“There is another work going on by the same Spirit of truth; also his purchase and gift—­sanctification.  In this I am called to occupy, watch, strive, fight.  Life is given; means of support and growth provided; weapons of warfare—­all things necessary to life and godliness:  these are promised to the diligent use of means; and poverty, stagnation, discomfort threatened to the indolent.  O how sovereign and gracious has my God been in his dealings with me in this respect also.  For a sluggard have I been in the days of youth and the prime of life; yet to me hath he given the comforts promised only to the diligent.  Here I sit on the verge of threescore; my heart in some good measure loosened from the world, although in full possession of it.  Health, ease, plenty, elegance, friendship, respectability; old age welcome, death unstung become a familiar friend, the messenger of my Father to fetch me home to those mansions which my Redeemer has taken possession of in my name.  My hope is strong for my offspring.  Stately have been his steps of mercy towards them already, and he saved them from their mother’s snares; he heard and answered my prayers, for his name’s sake, and overruled my practices; he is my God, and the God of my children; the God of my children’s children to the latest generation; my cup is full of comfort, temporal and spiritual.  O praise him, praise him, for he is your God, and the God of your offspring also.”

“JUNE 4, 1802.

“Making allowances for the difference of time, and supposing my dear children in health, all about them is in a racket.  This is his majesty’s birthday; and you are at this moment, perhaps, set in some social company, by invitation, to honor the anniversary, to repeat the wish of long life, health, and comfort to the lawful sovereign of Britain.

“Here sit I in my dear little room, with a lovely landscape in view; B. M——­’s park in velvet verdure; the full-grown trees scattered thin to display the carpet, and in full foliage; the clump of willows weeping to the very ground, with a gentle wave agitated by the zephyr; while the other trees keep their firm, majestic posture; the Hudson river covered with vessels crowded with sail to catch the scanty breeze; some sweet little chirpers regaling the ear with their share of pleasure.  I think I never heard any little warbler in this land sing so sweet as those which now salute my ear.

“These are thy glorious works, Parent of good.’

“Can all the philosophic ingenuity of London, this evening, produce such a scene?  The gardens no doubt will be glorious, but the groundwork is also God’s; but why say I that in particular?  All is his; the very notes that warble through so many guilty throats are his creation; all the art of man cannot add to their number.  Sweet bird, thy notes are innocent, O how sweet.  Lovely trees—­ye who stand erect, and ye who weep and wave; I wish no brighter scene.  The shadows lengthen fast, so do yours and mine, my sovereign;* a few, a very few anniversaries, and we must change the scene—­change to where no courtiers flatter, no false meteors blaze—­where shadows flee away, realities appear, and nothing but realities will stand in any stead.