OUR dear little Elizabeth is quite unwell. She frequently has slight convulsion fits; sometimes two in a day,

at other times, none for several days. They do not generally last more than half a minute. They originate, I fear, in a diseased state of the head. I kept the dear babe at home till she was three months old; at the expiration of which period, my friends well remember my remarking, that she was the strongest and most forward child I ever had. She was then put out to nurse, and appeared very lively and well for some time. She grew fleshy, and appeared sober, and not inclined to play. But as this was the case with my oldest, I was not alarmed about it. At nine months old, she still manifested this uncommon soberness, and could not sit alone though she appeared to stand strong. I became uneasy. My physician insisted that the child was doing perfectly well, and advised me to keep her out all summer. When she had stayed a month longer, I determined to take her home. It was, I found, with difficulty I could make her smile; and unless handled with the utmost gentleness, she would scream as if she was hurt. Now, she occasionally laughs, but cannot sit alone, and does not hold any thing in her hand, though she is a year old. Her countenance is intelligent, but sorrowful. She sighs, inclines to keep her fingers clenched, and puts her hand to her head hundreds of times in a day. She cannot now bear her weight ten minutes, without reddening in her little face with fatigue, and sinking down into the lap. What is to be done for her I know not. The physician still encourages me to hope that it is nothing serious, or that will be lasting; but I fear he is mistaken. No sacrifices, no privations, would be any thing to us, if this precious child could be saved. Oh that God

Pray for us, dear dear babe, whether infinite compassion,

would direct us! But I can only lay my hand upon my mouth, and say, Father! not as I will, but as thou wilt. Distressing as is the thought that a darling child is in danger of death, or of losing its reason, (to which such affections as Elizabeth's, if I am not mistaken, directly tend,) I must be still, for God is a rock, and his work and his will are perfect. E., that the circumstances of this of life or death, may be ordered in and that we may be prepared for, supported under, and sanctified by, whatever God has in store for us. I do feel, at times, that, as a father pitieth his children, so my heavenly Parent pities me, under the sorrows which my sins have compelled him, in faithfulness and love, to inflict upon me. It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth to him good

September. What a poor vehicle is language to convey an idea of the realities of religious experience ! When God presents a view of heavenly things to the mind of the believer, he can only say, with the Apostle,

It is unspeakable.' But this I can, and must say, God is faithful. Here let me record it as a perpetual remembrancer for the time to come, GOD IS FAITHFUL. His everlasting arms are abundantly adequate to the support of his children, however tried, however afflicted. Who can feel the import of that blessed truth, "In all things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us, but those who have been taught of the Spirit? I have been led in triumph through trials I should have deemed insupportable; but not by my own strength. Ah! I am weak, as the worm crushed by the foot of a child. But I have been enabled to feel that the strength of God was mine, to go out of myself and lean entirely upon the omnipotent ONE. I am now standing and admiring the goodness and grace which turned my night into noon-day.-But I am looking back upon a glory which has gone by. I

am supported and resigned; but my meridian sun is beclouded. Sin has led me, in some measure, away from God the fountain of my joy; and unbelief and solicitude have entered my mind. Oh my soul! return again unto thy rest.

TO A FRIEND AT A.

Boston, December 20, 1816.

ONCE more has my gracious Benefactor appeared for me, one of the most unworthy of his creatures, and put the song of salvation and praise into my mouth. I can scarcely forbear weeping, as I write, at the remembrance of the mercies, the accumulated mercies, I have experienced, as contrasted with my own criminal negligence in the service of the best of masters. Oh! "to grace how great a debtor!" I trust this will be my delightful song through eternity. The past summer has been marked with peculiar trials, and equally peculiar mercies. Early in the spring, I beheld in my beloved Elizabeth the seeds of disease; disease which I now believe must terminate in death, and which affects a part beyond the power of medical skill to reach, the brain. For a fortnight, I felt a distress which cannot be described. But He, who has never, never left me in the season of trial, appeared, and turned the darkness of night into the light of noon-day. I gave her up to him, and found it better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man. O how were his everlasting arms put underneath and around me, and how adequate did I find them for my support. Never did I have so much spiritual enjoyment before. I did realize, that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed. I looked forward to the trial through which I have lately been conducted in safety, with a deep impression of the uncertainty of its issue. But I felt a strong con

fidence that heaven was my happy, happy home, which I might soon reach, and which appeared more lovely than language can express. Thus, my dear friend, can the blessed God sweeten the cup of sorrow which he puts into the hands of his children. Oh it is good to be in his hands, to have no will but his !

The dear child, I think, very gradually declines. Whether this complaint will terminate in death, or the total absence of reason, and how soon, God only knows. I feel a strong assurance that, whether she lives or dies, she is the Lord's. And what is the chaff to the wheat, the body to the soul? May I be living as if this world were not, as in fact it is not, my home. May you and I, and all our dear friends, by our enjoyments and our sufferings, be prepared for that blessed place, where the inhabitants shall no more say, “I am sick;" where all tears shall be wiped away; where sin shall be destroyed, and the saint be imbibing more and more, through eternity, the image of Him who is perfecti

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You inquired, what is my method with my children at prayers, &c. I am ashamed that you should ask advice of me, who need counsel so much myself. But if I can suggest to you any new thoughts, I shall be very glad; and expect the same friendly office from you in return. I begin to have my children in the room at prayers, within a month after their birth; and they always continue to be present, unless they are sick, or are excluded the privilege as a punishment for having been very naughty. It is difficult, when they are quite young, to keep them perfectly still. But the habit of thinking they are too young to be present at family devotion, is a bad one. And besides, if they do not come in, some one is obliged to remain out with them, and, is thus deprived of a precious privilege and an important means of grace. After they get to be two years, or more, old, and are able to understand the meaning of your conduct, if they play, or in any other

way make a disturbance, they may be taken out, and compelled to remain by themselves till the service is over; which will generally be felt by them to be so great a punishment, that they will not soon commit a similar offence. I would not do this, however, on every slight deviation from perfect order, as children cannot be expected to conduct themselves like men.

As to government, I have always made it a rule never to give a child what it is passionately earnest to have, however proper the object may be in itself; because otherwise an association would immediately be formed in the mind between importunity and success. Were a child always told, when he cries for a thing, “You shall have it when you show a proper temper," it would soon teach him to be reasonable. I think it the destruction of government to be capricious, to refuse one day what, in circumstances not seen by the child to be different, is granted on another; to let fretting and teazing carry a point at one time, when at another they would bring punishment. Children very soon see whether we are consistent; and little deviations from an established rule afford great encouragement for the next time. These little deviations do great mischief, and are often slidden into very imperceptibly by the parent, though the child is quick-sighted enough to observe them.

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One thing, my dear friend, I think of the greatest importance, and that is, that children be måde always to mind, and consider the parent's word as their law. Giving up once after a command has passed, may lay the foundation, and lead to the establishment, of a principle of insubordination as troublesome as unconquerable. For this reason, absolute commands should be as few as possible. I also think it dangerous to play with children in the way of command, say, "Do this or that," when you do not mean that the thing must be done. It weakens parental authority.-I never like to tell very small children to kiss strangers, as they often feel a de