I do hope that you have from the hand of God those consolations which only He in Jesus Christ can give to the so afflicted.  For I know well that you are afflicted with the afflicted, and that with you sympathy is suffering; and that while the tenderest earthly comfort is administered by your presence and kindness to your dear friends, you will feel bitterly for them what a little thing earthly comfort is, when the earthly beloved perish before them.  May He who is the Beloved in the sight of His Father and His Church be near to them and you, and cause you to feel as well as know the truth, that what is sudden sorrow, to our judgments, is only long-prepared mercy in His will whose names are Wisdom and Love.  Should it not be, dear friend, that the tears of our human eyes ought to serve the happy and touching purpose of reminding us of those tears of Jesus which He shed in assuming our sorrow with our flesh?  And the memory of those tears involves all comfort.  A recognition of the oneness of the human nature of that Divine Saviour who ever liveth, with ours which perishes and sorrows so; an assurance drawn from thence of His sympathy who sits on the throne of God, with us who suffer in the dust of earth, and of all those doctrines of redemption and sanctification and happiness which come from Him and by Him.

Now you will forgive me for writing all this, dearest Mrs. Martin.  I like to write my thoughts and feelings out of my own head and heart, just as they suggest themselves, when I write to you; and I cannot think of affliction, particularly when it comes near to me in the affliction or anxiety of dear friends, without looking back and remembering what voice of God used to sound softly to me when none other could speak comfort.  You will forgive me, and not be angry with me for trying, or seeming to try, to be a sermon writer.

Perhaps, dear Mrs. Martin, when you do feel inclined and able to write, you would write me a few lines.  Remember, I do not ask for them now.  No, do not think of writing now.  I shall very much like to hear how your dear charge is—­whether there should appear any prospect of improvement; and how poor Mrs. Hanford bears up against this heavy calamity; and whether the anxiety and nursing affect your health.  But we shall try to hear this from the Biddulphs; and so do put me out of your head, except when its thoughts would dwell on those on earth who sympathise with you and care for you.

You see we are in London after all, and poor Sidmouth left afar.  I am almost inclined to say ‘poor us’ instead of ‘poor Sidmouth.’  But I dare say I shall soon be able to see in my dungeon, and begin to be amused with the spiders.  Half my soul, in the meantime, seems to have stayed behind on the seashore, which I love more than ever now that I cannot walk on it in the body.  London is wrapped up like a mummy, in a yellow mist, so closely that I have had scarcely a glimpse of its countenance since