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it will do no harm, if it does no good. I think the question of very considerable importance, and the abettors of free communion have been too languid in their exertions. I intend, my dear Sir, no personal reflection; but mention it as a general remark.

LI.

TO DR. RYLAND.

Leicester, May 27, 1816.

I read the letters of Mr. Fuller, on Robinsonianism, with much delight and approbation on the whole; but I think he has, as he was rather prone, carried the matter too far. For my part, I am far from believing the innocence of mental error on the one hand, or the sinfulness of every particular error on the other. I suspect that there are religious mistakes, which result from the circumstances and the imperfections of the present state, for which many good [men] will never be called to account; though I am far from supposing this extends to a denial of the great distinguishing principles of the gospel. On this occasion, I am disposed to adopt the old adage, In medio tutissimus ibis. The letters are admirable for their piety, and their masculine vein of reasoning.

With respect to Scotland, I must absolutely decline it. I have been already five weeks absent from my pulpit, on account of illness; and it would be extremely injurious to my congregation,

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to incur so long an additional absence. In truth, I am little fitted for distant excursions, on account of my liability to be attacked with such violent pain, which renders me a burden to myself and to all about me.

LII.

TO DR. RYLAND. (EXTRACT.)

I sympathize, most sincerely, in the joy you must feel, as a parent, from the baptism of your daughter. I hope and pray you will ultimately have the pleasure of seeing all your children walking in the truth. I already begin to feel the spiritual interests of my dear children a frequent source of painful solicitude. Let me beg an interest in your prayers, for their conversion.

LIII.

TO THE REV. JAMES PHILLIPS.

My dear Friend Phillips,

Leicester, May 12, 1816.

It is long, very long, since I had the pleasure of seeing or hearing from you. For the latter I can account, in some measure, from the displeasure you conceived at my treatment of your servant, who, at your request, called upon me in the way to Harborough. I do freely confess myself

to have been much to blame in that particular. My conduct was not such as ought to have been shewn to any one; much less to a domestic of yours, who called, at your request, to make friendly inquiries respecting my welfare. I sincerely beg your pardon, and also the pardon of the young woman, for that impropriety. In justice to myself, I must tell you how I was situated. When your servant called, I was engaged in secret prayer; the door made fast. My servant-girl made a violent clamour at the door: I kept silence, intending her to understand that it was my wish not to be interrupted at that time. She continued, however, to knock at the door, as though she was determined to break it down. At length, I was under the necessity, fearing some accident, to open it; and being much irritated at the unwelcome interruption, and at the rude carriage of my servant, when I came to understand the errand on which the young woman came, I could not surmount my agitation sufficiently to give her the reception I ought. I was visibly pettish and chagrined. Such is the true state of the case; and I may observe, as some apology for me, that sometimes the incessant interruptions I meet with, by people calling from a distance, is such, especially in summer, as to leave no time at all, sometimes not half an hour a day, that I can call my own. This operating upon a mind fond of retirement to an excess, sometimes almost drives me to distraction. The irritation and agitation it

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sometimes produces is inconceivable. I do most devoutly wish my friends would never give any commission to strangers to call upon me. The sight of strangers, especially when I cannot leave them when I please, is frequently distressing to me in a very [high] degree. But, though I mention these circumstances as an apology, I am far from meaning to justify myself. I am aware of the extreme impropriety of indulging that irritability of temper, and am truly concerned at the instance of it to which I have adverted. Let me indulge the hope, my dear friend, that this disagreeable circumstance will not put a period to that friendship which I have always so highly esteemed, and which has formed no inconsiderable part of the solace of my life. I have loved you ever since I knew you; and my attachment has increased exactly in proportion to my opportunities of acquainting myself with your character. I hope you will forget and overlook this unpleasant business, and permit me again to class you amongst my dearest friends.

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ON THE DEATH OF MR. BOSWELL BRANDON BEDDOME.

My very dear Friend,

Leicester, Nov. 2, 1816.

I have just received your letter, and cannot lose a moment in expressing the deep sympathy

I take in the affliction arising from the melancholy tidings it announces. Alas! my dear friend Boswell Beddome! My eyes will see thee no more! The place which once knew thee shall know thee no more! How many delightful hours have I spent in thy society-hours never more to return! That countenance, beaming with benevolence and friendship, will be beheld no more until the resurrection morn, when it will rise to shine radiant with immortal brightness and beauty. How thick and solemn the vicissitudes of death and calamity in that amiable and respectable family, the Beddomes! What awful reverses and catastrophes ! Surely their heavenly Father must have destined them to some distinguished station in the eternal edifice, with whom he has taken such pains in hewing, cutting, and polishing. The dealings of God towards our dear Boswell have been at once severe and tender; and never, perhaps, were the preparations of mercy to be traced more distinctly, than in the events which have recently befallen him the faculties extinguished for a while, to be restored; an antedated resurrection; as though God had determined to recast his whole nature into a crucible, previous to its being poured into the mould of eternity. I have been delighted to hear, from various quarters, and particularly from Mr. Alexander, of the sweet, tranquil, and devotional state of his mind, subsequent to his first attack; and had flattered myself with the hope of life being protracted to a distant period. But

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