bereaved patriarch, they "go down into the grave, to the lost one, mourning."

The inquiry still recurs, where shall we turn, under the deepest calamities that are appointed to humanity? A sterner philosophy than that at first quoted, answers, "rise above them, be insensible to them." Oh, but man is too frail and sensitive, too much wrapped up in a net-work of nerves, and too faint at heart, to stand against the dread artillery of woe. A baleful wind sweeps away his strength; a frown on the face of one he loves, drinks up his spirit; the fickle breath of the populace inflates him; the dew-drops in his broken cistern dry up, and he is in bitterness; fever touches his clay-temple, and he is gone. Is he, who cannot cope with the feeblest agent, expected to stand unmelted in the " seventimes heated furnace?" He cannot resist the elements: how can he endure the wrath of their Omnipotent Ruler, when he "ariseth to shake terribly the earth?”

That remedy for adversity, which neither the light of nature discovered, nor the pharmacopeia of Time contained, of which Philosophy both in its poetry and its stoicism has failed, is contained in a single prescription of the Gospel, the submission of our will to that which is divine. How simply is it illustrated in the aspiration of Thomas à Kempis: "Give me what thou wilt,

and in what measure, and at what time, thou wilt. Do with me what thou knowest to be best, what best pleaseth thee. Place me where thou wilt, freely dispose of me in all things."

Still more concisely was it expressed by Fenelon, "I am silent; I offer myself in sacrifice; henceforth I have no will, save to accomplish thine:" but ah, how much more forcibly in that agonizing sigh from Gethsemane, "not my will, but thine be done," when even the strengthening angel was astonished, and Earth trembled as she tasted the first trickling drops of her Redeemer's blood.

LETTER XXII.

LOSS OF CHILDREN.

To bear the loss of children with submission, requires the strong exercise of a christian's faith. It seems to contradict the course of nature, that the young and blooming should descend to the tomb, before the aged and infirm. We expect to see the unfolding of a bud which we have watched till it had burst its sheath, trembling with joy and beauty, as it first met the sunbeam. "These same shall comfort us, concerning all our toil," is the voice in the heart of every parent, who contemplates the children for whom he has laboured and prayed.

The death of a babe, creates no common sorrow. Even the burial of one that has never breathed, brings a keen pang to a parent's heart. The political economist, who estimates the value of every being, by the strength of his sinews, or the gain which he is capable of producing to the community, views the removal of infancy as but the wiping away of "the small dust from the balance." But he has not, like the mother,

knelt and wept over its vacant cradle, stretched out his arms at midnight for its pliant form, and found only emptiness, listened in vain for its little quiet breathing, and felt his heart desolate. The scales in which a mother weighs her treasures, are not the same in which the man of the world weighs his silver and gold. Her grief is often most poignant for the youngest and faintest blossom. Thus feeling anguish, where others scarcely see cause for regret, has she not an opportunity more permanently to benefit by the discipline of Heaven? Is she not moved to deeper sympathy with all who mourn? Is she not better fitted to become a comforter? more strongly incited to every deed of mercy? When she sees a little coffin pass, no matter whether the mother who mourns be a stranger, or a mendicant, or burnt dark beneath an African sun, is she not to her, in the pitying thrill of that moment, as a sister?

Yet not alone in the quickening of sympathy, or the excitement to benevolence, do such deep afflictions bring gain to the sufferer. Other seeds of goodness are sown in the softened soil. The thoughts and affections are drawn upward. The glorified spirit of the infant is a star to guide the mother to its own blissful clime. Is it not her wish to be where her babe is? And will she not strive to prepare herself for its pure society?

If the cares or sins of earth ever threaten to gain the victory, she is arrested by a little hand reaching from the skies, by the cherub voice which implores, "Oh, mother, come to me."

Sometimes grief loses itself in gratitude, that those who once called forth so much solicitude, are free from the hazards of this changeful life. Here, temptations may foil the strongest, and sins overshadow those whose opening course was most fair. From all such dangers, the early smitten, the "lambs whom the Saviour taketh untasked untried," have forever escaped. To be sinless,

and at rest, is a glorious heritage. Sorrow hath no more dominion over them. No longer may they be racked with pain, or pale with weakness, or emaciated by disease. No longer will their dove-like moaning distress the friend watching by their sleepless couch, nor the parents shudder, with untold agony, to find that they have no power to sooth the last fearful death-groan. We, who still bear the burdens of a weary pilgrimage, who have still to meet the pang of disease, and to struggle ere we pay our last debt to the destroyer, cherish as our strongest consolation the hope of entering that peaceful haven which they have already attained.

How affecting was the resignation of the poor Icelandick mother: "Four children were given me. Two are with me, and two with God.