assured of your love, and love will necessarily lead you to a throne of grace on our behalf. About a fortnight ago my dear Mary was confined, and safely delivered of a little girl, whom we purpose naming Phœbe, and may God grant she may prove a servant of the church, as that honoured individual whose name stands prominently distinguished in the Word of God—not, indeed, by becoming a lady preacher, as you designated Mrs. F—, in one of your letters, but in such a way as is becoming her sex; and in how many blessed ways this is possible we shall neither of us be at a loss to determine. We purpose availing ourselves of your kind permission to employ you as one of the sponsors, and we feel ourselves much, very much obliged by your compliance with our wishes. Indeed, everything which seems like bringing us nearer together affords us a degree of pleasure we cannot easily express. * * * * * The humility of my beloved friend was not only deep but uniform, and it was also most unfeigned. I believe no sentiments conveyed in his letters with regard to himself were more sincerely the utterance of his heart, than such as appear in the two following extracts; and a savour of which, indeed, runs more or less, through all his correspondence. TO THE REV. JOHN ARMSTRONG. Madeley, Oct. 5, 1818. My dear Armstrong, YOURS of the 8th of August reached me yesterday evening, and afforded me much refreshment of spirit after the labours of the day, as your kind and interesting communications almost invariably do; but if they sometimes may fail in imparting refreshment, they are never wanting in interest and in solid instruction. The only effect sometimes produced, is in deeply humbling me, in abasing me before my friends, and in the presence of my God. I feel myself so wretched a sinner, and so completely unworthy of your least notice. Indeed, I sometimes think that if you could but see me instead of hearing from me—could we but renew our personal acquaintance—you would detect in me such evils as would almost make you ashamed of acknowledging me. In my letters, hurried as they generally are, you see me under assumed appearances. I step a little out of myself, sentiments are expressed, prayers and wishes are breathed forth, and statements likewise made, which are so very very far from being habitual, that you can know but little of me in this way. Were you actually to know me, even all the joy of meeting an old friend would soon give way to some such exclamation as that uttered by Æneas at the sight of Hector, “Oh quantum mutatus ab illo.” I thus write in consequence of the first paragraph in your letter, in which you speak of having looked over some old letters of mine. The reflections in which this re-perusal made you indulge quite startled me as I read them, and I cannot but still think that no small measure of hypocrisy must attach to my character, if