burden, and amidst the trembling infirmities, of earth, has been ready to exclaim, "Welcome sweet hour of full discharge, Adieu! my dear friend. Present my best regards MY DEAR MRS. IF August 24th, 1827. F, in this sad and trying hour, I knew what words would most faithfully convey to you the expression of the sincerest and tenderest sympathy, I would employ them. Another light in which you were accustomed to rejoice, has been quenched at your side; you have lost another dutiful child; who, while her health was spared to her, diffused animation and cheerfulness over every circle in which she moved, and who, during her long decline, gave ample and affecting testimony that, with her, religion was not merely an assent of the understanding, but a deep and operative persuasion of the heart. She acquainted herself with her heavenly Father, and found that his promises which—to use the emphatical language of Scripture" are yea and amen," had power to sustain, to soothe, to guide, and to satisfy the soul. He answered her dying prayer, and was nigh, the Great Shepherd, with his rod and his staff, to comfort her. To those who admired and loved her, the change has been most appalling; to her it has doubtless been pre-eminently happy. On her account, therefore, though the bonds of nature cannot be rent asunder without occasioning great distress, your sorrow may be turned into joy. Her angel spirit has fled to the bosom of her God, its congenial home. And, oh! what a blessing is it that you can muse on the train of beautiful reflections and on the treasure of glorious hopes which she has left you. and I affectionately commend you and Mr. those around you, to the gracious care of that Being who never forsakes even the most desolate and afflicted. He chastens us because we are his children. May His mercy descend as the dew upon your drooping hearts, to refresh and strengthen them! Believe me to be, my dear Madam, yours, with unfeigned regard, A LETTER received this morning informs me of the melancholy event which has at length realized all your fears; and language can ill describe the tenderness with which I think of you, and Mrs. and the rest of your afflicted family. Yours is no ordinary bereavement. You have lost a most amiable and dutiful child, " your heart and your heart's joy,”—one who found her happiness, from her earliest years, in cultivating the benevolent and generous affections, and who never admitted of any competition in her mind between the considerations of selfishness and opportunities of doing good. The beautiful vision is fled. Her brief days are gone. She has been called away in the midst of her loveliness; with all the sweet promises of life opening around her, and in circumstances which teach us that this world is only a fleeting show, and that we ought to possess the comforts that we find in it as if we possessed them not. I know how hard you have felt it to yield her up; and I also know that you will have recourse to the rock that never can be shaken. I pray that God would fill you with peace, and enable you to bear your severe trial with unquestioning resignation to his will. It is thus that he works his own great ends. There are, indeed, many reasons why you should lift up your head and wipe away your tears. It must soothe you to reflect that the dear loved object for whom you mourn, is not now exposed to the changes of mortality, that pain and languor can oppress her no more, that she is taken from you to be happy for ever. Though the grass and the flowers will grow over her grave, Faith bids you look forward to a day,—oh, what a day of surprising wonder and ecstasy to you!-when you will meet her again, in the kingdom of the everlasting Father, where the obscurities of our present state shall be scattered, where there shall be no night, neither any darkness at all! 66 'That life," said one of the most eloquent writers of a former age, " is not best which is longest; and when young persons have descended into the grave, it shall not be inquired how long they lived, but how well."* I should be truly glad, my dear Sir, if even at this distance and in this seclusion, I were able to suggest any thing that might afford you comfort. But my heart is full. A thousand and a thousand unutterable recollections come crowding upon me, and I can only breathe a prayer to the throne of mercy that your sorrow may be softened and sanctified and blessed. With feelings of the warmest and kindest regard to Mrs. and to all the members of your family, I remain, my dear Mr. yours, ever most affectionately * Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living, p. 137, edit. 1695. TO MR. ON THE AWFULLY SUDDEN DEATH OF HIS BROTHER. MY DEAR SIR, YOU OU know that when I resided in your neighbourhood, I never was a careless spectator of your sorrows; and I shall not attempt to tell you how much I am concerned to hear of the sad bereavement which has again torn your bosom with anguish, and bowed you down to the dust. Oh, you may well mourn, you may well weep, that one in whose tried and faithful affection you could so securely trust, one who was so single-hearted, so kind and affectionate, so generous, so steady in principle, and so rich in domestic and social happiness, should be thus hurried away in the vigour of life, in the maturity of his understanding, and in the midst of his virtues, his activity, and his enjoyments! This is a dispensation which strikes us with awe, and baffles all our conjectures; though the purposes of God have doubtless been those of mercy both towards the dead and towards the living. As Milton sublimely says; How oft amidst Thick clouds and dark, does heaven's all-ruling Sire To you and to those around you, the change has been unutterably awful; but who that is in any de |