of prolonged life to only a few days, and ended his last letter to the same friend with the words, "I commend you to the God of mercy, and very affectionately bid you-Farewell."

His family were much struck by the perfect dignity and com posure with which, as soon as he relinquished all hope of even a partial recovery, he resigned himself to the divine appointment.

On Saturday, October 14, the day before his death, he com. plained of feeling some confusedness in his head, and was much oppressed in his breathing; he was therefore obliged to desist that day from his usual practice of hearing some one read to him; and finding it very difficult to converse, he requested to be left quite alone during the afternoon and evening. This desire was complied with; some of his family going occasionally into his room, but so as not to disturb him, till the usual hour of retiring to rest; they then particularly requested that some one might be allowed to sit up with him through the night. This, however, he steadily refused, though in consequence of a long continued fit of coughing he was in a state of greater exhaustion than usual. The kind old servant who attended upon him, from an apprehension lest she should disturb him, did not go at all into his room in the course of that night, as she had been in the habit of doing every night for the past fortnight. But towards four o'clock she went to the door of his room to listen, and being satisfied from the sound she heard that he was sleeping, returned without going in. At about six o'clock she went again to the door, and this time hearing no sound, she went in, and found that he had expired. His arms were gently extended, and his countenance was as tranquil as that of a person in a peaceful sleep. Death had taken place but a very short time, for only the forehead was cold.

On the following Saturday his remains were laid in the grave, which just seventeen years before had been opened to receive those of his son, in the burial ground belonging to the chapel at Downend, where he formerly preached.

* One of the last works read to him was a sermon by Dr. Doddridge, on "the incapacity of an unregenerate soul for relishing the enjoyments of the heavenly world." He was so much struck with this sermon that he desired his daughters to promise him they would read it every month, saying that he thought no one could read it often without a salutary effect. During the last two or three days of his life, the Scriptures (chiefly the Psalms) were by his own desire exclusively read to him.

LETTERS.

CCXII. TO MRS. STOKES.

[On the death of Mr. Stokes.]

Stapleton, Feb. 20, 1839

MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,-For how truly I may name you so, when I am looking back over a period of nearly thirty years, that have passed away since I was first received in your house, with all the kindness of yourself, and of him who was then your companion there; and during which there has been a succession of times and scenes which we have all three happily enjoyed together.

Within the last two months, one of these, and then another, and another, has been brought back in lively images to my memory, with an interest in which a painful sentiment has deeply mingled with that of pleasure. Pleasing events and experiences which are long past and gone, bring a pensiveness in the reflection itself that they are past and irrevocable.

This feeling, however, can be somewhat relieved so long as there remain the possibility and the means of renewing the pleasure, and being happy again in the same manner from the same causes. But when the final withdrawment of one indispensable participator of these pleasures has taken away that possibility, the remembrance of them is accompanied by a very mournful sentiment. It is with a melancholy emotion that we say, "With him I can behold those scenes, converse on those subjects, share the social animation-no more. Often I have in imagination placed myself in some delightful spot or stage in North Wales, and thought how I should feel if I were to be there again; what a strong and mournful admonition there would be of the absence of our friend; how memory would interfere to preclude the pleasure; how every object adapted in itself to inspire delight, would remind me of something that was fatally wanting. And in the more quiet situations, in the domestic intercourse or the social party, the silent thought (while every friend was contributing to the pleasure), the thought would be, "Where is his intelligent and friendly countenance and animated voice?"

You will often have felt a momentary prompting to look at a part of the room, or at a chair, where he used more commonly to sit; to see the door opening into your apartment with a feeling as if it should be he that is coming in; to look at and handle some article of his apparel, or some implement of his familiar use, or some favorite book, with a sentiment that almost says, "Is it absolutely true that he has used this for the last time ?"

Among the feelings caused by the loss of domestic friends, few things have in my own case been more striking than the impression of their

absolute and entire surrender of the things that specially and individually belonged to them. This or that was his or hers, peculiarly and personally so; perhaps a favorite article; but they make no claim to it now; it is totally yielded up; let go, absolutely and for ever; it is now a thing infinitely indifferent to the person who called it "mine;" it may be taken by any person or for any use. The late proprietor wants it no longer, knows it no more.

No doubt the real principle of the pensive emotion excited by this surrender and relinquishment is, that it tells us, in this secondary manner of evidence, that he has also quitted us; has withdrawn his claims upon us, and has ceased to interfere with our concerns and proceedings.

Yet it will often occur as an idea nowise irrational or improbable, that perhaps the loved and departed friend, in what is, as to our perceptions, an absence entire and absolute, may not really have become a stranger. I have often thought it highly probable that the departed friends who took a warm and faithful interest may do so still. A benevolent remembrance of us they necessarily have. But why not much more than that? Why should it appear improbable that they have the means of being apprised of our situation and conduct, and even our feelings; and that they maintain in a continuance, a friendly interest for us; watching, as it were, our progress toward the appointed moment of our passing after them through death? Some good and wise men have even maintained it as not improbable that they may be employed in kind offices for their pious survivors, in humbler co-operation with angelic agents. We cannot know it; but we may be allowed to indulge a pleasing and consolatory idea which contradicts no principle of reason and doctrine of revelation. At the very least we may feel confidently assured that they retain us so much in mind as to feel a lively interest in our final welfare, and in the anticipation of our transition to their society. The day of resurrection is to be looked forward to as the consummation of the felicity of the followers of Christ. But that event must certainly be far distant; and I sometimes wonder that religious teachers advert so little in any distinct terms to the state immediately after death, which inspiration has so expressly asserted to be a state of consciousness, and of happiness to faithful souls.

It is true (and it appears to me one of the most mysterious things in the economy of the divine government), that the information afforded us by revelation on this subject is extremely limited. But assume only that the state of good men immediately after death is a state of consciousness, of deliverance from all the ills of mortality, and above all from sin, and then what a grand series of felicities they have in prospect before the resurrection which is yet at the distance of many ages, possibly of thousands of years. Their close vicinity to that state, on which they are to enter, after a few years at all events, and many of them in a much shorter time, may well bring the subject and the anticipation to press with a more immediate interest than even the resurrection itself. How

short a time comparatively, at the most, you will have to wait for the call to rejoin the friend who is gone before you. How near, how very near, he was to the other world and the other life, when he wrote his last letter to me, in which he made so striking a reference to the "grand and final journey," being then not more, I think, than about eight weekseight little weeks! from his departure to the other world. Oh what an emphasis of interest if he could have known how near he was! Bu he needed not this knowledge as a warning; he had taken the solemn warning long, long before, and sought to be in a habitual preparation. Let us, unknowing where, in the dark distance before us, is the appointed hour, let us earnestly do the same.

You, my dear friend, do not need to be instructed in the topics which are available for both consolation and admonition. Your own thoughts remind you that, estimable as was the friend who had been called away, and deserving of a warm affection while present, and still when now absent, there is yet one being, the supreme Friend, who claims a still more devoted affection, and that the affection due to him, infinitely due, includes submission, acquiescence, resignation; and even an approbation of his proceedings. You know that he can, by an increased sense of his favor, make a compensation for what he takes away, and that his throne of mercy is constantly accessible to the petitioner for that blessing, and that there is an all-powerful Intercessor there. You are reminded that a Christian is not "to sorrow as those that have no hope." You are aware that life, while continued to you, has still its duties, which are incompatible with a yielding up of the mind to " be swallowed up of overmuch sorrow." Affection for the friend who has been withdrawn from you, in order to be what it should be, will include a grateful pleasure in thinking what he has gained by the removal. You have to consider also through what a very long period you have possessed, what is now, wisely and for the best beyond all doubt, withdrawn from you. Gratitude for that should not be lost in present sorrow. True indeed, the having lost a blessing long enjoyed, might be lamented with bitterness almost unmingled, if there were nothing in prospect, if the loss were total and final. But how different is your anticipation of hereafter; and this difference should have its effect; it claims to have its effect, in counteracting the sorrow. Time also, though you may as yet hardly be able to believe it, will, by degrees, have a softening influence. And meanwhile it is highly desirable that you should have the resolution to resume somewhat of the activities of life, and of the former social habits, as

* "But should these pleasing anticipations be suspended, by any one or more of us being called away on that grand and final journey from the world, for which we were all sent into it, may that event prove to those who depart, rather a glorious compensation for, than disappointment of, whatever pleasures we had been promising ourselves here, and an efficient incitement to those left behind more diligently and ardently to seek and insure their interest in the solid and permanent enjoyment of those sublime scenes and that exalted companionship."-Mr. Stokes to Mr. Foster.

far as the circumstances of your situation may admit, or may supply occasions.

. . . You will well believe that I set a very special value on the box which you so kindly gave as a token for the remembrance of our departed friend. How often and how many years it has served as a kind of medium of pleasant communication between us.

The flowers will soon appear in your garden. I fear they will not appear quite so beautiful and cheerful as they were wont to do. But still I hope the reviving spring will not have lost all its attractions. A poet has said mournfully, that no spring returns to man. But this is not true of pious men. The case is only, that “it is a spring season long deferred." But it is in reserve, and will come at last.

My dear friend, you will believe with what sincerity and sympathy,

I am,

Yours, very faithfully,

J. FOSTER.

CCXIII. TO THE REV. F. CLOWES.

[On the Intermediate State.]

June 23, 1839.

MY DEAR SIR,-Allow me to apologize for not having long since acknowledged your letter, and attempted something in the way of answer. But truly I have much more need to ask for, than competence to offer, anything to be called opinions on the interesting subject of which you write.

It would seem that the generality of our fellow-Christians are content to have no such opinions. Reposing on an indistinct idea, on an idea formed on common figures and analogies, of heaven, and going to heaven, they are exempt from any restless curiosity about an intermediate state. This does appear somewhat strange, when it is considered how very distinct a state there must be from that which is to follow the resurrection and the final judgment; when it is considered, too, that while the latter is at a vast distance (as we measure time), a few years at the most, possibly, as to some of us, but a few months, or even days, lie between us and the next stage of our existence. What we shall behold, and shall be, so very soon, is surely a matter of mighty interest. From the consideration of its close approach, almost, if I may so express it, to contact with so advanced an age as mine, it has often an ascendency in my thoughts over the ultimate state beheld in such remoteness of prospect.

I assume with entire confidence the soul's consciousness after death; this is implied in many passages of Scripture; but a number of them (often cited) assert it in so plain a manner, that nothing but the most resolute perversity of criticism can attempt to invalidate them.

But it often appears to me one of the dark things in the divine govern