YOUR very kind letter has pained me extremely, but I hope it has been made a means of humbling my soul before God. How little do I deserve that you should write to me in this manner? Alas you do not know me; I am less than the least of all the mercies of God; do not, I beseech you, think so highly of me; it really makes me ashamed of myself. Oh that I could be lower than the dust! Oh that I could shrink into nothing at the presence of my God! The way too in which you speak of yourself, puts me in a strange dilemma, I dare not pay religious compliments, and yet how shall I write to you, as if I believed you? How much greater has your cross of sickness been than mine? So long, so lingering, such inconveniences as it lays you under. But yet this is certainly _no_ excuse for a soul, _taught_ of _God_, as _your’s is_, to wish its removal. *Did you _indeed wish_ for any thing but sanctification? Surely, my dear friend, you wrong yourself; it cannot be. Oh remember the glorious path you have often pointed out to me, of perfect resignation! I have considered you as a pattern to me, _particularly_ in _this_. I must not think that _you_ have any “reluctance to bear the cross;” it would wound my heart too much. Do I not know, that you love God above all things? Do not I know the sincere desires of your soul after holiness? And is there any way in the spiritual life, which so immediately leads to holiness, as _willing suffering_? Happy are those to whom God gives the grace of _doing_ much for him, for his cause, for his people; but _ten times_ more blessed are they who _suffer_ with Christ. Is there a joy absolutely pure? It is that of suffering. Oh did we but know the health, the peace, the life that is at the bottom of every bitter cup; with what alacrity should we drink it? With what thankfulness, nay, with tears of joy, should we cry, Lord, what unbounded mercy, what astonishing grace is this, to a worm like me; that I should be led in this _most excellent_ way; that I should be made to tread in those footsteps which are _most eminently_ thine? Dearest Saviour, sweet is thy cross, sweet is thy thorny crown; thy stripes, thy wounds, thy pain, _more_ delightful than beds of roses. Let other souls glory in mount _Tabor_; _my_ joy shall be to stay with _thee_ on mount _Calvary_, that I may be made conformable to thy death. Such would be the language of a soul truly sensible of the great benefit of suffering, and embracing, with sweet complacency, the cross, which thus united it with its Redeemer. May this be the language of your soul and mine; then shall we be found unshaken in the fiery trial, and come out as gold purified seven times. But after all, what suffering have I had in this illness? It can scarce be called suffering, when God sensibly supports. The suffering is when _he_ leaves the soul (as it were alone) in pain or in affliction, to struggle with the powers of darkness, which at such a time eagerly beset it. _This