“There is great reason for congratulation, on account of your being so choice a favourite of heaven, as your frequent sicknesses, and often infirmities speak you to be. How does the goodness of our gracious Father endeavour, by the repeated, though lightest, strokes of His rod, to cure whatever is disordered, to rectify whatever is amiss in you! Do not then hold out against these kind calls to repentance; but suffer yourself, by this loving correction, to be made great;—great in humility, holiness, and happiness. Humble yourself under the mighty hand of God; and, by a hearty sorrow for your past faults, and a firm resolution of obedience for the future, let this fatherly chastisement bring forth in you the peaceable fruits of righteousness.” All good, so far as it goes, especially from a youth of twenty; but not a word of Christ, or of being saved by His mediatorial merits, and by the exercise of faith in Him. His sister wished him to turn poet; but, instead of writing poetry himself, he sent her “The Last Day,” by Dr. Young; and wrote as follows:— “LINCOLN COLLEGE, OXON, _May 2, 1734_. “DEAR SISTER,—I scarcely know any human composition more likely to improve and edify, at the same time that it diverts and delights, than this poem of “The Last Day.” If you would please yourself, refine your taste, or have the practice of religion pleasing, instead of plays, ballads, and other corrupt writings, read this almost Divine piece of poetry;—read it (as I have done), over and over; think upon it; endeavour to digest it thoroughly; and even to get by heart the most moving passages: and then, I trust, you will find it answer the ends I purpose in sending it. “You will excuse me from exercising my poetical talent; because, I perceive, such an attempt will be either very absurd, or very dangerous. For, should I tack together a few doggerel rhymes, this would be an affront to you; whereas, should I succeed so well as to gain the applause of my reader, this, I am sure, would portend very great harm, if not to you, yet, most certainly, to me. For what can portend greater harm than the words of praise, which, though smoother than oil, yet, are very swords? What can be more destructive of that humble mind which was in Christ Jesus,—that meek and lowly spirit which is in the sight of God of great price? I am so far from carrying on my versifying designs, that, I heartily wish I had never conceived any; and that those lines I sent to my cousin had either never been made, or that I had never heard them commended. Pride and vanity are foolish and unreasonable in dust and ashes; and, which is worse, odious and detestable before infinite perfection and infinite power.”