rety, our complete righteousness, our title to
eternal life, and all the grace necessary to fit us for it. This is
the work of faith, or rather, this is faith itself. The soul
established in this can rest in all possible circumstances; it depends
not on its frames: in darkness, when it is tossed, tempted, wandering,
conscious of unhallowed tempers, perhaps of the actual commission of
sin, though at such times the warfare between grace and corruption is
so strong as to make the Christian exclaim, 'O wretched man that I am!
who shall deliver me from this body of sin and death?' he can still
say, 'The Lord lives, blessed be my Rock;' see the 42d and 43d Psalms.
The Christian can still say, my Lord and my God; he is sure the
conflict will end, and that his God will bring good out of it; he
enjoys hope; he feels his state as safe as in the most enlarged frame
of mind, when he can pray, praise, love, rejoice. This is a riddle
which only Christians can understand, and even they require many
lessons to comprehend it, many more to practise.

"Have you Newton's letters? See his second letter in Cardiphonia.
O try to fix your anchor of hope on that sure foundation which God has
laid in Zion, Christ himself. Trust him to save you from every evil
without you and within you. When your own weakness sinks you, try to
be strong in his strength; when guilt disturbs, wash in the open
Fountain. But hold fast the beginning of your confidence unto the end.

"Be comforted, fight on, aim at trusting, and you shall, in the
Lord's time, also, cease from your own works, and rest, with more
advanced Christians, on the faithfulness of your own God in Christ.
See Hebrews 4:9, also chap. 12 throughout. I finish with chap.
13:20, 21, my earnest prayer and sure hope for you, my precious
friend.

Yours, etc."

Writing to her brother Dr. Marshall, she alludes to the prevalent
neglect of the voice of God in his judgments, and notices the death
of Washington.

"NEW YORK, March 3, 1800.

"Here comes a letter of woe from my dear brother, on a subject
almost already forgotten in New York, the yellow-fever. Strange as
it may seem, the disease, and all that it carried off, seem entirely
out of mind. No mention made of the past, no apprehensions for the
future. Country retreats are multiplying around, and people appear
as if they had made a covenant with death. Potter's Field is filled