Chapter I: WAS in hopes, my dear, that I had cause to think you had gained

ground; but if I was mistaken, am very sorry. God forbid however that you should have gone back: I must not for my own ease believe that. *The reason for your not finding so much comfort as usual flowing from the cross, is because you lay yourself too much out upon _outward_ things. I doubt not but your own will is indeed very powerful, and it will ever be so, while you indulge yourself in castle-building. Let your schemes be ever so good, they are (unless God had given you the means and power to perform them) merely the creatures of your own will; and I don’t know any thing that self-will more delights in, than in these imaginary good projects. Believe me, my dear soul, I speak from experience. There is nothing more encourages self-will, pride, and every temper we ought to subdue, than these schemes. For God’s sake strive to get the better of this folly. I know your temper is naturally inclined to it, and therefore you ought to be more particularly watchful. Cannot you, my love, keep your thoughts fixed on the present moment, in a constant dependance on the leadings of the Spirit of God, and only wishing that every succeeding moment may bring a new accession of grace to your soul, without fixing on the particular means, by which you would have it come? When the will is in this total resignation to God, it brings a peace to the soul, which cannot be described.

I don’t like your going to _Vauxhall_, I think you ought to try every possible means, to get off. Suppose you were to be sincere, and own it was against your conscience. Pray God direct you what to do. If you are really _forced_ to go, God will preserve your heart from the pollutions of the place. If this is the case, I think you will be in less danger of being hurt there, than in your visit to Mrs. ****: for in this visit you will lie exposed to the worst enemy you have, that is, _yourself_. With those good people, whom you love and admire, and who love and admire you, you will without the most constant watchfulness, be continually falling into self-seeking and self-applause.

I fear, my love, you will soon think me too plain in my speaking; but I cannot answer it to my conscience, since what has past between us, not to warn you of every thing which seems to me to prevent your progress in grace. Don’t imagine though, that I wish you would not make this visit to Mrs. ****; quite the contrary; but I wish you to keep the most constant guard upon your own heart, that what should be for your health, be not unto you an occasion of falling.

_I am your ever sincere and affectionate_, &c.

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*I THANK God, that you now see the danger of wandring imaginations in a clearer light; but I cannot guess what schemes a heart like yours (which I should hope was desirous of nothing but what immediately tended to increase in it the love ♦of God) can pursue, which are not for what we call doing good. Depend upon it, my dear, if you can by an act of your will waste a thought on any future view of happiness, that regards only your situation in this world, you are yet far from the kingdom of God. To a soul, that has but the _lowest_ sense of the pardoning love of God, every thing that does not lead to a greater sense of this love is insipid. Outward things, according to the present circumstances we are in, ought to be attended to with prudence, though not with anxiousness; but that soul which runs out after them in _future_, ought to _tremble_. My dear creature, are we not every moment on the brink of eternity, and may plunge in the next, for ought we know? What then have we to do, but every moment to grasp after new degrees of grace, new power over sin, a still higher sense of the love of God shed abroad in our hearts? “Without holiness no man shall see the Lord”――Alas! what is a life of sixty or seventy years (supposing we could be certain of so many) to attain universal holiness? And shall we lose a moment? Outwardly we must a great many: but still our hearts may be gaining ground in the steady pursuit of that end, for which we were created, and to which we have such glorious encouragements. What! shall Christ cry out to us in vain, “Give me thy heart?” Or shall we dare to divide that heart, which cost him so dear? O my friend, be jealous for your redeeming God. Suffer not that soul, for which he shed his precious blood, to stray one moment from him.

♦ missing word “of” inserted

I am sorry you found pleasure at _Vauxhall_. I could not have believed it, had you not told me so yourself. I see, my love, I have thought far too highly of you. What a frightful distance is there still between you, and a Christian! Could any one who had the mind which was in Christ have felt pleasure, where they saw God dishonoured, and their fellow-creatures running headlong to destruction? You had reason indeed to be ashamed, and thank God that you was so. The curiosity in regard to the astronomical instruments might distract your mind for a longer time, but your taking delight in these did not shew such an excessive depravity of heart, as the other: for astronomy is only _accidentally_ made a means of dishonouring God, and hurting the souls of men; but _Vauxhall_ is _necessarily_ so.

_I am your ever affectionate_, &c.

* * * * *

*I WRITE, my love, to you to thank you for the pleasure you gave me last Thursday, and still to urge you more and more continually to press forwards. Young as you are, you may perhaps be very near the end of your course, and the time given you to work in _may_, for ought you know, be very nearly elapsed. That form of yours, which now delights the eyes of your friend, and seems to promise a long continuance of health and vigour, may soon perhaps become defaced and loathsome meat for crawlings worms, and that soul, that precious and immortal soul of yours, which is now far from loving its Creator as it ought to do, may soon stand naked in the sight of that God, to whom it has been ungrateful――its day of probation past――and its lot cast for a whole eternity. Oh my friend, my dearest companion in my pilgrimage, I conjure you by all your heart holds dear, that you lose not a moment! Oh may that God, who is love itself, so inflame your soul with a sense of his love, as may consume all its dross, and make it through Christ an acceptable sacrifice to himself! I think the last time I saw you I had the satisfaction of observing less of _self-seeking_ in you, than I ever did before. Sure God will give me greatly to rejoice in you. Farewel. Whenever, my love, I think too well of you, fail not to tell me, and take shame to yourself for deceiving me.

_I am your’s_, &c.

* * * * *

_My dear Friend_,