the governor of the State. His wife was Mary, who had been the wife and widow of Colonel Francis Jenkins, both of whom I mentioned in a former letter. Mr. Makemie calls her in his will, the "beloved consort" of Colonel Jenkins, and leaves us in a pleasant kind of uncertainty: for whether we understand the intention of the writer or not, we cannot err from the truth.-She was the consort of Colonel Jenkins, and certainly "beloved," whether predicated of the testator or of her husband. Mr. Makemie entrusted to her, provisionally, the most precious charge, except his own soul, that God had committed to him; and her husband, who left no child, bequeathed to her an immense estate. She was a distinguished woman, or as I have heard her called, "a great woman." Her maiden name was King. She was the daughter of Sir Robert King, an Irish Baronet. She is uniformly called on the public records, "Madam;" but whether on account of the baronetcy of her father, the colonelcy of her first husband, or the clerical profession of her second and third husbands, I am uncertain. She left two sons, the only descendants of herself or of Mr. Henry; they both attained manhood; were married, and their descendants may be found in Dorchester, Somerset and Worcester counties, and in other parts of Maryland. After the death of Mr. Henry, she became the wife of the Rev. John Hampton,* whom she survived. She died in 1744. Mr. Henry died in 1717.†

* See Mr. Hampton's will in Appendix C.
† See Mr. Henry's will in Appendix C.

I remember to have seen, seventeen years ago, a manuscript strongly-bound octavo volume of from three to five hundred pages, entitled "Common Place." It was a mass of religious instructions prepared by Mr. Henry for his descendants. From my recollection of the book, it enforced the prominent doctrines of the Confession of Faith, in their length and breadth, urged upon those who should inherit his name or blood, the faithful performance of the duties which result from them-with his advice as to the best manner of performing those duties. I remember that he recommended 9 o'clock in the evening as the hour for family worship. The book was made up with great care, was more legible than many printed volumes, and must have cost much labour. I would not make the impression, that Mr. Henry elevated the Confession of Faith above the Bible; he considered that there was perfect concord between them. As for myself, I consider the Confession of Faith the best commentary and the best summary of Bible truth.

LETTER XIV.

Memoir of the Rev. David Purviance.

REV. SIR,

I commence this letter with the deliberate purpose of acting disorderly. I shall write about the dead. They were neither ministers nor elders, nor even members of the peninsular churches, whose history has heretofore occupied our attention; indeed they were not citizens of this State, but they were fellow citizens with the saints, and of the household of God, and were called to their eternal rest while labouring in, and for the churches of Somerset and Worcester counties.*

The first whom I shall mention, is the Rev. David Purviance. All that I know about him is contained in the memoranda of my boyhood; but I was at that time so much interested by what I learned from one who knew him, that I committed the facts to paper. Why is it, do you think, that the doubt whether any other human being is aware that such a man as David Purviance ever lived, makes me anxious to tell you all I know in relation to him? Is it that

*The author does not of course here include Mr. Duffield, who was a member and an elder of a peninsular church.

clinging to life which builds minsters, and mausoleums over the departed, which records the virtues in deep cut marble, and which induces survivors to embalm their bodies with sweet spices? We are strangely constituted creatures: our bodies are fearfully and wonderfully made; but I consider the moral man a much more subtle, fearful and wonderful creation; and the mode of its existence, and the nature and the consequences of its union with that mass of corruptible matter which will soon be destroyed by worms, or fish, or fire, as hard to be understood as any thing revealed in the Bible. I am compelled to believe in relation to myself, what is as entirely incomprehensible, and as profoundly mysterious, as any revelation which God has made to man, either as to his own character or the dispensations of his providence. I love to think of death. Do not suppose I am boasting when I say so; for I am often fearful that in that awful hour, Satan will be permitted to sift me as wheat. But the funeral of the pious dead is more grateful to my feelings than the most merry meetings, or delightful measures. Why should not christians love to contemplate death. Here we are but strangers and pilgrims; but death will terminate our pilgrimage, and if we are the called according to God's purpose, we shall then go home and occupy those mansions in our Father's house, which have been prepared for us by our elder brother: here we are engaged in continual conflicts with sin, and exposed to every ill that flesh is heir to; there we shall be made like unto Jesus, because we

shall see him as he is: here, our spiritual comforts are stinted or dilated, and we too often depend for their supply upon broken cisterns, and even when that is not the fact,

“We drink, and drink, and drink again,

And drink, and still are dry;"

there, we shall bathe in waters purer than those of Siloah, although they went softly and flowed fast by the oracles of God, and will drink of the pure river of the water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb; here we see through a glass darkly; there, delightful thought! we sinners, saved by grace, will gaze upon the ineffable glories of the Godhead. "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God," but we know that faith can take from death its sting, and from the grave its victory.

To bliss.

"There is no by-road

Then why, like ill conditioned children,
Start we at transient hardships, in the way
Which leads to purer air, and softer skies,
And a ne'er setting sun? Fools that we are,
We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom;
But straight our wish revoke, and will not go."

You may tell me that all this moralising about death, has nothing to do with the subject of these letters. My first letter avows my purpose of selecting my own topics, and managing them according to the caprice of my own fancy. But death has had much to do with David Purviance-it broke his heart