My mind is much distressed, but finds its rest in God.  It seems, as if by diversity of trial, the Lord wills to purge my affections.  O let Thy will be done.  Help me, however nature rebels, fully to give up my own will.  Blessed be God, my soul enjoys peace.  ’I trust in Him, who stands between the Father’s wrath and me.’  My dear mother’s weakness increases; but she says this morning, she dare not doubt of going to heaven.—­I sat up with my dear mother.  About half-past twelve she was convulsed, and felt sick; then, she dosed a little; then sick again,—­called for Richard,—­wandered,—­evidently changed for death, and had a severe struggle, often saying, ‘Do help me, do.’  Her sufferings were acute.  Once she said, ‘Lord, help me;’ and again, ’Hope thou in God, for I shall yet pr——­;’ but the words were interrupted by her sufferings, My anguish of mind is known to Thee.  As I stood by the fire the words were suggested,

  ’Thy warfare’s past, thy mourning’s o’er;
  Look up, for thou shalt weep no more.’

I was comforted.  My dear husband, cousin, and Mary, found great consolation in prayer just before her departure.  Her last words were, ‘Pray, pray;’ ‘Lord, Lord.’  Thus, about half-past one on the 23rd of March, my dear mother ‘fell asleep,’ aged seventy-two years and three weeks.”

  And though in ruin now her body lies,
    A peaceful smile upon her face is spread: 
  The struggle o’er—­her spirit upward flies,
    To join the spirits of the blessed dead.

“My dear departed mother was interred in St. Lawrence churchyard, by the side of my beloved father; leaving the impressive admonition—­’prepare to follow.’  I feel it—­my heart determines—­my will submits—­I have set about it.  Lord help me to persevere.”

  LOOK UPWARD.

  Oh! how uncertain all below! 
    Our comforts cause us pain;
  Smiling, they sting us as they go,
    Ne’er to return again. 
  Then upward turn thy weeping eye;
    Nor, like yon drooping tree,
  Bend downward to the earth; on high
    See Jesus looks on thee. 
  Jesus! what balm is in that sound! 
    It bids our tears away;
  Spreads life and happiness around;
    Converts the night to day. 
  To feel Thy dying love, be mine;
    To hear Thy charming voice;
  The ceaseless whisper, ‘I am Thine,’
    Shall bid my heart rejoice. 
  Dearer than sons or daughters; Thou;
    Dearer than mother’s love;
  Gladly for Thee I all forego,
    And seek my bliss above.

“I went to Wigginton to visit a young woman, whom I found praising God for having afflicted her, and brought her to the knowledge of the truth.  To some others, I was powerfully constrained to speak respecting their souls.—­Miss Bentley came for a few days.  We visited many of the villagers, to put them in mind to prepare for eternity.—­Mr. Hope announced from the pulpit, that it was his wish