TO MRS. EDWIN*.

Dec. 17, 1724.

DEAR MADAM, IT is the common misfortune of very good-natured people, that their friends trespass upon them with security, and in this way you have an opportunity of exercising your goodness, perhaps oftener than you desire. I am heartily ashamed to think that I have so long delayed the easy service of transcribing these verses, though you were pleased to honour me with your command almost a twelvemonth ago. You know it is my misfortune to be a little touched in the heart, and you have a friend at Burton who has furnished me with too good an excuse for forgetfulness. I would hope you have forgotten them too, and so have not often blamed me for the neglect. However, at last they are sent, and beg the favour of your acceptance. I was inclined to approve them, and I have a much better opinion of them for having pleased you. I would particularly recommend them to Mr. Edwin's perusal, whom you, madam, have furnished with so dangerous a temptation to an excess of love. My own daily experience teaches me that young ladies may be too charming; and yet, who could wish to purchase security by their absence. I know it should be our daily care so to moderate our passions by the dictates of reason and virtue, and so entirely to refer ourselves and our

* With a copy of verses by Dr. Watts, against an inordinate love of the creature.

enjoyments to the disposal of our wisest and kindest friend, as that we may taste all the sweetness of love without the tormenting cares and perplexing anxieties it sometimes gives birth to. But I must confess that he who can perfectly do so, is a much wiser and a much happier man than,

YOUR father has engaged me to undertake a very ungrateful office, and makes me the messenger of some sad and melancholy news, which he had not the resolution himself to tell you. And I am concerned how I may open the mournful scene upon you in such a manner as may be least shocking and surprising.

Before you go on any further, lift up your heart to God! and beg that he would strengthen and support you, that it may not overwhelm your spirit to learn that your dear and happy mother is now an angel in heaven.

When I consider the greatness of the loss, and the remarkable tenderness of your temper, I am really afraid you should hardly be able to bear it. But it

is God who has said, "As thy Day is, so shall thy Strength be;" and I hope you have an interest in that encouraging promise. It is now, my dear friend, the proper season to recollect those religious principles which I know you have been so carefully instructed in. Remember that it is God that kills and makes alive. Remember that the same Providence has removed your mother which so long blessed you with her care, and which gives you your food and your clothing, and, by so many so many remarkable favours of its grace, distinguishes you from many— from most of your fellow creatures. Remember that you have often prayed that His will might be Done, and that you have all imaginable reason to believe, that as he can do you no wrong, so he will do you no harm. Having thought of these things, then meekly and silently lay yourself at his feet, and with humble reverence and filial love accept of this affliction which he, in mercy, has dispensed.

I am not now forbidding you to mourn for the death of this excellent mother. God forbid! Humanity and nature require it, and therefore divine grace cannot forbid it. Only I would entreat you to take care that you do not sorrow as one that has no hope; but rather set yourself seriously to consider those things which may cheer and support you, instead of only those which aggravate your trouble. It cannot, my friend, but be a great advantage to you to think, now your mother is no more, that you did your duty to her while she was yet alive. I have had it from her own mouth, and have often observed it myself,

that you were one of the most dutiful and obliging children in the world. You were so at Kibworth, and since you have been at Stamford, she never heard from you but with pleasure and thankfulness; indeed that manly religious letter which you have written to your father since her illness was a cordial to her upon her dying bed. And should you not rejoice in this? Again, it should be a comfort to you to think that your dear mother is now with God in glory. Look over those delightful descriptions of the future happiness, which you may find in the Bible and in other good books, and then think, all this does she now enjoy, and something unspeakably more than this; and then you will see that love and duty require you to rejoice in her happiness, at least as much as you mourned for her affliction. Above all, let it be a consolation to you to think that the separation between dear mother will not be eternal. No; you are now left behind her in the world, but it is only for a few years, and then you must follow her to the grave, and I would hope follow her to heaven too. I bless God, my dear friend, I have observed a spirit of serious religion in you, far beyond what is commonly to be found in persons of your age. So that I do really believe you may look forward to the world of eternal glory with a well grounded hope that you have an interest there. Well, when you are arrived at those happy realms, you will meet with your mother again; and oh, upon what advantageous terms you will meet her! not as you would have met her here, had she lived till your

you and

your

return, it may be mourning under some bitter affliction, at least encompassed-with the vanity of a mortal life; to have conversed with her, for a few days, and then to have been separated from her again: but you will then meet her in the perfection and felicity of a glorified saint, never, never to part any more. And does not this hope revive your very heart? Consider it is not the invention of a friend to mitigate your sorrow, but upon the supposition of your piety and hers, of which I would entertain no doubt, it is as certain as the gospel of the blessed Jesus itself. What if you had stood by your poor mother's bed-side, and seen her under all the pains and agonies of that dreadful distemper; and after many sighs and complaints you had beheld her fall into a gentle sleep, would it have been an affliction to you that you lost her company for a few hours, when you hoped she would quickly have awaked again, and found the benefit arising from that refreshment of nature, and by it have been enabled to converse with you with more cheerfulness than she had done before. Why, believe it, death is but a sleep. And when by faith we take in the whole duration of an immortal soul, there is not near the proportion between the remainder of your life, be it ever so long, and the eternity which you hope to spend with her, as between an hour of sleep and the remainder of your life.

And what though for a few years you be separated from her, that is, have not an opportunity of making her a visit now and then, and enjoying a little of her company, which in your present circumstances is