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night on the danger of such complaints as yours; and, though it was but general conversation, I began to make something out of it. You know what the cruel ingenuity of the imagination is, so that I lay awake last night; or, I may say, stood on a precipice from which I did not dare to look down, and from which, like a man fixed by enchantment, I could not remove.

You must know how fondly we imagine, that, if we were PRESENT with a sick friend, they would, somehow or other, be in less danger. This is constantly my feeling, for my anxiety abates when I see you; especially since you seemed to go forward.

I have always felt, that, if I could see my CHILDREN taken to Abraham's bosom---then I should wish you not so much to call it their death as their ESCAPE---and comfort myself; but I do not feel this respecting you, I am too much interested: and always recur to the consideration “ What must I do? Whither must I go?"--and this thought so much affects me, that, considering I ought to prepare for public service, I ought not to write nor think any more at present on the subject.

LETTER XII.

MY DEAREST LOVE--In all things that respect your present journey, your health is to be first considered, and then your pleasure. I shall again say, let not my desire to see you prevent your enjoying either to the utmost of your wish or judgment: but, when I say this, do not suppose I therefore am unconcerned whether you come home or no.

I have never had such a feeling for a moment since you

left and I pray God nothing may ever arise to cause it to exist, for any unhappy interval, however SHORT. Come home whenever you see it proper: and, if I can give you another journey with myself this year, I will. You may depend upon it I shall be doubly watchful over the children, and be very faithful to my promise to tell you truly the state of affairs.

Your little daughter goes to Church three times a day, much

me;

in the spirit of too many of my hearers. She, however, behaves very well. I suppose you must be weary, by this time, of looking on the sea. Endeavour, therefore, to turn your eyes to a greater

ocean, and

Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore,
Of that vast Ocean you must sail so soon!”

I am highly gratified in hearing from you; but should rather you would come than send. The workmen will have finished very soon, and all things be ready for your reception.

While my house is setting in order, I cannot look on any part without thinking of what must follow, and may very soon--Thou shalt die, and not live. The great Mr. Howe has written a long and fine discourse on “ the Vanity of Man:” should we think this necessary? Nor would it be so, were men sobeR; but means must be used to convince drunken men, that they are not only drunken but dying men.

Pray make use of your present leisure for winding up your minds in spirituals. Every thing else (that is not necessary for the pilgrimage) is worse than folly. It is one grand advantage in death, that we shall get clear of these rocks and sands for ever. In the mean time, there is one rock here, upon which a man may stand and smile.

The Lord bless you, my Dear Creature, and him, with you, who remains, &c. &c.

LETTER XIII.

You cannot think how much I felt in leaving you in that solitary place, so like exile; and though I wish you to stay as long as you feel it necessary for the child, yet I shall be glad to hear that you feel it no longer so. The children are quite well, and our little son has quite forgotten you and me and the whole world, by reason of a new hoop which he trundles without ceasing. It would be well if new trifes and old ones were confined to children of his age.

I got well soon after I got home: but it was not an unprofitable journey to me; for I had time at Crysal to wind up by reflection.-Life is hurried through in business, and I cannot abstract enough for my soul's health. I advise you when your attention to the child can be remitted, to use your solitude for the same purpose.

The paiuters finish to morrow. I never think of repairing the house we have, but it occurs that we are but covering our coffin, or making a place to die iu. Before we shall need another painting, we shall both be of darker hue than the walls we leave. But, perhaps, this is too gloomy a strain to be continued ; and, therefore, let me rather say we shall have left a poor clay tenement, too old to repair, for a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.

In short, despair and hope are the fundamentals of Christianity---that is, to despair of keeping or repairing that which MUST FALL, and to hope for that which WILL SATISFY AND NEVER FAIL.

LETTER XIV.

I said to myself, last Thursday, when an insect flew between us, and left a slight sting---I said, “I know when I have rode five miles from town the sting will be gone, and nothing but HONEY remain:” and so it was; and therefore, my Dear Creature, make yourself quite happy respecting me. I am as well as when I left town, and have every reason to believe I shall return to town better than I expected. We shall travel slowly. Mrs. - is pretty well. We rode together very pleasantly, as you may suppose: but clouds threatened the horseman; and, therefore, while the CHRISTIAN conversed very excellently on divine things, I often observed the WOMAN anxious about her husband and child. Several new sights and objects make me daily wish you were with

me;

for
you

have Eyes, and I could shew YOU what you would enjoy. Yet, after all, beautiful scenes and

beautiful pictures are all trifles that will not last long. Nothing will last, but what is INTELLIGENT. The finest mutes upon earth soon become nothing: they are a body, but a DEAD one: they want that, which is the soul of every thing---INTELLIGENCE; and the soul of intelligence is RELIGION.

I have made many observations about travelling, which you will one day hear. You ought to be satisfied, that I let you into all things in the "CLOSET" that respect myself. I thank

you
for
your

kind letter. I mean to preserve it, and to pray that you may be long preserved to me; for you do not tremble at the idea of losing me, more than I do in return.

LETTER XV.

MY DEAR LOVE.. I just scribble a line to say that I am going on in my journey very well. I have also considerable advantage in travelling with a MAN--for a tender, feeble Lady could not labour so much. I make him read out ALOUD in the chaise, which he also feels an advantage: so that I travel with Pascal---Adam--Maclaurin--and the Bible. Now I say a LADY could not afford this.

But, with all these advantages, I am ready to aeknowledge, that the want of your company makes a terrible void. How many tender things have I lost!--- with, now and then, a good thing, i. e. a bit of oratory, a scrap of literature, a shred of poetry, and a cup of peculiarities. Some of these peculiars do not so well please alone; but, when MIXED UP, they are not unpleasing to my taste. I assure you I often think of you in the mass as a CHARACTER, (and a character you certainly are) that I am deligbted with. For, as in a piece of music which we excessively admire, there are, now and then, some grunting minors ; yet, these, mixed up with sweet returning concords, add greatly to the barmony upon the whole. But don't, from what I say here, put in any more minors than al---as a little goes a great way!

But now I am so angry at the strain of my mind, that I will

write no more. I am quite surprised at myself to reflect (though I have known myself many years too) that, with a weighty conceru on my miud, and upon which my heart has sent up many requests, I should be so sportive and gay. But it is my very nature to be gay, as it is some others to be gloomy; and it brings me into many a snare---and I can only say--The Lord pardon thy servant in this thing!

1

LETTERS

FROM

MR. CECIL TO HIS SON ISRAEL.

LETTER I.

MY DEAR BOY--

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I was much pleased with your letter to your sister; and indeed it gave great satisfaction to all our family, particularly to your Mamma. We rejoice to see you speak so like a man, and to find that you so rightly estimate the value of your situation at school. For you are now a bee in a garden : nor can you possibly conceive what advantage you will reap from what you now gather; for though this is not the WHOLE of what you are to learn, it is so essential a part that it will add power and lustre to the rest. I have been turning over a great number of books at different shops, to find one to send to you, but I never met with more disappointment.

I wish you to attend to a correct habit of writing.

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