said, always discovered her confidence in Christ and love to him. On these lines being repeated to her, "How sweet to recline on the bosom Divine,

And taste all the pleasures peculiar to thine!"

she said, "I never had those rapturous joys that some have expressed; but I have been favoured with a confidence in the fulness there is in the atonement of Christ. I can trust my soul to him, as a faithful God. I know that I love him, and I know that none can, unless he first loves them. I long to see more of his glory."

On the Lord's-day, being told that her daughter Eliza had repeated those words, "It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good," she expressed great delight that the Lord had subdued her will to his will; as the dear child had previously expressed herself almost in anger, that the Lord would not hear her prayers, and restore her dear mamma.

On Monday, she took leave of her three children. She told them, that no mother had more tenderly loved children than she had loved them. She hoped to have lived to see them grow up in the fear of God; but the Lord had chosen greater happiness for her. She earnestly entreated them to seek unto Jesus Christ for salvation; for which purpose she begged of them to search the Scriptures, to delight much in reading them, for they testified of Christ. She told them that, from a child, the Scriptures had been her delight. She said, the salvation of their souls had always lain near her heart. On seeing them weep, she begged them not to grieve too much, for she should soon be in glory; and if they loved the Lord Jesus Christ, and trusted in him for salvation, they should all meet again before his throne. She requested them to look upon those relations to whose affection and care she had intrusted them, not only as they now stood related to them, but to consider them as parents, and to obey them as such, to behave towards them as they had to her. Then

(turning to her son) she said, "Remember the advice of Solomon, My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."" Then looking upon her daughters, she told them that she left them all in the hands of a good God, and wished them to consider, that many things which appear as great evils to us, the Lord overrules for good.

On Tuesday evening, she gave them her last blessing, saying to each one of them, in a most solemn and affectionate manner, "God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, bless you." After the children were gone to bed, she begged my sister and me to give her up to God in prayer. Never did we three enjoy sweeter communion together. It was a solemn season, never to be forgotten, to resign one so near, so beloved; but, through Christ strengthening us, we can do all things. Surely we had an anticipation of the glories of the upper world: it was as the gate of Heaven. We felt that the happy union which had subsisted between us, would not be dissolved, because we were united in our Head, Christ Jesus. She was only going home a little before us. On Wednesday, the day on which she died, being asked if her consolations continued, she answered, Yes, just the same." Mr. P. prayed with her, a few hours before her departure. On his taking leave, she desired her love to Mrs. P., wished them both as happy as she then was; for no greater happiness could she wish them here below. To some friends who called shortly after, she said, "It is comfortable dying with Christ." She often repeated, "I long to be with him." Her last words were, "I am going home." Between nine and ten o'clock in the evening, with a gentle sigh, without either groan or struggle, she expired, entering into the joy of her Lord.

66

MRS. PEARCE,

WIDOW OF THE LATE REV. SAMUEL PEARCE,
OF BIRMINGHAM.

MRS. PEARCE was the daughter of Mr. Joshua Hopkins of Alcester. She was born in the beginning of the year 1771, and married to the Rev. Mr. Pearce in February 1791. After the death of her admirable husband, in the year 1799, she constantly assembled her little family, morning and evening, to commit them to the care of Heaven, fervently praying for their conversion, and that they might walk in the steps of their honoured father.

As her last illness was of such a nature as to render her incapable of conversation, no particular account can be given of the state of her mind at the close of life. The reader will obtain an insight into her character from a few extracts of letters furnished by the kindness of her correspondents. We shall give them in the order of time in which they appear to have been written, which may serve in some measure to shew the progress of her exercises under the severest of temporal bereavements.

To Mrs. H. eleven weeks after Mr. P.'s Death.
Dec. 25, 1799.

In vain, alas! in vain I seek him whose presence gave a zest to every enjoyment! I wander about the house as one bereft of her better half. I go into the study-I say to myself, There is the chair he occupied, there are the books he read; but where, oh where is the owner? I come into the parlour there my tenderest feelings are awakened by four fatherless children. The loss of him with whom I have been accustomed to go up to the house of

God, diminishes, ah, I may say too frequently deprives me of my enjoyment while there. Ichabod, Ichabod, seems written upon all my former pleasures! But let me no longer sadden you by dwelling upon a subject too interesting to my tenderest feelings ever to be forgotten by me. Nor would I arraign that all-wise and benevolent Being, who has a right to do what he will. No, my dear friend, I wish to love, adore, and praise, though I cannot discover his designs, or suppress painful feelings at his dispensations towards me. Oh that I may indeed "know him" in all his ways, and feel my mind more immediately devoted to him and resigned to his will! I desire to be thankful I have not been altogether with out those consolations which true religion affords.

To Mrs. F. on the Death of her youngest Child, Samuel. July 11, 1800.

After an illness of a few days, it hath pleased the great Arbiter of life and death to bereave me of my dear little boy, aged one year and six months; and thus again to convince me of the uncertainty of all earthly joys, and bring to remembrance my past sorrows. He was in my fond eyes

one of the fairest flowers human nature ever exhibited; but ah, he is cropt at an early period! Yet, the hope of his being transplanted into a more salutary clime, there to re-bloom in everlasting vigour : and the reflection, that if he had lived, he had unavoidably been exposed to innumerable temptations, from which, if my life were spared, I should yet be unable to screen him, make me still. Though I feel as a parent, and, I hope, as a Christian, yet I can resign him. Oh, could I feel but half the resignation respecting the loss of my beloved Pearce! But I cannot. Still bleeds the deep, deep wound; and a return to Birmingham is a return to the most poignant feelings. I wish, however, to resign him to the hand that gave, and that had an unquestionable

right to take away. Be still, then, every tumultuous passion, and know, that he who hath inflicted these repeated strokes, is God; that God whom I desire to reverence under every painful dispensation, being persuaded that what I know not now, I shall know hereafter.

To the Same.

Dec. 1800.

My dear children gone to bed, a clean hearth, a cheerful fire, but a dejected mind-what will have a greater tendency to dissipate that dejection than to converse awhile with my dear friend, Mrs. F.? Yet, she must prepare herself for Ezekiel's roll. You will not wonder at this when I tell you, that, within the last half hour, I have been comparing my present evenings with those two years ago, when my beloved Pearce and myself were accustomed to sit together, and talk over the events of the past day, and look forward to the probable ones of the next; and when he would give the gentle caution where necessary, and direct me when in difficulty. But now, alas! a sad reverse succeeds! A solitary fire-place, a necessity of acting alone; and whatever difficulties arise, there is no one to direct me. But God is just; and let me not repine, though I must needs feel the change.

"Why sinks my weak desponding mind?

Why heaves my heart the anxious sigh?
Can sovereign goodness be unkind?

Am I not safe if God be nigh?"

Oh yes, if He be nigh, I want no more! This storm, though violent, will be but short: a few more blasts, a few more sighs, and I trust to arrive where sighing, sinning, and parting from those we love, shall be done away. Oh glorious anticipation! 'Tis this, 'tis this supports thy friend while steering the tempestuous ocean of widowhood.

I was glad to hear your dear babe was nearly re