three times on Monday. The last time on that day Lawrence met him for consultation. They still told me that, although they believed it to be hernia, there was something mysterious about it; that, although they might recommend an operation, yet they would first try strong medicines, and would see her at half-past eight. I sat up with her that night; everything was tried, but no relief. The reason for delaying the operation was the risk which attended it, and the dubious character of some of the symptoms. At half-past eight on Tuesday they both came again, and then told me that nothing but an operation could save her life. Upon its being announced to her, like a lamb she resigned herself to the Lord, sent for her children, who were in the vestry below, gave them a solemn farewell, as she thought she might not have strength to speak to them afterwards; then said to those around her, "Pray for me," when, without one movement or even a sigh, she patiently and meekly endured a most dreadful operation; and such, my dear brother, was the support of the Lord at that moment, that she afterwards said, never had she such near communion with God as at the moment of the operation. Ps. cvii. 6, 7, (for the Bible was read aloud to her all the time,) was particularly and especially made sweet and refreshing to her soul. Oh, bless the Lord with me, my brother, for His goodness, His tenderness, and His love at that hour of need! And what now shall I say? After every alternation of hope and fear, strong expectation of recovery on Sunday, and the loss of all such expectation on the Monday, her happy, longing, triumphant spirit winged its flight to its blissful home on Tuesday morning, at seven minutes after twelve. It is quite impossible for me to utter what was the real state of her soul for days previous to her departure. Christ and His fulness seemed to satiate her soul, and the fear of death was gone.

March 16.-I could not proceed, my beloved brother, but you will pardon these breaks. I have this day received your letter, and I feel, I confess, disposed to accept your kind invitation for one week. The only hesitation I experience relates to the account of dear Mrs. T-, for I fear the sight of me might too much affect her. Be perfectly unreserved in your reply.

Otherwise there is no place at the present moment where I should prefer spending a retired week—from Monday next till Monday week. I can have your answer by return. Pray for I want support, and the Lord withholds it not. My kindest love to dear Mrs. T-, and ever believe me,

me.

B

My dear Friend,

Your affectionate but afflicted Brother,

J. H. EVANS.

I shall only bring J——, if I should be with if I should be with you; dear Mrs.

has invited C

there next week, and I feel quite dis

posed to let her go.

TO THE REV. R. D

-ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE.

Woburn, March 22, 1831.

MY BELOVED BROTHER,-Many, many thanks for your most kind letter. If it had so pleased our Heavenly Father to have sent you, I should have been thankful, but as He saw it good to withhold it, I would still be thankful. Our greatest happiness lies in submission to His will. Oh, that He may vouchsafe to us this inestimable mercy, the subjugation of the will. Surely, if we really and ardently love Him, we shall love His loving will, always right, always wise, always holy, always tender. My dear friend, pray for me. I know you do, but more, and more, and more. Pray that this bereavement,-so affecting, so heartrending,―may be blessed to my soul, that an opportunity so peculiar, yea, the like unto which may never, I had almost written can never, more recur-may not, through hardness, insensibility, earthliness, unbelief, be lost. Yea more, much more than this, that the holy effects of it may be deep, lasting, influential; that this affliction may work together with grace, pervade the whole system of my soul's religion, penetrate to the very root of all, to the endearing and exalting of Christ, to the encouraging my soul to live with Him in the most holy familiarity (Ps. lxxiii. 23), to live upon Him in the most entire dependance (Song viii. 5), and to live to Him in the simplest surrender (Col. iii. 19). Pray that the bustle of the ministry, the outward-court religion, the fondness of friends, the love of my

congregation, may never more be permitted to hide from the eye of my soul that the desideratum is nearness, conscious nearness, to God, through His dear and beloved Son. Be urgent, dear brother, with your Father for this. Press the throne of grace, take no denial, that the holy and blessed Spirit, the Sanctifier, the Comforter of His people, may shed abroad in my heart the love of Christ, of His glorious Person as God in my nature, of His humanity, of His wondrous work, of His most tender characters, of His satisfying fulness; so that I may, from my very heart and from my inmost soul, say, "I have Christ, I have enough. My wife is gone; He had need of her. He loved her better, far better, infinitely better, than I loved her. She was His before she was mine, and He has taken His own, but I have Christ, who is more dear to me than my wife, more tender to me than my wife, Him who made my wife dear to me and tender to me, He is mine, I am His,-mine for all my pilgrimage, mine for every stage, every hill, however steep, for every road, however rough, and mine when flesh and heart fail, mine through all eternity." Dear, dear brother, you have never lived with one kindred spirit for nearly one-and-twenty years, and during that time prayed and praised, wept and smiled, mourned and rejoiced together, and then she has suddenly been removed from your sight. To a certain degree, therefore, it must be with my dear Dtender as his nature is, and real as is his sympathy, as a man standing upon the shore, and beholding the storm. Duly to estimate it, he must be in it. But let me write it, and however weak the bruised reed may be that guides the pen, write it I must, Christ is enough, and I find Him to be so. I am a man of very great infirmities; a womanish softness would seem to unfit me for suffering. There is a sensibility which is the offspring of weakness, and which unfits and debilitates the soul, which is its own tormentor. And yet, though weak as weakness, yet He has held me by my right hand. Oh, I have everything for which I should speak well of Christ. been other than He is, He would not have suited me. I can say when I have sighed He has sighed, when I have wept He has wept; He has not left me, no not for a moment.

If He had

I seemed

at one time ready to sink, but He put His hand under my hand.

When shall I see you? When will He send you to me? My kind love to your dear wife. I ought to have said before that I was unable to go as far as C. Bodily weakness was an insuperable obstacle. I am slowly restoring to health. May it be yielded up to Him from whom it cometh!

I think of returning home on Monday; I came yesterday.Ever most affectionately,

Your's in a dear Lord,

J. H. E.

TO HIS SON.-RESPECT THE BASIS OF AFFECTION.

West Cowes, July 4, 1831.

MY DEAREST J——,—It gave me the trucst pleasure to hear from you rather a more favourable account of yourself, and that you had so pleasant a journey to Salisbury. I feel persuaded that, with care and prudence, regular, not violent exercise, and attention to the diet and the not getting wet, much, under the Divine blessing, may be done, and although you may never be stout and athletic, yet you may enjoy much health, to be devoted, I trust, to Him who can give and who can withhold. Be assured that I feel deeply, most deeply, interested in all that concerns you. I think my dear J- needs no assurance from my pen, that notwithstanding the faults of which he is conscious, and those of which he is ignorant, still my love for him is ardent, strong, tender, rooted in my very inmost heart. As the sacred pledge intrusted to my care by her whose dear image is never absent from my mind five minutes together of my waking life, as one in whom I see so much that is lovely and estimable, as the successor appointed by God, if life be spared him, to fill up my place,—and I fondly hope more than fill it up,—I want no arguments to stir up for him the embers of slumbering affection. The flame, dear J——, burns bright and steady. Outward appearances may seem sometimes to dim its lustre, the external atmosphere may now and then exhibit an intervening cloud, but it is only an appearance; the flame is the same as before, the

N

cloud passes away and is seen no more, or if it languishes, it is but to revive and burn more brightly than ever. You are now, my beloved boy, arriving at an age when there must spring up a new principle, one which gives the strongest cement to the strongest affection; I mean respect for, and estimation of, character. Without this, affection is a mere fondness, barren and uninfluential; but with it, to clothe my meaning in a figure, the tender flower, susceptible as the sensitive-plant itself, the very plant of sympathy, becomes firm, retaining all its susceptibility as the knotted oak. I perceive many fine traits in your character, I hesitate not to say, and truth also compels me to express my fears lest they should be neutralized and rendered abortive. The love of admiration you are in danger from. We are all exposed, but some minds especially. When not under wholesome restraint, it is injurious to the character, most injurious. It produces a false showiness, and without his intending it, often makes the possessor appear otherwise than what he is; it gives him frequently a preference of that which is showy to that which is solid, and inevitably has a tendency to the love of society where this showy may be exhibited. Be on the look out for this shoal. It is not far from the surface. To follow that which is really and intrinsically useful, because it is so, and to do this in the fear of God, is the sublimest principle that can actuate an intelligent being.

We have had some fine sails. I wish that you could have. partaken of them. To have seen you enjoy them would have been an additional pleasure. To see my beloved children happy, in the temperate use of these and such like gratifications, is the only exhilaration which they afford me. They have now to myself no other charm. You will forgive me this.-Ever believe me, dearest J.

Your faithful Father and Friend,

J. H. EVANS.

TO HIS SON.-ON THE PROSPECT OF HIS LEAVING HOME.

Cowes, August 18, 1831.

MY DEAREST J- --So much for business. I need not