become quite reproachful at last, of the kindness which requested to hear soon after our return, and as in all other cases, I have still answeredTo-morrow. Most things she can compel me to do, within some tolerable bounds of time; but to write, there I am beyond her power-that is a thing in which Fate alone can rule me.

We extended our term of dissipation a full week beyond what I reckoned on as the very utmost limit, when we were at F. So long as Hall was to be heard, and Mr. J. S. was expected to be seen, there was something very plausible to be pleaded; but when both these gratifications were past, it was quite time for sober thoughts, and a return to the garret; but the event proved that there was nearly another week to be expended. On one of the days I took a round of about thirty miles on horseback, in company with a very clever and excellent young man, a barrister that is going to be. We went to Brockley Combe, Dundry, &c. Another of the days we contrived to get into the house of Mr. Hart Davis, the member for Bristol, to see several celebrated pictures. Though totally ignorant of painting, as an art, it was impossible not to be exceedingly delighted with several grand landscapes of Claude Lorraine, and a countenance by Leonardo da Vinci, intended for the Messiah previously to his incarnation-a countenance I should really think never yet equalled, nor hereafter to be equalled, in painting or in reality. On quitting these rooms of enchantment, I could not help admitting the hint, that, in spite of all that philosophers have said, wealth has some advantages. Four or five of the pictures, taken together, are accounted worth, I believe, £20,000. Though not of so magnificent an order, we saw a number of very fine performances of the great foreign painters, at a house not a mile from Dr. C.'s. A number of the landscapes were of extreme beauty, by Vernet, Ruysdael, &c., &c. I cannot exactly judge whether I should, on the whole, like a room so illuminated for a habitual place of reading, musing, or, if I may use the word, study; but I think I should like it, for that it would do more good in the way of brightening and enriching imagination, than it would do harm in the way of diverting attention. A considerable portion of another day I spent in examining the splendid part of the Bristol city library, where there are probably ten thousand volumes; but my attention was nearly confined to about a dozen -the costly books of engravings relating to Athens, Palmyra, Rome, &c., &c. Another portion of the same day, and some hours of another day, were spent in Mr. Cottle's study, under benefit of special privilege to read a variety of MS. letters of Southey, Coleridge, &c. I received but a melancholy account of this last sublime and unhappy genius, who continues the slave and victim, I now fear hopelessly, of that wretched habit which has already, in a measure, obscured and humiliated the most extraordinary faculties I have ever yet seen resident in a form of flesh and blood. His own reproaches, I understand, are more bitter than any that he can hear from a fellow-mortal; but still unavailing. Hughes tells me in mingled language of admiration and compassion, that he made, a week

or two since in Wiltshire, at a Bible Society meeting where Hughes was, a speech of profound intelligence; only, as was to be expected, too abstract for a popular occasion.

Hall was the grand attraction in Bristol. We heard him as often as six times, besides a speech he made at the public meeting respecting the National Education Society, at which Mackintosh was expected, but was unable to attend. There were fully four hours of close, dense speech-making. A great deal of good sense was uttered, and with less cajolery and impertinence than one often hears on such occasions. Hall's acute and witty speech could not, unfortunately, be heard by one half the assembly. I was sorry Mr. S. could not have been apprised of this meeting; but he lost still more in not being at Broadmead on the evening of the same day (Tuesday), where Hall made, I should think it hardly extravagant to suppose, the noblest sermon ever heard within those walls, or even within that city; the text--" Hast thou made all men in vain ?" It combined all the elements of supremacy in religious eloquence. It was explanatory, argumentative, ingenious, comprehensive, and sublime; it was emphatically solemn and applicatory to conscience, with a pathetic earnestness and emotion toward the latter end, which was almost irresistible. He was himself, in one part of the concluding division, very deeply moved; and there is something strangely striking in the unaffected and insuppressible emotion of a strong, firm, masculine, and intrepid person like him, with a temperament partaking much of that kind of hardness which does not feel slight impressions or gentle interests. We had him at Dr. C.'s one night, and a good part of next day, and I was in his company several times in Bristol. Company, however, he says, and I believe truly, he likes less and less each successive year. With very great devotion, I apprehend there is almost a habitual shade of gloom over his mind; besides, that he endures so much corporal suffering, and is certain to do so as long as he lives. ... You may not have seen his book, “Terms of Communion;" it is very able, and one should think conclusive and final; but one is not much pleased to see such a mind so long occupied on a subject giving so little scope or occasion for the exercise of his more eloquent thinking.

XCVIII. TO HIS MOTHER.

Bourton, November, 1815.

DEAR AND HONORED MOTHER,-Since I wrote last I have been almost as invariably shut up in the house as if I had been a prisoner. I have been reading, in a cursory sort of way, a variety of things, in English, Latin, and French; among other things a considerable portion of Virgil, whom I am ashamed to have never fairly read through since I was at Mr. Fawcett's school. I do not know that I should now have particu larly thought of reading him but for the accident of having obtained

possession of a particularly fine copy of him, accompanied by an ample commentary, by a most learned German, who employed a great part of twenty years of his life in illustrating this poet.

Some parts of what I have read have powerfully recalled the circumstances and feelings of a period so long since elapsed as the time of my residence at Brearley Hall. That period appears long since, even during these recollections. How striking it is to consider, that I am now materially more than twenty years nearer to an entrance into another world than then! If I had then been sure of living till now, it would have appeared a very wide space for a certainty of future life; and what great things (in a comparative sense) I should have confidently hoped to accomplish within it. But indeed, the uncertainty of that prolongation of life-the improbability of life being protracted more than four-andtwenty years beyond the moment of my bidding adieu to Brearley Hall, ought to have made me but the more earnest and diligent to turn every week and day to the best account. I have now to review that long period as irrevocably past. And I review it with great regret. I have not, I hope, altogether lived in vain; but my attainments for myself, my usefulness to others, my service to God, have been miserably small, in comparison of what they might, with such means, and in such a space, have been. I have many gloomy musings on the subject, in which I can easily represent to myself this and the other good thing which has been possible, but has not been accomplished, during that long space of health and privileges-the best part of life, beyond comparison. It has been a space of time, in all probability, worth much more in point of capability than all the rest of my life; that is, all that preceded the time I left Brearley, taken together with all that may yet remain, even should I live to attain your present age, which is altogether unlikely.

Nevertheless, so perverse and stupid is this human nature, that even these melancholy reflections, combined with all the solemnity of my anticipations, do not always suffice to rouse me to that earnestness and practical exertion which I feel to be, if possible, still more urgently my duty every day that now comes to me; every day which is lessening the perhaps brief remainder. Upon the whole, however, I hope I do feel an increasing force of conscience and religion, and therefore an increasing solicitude, that whatever remains of my time on earth may be so employed and improved, that I may not, at the end, have the same feelings concerning it, that I now have concerning the last twenty-five years.

It is one important advantage gained by the past time to be most powerfully and habitually convinced that divine aid is indispensable, in a very large measure, to our making the best and noblest improvement of life. That aid I shall supplicate every day that I have to spend on earth.

My business is clearly before me; what I have to do is to preach and write; which I must endeavor to do more and better than hitherto ; especially more in a religious spirit, with a more direct reference and desire to please God.

XCIX. TO HIS MOTHER.

Bourton, December, 1815

HONORED MOTHER,-In this remote corner everything almost seems to remain as when I wrote last. Thus it is from month to month. One is often struck with the thought, how little one has a perception of, amidst the infinity of things that are acting and changing, at every moment, in this vast creation. But indeed, within a comparatively small space around one, millions of acts and incidents are occurring, of which one is perfectly insensible. What processes of nature, what movements of human minds, what agency of invisible intelligences! What a spirit would that be that should have a perfect perception, comprehending the whole and every part, of what takes place within a very small portion of even one country on the globe! What a stupendous intelligence, that should be able, in this manner, to inspect the whole earth, with all its beings and elements! But, then, how overwhelming is the idea of that one Mind, whose perception extends to everything, great and little, inanimate, living, and intellectual, in the WHOLE UNIVERSE, comprehending, perhaps, such a number of worlds as it would require an angel's faculties but to count! How utterly and instantly the power of thought is confounded and lost in any attempt at forming the idea of such a Being! It is useful, nevertheless, to exercise the mind sometimes in this manner. It tends to produce humiliation and self-abasement, and to inspire a holy awe. But, also, it tends to inspire joy, and gratitude, and triumph, when we consider that this Being condescends to be the friend of humble, and contrite, and devout men; that he has revealed himself as a pardoning and gracious God, through the mediation of Christ; that through this "new and living way" his throne may be approached with hope and confidence. And then there is the sublime idea of his taking the souls of his servants, at death, to contemplate him in a more intimate manner, to be expanded to an angelic and for ever enlarging capacity in that blissful contemplation and communion, and to receive to all eternity perpetually augmenting manifestations of his love. In such a view, with what emotions may you look forward to the termination of your mortal pilgrimage! and with what grateful joy look back on that influence of divine grace, which early in life persuasively compelled you into his service, and has preserved you constant in it ever since! .

I still preach, one where or other, every Sunday; and there would be work enough of this kind within a small circuit hereabouts, for an additional supernumerary. I wish exceedingly that there were in our societies a much greater number of such sensible and educated men as might be serviceably employed in frequent preaching, without being of what is called the regular class of preachers. .

I

My wish for this John would be, that he might become one day a zealous and effectual proclaimer of divine truth; just such a one as have before mentioned to you in the instance of a highly-cultivated

young man, . . . . who is lately returned from an excursion for improvement through France and to Geneva.

C. TO HIS MOTHER.

Bourton, March, 1816. HONORED MOTHER,— Worcester is only a six or seven hours' journey from this village. The surrounding country is, in spring and summer, very beautiful. In the road, between Worcester and this place, is that town of Pershore, where I spent a number of weeks so long since, previously to going to Ireland. Some interesting reflections were suggested to me in passing through it, and glancing over the course of the river Avon, on the banks of which I had so often walked in solitary musings, wondering what might be the appointed course of my future life in this world, and forming plans and resolutions. How little of these plans and resolutions has been accomplished! those, I mean, which ought to have been accomplished; those which were of a nature independent of the places in which I might be cast ;-those which related to the efforts, the improvements, the attainments, which were my absolute duty, wherever I might afterwards dwell or wander. How impossible it would have then been, when I traversed those meadows, by that stream; -how impossible to believe it, if any one could have predicted to me that, passing by the place twenty-three years afterwards, I should have the mournful consciousness of having accomplished so little of all I then was so sanguine in anticipating :-if my life and health should be so long protracted by an indulgent Providence! No, I could not have be lieved it. I did not then know so much of the depravity, the treachery, of the heart of man.

Another thing I could hardly have believed, could it have been then predicted,—namely, that my life, if it should prove, for twenty years, so unprofitable, would be attended all the while, nevertheless, by so many favors of the divine Providence, so constant a train of things at once indulgent and admonitory.

And still another thing,-it would have been at that time impossible for me to believe, if it could have been declared to me, that when I should have spent twenty years so favored and yet so unprofitable a servant, I should not feel on the review, at the beginning of the year 1816, a much severer grief, a much intenser self-indignation, than at this hour I actually do feel. How strangely one grows accustomed to one's own faults, and perversities, and sins, so as to have a criminal patience with them. Yet though I feel far too little on such a review, I do nevertheless feel greatly indignant at this ingratitude, this indolence, this want of zeal, this wretched deficiency of every grace and virtue of Christianity. I do in some measure, and I hope an increasing measure, hate this indwelling sin, this cold indifference, this procrastination, this dread