they should hear of your affliction without deeply sympathizing with you. Among these I beg leave to have the honour of classing myself; and though least, not last. I was the other day at Mr. W- -'s, and was informed you still continued extremely indisposed. I immediately determined to take the liberty of writing, to express my esteem and sympathy. I upbraid myself heavily for not having snatched an opportunity of seeing you before I left Bristol; and had I foreseen the prolongation of your illness, I certainly would not have omitted it. From me, who have suffered so much, it would be unpardonable if distress of every kind did not extort a tear,-much more when the sufferer is a friend whose virtues and talents I respect and admire. This world is indeed a scene of suffering; and it ought, in some measure, to reconcile us to our lot, that in feeling distress we strike chords in unison with the whole universe. Adversity is capricious in its times and seasons; but its visitations, sooner or later, never fail. In some, it overwhelms the first hopes of life, so that they no sooner begin to taste felicity in prospect, than they are crossed with hopeless disappointment: others it permits to advance further, waits till they spread the foundations of happiness deep and wide, that, just when they have nearly finished the superstructure, it may overwhelm them with a more extensive desolation. Some are racked with pains and agonies of body; and others are preys to disappointed passions and blasted hopes, wasted with devouring regrets, and sick at heart with melancholy retrospects; wishing in vain they could arrest the wings of time, and put the current of life back. Of all these classes, every individual thinks his misfortunes the greatest. For the same reason we are never at a loss to hear our own voice, be it ever so slender: the cry of a pierced heart sounds shrill in the solitary ear of the sufferer. Since we cannot essentially meliorate, let us endeavour to allay, our anguish by moderating our expectations. I am persuaded all we can reasonably hope for on this side the grave is tranquillity,-not the insensibility of a statue, but the placidity of a well-informed mind, relying on the promises and cheering prospects of immortality. But why do I thus address one who is as well acquainted with every subject of Christian consolation as I can pretend to [be?] I am persuaded you will edify your friends as much by your patience in affliction as you have enlivened them in better days by the exercise of your sprightlier powers. Virtue is always consistent, and guided by its dictates you will never fail to be an example. This scene of suffering will not always last, nor do we suffer "as those without hope." It is, indeed, the night of nature, a short night, and not utterly dark: it will soon pass away, and be succeeded by a bright and endless day. Æneas comforts his companions in the midst of distress, by telling them that the retrospect of their sufferings will hereafter be delightful to them. Whether we shall in this world be indulged with such a satisfaction I know not; but surely it will be a source of the most pleasing reflection in a happier world.

Of Bishop Leighton, whose sermons I wish you to read, Bishop Burnet declares, that during a strict intimacy of many years, he never

saw him for one moment in any other temper than that in which he should wish to live and die: and if any human composition could form such a character, it must be his own. Full of the richest imagery, and breathing a spirit of the most sublime and unaffected devotion, the reading him is a truce to all human cares and human passions; and I can compare it to nothing but the beautiful representation in the twentythird Psalm—it is like "lying down in green pastures, and by the side of still waters."

Cambridge, 1791.

V.

TO MRS. FYSH, OF CAMBERWELL,

ON THE DEATH OF HER SISTER, MRS. PARSONS.

My dear Friend,

Cambridge, August 14, 1796. Permit me to express the deep interest I take in your distress, from the loss of the best of friends and the best of sisters, in the loss of dear Mrs. Parsons. How many losses are united! She has left a husband to lament the most lovely of wives, you the most endeared of sisters, the church of Christ one of its brightest ornaments, and the world one of its fairest examples: all, all have fallen a victim in this most excellent woman. I have not met with any event for many years that has affected me at all equally. Had I been permitted to draw aside the mysterious veil that hides futurity; could I have had any presentiments I saw her at for the last time, how solemn would have been the moments, how awfully interesting my emotions! I pity her husband-I pity her sisters: this is a stroke which must be severely felt in the tenderest manner. I know the heart when recently wounded must be indulged in the luxury of grief; and if there ever was an occasion which could justify the most poignant regret, it is the present, in which we lament the loss of so much excellence. But I hope you will by degrees inure your imagination to dwell less on your loss, and more on her happiness. What a glorious display of the power of Christianity! what a triumphant departure! O, that I may die the death of Mrs. Parsons, and that my last end may be like hers! Her life was an ornament to Christianity-a pattern to her sex. Immortality dawned on her enraptured mind, even before it quitted its earthly abode; and her pure and elevated soul made an easy transit to the society of the blessed. Her career was short, but illustrious; and she crowded into her little sphere the virtues of a long life. Short as her continuance was upon earth, she was permitted to exemplify the duties of every character, and to imprint, in indelible characters, on the

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memories of all who were honoured with her acquaintance, the perfections of a friend, a sister, a mother, and a wife. It is true, she has slept the sleep of death; but she sleeps in Jesus: she has gone before you into the holy of holies: she will meet you at the great rendezvous of being, the assembly of the just; and, in the mean time, instead of being an object of your pity, probably looks down upon you with ineffable tenderness and compassion. I have seen, besides your letter, one from Mrs. Gutteridge; and I must say, I never heard, on the whole, of so calm, so triumphant a death: it seemed as if she had been permitted to step into heaven before her final departure, that she might thence address herself to her friends with more serenity, dignity, and effect. What, my dear friend, besides Christianity, can thus scatter the horrors of the soul? What else could enable a young lady, in the bloom of life, with a prosperous fortune, beloved by a husband, endeared to her friends, and esteemed by the whole world, to triumph in the thoughts of dissolution? Divine Christianity! it is thine only to comfort and support the languishing and dying.

I hope all Mrs. Parsons' numerous acquaintance will be properly impressed with this singular dispensation of Providence. Let them ask themselves whether the loose skeptical principles of the age are at all adapted to such a scene; whether they have any thing in them that will enable them to exert the calm heroism displayed in the most trying moment by this departed excellence. Let me hope some one, at least will be impressed by this wonderful example of the power of religion. Death has made frequent visits to your family; the youngest is now snatched away. Mr. Beddome, poor Richard Beddome, and now Mrs. Parsons; in how short a time they have followed each other!

I find your dear deceased sister expressed her anxiety at the progress of Deism with her last breath. To a serious mind it affords a most melancholy prospect: but you must observe it does not seize the mind at once; it advances by the progressive stages of Socinianism and dissipation. Men first lose their relish for what is vital and distinguishing in Christianity, before they dispute its evidences, or renounce its authority. Lax notions of the person of Christ, a forgetfulness of his mediation, place the mind in a deistical state, and prepare it for the most licentious opinions.

The consolations of your dear deceased sister did not result from a general belief of the doctrine of immortality, in which the Socinians place the whole of revelation; but in specific views of Christ as a Saviour, and the prospect of being for ever with him. My dear friend, let us hold fast this kind of Christianity, without wavering, as the antidote of death.

Excuse this freedom, which results not from any suspicion of your own defection, but from a friendly concern for some for whom we both retain the sincerest regards. My paper forbids me to add more. Present my most affectionate respects to Mr. Fysh, and accept the same yourself, from

Your affectionate and sympathizing Friend,

ROBERT HALL.

VI.

TO THE REV. JAMES PHILLIPS, HAVERFORDWEST.

My dear Friend. Cambridge, June 7, 1799. How could you suspect for a moment that I wished to dissolve my friendship with you, a friendship which I have always esteemed a distinguished honour and happiness? No, my dear friend. My long silence is indeed inexcusable; but impute it to any cause, and you will do me more justice than by suspecting my diminution of regard. My aversion to letter-writing you are well acquainted with. I formed many resolutions to surmount it: but, in the moment of trial, am baffled. I sincerely sympathize with you in the loss of your child; but, my dear friend, do not suffer your spirits to sink. Remember the tenure on which all human enjoyments are held, the wisdom and sovereignty of their great Author, and the gracious promise afforded to true Christians, that "all things shall work together for good to them that love him." Remember the many blessings with which a kind Providence still indulges you. Ought you not to rejoice that your affectionate companion in life is spared; and that, though your child is snatched from your embraces, he has escaped from a world of sin and sorrow? The stamp of immortality is placed on his happiness, and he is encircled by the arms of a compassionate Redeemer. Had he been permitted to live, and you had witnessed the loss of his virtue, you might have been [reserved] to suffer still severer pangs. A most excellent couple in our congregation are now melancholy spectators of a son dying, at nineteen years of age, by inches, a victim to his vices. They have frequently regretted he did not die several years since, when his life was nearly despaired of, in a severe fever. "Who knoweth what is good for a man all the days of this his vain life, which he spends as a shadow?"

Many interesting scenes have occurred since our interview. About six months ago, I was attacked by a violent fever; and in my own apprehensions, for about two days was on the borders of eternity. I never before felt my mind so calm and happy. Filled with the most overwhelming sense of my own unworthiness, my mind was supported merely by a faith in Christ crucified. I would not for the world have parted with that text, "The blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin." I never before saw such a beauty and grandeur in the way of salvation by the death of Christ, as on that occasion. I am fully persuaded the evangelical doctrines alone are able to support the mind in the near views of death and judgment. May you and I be more and more grounded in a conviction of their truth, and acquainted with their power! It is to these doctrines the revelation of Christ is chiefly indebted for its efficacy in the hearts and lives of men.

VII.

TO THE REV. JAMES PHILLIPS.

My dear Friend, Cambridge, Feb. 14, 1801. I have long purposed to write to you, and should have done so, but from that unhappy reluctance to writing which is almost a part of my nature. I hope you will do me the justice to believe it did not arise from any abatement of love and esteem. But a truce to apologies.

I am heartily glad to find you have preached at Clapham, where I hope you will find much to comfort you in the opportunity of doing good; for we can be truly happy but in proportion as we are the instruments of promoting the happiness of others. From what little I have heard of the people, you will meet kind and respectful treatment; but there will be much to damp your zeal, against which, I doubt not, you will be upon your guard. You will have pleasing society; and the vicinity to London has many advantages. May we, my dear friend, "work while it is to-day, for the hour is shortly coming when we can work no longer."

Mr. Hill, by whom you sent your letter, just called in the morning, but could not make any stay. He seemed an agreeable, sensible man. If you should see Mr. Rowland Hill, present my Christian respects to him, though unknown, and assure him it would give me uncommon pleasure to see and hear him at Cambridge, and that I shall think myself much honoured by hearing him preach in my pulpit. I went into the vestry and spoke to him about two years ago, in Surrey Chapel; but he did not recollect me, and I felt a reluctance to make so free as to mention my name, and therefore only mentioned you as a common friend and retired. He is a man for whom I ever entertained a very high esteem. Whatever a misjudging world may say, such men as these will "shine as the brightness of the firmament, and as the stars for ever." May my soul, though at an humble distance, be admitted among them! I have just been reading, with very great pleasure, and, I hope, some profit, Orton and Stonehouse's Letters to Stedman. They contain most excellent prudential, moral, and religious instruction; devout, liberal, rational, yet fervent piety of the stamp of Doddridge, who is now my prime favourite among divines. If you have not seen them, they will richly repay your perusal. Dr. Stonehouse and Miss More both lived at Bristol at the time I resided there; and yet, such was my extreme folly, I never took any means of becoming acquainted with either of them, which might very easily have been done. 66 Surely I have been more brutish than any man.' What opportunities of knowledge and improvement have I lost, and have now reached the meridian of life, and am but a child! I may adopt, with more propriety than any man that ever lived, the prayer,-"Remember not the sins of my youth."