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a letter, from which the following extract is made: "Some foolish girls laugh. ed at the parting sermon. Some feeling ones cried, and many of the old standards were very much affected. I was among this number; but my feelings were rather pleasurable than otherwise; for I confess the pulling down a decayed edifice, to build a more convenient and handsome one, made me think of the pulling down of the decaying body of a saint, by death, to build it up anew, without spot or blemish; and although Nature feels some regret at parting with our old bodies, as well as with our old churches, it is a regret chas. tened with a cheerful and glorious hope of a resurrection unto life eternal: but this is a very serious letter for such young correspondents; yet, I hope, not more serious than their well informed minds will relish on a serious occasion."

On the departure of miss Futerell for England. "If you don't all feel very sorrowful, I pity you; if you do all feel very sorrowful, I pity you. Yet I wish you all to be sorrowful, for it is in our circumstances, a sacred duty as well as a tender feeling: and to you young ones, may be an initiatory lesson on the vanity of human life and human hopes; and teach you to set your hearts there, where true and unchanging joys are only to be found.”

The following letter, with the note of the editor, will explain itself without comment:

EXTRACTS OF A LETTER FROM MRS. RAMSAY TO HER HUSBAND.

MY VERY DEAR HUSBAND,

Charleston, December 17, 1792.

You have doubtless heard, by this time, that I am fatherless, and will feel for me in proportion to the great love you have always shown me, and your intimate knowledge of my frame, and the love I had for my dear departed pa. rent. Never was stroke to an affectionate child more awful and unexpected than this has been to me. I had heard from my dear father, that he was some. what indisposed, but not confined even to the house: however, last Tuesday and Wednesday week I was seized with so inexpressible a desire to see him, that nothing could exceed it, and nothing could satisfy it, but the going to see him. Accordingly, on Wednesday noon, very much against my family and personal convenience, I set out with faithful Tira and little Kitty, and slept that night at Mrs. Loocock's; the next morning it rained, but I could not be restrained. I proceeded to Mepkin, and arrived there at one o'clock, wet to the skin. I found my dear father indisposed, as I thought, but not ill. He conversed on indifferent matters; seemed very much delighted with my presence; told me I was a pleasant child to him; and God would bless me as long as I lived; and at twenty minutes before eight o'clock, retired to rest. The next morning, at seven o'clock, I went to his bedside: he again commended my tenderness to him, and told me he had passed a wakeful night; talked to me of Kitty and of you; had been up and given out the barn-door key, as usual. At

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eight I went to breakfast. In about ten minutes I had despatched my meal, returned to him, and thought his speech thick, and that he wavered a little in his discourse. I asked him if I might send for Dr. M'Cormick: he told me if I desired a consultation, I might; but that he had all confidence in my skill, and was better. I asked him why his breathing was laborious; he said he did not know, and almost immediately fell into his last agony; and a bitter agony it was; though, perhaps, he did not feel it. At ten o'clock, next day, I closed his venerable eyes. Oh, my dear husband, you know how I have dreaded this stroke; how I have wished first to sleep in death, and therefore you can tell the sorrows of my spirit: indeed they have been, indeed they are very great. I have been, and I am in the depths of affliction; but I have never felt one murmuring thought: I have never uttered one murmuring word. Who am I, a poor vile wretch, that I should oppose my will to the will of God, who is all wise and all gracious: on the contrary I have been greatly supported; and if I may but be following Christ, am willing to take up every cross, which may be necessary or profitable for me. I left Mepkin at one o'clock on Saturday, as soon as the body of my dear parent was decently laid out, and I was sufficiently composed for travelling. I know, by information, that the awful ceremony was performed last Tuesday. I have never been able to write till this day. Our dear children are well. Eleanor comes to my bed side, reads the Bible for me, and tells me of a heavenly country, where there is no trouble. Feeling more than ever my dependance on you for countenance, for support and kindness,

This refers to the burning of the body of Mr. Henry Laurens, which his daughter well knew had long been resolved upon. She had also resolved, that she would neither be a witness of the transaction, nor in the vicinity of the place where what she calls "the awful ceremony was to be performed: and therefore, came away, very soon after the body of her father was decently laid out, and before the funeral pile was constracted. Filial duty constrains the editor to observe that this transaction has been grossly misrepresented by American authors, who ought to have known better. The Rev. Biographer of Washington, goes out of his way to mention that, when Henry Laurens, president of the first congress, came to die, he said, "My flesh is too good for worms. I give it to the flames." In Kingston's new American Biographic Dictionary, printed at Baltimore, in 1810, it is asserted that "Henry Laurens directed his son to burn his body on the third day, as the sole condition of inheriting an estate of sixty thousand pounds sterling." Both these statements are incorrect. There was no forfeiture, nor any penalty whatever, annexed to the non-performance of the will of Henry Laurens, relative to the burning of his body. It was simply enjoined as a duty. The motives to his determination, for having his body burnt, are also mistated. Mr. Laurens often spoke of his preferring the incineration of the dead to their inhumation. His reasons were a belief that several persons were buried before they were irrecoverably dead. This opinion was perhaps strongly impressed on his mind from what happened to his own daughter, the subject of these memoirs, as related in the beginning of this work. He dreaded, as infinitely worse than certain death, the pos sibility of life returning to him when shut up in a box in the cold ground, so far below its sui face as to be out of the reach of all human help. He also, consistently with Scripture, entertained high ideas of the purifying nature of fire, as separating all dross and defilement from the substances to which it was applied. "And I will bring the third part through the fire, and will refine them as silver is refined, and will try them as gold is tried." (Zechariah, xiii, 9.) "He is like a refiner's fire, and like Fuller's soap." Malachi iii, 5. EDITOR

and in the midst of sorrow, not forgetting to thank God that I have so valua ble, so kind, and so tender a friend,

I remain, my dear husband,

Your obliged and grateful wife,

MARTHA LAURENS RAMSAT.

The following are such evidences of maternal tenderness and discretion united, we cannot in justice omit them.

FROM MARTHA LAURENS RAMSAY TO DAVID RAMSAT, JUNIOR, AT PRINCE. TON COLLEGE.

Charleston, May 7, 1810.

The first thing I did when you left me, dear David, was to retire for a few moments to your chamber and relieve my labouring heart, by commending you solemnly and affectionately to the good Providence of our heavenly Fa. ther. I composed myself as soon as possible, and set about my accustomed do mestic duties. Soon after Dr. Abeel came in; he passed a parting half hour with us, and began his journey the same evening. I should be glad that my wishes and my hopes about the perfect recovery of this excellent and ins teresting man held at all equal pace. But I confess that I wish more than I dare hope.

While I was in your chamber, I discovered the little treatise (Dr. Water. house's lecture to the students of the university of Cambridge on smoking to bacco) which your father requested you to read, and which, in the main, I approve of so highly that I have given away half a dozen to persons in whọm I am much less interested than in you. I sent it after you by Cooney, who says you received it safely. I hope its contents will not be lost upon you, nor the book itself lost by you. While we were in church on Friday afternoon, there came up a severe thunderstorm; and while Mr. Palmer was in the act of praying for you and your fellow passengers, the flashes of lightning and peals of thunder added not a Little to the solemn feeling of many persons in the church, interested most tens derly in the fate of the mixed multitude on board the Pennsylvania.

I shall be counting the days till I hear from you. It will be no disappointment to me, or rather it will give me no pain to learn that you have not entered the junior class: to whatever class you belong, do your duty in it. Be re. spectful to your superiors, live affectionately with your equals; make yourself a party in no broils; but mind your own business; give dignity to the Caroli nian name; write to me accurately on every subject which concerns you. Be not ashamed of religion; read your Bible diligently; it will not only make you wise unto salvation, but you will find in itexcellent directions for your conduct in the affairs of this life. Your grandfather, Laurens, used to say, if men made a good use of only the book of Proverbs, there would be no bankrupt. cies, no failures in trade; no family dissentions; none of those wide spread. ing evils which, from the careless conduct of men in the common concerns of life, desolate human society; and I can assure you, the more you read this di

vine book, the more you will love and value it. I long to hear from you, and with tender affection subscribe myself, your friend and mother,

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

M. L. RAMSAY.

May 14, 1810:

I now write to you, dear David, to thank you for your letter from on board ship, which I received the day before yesterday; and which was highly acceptable both to your father and myself.

If your father and I were not very loving and very industrious people, we should feel very solitary at present. John, David, and James at a distance; the rest out of hearing; and all the young ones away. These circumstances make a great change in our household, and one which needs both love and labour to make it tolerable. There is now no polite attention at the long table to wait till a servant is disengaged. Even slow-paced Jack is more than we want at our lessened board. I now long very much to hear from you; it seems to me a great while since we parted; and if you knew the delight your ship-letter had given your parents as a mark of attention, affection and home love, I am sure it would make your heart happy. My anxiety that you should behave well, and make the very best use of your collegiate opportunities is very great. But I thank God, I feel much of the cheerfulness of hope. I know you have good abilities, quick apprehension: I trust you will not be indolent, and that a manly shame (to be ashamed to do wrong is a manly feeling) will prevent your adding yourself to the list of the Carolina triflers, whose conduct has brought a college, such as Princeton, into disrepute: I hope you will feel a laudable pride in inheriting your father's literary reputation in the college where he received an education, of which he has made so excellent an use; yet an education much below what you may receive at the same institution, from the great improvements made in every branch of science since his time, I hope absence wont weaken your affection. Continue to love us: the more you love your father and mother, the more you endeavour to oblige them, the wiser, the better, the happier you will be; and at some future period, when standing in the relation of a parent yourself, you will have sensations unknown to all but parents: the consciousness of having been a good son, will fill you with inexpressible delight. God bless you, my dear son; your father joins in love to you with your faithful friend and mother,

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

M. L. RAMSAY.

June 13, 1810.

An open candid disposition endears a young person much to his friends, and must make him very comfortable to himself. That sort of reserve which arises from a consciousness of having wasted the time which ought to have been devoted to study, and being consequently unprepared for answering any questions proposed; or from a sullen unyielding temper, which shrinks from investigation, except when proceeding from tutors and masters, it cannot be

avoided, is a reserve so unlovely that I witness it with pain, and Ido most earnestly beseech you to strive against such a temper, which if unresisted, and unsubdued, will show itself on a thousand occasions besides that specified above. Even an incorrect answer, if given in an amiable tone of voice, indicating a desire to be set right, if found in error, is preferable to silence, or to an unwilling reply, even if a correct one. God has given you an excellent understanding. Oh, make use of it for wise purposes; acknowledge it as his gift; and let it regulate your conduct and harmonize your passions. Be industrious; be amiable. Every act of self-denial will bring its own reward with it, and make the next step in duty and in virtue easier and more pleasant than the former.

I am glad you like your room-mate. I hope he is one who will set you no bad example, and with whom you may enjoy yourself pleasantly and innocently. I delight to hear every thing about you, and you can have neither pleasure nor pain in which I do not sincerely and affectionately participate.

Eleanor and I drank tea with aunt Laurens last evening. Frederick, four. teen days younger than William, was learning Fructus and Cornu, with such earnestness, in order to be ready for Mr. Moore against the next day, that I could hardly believe it was my wild nephew. Mild John was in a corner smiling and helping Frederick whenever he seemed to be at a loss.

The girls all send their love to you; so do parnobile your good friend and sister desires not to be forgotten. Mrs Coram is constant in her inquiries after you; so are many other friends. It is a charming thing to be beloved. God bless you, my very dear child; may he watch over your youth, and keep you from shame. I embrace you with an overflowing tide of affection.

MARTHA LAURENS HAMSAY.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

DEAR DAVID,

September 11, 1810.

I wrote to you not long ago, telling you of the departure of my dear miss Futerell. Her absence makes every thing desolate to me, and your sisters more than sympathize with me, for in addition to mine they feel their own sorrow. I have in them, however, this consolation, that by every act of their lives, they show how much they have profitted by her advice and example; ne. ver were parents more blessed than your father and I in daughters; and I hope God will return seventy fold into their bosoms, the comfort they give to ours. Your time of vacation is drawing on. I trust you are not losing your time for study, and that as you grow older, you are resisting every propensity to idleness or folly of any kind. Your judgment must be well informed. You have lived from infancy within the sound of good advice; and although some dispositions are restive under any advice that clashes with their present gratification, I flatter myself, you have a more ingenuous disposition, and that no effort on the part of your parents and friends, to make you wiser, and better, will finally be lost upon you.

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