TO MR. R. W. ALMOND.

DEAR ROBERT,

Nottingham, 22d November, 1803.

I was happy enough to be introduced to Mr. Robinson * a few days ago; I passed half an hour with him alone, by his desire, and afterwards took tea and supper with him, his wife and daughter, at Mrs. M** 's. I cannot describe to you, in adequate terms, the domestic character of this venerable man. He is all cheerfulness and complacency, good-humoured, and sometimes even jocose; his conversation at the same time instructive, and, in no common degree, entertaining. He is full of anecdotes of eminent pious characters of the last century, as well as of this. He knew Mr. Venn very well, and he is intimate with O *** he gave us a most affecting representation of his last interview with the former, just before his death. He depicted the resigned and placid countenance of the aged and dying Christian, so admirably in his features, and suited his voice so exactly to the affecting state of a very old man, sinking under

* The late Rev. Mr. Robinson, Vicar of St. Mary's, Leicester; the author of "Scripture Characters," &c. &c.

the weight of years, that he actually drew tears into my eyes. During the whole evening, I was pleased to observe he directed his whole conversation to me, and, as he had before slightly examined me, it gave me the assurance that he was satisfied with me. He promised me every assistance that he could command, and when we shook hands at parting, he said, "Mr. White, I wish you may live to become an ornament to the Ministry; I trust you will have assistance. Fear not, go on, and the Lord prosper you." He recommended me to labour at the Greek very diligently, and thought I had delayed it too long.

concern.

My dear friend, I cannot adequately express what 1 owe to you on the score of religion. I told Mr. Robinson you were the first instrument of my being brought to think deeply on religious subjects; and I feel more and more every day, that if it had not been for you, I might, most probably, have been now buried in apathy and unThough I am in a great measure blessed, . I mean blessed with faith, now pretty stedfast, and heavy convictions, I am far from being happy. My sins have been of a dark hue, and manifold: I have made Fame my God, and Ambition my shrine. I have placed all my hopes on the things of this world. I have knelt to Dagon; I have worshipped the evil creations of my own proud heart, and God had well nigh turned his countenance from me in wrath; perhaps one step further, and he might have shut me for ever from his rest. I now turn my eyes to Jesus, my saviour, my atonement, with

hope and confidence: he will not repulse the imploring penitent; his arms are open to all, they are open even to me; and in return for such a mercy, what can I do less than dedicate my whole life to his service? My thoughts would fain recur at intervals to my former delights, but I am now on my guard to restrain and keep them in. I know now where they ought to concenter, and with the blessing of God, they shall there all tend.

My next publication of poems will be solely religious. I shall not destroy those of a different nature, which now lie before me; but they will, most probably, sleep in my desk, until, in the good time of my great Lord and Master, I shall receive my passport from this world of vanity. I am now bent on a higher errand than that of the attainment of poetical fame; poetry, in future, will be my relaxation, not my employment.- Adieu to literary ambition! "You do not aspire to be prime minister," said Mr. Robinson, "you covet a far higher character; to be the humblest among those who minister to their Maker."

AND now, my dear Ben, I must confess your letter gave me much pain; there is a tone of despondence in

it which I must condemn, inasmuch as it is occasioned by circumstances which do not involve your own exertions, but which are utterly independent of yourself: if you do your duty, why lament that it is not productive? In whatever situation we may be placed, there is a duty we owe to God and religion: it is resignation; nay, I may say, contentment. All things are in the hands of God; and shall we mortals (if we do not absolutely repine at his dispensations) be fretful under them? I do beseech you, my dear Ben, summon up the Christian within you, and, steeled with holy fortitude, go on your way rejoicing! There is a species of morbid sensibility to which I myself have often been a victim, which preys upon my heart, and, without giving birth to one actively useful or benevolent feeling, does but brood on selfish sorrows, and magnify its own misfortunes. The evils of such a sensibility, I pray to God you may never feel; but I would have you beware, for it grows on persons of a certain disposition before they are aware of it.

I am sorry my letter gave you pain, and I trust my suspicions were without foundation. Time, my dear Ben, is the discoverer of hearts, and I feel a sweet confidence that he will knit ours yet more closely together.

I believe my lot in life is nearly fixed; a month will tell me whether I am to be a minister of Christ, in the established church, or out. One of the two, I am now finally resolved, if it please God, to be.

I know my

own unworthiness: I feel deeply that I am far from

being that pure and undefiled temple of the Holy Ghost that a minister of the word of life ought to be; yet still I have an unaccountable hope that the Lord will sanctify my efforts, that he will purify me, and that I shall become his devoted servant.

I am at present under afflictions and contentions of spirit, heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I think, at times, I am mad, and destitute of religion. My pride is not yet subdued: the unfavourable review (in the Monthly") of my unhappy work, has cut deeper than you could have thought; not in a literary point of view, but as it affects my respectability. It represents me actually as a beggar, going about gathering money to put myself at college, when my book is worthless; and this with every appearance of candour. They have been sadly misinformed respecting me: this Review goes before me wherever I turn my steps; it haunts me incessantly, and I am persuaded it is an instrument in the hand of Satan to drive me to distraction. I must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the Elland Society be unfavourable, I purpose writing to the Marquis of Wellesley, to offer myself as a student at the academy he has instituted t Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take orders there. The missionaries at that place have done wonders already, and I should, I hope, be a valuable labourer in the vineyard. If the Marquis take no notice of my application, or do not accede to my proposal, I shall place myself in some other way of making a meet preparation for the holy office, either in the