LETTER XXV.

MRS. ROWE, on her death-bed, to her MOTHER.

MADAM,

I am now taking my final adieu of this world, in certain hopes of meeting you in the next. I carry to my grave my affection and gratitude to you. I leave you with the sincerest concern for your own happiness, and the welfare of your family. May my prayers be answered when I am sleeping in the dust! May the angels of God conduct you in the paths of immortal pleasure.

I would collect the powers of my soul, and ask blessings for you with all the holy violence of prayer. God Almighty, the God of your pious ancestors, who has been your dwelling-place for many generations, bless you.-It is but a short space I have to measure-my shadows are lengthening, and my sun declining; that goodness which has hitherto conducted me, will not fail me in the last concluding act of life: that name which I have made my glory and my boast, shall then be my strength and my salvation.

To meet death with a becoming fortitude, is a part above the powers of nature, and which I can perform by no power or holiness of my own; for, oh! in my best estate, I am altogether vanity-a wretched, helpless sinner; but in the merits and perfect righteousness of God my Saviour, I hope

to appear justified at the supreme tribunal, where I must shortly stand to be judged.(')

LETTER XXVI.

MRS. ROWE, on her death-bed, to the COUNTESS OF
HERTFORD.

MADAM,

This is the last letter you will ever receive from me, the last assurance I shall give you on earth of a sincere and steadfast friendship; but when we meet again I hope it will be in the heights of immortal love and ecstasy. Mine perhaps may be the first glad spirit to congratulate your safe arrival on the happy shores. Heaven can witness how sincere my concern for your happiness is. Thither I have sent my ardent wishes that you may be secured from the flattering delusion of the world; and after your pious example has been long a blessing to mankind, may you calmly resign your breath, and enter the confines of unmolested joy!

I am now taking my farewell of you here; but it is a short adieu, for I die with full persuasion that we shall meet again. But, O, in what elevation of happiness! in what enlargement of mind, and perfection of every faculty! What transporting reflections shall we make on the advantages of which we shall feel ourselves eternally possest!

(1) This letter was not to be sent to her mother till she was dead.

To Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood, we shall ascribe immortal glory, dominion, and praise for ever. This is all my salvation, and all my hope. That name in whom the Gentiles trust, in whom all the families on earth are blessed, is now my glorious, my unfailing confidence. In his merits alone I expect to stand justified before infinite purity and justice. How poor were my hopes if I depended on those works, which my own vanity or the partiality of men have called good, and which, if examined by divine purity, would prove, perhaps, but specious sins! The best actions of my life would be found defective, if brought to the test of that unblemished holiness in whose sight the heavens are not clean. Where were my hopes but for a Redeemer's merits and atonement! How desperate, how undone my condition! With the utmost advantage I can boast, I should start back and tremble at the thoughts of appearing before the unblemished Majesty. O Jesus, what harmony dwells in thy name! Celestial joy and immortal life are in the sound. Let angels set thee to their golden harps, let the ransomed nations for ever magnify thee.

What a dream is mortal life, what shadows are the objects of sense! All the glories of mortality, my much loved friend, will be nothing in your view at the awful hour of death, when you must be separated from the whole creation, and enter on the borders of the immaterial world.

Something persuades me that this will be my last farewell in this world. Heaven forbid that it

should be an everlasting parting! May that divine protection, whose care I implore, keep you steadfast in the faith of Christianity, and guide your steps in the strictest paths of virtue. Adieu, my most dear friend, till we meet in the paradise of God. ELIZABETH ROWE.

LETTER XXVII.

REV. GEORGE WHITFIELD, in the prospect of his speedy dissolution, to Mr. S.

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,

...

S

At Sea, July 15, 1763.

My breath is short, and I have little hopes, since my late relapse, of much further public usefulness. A few exertions, like the last struggles of a dying man, or glimmering flashes of a taper just burning out, is all that can be expected from me. But blessed be God, the taper will be lighted up again in heaven. The sun, when setting here, only sets to rise in another clime. Such is the death of all God's saints. Why then should we be afraid? Why should we not rather by faith be looking through the windows of mortality, and daily crying, Why are his chariot wheels so long in coming?" We have need of patience, especially when the evil days of sickness and declining age come. But we serve a master who will not forsake his servants when grey headed, When heart and flesh

66

fail, God, even our God in Christ, will be our portion and confidence for ever.

Yours, &c. &c. in our Jesus,

I cannot forget your old readiness to serve and attend upon me. I cannot forget your last parting conversation. Alas! alas! how little do we know of the bitter cups that await us in the decline of life! May Jesus sweeten them with his love. He will, he will. This will make them palatable. This and this alone can make us cry from our inmost souls, "The cup which my heavenly Father hath given me to drink, shall I not drink it?" Though bitter, there is no death in this cup: on the contrary, nothing but life, nothing but life! Courage then, my dear Mr. G d, courage. Yet a little while and we shall see

All our sorrows left below,

And earth exchang'd for heav'n.

Less than the least of all,

G. W.