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.