he will reward it. I have often envied the felicity of those who have a kind mother to care for, watch over, pity, and help them; but Ah! poor me was left by parents, cruel and unkind, to perish, till I was found an helpless infant. For me no tender mother has yielded her fostering care, but Left on the world’s bleak waste, forlorn, In sin conceiv’d, to sorrow born: No guide the dreary waste to tread, Above, no friendly shelter spread. But the Lord had some kind, and I hope gracious design, in preserving me till now, though my distress has often made me blame, like Job, the kind hand that took me up when an out-cast. I am still the child of woe, the hand of God and man appears against me in providence, and my distress of mind is great—my dear friends deprived of my public labors, and exposed to the shafts of cruel calumny. My dear family without a fond mother, and now deprived of a father they dearly loved, and whose paternal embraces they eagerly prized: but now No Children run to lisp their Sire’s return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share— Excuse me, tears will not let me proceed. May the dear Saviour bless you. We live in a dying world; a few more rising and setting suns will settle all. May we aim to know, to win, and to be found in Christ: clothed with his righteousness, pardoned with his blood, purified by his spirit, filled with his love, and for ever delighted with his glory. Your’s, truly, _Ruhamah_. LETTER XXIII. _Valley of Achor_, _January_ 3_rd_, 1819. Mrs. BROWN, MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,