind has been exercised under its heavy afflictions. I, you know, have had accumulated ones. But have we not both found that precious promise verified, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be?' Has the Lord ever been a 'wilderness' to us? And may we not safely trust him for the future? Does he not know exactly, what measure of sorrow we can bear, as well as what kind we need?

And now, my friend, what remains for us to do in this world? Not to live for the temporal enjoyments of life, certainly; for how can any comfort be received, any delight enjoyed, which will not, as long as we live, be embittered by the recollection of those, dearer to us than our own lives, who once sympathised in all our joys, and whose sympathy with us was a principal source of our satisfaction? Yes, this bitter, bitter thought will press itself upon our remembrance, when we lie down, and when we rise up, in the house, and by the way. And, viewing our loss only in this manner, the world looks like a waste, a desert, a weary monotonous desert, strip

ped of all that once enlivened it. But we must not view it so. What did Christ live for? What did Paul live for? Alas! if we could find our happiness here in that in which the Saviour found his, we might yet see many good days in the land of the living. And this is what we must labour after. If we have little left us to enjoy, have we nothing left us to do? And the happiness of our souls ought to result, the happiness of a holy soul will result, from doing and being just what God pleases. The mind which feels that it has no sympathies to be exercised, no object upon which to repose its affections, no business to employ its faculties, must sink into a state of hopeless and dreadful despondency. But the Christian should never feel thus. Though our precious husbands have left us, have we nothing to feel or do for their children; nothing to do for Christ, and for the church which he hath purchased with his own blood? And may we not yet be happy in doing diligently the work which he has given us to do? My dear friend, we shall never be happy just as we have been. Oh, no, never. The smile of tenderness will wait for us no more when returning to our sorrowful habitations. The voice of unmingled love will greet us no more in our afflictions. The counsellors, advisers, supporters, and prophets, upon whom we leaned, who sanctioned by their influence the expressions of maternal authority, who bore us constantly and earnestly before God, are gone! Nature shudders, as she casts her eye