“I have preached and administered the sacrament at West Street sometimes in the holidays. May God water the poor seed I have sown, and give it fruitfulness, though it be only in one soul! But I have seen so much weakness in my heart, both as a minister and a Christian, that I know not which is most to be pitied—the man, the believer, or the preacher. Could I at last be _truly_ humbled, and _continue so always_, I should esteem myself happy in making this discovery. I preach _merely_ to keep the chapel open until God shall send a workman _after His own heart_. ‘_Nos numeri sumus_,’—this is almost all I can say of myself. If I did not know myself a little better than I did formerly, I should tell you that I had ceased altogether from placing any confidence in my repentances; but I see my heart is so full of deceit that I cannot depend on my knowledge of myself. “You are not well! Are you, then, going to leave us, like poor Walsh? Ah! stay, and permit me to go first; that, when my soul leaves the body, you may commend it to the mercy of my Saviour. The day Mr. Walsh died, the Lord gave our brethren the spirit of supplication; and many unutterable groans were offered up for him at Spitalfields, where I was. Who shall render us the same kind offices? Is not our hour near? O, my God, when Thou comest, prepare us, and we shall be ready! You owe your children an elegy on Mr. Walsh’s death, and you cannot employ your poetic talents on a better subject.”[41] Footnote 40: Morgan’s “Life of Walsh.” Footnote 41: Letters, 1791, p. 85.