LETTER TO MISS B. K. OF BRADFORD.

Beverly, April 12, 1813.

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I THANK you, my dear Betsy, for your very obliging letter; and if mine could be any compensation for it, I should address you with much more alacrity than I de at present. How do you enjoy your mind? Does your soul prosper? Alas! If you were to ask me the same question, I should give you a most mournful answer. should expatiate with reiterated sighs, on my own vileRess, worthlessness, darkness, and despondency. But why these complaints? Why am I stupid and dejected? Yonder is the fountain of living waters, and that river, elear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb. There stands Gilead's Physician, with his healing balm, tendering life, light, salvation, and glory to perishing worms, till his head is filled with the dew, and his locks with the drops of the night. O where is my faith? "Lord I believe; help thou my unbelief." How desirable it is to have some sweet perceptions of the amiableness, the grace, and glory of the Lamb of God, and to feel these stubborn hearts melting into compunction, gratitude, and love. JEsUs! let our inmost souls vibrate with rapturous wonder and adoring love at the mention of his name! JESUS! transportingly glorious, and amazing word, which no mortal dialect can adequately explain, no inhabitant of earth fully understand. Be it music to our ears, and celestial joy to our hearts, the frequent theme of our delightful meditation and grateful praises. Well might the martyr Lambert's motto be, "None but Christ,-none but Christ." And surely if love to his master brought him to the stake, the carthly flame did but purify, enlarge, and immorta

lize it, by introducing him to that land, where he displays his consummate excellencies and captivating charms` without a veil. Well might the antient church of God break out in melodious songs of praise as she looked through the shades of night, and discerned his star in the east. Well might the hearts of the disciples, going to Emmaus, burn within them, as Jesus joined them, and poured his heavenly instructions and consolations into their listening minds. Well might the apostle Paul delight to rehearse his name again and again, and load it with encomiums; and, after all, could not honour, exalt, and magnify him as he deserves. And well may angels and archangels fall obsequious at his feet, and render him the homage of their most cheerful obedience, and accla◄ mations of praise. "O how great is his goodness, and how great is his beauty!" How stupendous his love! how glorious his person and character! Good night, my dear Betsy.

Monday, April 12. Your recent society has succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations, and embraces a much larger sphere than I dared to anticipate. I do not think you will want for pecuniary aid, because it so deeply interests so many generous hearts. It is most astonishing, that a taste for worthless superfluities and external decorations should so greatly prevail in the ge nerality of females. How much more ornamental is a meek and quiet spirit, and modest apparel, in conjunction with good works! Methinks we should grudge every rent expended in trifles, when there are so many ways of using property, by which we may do honour to our Christian profession, and glorify our heavenly Father. How much more satisfaction is there in visiting the afflicted cot of poverty, than in hours spent in the

wearisome, criminal labours of the toilette, or nights of glittering ostentation, and infatuated hilarity in the ballroom. O for hearts dilated with love to God, and benevolence to the whole human race! O for a just appre ciation of the inestimable worth of moments, and a noble indifference to all the allurements and vanities of this lower world! O that our sex may arise to true dignity and substantial honour, and be illustrious for suavity of dispositions, feminine deportment, and deeds of piety and charity! Who does not pity Egypt's beautiful and dissolute Cleopatra, swallowing the costly pearl? Who does not benignantly wish she had possessed the beauties of the mind, and the sweet and amiable virtues and piety of the Lady Jane Gray? Then would her name have appeared in the archives of history, not with the merited infamy now attached to it, but with a pure, and honourable, and dignified splendour. Who does not pity the numerous females of the present day, who, lost to the pleasures of literature, and the spiritual joys of religion, are grovelling in the eager pursuit of vanity and "trifles, lighter than air." O may a Rowe and a More ere long illumine this western world; and especially, may thousands and tens of thousands forsake their worthless employments and pleasures, and, with humble love and zeal, go "about doing good."

When you get near to God in prayer, O do not forget your unworthy correspondent, nor the dear destitute church in this place.

I am, my beloved Betsy, your most obliged and affec-.

tionate friend,

FANNY.

LETTER TO MRS M. ATWOOD OF HAVERHILL.

Beverly, April 9, 1813.

I FEAR it will be presumption in me, my dear Mrs A. to address you; but the painful anxiety and tender feelings of my heart must be my apology. My particularobject in writing, is to request you to let me know soon, whether you have received letters from your much beloved and far distant daughter; and, if you have not, whether you can assign any reason for it. Whatever

letters you may have at present, or in future, from her, and will be kind enough to transmit to me to peruse, shall be speedily returned; and I shall feel myself under very great obligations to you. I hardly dare to hope she will write to worthless me, though I should value a fewlines, written by her own dear hand, more than silver or gold. It is unnecessary to say, she was one of my first and best beloved friends. Attachments formed in youth, and when minds are religiously disposed, are not easily broken. The affection that now animates my breast, shall never be eradicated but with death; nay, if ever I land on Canaan's peaceful shore, it shall glow with a purified, exalted, and immortal flame, where kindred spirits meet to part no more, and Jesus is all in all. Then the parting hand, the last embrace, the heaving sigh, the falling tear, are known no more forever. May I meet thee there, my Harriet, and mingle beatific sympathies and praises, where our souls shall be cemented together in the most ineffable, indissoluble bonds, and our humble voices unite with the musicians before the throne, in ascribing all glory and honour to the slain Lamb. Let this thought console our desponding hearts, my much loved Harriet, and stimulate us, not only to make our

May

calling and election sure, but add new and continually increasing lustre to that crown of glory that fadeth not away. Yours is the privilege of moving in a very im portant and extensive sphere of usefulness, though it is connected with complicated and manifold hardships, privations, and troubles. Your path may be strewed with briers and thorns, which will not fail to lacerate the flesh, and wound your tender heart. But be of good cheer, you will also find here and there a clustre of the grapes of Eschol, and now and then you will enjoy a Bethel season, and be rapt with a view of the glories of Tabor. your life glide peacefully and usefully away, under the peculiar auspices of an ever present Friend; and may your setting sun be unobscured by a single cloud. Though towering mountains, impervious forests, and mighty occans, may part our mortal frames, yet our mutual friendship shall still retain its vigour, and our souls shall have sweet interviews at the mercy-seat. And may the Holy Spirit there breathe on us the salubrious air of heaven, give us delightful antepasts of immortal glory, and at length bring us to those happier climes, where amity and love are consummated, and eternized; where faith shall be superseded by vision, and hope by fruition; where the beauties and glories of Immanuel shall enamour every heart, and praises to his name harmoniously reverberate on every lip. Till then, adieu, my sister, friend of my soul.

Excuse, my dear Mrs Atwood, this rambling digression. I did not intend it, and had quite forgotten I was writing to her amiable mother. I have written her one letter, and fain would hope she has it. The emotions which

Supposed to be the mount of transfiguration. See Mat. xvik