my calling require, and feel fully satisfied that I shall never fall a victim to unhallowed ambition.

For some time past, dear brother, I have taken sweet enjoyment in the service and love of God. Religion never seemed sweeter to me than at present. I want to live wholly to God, and become perfectly conformed to the image of my adorable Redeemer. My prayers seem very often to enter the ears of my Father, and his blessings distil upon me like the evening dew. O! what is there like religion? what like living by faith? May God help us both to be faithful and holy, and take us at last to heaven!

TO MISS MARY ANN MUDGE.

Salem, December 9, 1837.

How happy they whom Providence has brought together to share each other's friendship and affection! And yet how few realize that Providence has had any thing to do in the disposing of their lot,--in the mingling of that cup of earthly comfort which is pressed to their lips! Let us acknowledge God in all our ways, and he will direct our steps.

I am very glad, my dear Mary Ann, that I can write to you at this time, for I wish to converse plainly with you on some subjects on which I frequently feel unwilling to trust my lips. You too will reflect upon them in a different way, as the sound of my voice will not interrupt your meditations. I doubt not you have frequently reflected upon your future lot, and in full view of it, have decided both upon the way of duty and the path of pleasure. But never is it amiss to review the ground over which we have passed, and decide anew upon the course which we must take. Happy shall we be if, after all our efforts to ascertain our duty, we meet with the approval of our Judge.

More than ever, Mary Ann, am I convinced that the life of a minister is one of hardship and toil, and that his companion must expect privations and sufferings. No mere earthly consideration could reconcile me to the thought of leading such a life, or of permitting one whom I so tenderly love to share with me in its sorrows. What can I expect as my portion here but labour and sacrifice? What better can I expect for the friend of my bosom? I am the professed ambassador of that Saviour whom this world hates, and whom it once crucified; the servant of that God against whom earth has risen up in proud rebellion. Can I suppose that the world will smile upon me? that upon me it will lavish its favours? O no! the servant is not above his Lord. If I am faithful to my Master and devoted to his cause, the world must hate me. And O! it hath a thousand ways of manifesting its cruel hatred. The best that can be looked for is, that it will only crown me with thorns. True, the blessed Saviour has his friends even in an enemy's land; he has a church established, which shall finally triumph over all opposition. But this church often fails to uphold and protect its ministers; benumbed by selfishness and sin, it sometimes forgets them, and suffers them to falter and die. Have you not, Mary Ann, seen with your own eyes enough to convince you of the truth of these remarks? Can you wonder then that I dare not look at this world, lest my heart should faint within me? Can you be surprised that I so often beg you to consider, how much your affection for me will cost you? how large the price which you must pay in acts of self-denial ? Cruel indeed should I be, did I not frankly all; strange would be that affection which would lead to deception, where so much is at stake.

tell you

Remember, too, that Wells is a Methodist minister. We are united to a denomination which has always been despised by the gay and fashionable world; a denomination

which is feeble in its means, scanty in the support it grants its servants, and whose peculiar economy subjects to peculiar inconveniences and numerous trials. This is what it now is, but what it may soon become, God only knows. The " 'spirit of reform" may, in its rapid progress, soon divide and disorganize us. Then Downing will be thrown on his own resources, and his wife must share his lot, whatever it may be. I am preparing for such an emergency, and expect not to be surprised by any event of this nature. You too, my dear Mary Ann, should reflect on such possibilities. Your affection, I doubt not, will brave the roughest storms of life, but O! will your heart faint?

I have tried to count well the cost of my course, and I hasten onward to finish it with joy. I believe that God has called me to preach the gospel, that he will abundantly bless my labours, and finally reward me. I have no desire to engage in any other work, but wish ever to be found preaching "Christ crucified." With divine assistance, I am resolved to be "faithful unto death," to make every necessary sacrifice without a sigh, and to count not my life dear unto myself, so that I may finish my course with joy. I look to heaven, and see enough there fully to reconcile me to all that I must suffer. I muse upon eternity, and O! its boundless duration, its untold riches, its inconceivable joys, allure me to duty. This, Mary Ann, is the bright side! Thank God, there is a bright side to this picture-so bright that not all the shades of earth and sin can darken it. Say, my dear Mary Ann, does it seem equally bright to you? Does it reconcile you to all that is discouraging and gloomy in the path before you? Does it prompt you to walk in this path, though so thickly strewed with thorns? O say, does the voice of duty Ichime with that of affection? Does the voice of heaven harmonize with the language of love? But why should I

dwell on this subject longer? You are ready to decide. I have dwelt thus long because I could not avoid it; you know I must tell you all my thoughts, and all my feelings.

TO THE SAME.

Boston, June 29, 1838.

MY DEAR MARY ANN,-After a pleasant ride I reached the famous "city of notions." Found brother Daggett very happy to see me, and very willing to anticipate my wants and gratify my wishes. The oppressiveness of those thoughts of responsibility, of which I have so frequently spoken since my appointment, has begun to wane, and I am consequently in a frame of mind better suited to the discharge of my arduous duties. And yet I do not know that I ever before could say with deeper emotion, "Ah, Lord God! behold, I cannot speak; for I am a child." When I reflect that men are greatly influenced by first impressions, and that these impressions may be unfavourable to me, I can hardly find courage to put forth my first efforts. But I remember that God sees all my feelings, and knows all my wants; that he will take care of me, if I will but rely on his protection, and will give me that kind and degree of favour in the eyes of Israel which will best promote his own glorious cause. O that I may ever be found at the cross, receiving instruction from my blessed Redeemer, and drinking in that meek and lowly spirit which will prepare me both to do and to suffer all that may seem good in his sight! You need not be told that such is the prayer which I would beg you, and all my dear friends, to offer in my behalf to the throne of grace. I doubt not that every swiftly passing day witnesses the breathing forth of many prayers for me; but O! that the number and fervour of these petitions might be increased. Who can tell how rich the blessings

they may procure for me, and for my dying fellow-men! I do prize these prayers, and to my latest hour shall remember with gratitude all who offer them. How often, since my conversion, have I thought that I might have been called to seek the favour of God, in answer to the oft-repeated prayers of a now sainted mother. And O! if the dear parents whom heaven has still spared (perhaps chiefly for our good) reach "the better land" before me, will they not there be permitted to see, as they never before could have fully conceived, the happy result of training up a child in the way he should go? I would not deprive them of the glorious vision, but since time cannot dim its eternal colours, nor vary its unchanging shades, I would pray that they may still dwell with us, to cheer, and guide, and bless us.

TO MISS SARAH PURBECK, SALEM.*

Boston, August 30, 1838. MY DEAR MISS PURBECK,-In compliance with your request communicated to me by your cousin Matilda, I write you a word or two to serve as a memento of my past visits to your humble but pleasant habitation. Pleasant indeed has it been to me, for there have I sympathized with the suffering-there have I pitied the af

* The individual to whom this interesting letter was written is emphatically a daughter of affliction. For the last ten years she has been confined to her bed by an affection of the spine; during this whole period she has been subject to the most violent convulsions, nor has she been conscious of one moment's relief from the most excruciating pain. One who has not visited her can have no just idea of her sufferings, and words cannot describe them. Yet she is patient, resigned, and happy; the preciousness of Christ is the theme on which she delights at all times to converse, and it is pleasant to be with her, so bright is the manifestation of the Saviour's presence to sustain and comfort her even in the deepest distress.-ED.