hope I shall never forget that when, in order to save myself the pang of seeing her unutterable agonies, I wrapped my face in the curtain, I heard her broken inarticulate voice repeatedly crying, "Let patience have its perfect work.-Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.-Thy will be done." This, with a fervent ejaculation to be kept from temptation, and the powers of darkness, she repeated till her strength failed. Her prayer was heard; and her last hour was so peaceful, that we knew not when she sunk to her everlasting rest. LETTER CXXII. MRS. SUSAN HUNTINGTON (shortly after the death of her husband) to her SISTER-IN-LAW at N MY DEAR SISTER, L. Boston, Oct. 13, 1819. My health continues comfortable. My spirits are better than could have been expected. Should I live, I think of spending next summer in the country, perhaps at A. Where God may then call me, I know not. I wish to feel myself entirely at his disposal; to live one day at a time; and to believe that, when the period comes for determining in what place I shall pass the remnant of my days, my kind Parent will direct me. That place may be Boston; it may be in Connecticut; or it may be somewhere else. God knows, and with him I leave it. My expenses would be less in some other place than in Boston. But my children have other interests besides pecuniary ones; interests which the parent on earth and the Parent in heaven view as most important. Where, upon the whole, I judge these interests will be most promoted, there I shall go. LETTER CXXIII. MRS. HUNTINGTON to a FRIEND at A her father. on the death of Killingworth, August 2, 1834. You have been informed of my unexpected journey to Connecticut. I came to take my last farewell of a parent, a father, dear to my heart, whom God has taken to a better world. How little did I anticipate such an event when I left home! But I can now see the kind interposition of Providence in so disposing my concerns as to make such a journey necessary, notwithstanding the strong reluctance I felt to undertake it; so necessary indeed, that I was compelled to surmount every obstacle which interfered with its accomplishment. I came; and had the satisfaction of being with my excellent father a few weeks, of enjoying his society, and, I hope, of contributing to his happiness. I came to behold him struggle, for nearly five days, in an unequal and distressing conflict with a fatal sickness, and then, at last, yield his spirit into the hands of Him who will have all his children to be with him, where he is, that they may behold and participate in his glory. And now, my dear E., if you have thought me negligent in delaying to write, you will think me so no longer. You have lost a parent; and I need say no more. But I have, as you had, precious consolations under this solemn rebuke, which have, in a great measure, sweetened the bitterness of the affliction. I believe that one reason why the loss of friends, of Christian friends at least, is sometimes so insupportable to survivors, is, that we are too selfish in our feelings. We are apt to derive nourishment for sorrows which enervate the mind, from two sources; one the recollection of what we have lost, the other the remembrance of what our friend suffered. But immoderate grief on these accounts is sinful, for it savours too much of the spirit of that idolatrous declaration, "Ye have taken away my gods, and what have I more ?" My dear father fell a victim to the distressing fever which has swept away, within the last two years, so many of our most valuable citizens and faithful ministers. He preached, as usual, the sabbath before his death. His last text was, "And his rest shall be glorious." The next Friday he was, I have no doubt, admitted into the regions of the blessed, and made an everlasting partaker of the joys he had so recently described. Happy spirit! Safe art thou lodged above these rolling spheres, And who could wish thee again imprisoned in this dark world, far removed from God and heaven, and again subjected to the conflicts, the sufferings, and the sins of this mortal state? By my father's death was a general loss. His family mourn not alone. Many feel the wound to be grievous; many mingle their tears with those of his afflicted relatives, over the remains of the man, the friend, the spiritual guide, whose fervent prayers, whose wise and benevolent counsels, have ceased for ever. Glory be to God, for the precious promises of immortality which the gospel unfolds! Glory be to God, that this light of life has smiled upon the darkness of the tomb, and taught the believer that, because Christ lives, he shall live also. This consideration whispers, "Peace, be still," and turns the terrors of the last enemy into light, and hope, and joy. Pray for me, my dear friend, that this afflictive, but righteous providence may be sanctified; that I may be made by it a partaker of God's holiness. A partaker of God's holiness! Glorious thought! What a wonderful view it affords of the love of God, that he should afflict us to make us partakers of his holiness! Blessed end! |