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 permitted 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, 1320.

“My dear Friend and Șister,

"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 Jurs 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?' Lord ever been a 'wilderness' to us? not safely trust him for the future? know exactly, what measure of sorrow we can bear, as well as what kind we need?

Has the And may we Does he not

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

forward, and thinks of this long, long, long separation.

"But why have I suffered myself to fall into this sorrowful strain? I did it unintentionally, unconsciously. Forgive me. I have pained you, and 1 have pained myself. I was going to say, we must find our happiness in a different way-in girding up the loins of our mind in a more diligent performance of duty; in putting on, as good soldiers of the cross, the whole armour of God; in setting our faces as a flint against every thing which can discourage, intimidate, or wound us; in remembering the example of our devoted, our suffering Saviour, in leaning on his arm, confiding in his wisdom, and trusting in his grace and strength, and in sending forward our hearts to that happy, happy home, which we hope one day to reach and whither our beloved friends have gone before us. Let our expectations of earthly rest be moderate, except of that sweet rest which results from simple trust in God.

"I have written thus far, and have not yet mentioned what I had most in view when I began. 1 think we may derive benefit from remembering each other's children in our prayers. Can we not devote ten minutes every Saturday evening, at nine o'clock, to special prayer for each other, that we may have grace, wisdom, courage, and patience to do our duty; and for our children, that their affections may be sanctified, our instructions blessed, they brought into the covenant early, et. cet? Will you write, and let