Part III: Letters from Widows

From Mrs. Huntington, widow of an American Minister; describing the scene of Mr. Huntington’s death, and her own behaviour at the time: a bright proof of the power of prayer. The three following letters of Mrs. Huntington, were extracted by Mr. James, from the admirable memoirs of that lady, by Rev. Dr.Wisner, and published by Crocker and Brewster. We refer the reader to this volume for other letters of deep interest and great value. — American Publishers.

“MR. HUNTINGTON was apprised, by the physician, of my arrival. There was an increase of ten to the number of his pulse upon this intelligence. When I entered the room in which he lay, he was gasping for breath; but his countenance glowed with an expression of tenderness I shall never forget, as he threw open his arms, exclaiming, l My dear wife!’ and clasped me, for some moments, to his bosom. I said, with perfect composure, ‘My blessed husband, I have come at last.’ He replied, ‘Yes; and it is infinite mercy to me.’ I told him, all I regretted was that I could not get to him sooner. He said, with a tender consideration for my health, which he always valued more than his own, ‘I am glad you could not; in your present circumstances it might have been too much for me.’

“From that time, owing to the insidious nature of his disease, I had considerable hope. I had seen him. I was with him. He was as sensible of my love and of my attentions as ever; and I could not realise the stroke that was impending. Never shall I remember without gratitude the goodness of God in giving me that last week of sweet, though sorrowful intercourse with my beloved husband.

“The days and nights of solicitude drew near a fatal close. I could not think of his death. At that prospect nature revolted. I felt as if it would be comparatively easy to die for him. But the day before his death, when all spoke encouragement, 1 felt we must part. In the bitterness of my soul 1 went into the garret. It was the only place I could have without interruption. Never shall I forget that hour. Whether in the body or out, I could scarcely tell. I drew near to God. Such a view of the reality and nearness of eternal things I had never had. It seemed as if I was somewhere with God. I cast my eye back on this life, it seemed a speck. I felt that God was my God, and my husband’s God; that this was enough; that it was a mere point of difference whether he should go to heaven first or I, seeing we should both go so soon. My mind was filled with satisfaction with the government of God. ‘Be ye followers of them who, through faith and patience, inherit the promises,’ seemed to be the exhortation given me upon coming back to this world. I do not mean that there were any bodily or sensible appearances. But I seemed carried away in the spirit. I pleaded for myself and children travelling through this distant country. It seemed as if I gave them, myself, and husband up entirely; and it was made sure to me that God would do what was best for us*

From that time, though nature would have her struggles, I felt that God had an infinite right to do what he pleased with his own; that he loved my husband better than I did; that if he saw him ripe for his rest, I had no objections to make. All the night he was exercised with expiring sufferings, and 7od was pouring into my soul one truth and promise of the gospel after another. I felt it sweet for him to govern. There was a solemn tranquillity filled the chamber of death. It was an hour of extremity to one whom Jesus loved. I felt that He was there, that angels were there, that every agony was sweetened and mitigated by One, in whose sight the death of his saints is precious. I felt as if I had gone with the departing spirit to the very utmost boundary of this land of mortals, and as if it would be easier for me to drop the body which confined my soul in its approach towards heaven, than retrace all the way I had gone. When the intelligence was brought to me that the conflict was over, it was good news — 1 kissed the clay, as pleasantly as I ever did when it was animated by the now departed spirit. I was glad he had got safely home, and that all the steps of his departure were so gently ordered.

“It would be in vain for me to attempt a description of my feelings the next morning. I had never seen such a sun rise before. It beheld me alone. Were I the only created being in the universe, I could not perhaps, have felt very differently. I went into the chamber in which he died. There, on the pillow was the print of his head. The bed of death was just as when it resigned for ever the body of him who was all the world to me. His portmanteau, comb, brush, et cet. lay in sight. God wonderfully supported me.

“But why do I dwell on a description which even now is almost too much for me? How did God sustain a creature who was weakness itself! How mercifully he has carried me through all my successive trials! Truly it was the Lord’s doing: and it is marvellous in my eyes.

“And now, oh how is it now? Not so much comfort; labouring with sin; afraid almosi to live in this wicked world; dreading a thousand evils in my present lonely state. But all this is wrong. God hath said, 4 Who shall harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’ How kindly my beloved husband used to remind of this text!”

TO A FRIEND WHO HAD LOST A NEAR RELATION.

“Your long and confidential letter gave me great pleasure. There is a sympathy in the feeling of persons who have been recently afflicted, which cannot be expected to he found in others; a mutual chord, which, touched, vibrates with a kindred sound. We have not suffered exactly alike; but we have suffered; and that circumstance has made us love each other better than we did before.

**^***^***^^**

“When I view myself, riven asunder, root and branch, not the limbs torn away, but the very body of the tree sundered from top to bottom, nature must feel the parting agonies, must at times, be ready to sink under the consciousness of her dissolution. All this must be to those who have interests to be smitten, friendships to be broken, and hearts to feel.

Yes, dear E, our hearts have bled. The

wound inflicted has been deep. We have felt that the stroke was full of anguish, that it went to our very souls. We will not deny that this is all true. We will not please ourselves with the delusion that the deep, deep wound which the hand of God has inflicted, can ever cease to bleed. But, 0 my friend! 4 is there not balm in Gilead? is there not a physician there?’ Is not that physician our Saviour: wise to discern, prudent to manage, strong to save? Has not the kind hand which smote so deeply, accompanied the stroke with many softening, mitigating circumstances? Oh yes; I trust we both feei that it is so. It is God who hath afflicted us, the infinitely wise, compassionate, and faithful Jehovah, the Lord our God. And does it not argue great want of confidence in him, if we sink into despondency when he chastises us? Does it not show, either that we think we could manage things better than he can, or that there is something which we have not cordially submitted to his disposal?

“And now, 0 God, thou art the potter, and we the clay. 0 how this quells the murmurings of self-will; how it settles the restlessness of the troubled spirit; how it plucks the sting from the rod of affliction! God knows best. Precious truth! It is an anchor to the soul, sure and steadfast, which keeps it from shipwreck, amidst all the storms and tempests of the troubled sea of life. Oh, for a firm, unwavering faith! This is all that is wanting. With this we may say,

Cheerful I tread the desert through.

With this we may rejoice when our beloved friends are taken from the stormy ocean to the peaceful port, from the weary wilderness to the happy home, from the field of conflict to the crown of victory; and trace with holy courage, our way through the same difficulties to the same glorious recompence of reward. But, ah! this, a firm unwavering faith, is too often wanting. We miss our temporal comforts. The heart which sympathised in all our pleasures and plains, has ceased to beat; the ear which was always open to listen to our complaints and wishes, is closed; the kind voice of affection and disinterested love, is hushed; the arm which supported us, is withdrawn. It is a chilling thought. Cherished alone, we fe-el its freezing, benumbing influence fastening upon all the springs of comfort and hope, and turning every stream of joy into one waste of cold and motionless despair.

“But, my dear friend, we must not view our trials thus. We must think much and often of the blessedness of those whose removal we lament, of the perfection of the divine government, of the certainty of the promise, that l all things shall work together for good to them that love God,’ of the rapid approach of that hour which will unite us eternally to those in Christ whom we love, of the danger of creature-comforts, and of the suffering life on earth of our glorious High-priest and head, and his assurance that it is through much tribulation we must

enter the kingdom. Oh, my dear E, if we are

Christians, there is a glorious prospect before us — as much of the good things of this life as an infinitely wise and kind Father sees to be best for us, and hereafter an eternity of unmingled and ineffable bliss!”

TO A SISTER-IN-LAW.

“Boston, Sept. 22, 1819.

“I received your kind letter, my dear sister, this forenoon. I am Kappy to say I have passed the 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, 1 Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.’ ires, 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.

“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 dwell 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, ‘T will be done.’ To him be glory. Tbe being I loved 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,1 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 T am permitted to hope I shall, ere long, go to him, and dwell with him for ever in heaven! God is carrying 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.

11 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 hearts, it is not profitable for us. Such sorrow as ours 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, stripped 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 me know what you think of it? My little boy wakes, and I must bid you adieu.”

5HOM LADY POWERSCOURT, WHO LOST HER HUSBAND ABOUT A YEAR AFTER THEIR MARRIAGE.*

LETTER V.

“Dear Mr. I should have answered your

kind letter before this, had I any thing to tell you that could have given you any gratification. But alas! I have been as desolate within, as without. My earthly husband hid from me, my heavenly one I cannot find; and Satan hard at work tempting me to say, what is this black thing I have done, which makes my Father so very angry with me? But oh, my dear Lord, let him not rule within: quench his fiery darts: show me that I deserve far worse, even all the wrath of an offended God. But Jesus has ’ borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.’ These trials are only blessings, to fill up that which is behind of his afflictions. I am also tempted to think, that I cannot be his, for I feel none of that comfort his children always feel, and I used to find

in the hour of trial Jonah, doest thou

well to be angry? I will bear the indignation of the

* The letters and papers of this eminent Christian, and strong minded woman, as published by the Rev. Robert Daly, are a precious volume, full of instruction, consolation, and reproof.

Lord, because I have sinned grievously against him.

Oh, dear Mr., you do not know what it is to

lose one so dear, so very dear; I can only compare it to the tearing asunder all the strings of the heart. Then such a gloomy prospect here the rest of one’s life. After watching him day and night with so much anxiety, anticipating the joy of being allowed again to be with him; all at once so unexpectedly to have my hopes dashed from me, was what I did not think for some days I could have borne, because I forgot that as my day so should my strengih be. In any other loss I have had, I never could pray for the bodily life of my friend, but in this, to which no other loss can be compared, night and day I could not help entreating the Lord to spare me that heavy blow. I really did think he meant to answer me, and hoped against hope, till the last breath left tha,,

dear body But I know, 0 Lord, that

thy judgments are right, and that in very faiihfulness thou hast afflicted me — I must wait to know and see why it is, till I know as I am known. That it is unspeakable love, I have no doubt, because he who hath sent it is no new friend, but a tried and precious one; and when it is good for me he will allow me to see, that this God is Love. But oh, I tremble when I look at my rebellion, and ingratitude, throughout it all. I have had much to show me myself this last year — to dig up the mud hid under the smooth surface. How will it astonish you — astonish angels, when the book of my sins is opened except they are so blotted out with blood as to make them illegible.

“I do not suppose, there could be a stronger lessoa of the vanity of every thing earthly, than to look at me, last year and this. The prospects of happiness I seemed to set out with! And now, where are they? A living monument that man in his best estate is altogether vanity — and see how my heart, without my knowing it was on earth. I could not have thought, one who professes to believe in the joys of heaven, and had tasted the realisation of them by faith, could so mourn, as one without hope — could so willingly call him back again. But I shall say no more, for these complaints only grieve my God, and annoy you. But, indeed, I am at times greatly oppressed, and feel this evening as if there were a parcel of devils within, tearing me different ways, and refusing me any rest. I beseech you pray for me, and write to me,

“Your unalterably affectionate
” And grateful friend,

“T. A. POWERSCOURT.”

LETTER VI.
* * * *

* * * “How I shall long to join you all above. I fear I need patience, and find it hard to reconcile my mind to the possibility of my living three times as long as I have lived yet. When I look back upon a few months, and remember the happiness I used to feel when I expected my dearest love, and..,, to spend the evening at .... and to have a little reading, I can hardly persuade myself that I am the same person. Two now in possession of what they then, blessed be God, enjoyed by faith, and I left alone. — But I forgot — I determined never to murmur again. It needs a great stretch of faith sometimes, when the enemy comes in like a flood, to believe that God is as much at peace with me through Christ, as with those already above; that Abraham now in glory is not safer than I am. Is that presumption do you think? What a precious name, a strong tower, into which, if we run, we shall be safe! Were I left to myself I should run from it. I would not trust myself to His word, but seek to save myself from danger. But almighty love arrests me, pulls me in; and then rewards me for coming. How much in those words, ‘’are safe? — to think we are safe from every thing! No evil shall ever touch us, evil at the end, or evil on the way. All paved with love; ’ all things shall work together for good.’ I have got the promise of all others I want — ’ let thy widows trust in meS I once wished there was a richer, a sweeter promise to widows; but I believe it requires to be brought into different circumstances, in order to feel the force of different promises. For the Lord knew that none so suited widows, as these few words. In looking round the wide world, so filled with wickedness, and seeing one has to pass through it alone, one would fear, every step one took so unprotected and forlorn, only for this promise. With this ‘when I am weak, then am I strong.’ It is not like Him to invite us to trust in him, and then let any evil come nigh us. If His everlasting arms are underneath, I l shall dwell in safety alone.7 Let there be rebellions, revolutions, persecutions, earthquakes, any thing, every thing, ’ let thy widows trust in me,’ should be enough. I know my tabernacle shall be in peace. Sweet to think that the eye of the Lord is upon us, to deliver our souls from death. It seems to me, as a nurse keeps her eye upon her child lest it should destroy itself, or as a keeper keeps his eye upon his poor lunatic, * the Lord is thy keeper.’ Then unbelief jumps up and says, how do you know all this is for you? Then I do not know what to say, but ‘my Master told me so.’ His Spirit witnesses with my spirit. He has given me the earnest of the Spirit. To those who believe, he is precious, and I think he is precious to me — ’ a bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me.’ Oh that I could keep close to him; I want to be fixed on the rock. My grief is, that the waves of sin and the world, give me so many shoves off it. Will you not pray for me, for I greatly need it; arid will you not write to me, and exhort me with purpose of heart to cleave unto the Lord; and tell me if you think me presumptuous, or going wrong in any way. That old serpent is so cunning. Will you forgive me for speaking so much of myself, but speaking of what He can do for me, magnifies the power of his grace, more than if I was to speak of it with regard to anyone else upon earth.” Yours, with Christian affection,

“T. A. POWERSCOURT.”

LETTER VIII.

* * “I have to thank you for your other kind long letter. There is a certain drawing out of heart towards those who care enough for us, as to point out in what way we may be grieving our Lord. Your accusations, I fear, are quite just; and I hope I may have your prayers, that I may be enabled to walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing. I think it is in the Lord we are told to rejoice, a joy which can be felt while sorrowing, a good cheer in tribulation. I sometimes sit in astonishment, why my cup should run over with this blessing, and I have more when the heart is brought low to receive it, than when it is (which is often the case) intoxicated. I own I feel sometimes cast down and desolate, but not unhappy. I have had a deep, a very deep wound; the trial has been very severe; but how should I have known Him as a brother born for adversity without it? How should I prize him as my strength if I am not sometimes left to feel my perfect weakness? The heart is too selfish not to drop a tear sometimes, but I hope no longer a rebellious one. The wound is closed, but very little bursts it open. The marble must be allowed to melt a little, but only enough to seal to that good physician, who maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his hands make whole. I understand these lines,

“Cry and groan beneath afflictions,
Yet to dread the thoughts of ease.”

However, if it is more to his glory, that I should take pleasure in the many blessings left in this world, dreary as it may seem through the glass of affliction, * behold I am here, Lord;’ — if to be kept low, even so. May I only be able to lay this soul as helpless on the great 1 1 AM.’ And I can assure you, however appearances may contradict it, I have much joy and peace in believing,’ and find life a flux and reflux of love; Jesus is precious to me. I find his banner of love extended over Edinburgh: his promises here also are as honey dropping from the comb. There is not one on earth I desire but him; he is all my hope and all my salvation; and I can go on with confidence, knowing he can never deny himself, or say, 1 1 never knew you,’ for he testifies not only that he knows me, but that he loves me, by enabling me to say, ’ thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee.”

“Sometimes we appear such insignificant grasshoppers, that it is hard to conceive that he can think of us and our foolish concerns; at other times one feels of such immense importance, that one wonders that Christians can live like other people, such as when we read of the bursts of joy from the heavenly host, and find this the sign that their Lord whom they adore has become a despised babe, and all, because peace is brought to earth, and good-will to man. Peace seems just what we want here, purchased by his blood, left as his legacy. What simplicity there seemed to be in his words after his resurrection. He seemed to enjoy the travail of his soul, when distributing his peace. May he impart largely of it to your soul, and while recommending the inexpressible treasure of his word to others, may you be enabled yourself to feed on it, by faith with thanksgiving. May he empty of his fulness into all our bosoms, and enable us by using, to show we value the privilege of drawing near to him, to tell him of fear the world cannot allay, of wants the world cannot satisfy, of blessings the world knows nothing of.

“Your affectionate

“T. A. POWERSCOURT.”
LETTER IX.

* *” js your happy soul still lifted up? able in his light to walk through darkness? I know the dreary waste that lies before you. How his dear, dear company is missed — how tasteless and insipid every thing appears — how you want that affection which entered into every trifle which concerned you — how want an adviser, a protector, such a companion ~-one to weep when you weep — to rejoice when you rejoice. I know well what it is to lie down at night and say, where is he? — to awake in the morning, and find him gone — to hear the hour strike day after day, at which you once expected his daily return home to his too happy fire-side — and find nothing but a remembrance that embitters all the future here. Oh my poor, poor .... if I cannot feel for you, who can? — who so often partook of your happiness? — sweet, precious time I have been allowed to enjoy with you both, but past. However it is well that you have another to feel for you. If I know the meaning of the word sorrow, I also know of a joy a stranger intermeddleth not with. How tenderly our compassionate Lord speaks of the widow! as a parent who feels the punishment more than the chastened child. He seems intent to fill up every gap love has been forced to make: one of his errands from heaven was to bind up the broken-hearted. He has an answer for every complaint you may ever be tempted to make. Do you say you have none now to follow, to walk with, to lean on? He will follow you and invite you to come up from the wilderness leaning on him as your beloved. Is it that you want one to be interested in all your concerns? Cast all your cares upon him, for he careth for you. A protector? Let thy widows trust in me. An adviser? Wonderful Counsellor! Companion? I will not leave you comfortless; I will come unto you; I will never leave you, nor forsake you; I have not called you servants but friends; behold I stand at the door and knock, if any man hear my voice, and open the door,

I will come in unto him, and sup with him, and he with me. One to weep with you? In all their affliction he was afflicted; Jesus wept. When you lie down — safe under the shadow of his wings, under the banner of his love. When you awake — still about your path and about your bead. It is worth being afflicted to become intimately acquainted, and to learn to make use of, the chief of ten thousand — the altogether lovely — the brother born for adversity — the friend that sticketh closer than a brother — the friend of sinners. Pray write often to your poor sister; tell me of every thing that interests you; do not let the children forget me.’

From Mrs. Lewis, widow of the Rev. Michael Lewis, Missionary to the Negroes, Demarara, to her widowed mother.

“My dear and honoured mother,

“Surely I am bereaved! O yee, I am bereaved! But of what — of whom am I bereaved? Of a dear, a tender, an affectionate husband; of a mother, a friend, a brother. All these relations in him I found combined, but he is gone! My soul be still and know that all is well; rejoice that he who first gave thee such a treasure, has seen fit to recall him. 0, I would not for one moment repine. It is true, I had fondly hoped to have had him spared to me for a few more years. Two short years and eleven days had just expired since we together left our dear widowed mother for a far distant land, when ray dear husband was welcomed .0 the skies. My dearest Saviour, thou didst call him, and he is gone to receive that crown which fadeth not, the assurance of which cheers my very heart, because he will weep no more. Sorrow and sighing are for ever flown from him. I know too that my Redeemer liveth, and that soon the same voice that sweetly called the darling of my heart from this vale of tears, to mansions in the upper and better world, will say to her that is left to mourn her loss, l Weep no more, but come up hither and enter into the joy of your Lord.’ Pray, pray, for your Rebecca.

“I would fain attempt to describe the death-bed scene of my dearest earthly love; but I find it impossible to do so. The joy, the bliss indeed was great. This line was constantly in my mind,” 0 the pain, the bliss of dying.’ Yes; it deserved the name of bliss, for it was bliss supremely great. Not one cloud was permitted to veil his sky; enough to silence every rising painful thought; and through mercy I can assure you, my dearest mother, it has. The Lord made good his promise to me when my heart was nearly overwhelmed in prospect of a separation taking place between us; he was pleased to make my dearest husband the medium through which to afford consolation, and to impart submission. Yes, two days before his happy spirit took its flight, on seeing me rather cast down and very anxious, accompanied with the trickling tear which stole down my face, he said to me; with looks indicating marked affection, and with a soft tone of voice, ready to join his voice with mine, — ’ 0 naughty, naughty, — you know, my dear, if this is the time the Lord is about to separate us from each other, we should try to feel quite submissive to his righteous will, for he does all things well.’ I felt reproved and retired to bless the Lord for his great kindness in giving my dearest husband such sweet submission to his holy will; and to entreat that the same blessing might be bestowed upon myself; nor did the hearer and answerer of prayer turn a deaf ear to the voice of my supplication, for while I was yet speaking he answered me; and after this, it mattered not who tried to persuade me that the Lord would still spare him to me, for I had quite given him up to his entire, and gracious disposal.

“As I was withdrawing from his bed-side, he said m a low tone of voice, not intending I should hear him, ‘Ah, I am sorry for thee, my dear.’ I was determined he should not see me weeping, lest he should think I was sorrowing, and spoke to him as firmly as possible. About seven o’clock he said, ‘My love, I hope your tears are tears of gratitude.’ I answered ‘Yes, they are tears of gratitude.” 0 that is quite right, quite right,’ and seemed to say ‘Weep on then.’ — This was no small mercy to me, as weeping seemed to relieve me of such a burden.

******

“‘I shall be with you in spirit,’ he said, ’ though absent in body.’ l Yes, my dear,’ I replied, ’ you are about to leave us and go to that blessed Jesus to receive the early crown you have been speaking to us about so often lately.’ * * * *

“I observed ’ you seem longing to clap your glad wings and fly away to seats prepared above.” I am, I am! my dear; tell them to sing —

1 Praise ye the Lord, our hearts shall join,

In work so pleasant so divine,
Now while the flesh is my abode,

And when my soul ascends to God.’

When we came to the sixth verse —

‘He helps the stranger in distress,
The widow and the fatherless j

It was almost too much for all, but his dear self.

“He remained silent for a little time — then rny ears caught the sound * Come Lord Jesus, come.’ The people gradually returned into the room again, he said ‘Sing, Salvation, 0 the joyful sound;’ we sang it — he then sweetly addressed us from the word salvation, and said it would probably be the last time he should do so. The address was pathetic indeed, it was about half an hour long. To sergeant Adams he said, ‘Pray, pray,’ he knelt and prayed in a very affecting manner. My dearest Lewis kept adding his amen to the petition. As we arose from our knees he exclaimed, ‘Sing, sing, — ‘Salvation, 0 the joyful sound,’ again, with the chorus.’ At the end of each verse we sang the chorus, it was as follows, —

1 Glory, honour, praise and power,

Be unto the Lamb for ever!
Jesus Christ is our Redeemer,

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.’

“As we were singing the chorus the jast time, he began to sing the word Hallelujah, on earth, — but went to heaven to finish it! but I finished it and added, ‘Praise ye the Lord.’ I felt my life ought to be a life of praise. Thus the dear departed breathed his last, without a long-fetched breath — his end was peace. With mine own hand I closed his eyes on the twenty-second of January, exactly at twelve o’clock in the day, (the Sabbath.) Dear man of God, much as I loved and still love thee, I rejoice that thou hast entered into thy rest.

“My dear mother, weep not because Rebecca is left a widow in a strange land; rather rejoice that my heart has something like a loadstone drawing it towards heaven; for there my best friends and kindred dwell, there God my Saviour reigns.”