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I pray, and even hope, that this distressing event will be the means of a glorious revival of religion in Newark. Tell the people that they must not let it pass without such an issue. It is a call to every man, woman and child in the town, right from the mouth of God, as loud as any that will ever be heard, perhaps, before the last trumpet. They must listen, or, (I had almost said,) they are all dead men. This is the moment too, for christians to lie on their faces before the God who is passing by-the very moment to cry to him with groanings that cannot be resisted-to carry out all their children from their houses, and lay them in the street before the awful Majesty that is passing by. O may the whole town stand and bow before him, and hear not his voice in vain! * Mrs. G. and myself have just returned from a journey to Connecticut. God is pouring out his Spirit in sundry places in that state and in this. I hope to hear good tidings from Newark. Nothing very different here. Mrs. G. joins in every sentiment of love and kindness to Mrs. R. and yourself, with your affectionate brother.



In the winter of 1812-1813, Doctor GRIFFIN delivered his Park-street lectures, on successive sabbath evenings, to a crowded audience collected from all classes of society. These lectures awakened the deepest attention both of friends and foes; and it is hardly necessary to say that they have passed through several editions, and have long since taken a prominent place among the standard theological works of our country.


Boston, August 23d, 1813.


I owe you many apologies for my long silence; but either

I have more to do than ever I had before, or else I become slower in my motions as age increases. I do not get time to

write to my friends. I have scarcely written a letter for nine months till very lately.

I have rejoiced, my brother, in all the mercy and truth with which God has visited you, and the dear people of your charge. I cannot be indifferent to any thing that is calculated to make either you or them happy, and least of all to so glorious a scene as this. May the work increase, and extend, and never cease.

I rejoice to hear of the strong and increasing attachment of your congregation to their pastor. I hope you and dear Mrs. Richards by this time feel yourselves at home, and that you both and your children will continue to enjoy all the happiness which this poor world can give, and all the happiness which can be found in a covenant God.


Our affairs here go on pretty much in the old way. The small degree of divine influence with which we have been favored, has brought ninety-one persons to our inquiring meeting, within a year and a half; thirty-nine of whom have come in since the first of December. About that time a new momentum was given to the thing which is not yet altogether spent. Sabbath after next I expect to admit to the church eleven persons from the world. Still there are trials and discouragements which sometimes almost tempt me to give out. Boston folks will be Boston folks still. They will not retrench a habit, nor lose a nap at church, to save their lives. Had I known as much as I now do, I never would have left the Presbyterian world; and if my conscience would suffer me, I would enter it again as soon as I could.

We are in peace, but a peace attended with more stupidity than comfort. I am afraid to say any more.

Excuse my haste. I have many letters to write. Mrs. G. joins in most affectionate regards to Mrs. Richards, and yourself, and the children, with, dear Sir,

Your friend and brother,





Boston, April 12th, 1814.

I have no good news to communicate respecting our affairs in Boston. It does not please the Head of the Church to refresh us with his influence, and we all remain as cold and hard as rocks. I am afraid to come among you in such a day as this, lest I should serve, with what little influence I have, to chill you. But I need to be warmed, though it be at your expense.

I am, my dear brother,

Most affectionately yours,


Boston, July 25th, 1814.


Before this time you have received "The Memoirs of Mrs. Newell," which your mother sent you. It is my earnest desire, and parental injunction, that you read that book through at least twice in the course of the summer and autumn, that you draw the example there set clearly before your eyes, and give the most earnest diligence and care to copy it in your heart and life. I wish you, in short, to set up that blessed woman for your model, both in respect to her early, ardent, self-denying piety, and to the modesty, sweetness, delicacy, affection, and attention to the feelings of others, which marked her social character. Providence has raised her up at your own door, in the midst of the circle in which your father moves, and given our family, as connected with the mission in which she displayed her brightest lustre, a sort of property in her character. The whole of that property I bequeath to you. Take her for your own, and ingraft all her excellencies upon your own character. How often have I said, with all the tender commotion of a parent's heart, "Oh, let that character be my Louisa's!"

Mrs. Newell was younger than you are, my daughter, when she first gave herself to Christ. She could place her heart at rest on the centre of her soul, her Saviour's bosom, at the age

of thirteen; and where are your affections roving? Are you not under as great obligations as she was? I wish you also to look at the womanly sentiments and style of her letters and diary at the age of thirteen, and often compare your own progress with hers. Do you keep a diary?

Your main attention ought to be paid to the government of your temper. That is an enemy which you must bring under early and learn to keep in steady subjection, or it will gather strength as you advance, till it becomes too strong to be controlled. And when it has once established an ascendancy, farewell to peace, farewell to the good will of others, and, without almost a miracle, farewell to salvation. You must get it completely in your power while you are young, and accustom it to obey, or calculate on a wretched old age. Establish, then, the rule of bringing its motions each day to a rigid examination at night; and never sleep till you have mourned before God for its irregularities that day, and implored strength to curb it for time to come. But you must go deeper still. The root of the evil lies in a selfish spirit, which nothing can cure but that love to God and man which constitutes the essence of all religion. In religion, then, you must seek the only effectual remedy. Oh, my daughter, look to Christ for this. Cry to him mightily; cry to him day and night.

Next to the government of your temper, you must cultivate an obliging disposition towards all. In things where you may, learn to subject your wishes to the wishes of others, to prefer their gratification to your own. This is the essence of true politeness; and if prompted by proper motives, is an essential part of true religion. I must remind you also to avoid two things utterly repugnant to female loveliness. I mean an independent carriage and too great forwardness. A benevolent regard to the feelings, and a modest deference to the characters of others, will cure both of these evils. But I would have you distinguish between modesty and bashfulness. The former is the loveliest trait of female beauty; the latter turns every thing into awkward deformity.

My dear daughter, you are no longer a child,

but of the age when Mrs. Newell was exhibiting a character

to be the model of future generations.


We were sorry to hear that you are learning to play without using your voice. We must utterly protest against this. We believe you can sing; but if we are mistaken in this, we wish you to take no more lessons in music.

Let me hear, from time to time, what books you read at your leisure hours. Some, adapted to enlarge your stock of ideas, and to improve your taste, should make a part of the objects of your attention every week.

I wish you to pay all due attention to It will be a sufficient argument, I hope, with you, that she is unfortunate. Let me be informed on this point.

Your affectionate father,


The following record of the deaths of Doctor GRIFFIN's parents, &c. was made by him in 1832.

While I was in Boston in March, 1814, I was summoned to the sick bed of my dear mother, who, for many years had had the consumption. She died in my arms at nine o'clock on sabbath evening, April 3, 1814, aged 81. My honored father died the 6th of August following, aged 80. Of my four grand-parents, and two parents, all surpassed the age of 80, except my grandfather Dorr, and he nearly reached that age. To this day, when I am more than 62 years old, I have never lost a brother nor sister, wife nor child, and the youngest of eight children of my parents is now more than 54 years old. Thus has the mercy of God dealt with us.


Boston, August 21st, 1814.


Before this reaches you, you will have heard that our dear father is no more. We have no more a parent on earth; and soon we ourselves shall be numbered with the congregation of the dead. And what then if we are deceived! And

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