from the presence of the Lord for ever: but now since his death was sanctified for my conversion to God, I have lost him for a season, to be with him for ever in glory." O widow, whose husband has left you as did hers, in an unconverted state, let it be your desire, your prayer, your resolution to turn this deep affliction to your soul's advantage. You have lost his life; lose not only his death. He bends to you from the skies, and with accents of faithful love, says to you, "Follow me to heaven. Let us be not separated for ever. Let faith, prayer, and submission, heal the wound of separation. O let us meet in the blessed world of life and joy." Comply with the admonition, and then you too will be able to comprehend the thanksgiving of this poor woman for the decease of a loving husband.

And now take the testimony of another widow who related in the following language her sad, yet in another view of it, her happy experience, to a minister who visited her:

"My husband died, and then disease seized on my children, and they were taken one by one. In the course of a few years, I had lain those in whom my heart was bound up, in the grave. Oh! they were many, many bitter tears that I shed. The world was dark. The very voice of consolation was a pain. I could sit by the side of my friend, but could not hear him speak of my departed ones. My affliction was too deep to be shared. It seemed as if God himself had deserted me. I was alone. The places

at the table and the fire-side remained--but they who filled them were gone. Oh the loneliness, as it had been a tomb, of my chamber. How blessed was sleep! For then the dead lived again. They were all around me. My youngest child and last, sat on my knee-she leaped up in my arms, she uttered my name with infant joyousness; and that sweet tone was as if an angel had spoken to my sad soul. But the dream vanished, and the dreary morning broke, and I waked, and prayed, and I sought forgiveness, even while I uttered it for my unholy prayer— prayed that God would let me lie down in the grave side by side with my children and husband.

"But better thoughts came. In my grief I remembered that though my loved ones were separated from me, the same Father-the same Infinite Love, watched over them as when they were by my fireside. We were divided, but only for a season. And by degrees, my grief grew calmer. But since then, my thoughts have been more in that world, where they have gone, than in this. I do not remember less, but I look forward and upward more. ed the worth of prayer and reliance. Would that I could express to every mourner how the sting is taken away from the grief of one, who with a true and full heart puts her trust in God. I can never again go into the gay world. The pleasures of this world are no longer pleasures to me. But I have trust, and hope, and confidence. I know that my Redeemer liveth. I know that God ever watches

I learn

over his children

And in my desolation, tnis faith of heart has long enabled me to feel a different kind of pleasure indeed, but a far deeper, though more sober joy, than the pleasures of this world ever gave me even when youth, and health, and friends all conspired to give them their keenest relish.

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"You have learned in your own heart,' I said, 'that all trials are not evils.'

"It was with eyes up-turned to heaven, and gushing over with tears, not tears of sorrow, but gratitude, and with a radiant countenance, that she answered, in a tone so mild, so wrapt, as if her heart were speaking to her God, 'It has been good for me that I have been afflicted.'

4. What an impressive view does your affliction give you of the solemnity of death, and the necessity of being prepared for it. You have now not only heard of the awful visitor, or read of him, but you have seen him: and though his icy hand has not been laid on you, it has taken from your side the companion of your life. It is not a book, a sermon, a preacher, but death himself that has spoken to you, who, as he bore away the dear object of your affection, looked back unpityingly, and sternly said, "I come for you soon." He will. Listen aiso to the voice of one who with milder accents than those of the last enemy, says to you, at such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh." Can you ever forget the scene? The dread reality? The harbingers, the concomitants.

"Be Je also ready, for

the consequences of dissolution? The pain, the sickness, the restlessness, the delirium, the torpor -and then the mortal stillness which ten thousand thunders could not disturb? Oh what a change is death! Is that the time, that the scene, those the circumstances, to which it is wise and safe to defer the business of religion, the concerns of the soul, the pursuit of salvation? You saw how all but insupportable were the last woes of expiring nature; or how sudden was the stroke; or how shattered was the reason; and how impossible it was then to meditate on matters which require the concentrated attention, the calm undisturbed possession of all the faculties of the soul. Learn then a lesson from that scene never to be forgotten, and instantly to be practiced, of being prepared at once, and completely, for the great change. You saw how valueless in death is every thing but salvation, and how all but impossible it is to commence the momentous concern then. Be wise then, and consider your own latter end. Preparation for death is living work. A life of faith, holiness, and devotion is the only preparation for a death-bed. Be this one of the beneficial results of losing an object so dear. On his tomb, devote yourself to the pursuit of salvation, as the business of life, and the only suitable meetness for death.

It is said with equal power and beauty by a well known and deservedly admired living writer, "I consider the scene of death, as being to the interested

parties, who witness it, a kind of sacrament, inconceivably solemn, at which they are summoned by the voice of heaven to pledge themselves in vows of irreversible decision. Here then, as at the high altar of eternity, you have been called to pronounce, if I may so express it, the inviolable oath, to keep for ever in view, the momentous value of life, and to aim at its worthiest use, its sublime end-to spurn, with lasting disdain, those foolish trifles, those frivolous vanities, which so generally wither in our sight, and consume life as the locusts did Egypt; and to devote yourself with the ardour of passion, to attain the most divine improvement of the human soul; and in short, to hold yourself in preparation to make that interesting transition to another life, whenever you shall be claimed by the Lord of the world."

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