David Hume have experienced what she does, it might deserve the name of happiness.

LETTER TO MISS S. W. OF WINCHENDON.

MY DEAR SALLY,

Beverly, Sept. 20, 1811.

THE sudden death of Mr Emery has frustrated our sanguine expectation of visiting your rural retreat, your hospitable mansion. I suppose Lydia informed you of our plan. But to me the disappointment is not severe, as I have long endeavoured to place but little dependence on terrestrial things, knowing that every thing below the sun is stamped with mutability. When one in the bloom of youth, and vigour of health, is arrested by the cold hand of death, and suddenly precipitated into the ocean of eternity, we are forcibly struck with the vanity of the world, the brevity and uncertainty of life, and with the importance of being habitually ready to meet our God. With the most profound awe, we witness the ravages death has made; we behold, with the most acute sensibility, his recent victory, and for a while keenly feel that we also must submit to this universal conqueror. Solemn consideration! To quit this mortal scene, to bid adieu to every earthly friend, to consign our bodies to the grave, to enter an immeasurable, a retributive eternity, are awful thoughts, which extort the exclamation, “ O death, thou king of terrors!" But religion, my cousin, the blessed religion of the Bible, is an effectual antidotę to the sting of death, which is sin, that baneful poison, that procuring cause of all our wo. This holy religion can support us under the pressure of intense afflictions, can impart heavenly peace and comfort on a dying pil

low, can dispel the gloomy terrors of death, can illumine the dreary grave, and procure our admission into the celestial world. This is a consummation devoutly to be wished. O that this religion, my dear friend, may be ours! May it renovate and sanctify our hearts, elevate our affections" beyond this little scene of things," regulate our conversation, and influence and adorn our deportment. May its heavenly spirit be abundantly infused into our bosoms, calm and felicitate our minds, and give a zest to every other enjoyment. O could these wishes be realised, what different persons should we be! what extensive good might we do; what calm serenity, what refined happiness might we enjoy, while passing through this vale of tears. O what a misery it is to think of living useless, when there is so much to be done for the glory of God, and the benefit of our fellow creatures, and so much that we might do !

We have a near neighbour,* whose palid countenance, and emaciated frame indicate, to the grief of many, that her existence on earth must soon be terminated. Her disorder is a consumption, which long ago effectually undermined her health, and which she has borne with Christian fortitude and resignation. She is a person of very extensive reading, intimately acquainted with the best authors, and communicates her ideas with facility and accuracy. But the most excellent trait in her character is exemplary piety. I had an interview with her a few days ago, and found her conversation, as usual, cheerful and improving. She said she was entirely resigned to the will of God, felt no terror at the thought of dying, and hoped she was not deceived. She wondered

* Mrs Francis.

she had lived so long, while others were cut off, who might have been much more useful in the world, and done more good than she had. With an elevated voice

and smiling aspect, " O what a comfort," said she, "that the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, and will do all his pleasure!"

Some time ago I read "the happy death" of the sceptical David Hume. His biographer, Dr Smith, has eulogized his character, and related with triumph his happy death. But in my opinion, it falls far beneath that dignified appellation. It was affected insensibility, a stupid apathy, which he obviously strove to maintain and manifest. Any person of discernment may detect the anxiety and aim of his panegyrist, which is to set off his character to advantage, and make it appear how un necessary is religion, because Mr Hume died so heroi cally without it. But, alas! Where, O where was the boasted philosophy of these modern infidels, when Voltaire agonized on his dying pillow, when he yielded up his breath? The cold comfort of non-existence had fled, and he felt he must live for ever a monument of the vindictive wrath of Omnipotence, whose glorious cause he had wished to eradicate from the earth. He observed,with horror and despair depicted on his countenance, he observed to his attending Physician, "I will give you "half my fortune, if you will save my life for six months; "if not, I must go to the devil." His was a death of remorse and poignant anguish, the bare description of which is enough "to harrow up the soul." May it prove an insuperable obstacle to the spread of his deleterious principles and baneful example. It is said of him, that he solemnly promised, that he never would rest till he

had exterminated the very name of the Redeemer from the face of the earth. But Jesus sits upon the holy hill of Zion; and declares, that the gates of hell shall not prevail against his cause; but that it shall extend, and extend, till he have the heathen for his inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for his possession. He wilk not suffer his name to be blasphemed, nor his religion despised with impunity; but will one day consign his incorrigible opposers to corroding despair and remediless wo; while he welcomes his humble followers to that peaceful shore," where tempests never beat, nor billows roar.' I have recently read "Practical Piety" by Miss More, and think it is excellent. Watts on "The Improvement of the Mind" is a good book, and contains a great deal of instruction. I wish it were more generally read.

Present my love to all my cousins and relatives. I shall now conclude this long epistle with ardent wishes for your temporal and eternal welfare. Your affectionate cousin, FANNY WOODBURY,

ww

LETTER TO MISS H. H. OF BEVERLY.

MY DEAR HANNAH,

Beverly, Oct. 1811. :

I THANK You for your answer to my question, which appears to be according to Scripture. "Faith without works is dead." If we have religion, we shall evince it by a holy life and conversation. We shall live devoted to God, having our fellowship with the Father and his Son Jesus Christ. We shall exercise philanthropy to the whole human species; for " love is the fulfilling of the law;" and " he that loveth, dwelleth in God, and God in him." We shall especially love Christians, the household of faith; for the Apostle says, "We know that we

have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren." In short, we shall assiduously endeavour to imbibe the spirit of Christ, to emulate his example, to deny all ungodliness and every worldly lust, and to live soberly, righteously, and godly, in this present evil world.

But is this the portraiture of a genuine Christian? Then may I justly fear, I deserve not that honourable appellation. My heart is the seat of pollution and vice, deceitful and desperately wicked. My life, from my infantile years to the present moment, exhibits a wretched picture of uselessness, deformity, and sin.

I fear I have lived to no good purpose, literally in vain. And yet, paradoxical as it may appear, I hope I do hate sin as hostile to God, and inimical to the best interests of men. I hope I do deplore, and abhor all my sins, which for number and magnitude are beyond conception, and known only to Him with whom I have to do. I do most ardently wish in my humble way to promote the interests of pure religion, and the advancement of Christ's kingdom on earth. But " But "Faint, yet pursuing," must be my motto. From the Bible we learn, that sanctification is not stationary, but progressive. Christians continually go from strength to strength, growing in grace and the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. But I do not seem to make any progress,-to gain any strength. I have often thought that I might adopt with propriety almost every successive evening, the exclama◄ tion of the illustrious Roman emperor, when he exclaimed at the close of a day on which he had not conferred a favour on any one, 66 My friends, I have lost a day!" O if I had lost but one day, and all my others had been

Judges viii. 4.