tions towards your beloved Saviour, and all who love him. Be thankful for the manifestation of your Saviour's presence and love, whenever he shall be pleased to vouchsafe it, in a promise or in an ordinance but rest upon his word when he is pleased to hide himself. "Blessed is he who hath not seen, yet hath believed." If you have not the sensible smiles of your Lord, yet let his word dwell in you richly. Ponder his word in your heart. Thus you will be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus, and others will glorify Christ in you. May the Divine blessing rest upon you, and every branch of your family, even until every sheaf bow to Jesus!

I am, &c. &c.

J. BOWDEN.

LETTER LVIII.

TO MR.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

THOUGH I had much reason to fear, from your former letter, that your dearest creature-delight would speedily be separated from you, yet I could not but be much affected with the melancholy information your last brought me. How uncertain, and often

how transient, are our creature-enjoyments! How quickly the fairest prospects of earthly felicity are absorbed by clouds of darkness! I do not want a heart to sympathize with my friend, when his refreshing gourd is fallen, from which he had promised himself many succeeding years of pleasurable rest. But why am I dealt with by the glorious Disposer of all events with such peculiar tenderness? Fifteen months nearly close the scene of my dear friend's conjugal felicity, yet for more than twenty years an impassable hedge has been set around me, and around all that I have, nor has the great destroyer been once suffered to enter. I hope I would rejoice with trembling; I hope I do not want a heart to praise the great Source and Guardian of my many comforts. I hope, when times of suffering shall come, that suffering grace will be given, and then I shall say, with my mourning friend," The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away." I am thankful for you, my dear Sir, that you see the stroke directed by a Father's hand. I rejoice with you in the satisfying reason you have to conclude that the friend you love is not vanquished by the King of Terrors; but, as to her mortal part, fallen asleep in Jesus, and, as to her immortal part, entered into the joy of her Lord. Oh, delightful thought! I cannot help thinking, that, great as your affection is, you will sometimes contemplate your partner's gain, till you have almost forgotten your pain, and feel reconciled to your loss. You will behold her, not encompassed with infirmity,

oppressed with bodily weakness, disease, and pain: not disquieted with doubts and fears, temptations, and sins: not complaining of a divided heart, of languid graces, and heartless services, and Divine withdrawments: but you will behold her for ever free from sin and sorrow, arrayed in robes made white in the blood of the Lamb; évery lovely temper, every power of her soul, delightfully improved; surrounded with objects, and engaged in employments, calculated to raise in her breast a perpetual ecstacy of joy you will behold her welcomed and embraced by the saints above, and filled with their company; you will behold her, where every Christian pilgrim would rejoice to be, at the feet of Jesus, " present with the Lord,” in the full vision of his glory, in the full beamings of his love.

That blissful interview how sweet!
To fall transported at his feet!

Rais'd in his arms, to view his face
In the full beamings of his grace!

You cannot, my dear friend, soon lose the memory of your endeared companion. I would not wish it. You cannot think too much of her, if you contemplate her in a proper light. Then reflection will not aggravate your sorrows, but will constrain you to rejoice in her blessedness, and you will devoutly listen to the voice of inviting affection, which whispers from above, "Come up hither." By no means let our converse with our

dear departed friends cease, though the veil of flesh be dropt. By contemplation our souls can find delight in their joys; and perhaps their access to us is much more near than we are generally aware. Indeed, my highest entertainment is often found in converse with the dead. The most pleasant moments of my last journey were spent over the grave of those who were once, and are still, very dear to me. Oh! what a blessing is the Gospel! What a sweet relief does religion, genuine religion, afford in a time of suffering! What a mercy to have our hearts directed into the love of God, and to have free access to a God of consolation! When the streams of creature-felicity fail us, what a mercy to have our real interests secured by a covenant ordered in all things and sure, and to be satisfied that the love of God is ever the same; that this glorious Sun still shines as full and as bright as ever, though clouds and darkness in the atmosphere below may for a season hide him from our sight.

I trust you will soon be able to trace the love of God in this mournful dispensation of his Providence, and sing of judgment, and sing of mercy. You have one tie less to this world, and one attraction more to a better world. You will be able, I trust, to direct your thoughts and your heart with greater liberty towards heaven, and to seek, with glowing ardour, that better country. Then the loss of this dear object of your affection will be repaired by

the sweeter expressions of that love, which fills the soul with joy unspeakable and full of glory.

I am, Sir, &c. &c.

J. BOWDEN.

LETTER LIX.

TO MR. S

I THANK you for yours of the 13th. To hear of your success heightens my pleasure; yet I have seen so many instances, among the people of God, of the injurious influence of worldly prosperity, that I rejoice with a degree of trembling; and as I stand on the ground of a long-established friendship, I think I cannot help pointing my friend to the shield, when I apprehend danger to be near. My imagination has for some time past presented him to my view as exposed to temptations, by which many have been wounded, and to which he is in a great measure a stranger: like a tree in full bloom, assaulted by a bleak eastern wind, or a ship launching forth into the perilous sea. Will you forgive me, if I say I am afraid of you, lest you should not stand the blast, or ride the storm-perhaps I might rather have said, endure the calm without injury. Alas! what feeble, irresolute, creatures we are! After having so often confessed ourselves strangers and pilgrims on the earth, and that seriously and sincerely too, how quickly, how