viour, and never to think highly of myself again. Oh, the hope of deliverance is like cold water to a thirsty soul.

TO HER SISTER AT KILLINGWORTH.

Boston, June 10, 1822.

I HAVE thought a good deal lately of your dear boy; and, when praying for my own son, have often had much freedom in praying for him. Who knows but he may come up to take the place in the church of that dear departed grandfather, whom I never knew. God is wonderfully manifesting himself for the seed of his people at the present day. I do not doubt you daily give him to Christ as his servant. I think you should hope for great things respecting him. Pious laymen, at the present day, have an opportunity of doing almost as much for the advancement of Christ's kingdom as ministers. For my own children, I desire not to prescribe how or where they shall serve God. This I would leave to his wisdom, whether it shall be in heaven or on earth, at home or in the ends of the earth, as public or as private characters. But that they may be His servants, this one hope I would press to my bosom till I die. Not because I deserve any blessing; but because nothing is too much to hope for from that God who hath given his only begotten Son to die for the redemption of man; and because that work is finished, and he can now glorify himself in our salvation; because he has promised that the Redeemer "shall see of the travail of his soul, and be satisfied;" and because he has declared himself the Covenant God of believers, "and of their seed after them." I have forfeited all claim to the covenant of his grace a thousand, thousand times. Nevertheless, "He is mindful of his covenant.” Though we change, He abideth faithful. His purposes of mercy shall prevail, not only in opposition to our numberless sins, but to their utter destruction, if we

are his children; and the top-stone of our salvation shall be laid amidst the shoutings of "Grace, grace unto it." Here is all my hope, for myself and for my children.

June 15. This dear people often profess to have derived comfort and profit from my visits among them, especially in seasons of affliction. But it makes me ashamed to hear these things. I fear there are yet within me unexplored depths of iniquity. The remains of that constant enemy of my peace, pride, have shown themselves, of late, to be still powerful. But I would open every secret chamber of my soul to God, and spread out all the defilements and deceits of my heart before him. "He that trusteth in his own heart," says Solomon, "is a fool." God forbid that I should ever trust in mine! Oh for some spiritual strength, some spiritual feeling! I am becalmed in the ocean of this world. Jesus, great Captain of salvation, undertake for me, and help me to part with every thing which hinders and holds me back. Save me, Lord! save me!

TO MRS. S. AT BRIDGEWATER.

Boston, June 16, 1822. ALL that can be seen here of nature is quiet, and serene, and lovely. But my heart is sad, and so is yours. I take my pen to relieve my own spirits, by communing with a friend. And to this motive is added another, that of extending to the solitary and mourning mother the expression of my sympathy. Yes, I do feel for you, my afflicted friend: and all the shades of sorrow which pour their deepening gloom over your wounded heart, I know; for I too am a mourner. Who can tell the sense of hopeless solitude, the shipwreck of earthly expectations, which they groan under, whom the Lord hath written desolate? The sun shines the same, na

ture rejoices, and all the great machinery of universal providence moves on without interruption; but no revolutions can restore that which has been smitten with the touch of death. The chasm stares fearfully upon us; and we say of this beautiful world, “ It is a wilderness, a desert!"

But this is the dark side of the picture. Nature has, and must have, some such moments; but they are not her best. And I would now endeavour to rouse both you and myself from these withering, these consuming recollections. It is sin to indulge ourselves in sorrow, so far as to unfit us for present or future duty. It is sin for us not to feel, that God can be to us more than any thing he has removed. What are creatures, what are all our comforts, without him? They are to us just what he makes them. And, if he please, can he not still give us what we still need of temporal comfort? O yes. If we could but find our happiness now in what the angels do, how every earthly trial would lessen! And is it not wise to begin, at least, to place our happiness in what we certainly shall place it in, if we ever get to heaven? And what is the happiness of the angels! Doing the will and promoting the glory of God. And this source of felicity, temporal circumstances cannot affect.

My dear Mrs. S., while you are meekly laying yourself under the rod of the Almighty, while you patiently endure as seeing Him who is invisible, while you say, with the spirit of a child, "All I have is his, let him do what he will with his own;" may you not be happy? While you labour and pray for those dear chil dren; while you strive to fill, in some measure, to them > the place of their beloved mother, may you not be hap-: py? While you are exerting yourself, in every way opened to you in providence, for the coming of Christ's kingdom, doing good to his members, and striving to promote his glory, may you not be happy? Yes, my friend. And this is heavenly happiness begun in a

world of sorrow, where the sins and the pains of mortality do often interrupt it, where the tear of grief often dims the eye, and the pang of distress heaves the bosom, but it shall be maintained through all the interruptions it meets with in the present state, and receive its consummation in that world, where those who love God shall mourn and sigh no more.

June 24. Yesterday was S.'s* birth day. I observed it as a season of fasting and prayer; to remember and confess before God, S.'s sins and my own, and our family sins, to spread them all out before the Lord, and seek the application of the blood of atonement, that past iniquities might not keep back God's mercy from my children. I especially desired to repent in dust and ashes of some of my own transgressions, particularly the sins of pride, and of a disposition to turn back to something in this world, either possessed or desired, for rest and comfort, and an unevenness of temper which makes me impatient with the daily little faults of my children, such as carelessness, noisy and inattentive behaviour, &c. These things in them, I ought to mourn over as sins; but they should not ruffle or discompose my tem-^ per. I thought I desired not only pardon for the past, but grace to resist all sin for the time to come.l I had much freedom in prayer, and I hope some strength of faith in giving up my dear Stor bes wholly the Lord's. I do trust the Lord will make her his, and that all my children will be the servants of God.

July 3. It is my fervent desire that the continual experience I have of the weakness and sinfulness of my nature, may make me very tender and pitiful toward my erring, sinning fellow-creatures; that, knowing how unable I am to resist temptation when left to my own strength, I may be charitable in my judgment of others;

* One of her daughters, ut noed saam T

and, instead of harshly condemning the sinner, hate the sin, and carry it all to Him who alone is able to deliver either them or me out of temptation! Lord, grant me a compassionate, charitable temper toward others, and constant, unrelenting severity toward my own sinful propensities!

TO MRS. T. OF D.

Boston, July 4, 1822.

Has not our father in heaven the entire management of all the peculiarities of our circumstances, the lesser and the greater? And is it not safest, is it not best, for us that it is so? Let this be felt, and we shall rest in the belief that all is just as it should be." They that believe do enter into rest," even as to the things of this life, so far as they believe. If you are a child of God, he as certainly appoints and directs all the little+ vexations which you find so uncomfortable, and as con stantly eyes the advancement of your interest by them, as can be the case with any of your heavier afflictions. Have you read Henry on Meekness? I found it a most excellent work. We must be quiet," says this goodman, funder afflictions, as the air is quiet from winds. It is not well to be wind-bound in dulness and indiffer emce; but tempests are perilous, though the wind be inl the right point." The habit of feeling too deeply the unavoidable ills of life, is one unto which the most interesting and delicate and generous of our race are most likely to fall. But it should be guarded against. The sensibility which is amiable and lovely, when duly regulated, becomes a most mischievous companion to its possessor when not thus regulated. You may say to me, "Physician, heal thyself." But if I love you, shall desire you to escape all the troubles which my want of wisdom and want of grace have occasioned

me.

I have been thinking lately, more than usual, what