cation of persons for my assistance, whom I cannot assist, and who look miserably when I tell them so, with many other appendages, too tedious to mention-I say, when all these present themselves, though I have strong desires, and still stronger motives, I revolt, I turn away my eye from the alarming prospect, and I am ready to say, It is impossible. Still, however, I do not so decidedly yield to these thoughts as to resolve on shaping my conduct by them. I cannot avoid going if I am able; but, I tell you honestly, I doubt if I shall stay long. There are people in Dublin whom, I may say, I prize above all mankind; a few excepted. But, still this country has attractions peculiar to itself; and the friends I meet with here, are, I assure you, of no common kind. And yet, should it please God to give me health and spirits, I never should live wholly here. Once a year, at least, I should visit my friends in Ireland; and stay a longer or a shorter time, as I should find it suitable. This is something of my prospect for the future; and it simply amounts to this-that I should, with very laudable selfishness, wish to skim the cream of both countries. Yours most truly, ALEXANDER KNOX. DIARY CONTINUED. (From page 61.) January 16. I HAD a general hope that all would be well. I hoped, and believed, that God had afflicted me to save my soul; and I felt that I desired nothing more. I, on this account, loved my affliction. The feelings of weakness, which seemed to nourish humility and estrangedness from the world, were dear to me; and any thing like a feeling of health was alarming, for fear it should lead me again to seek happiness in the world. At these times I felt a sweet softness of spirit, which made me both serious and cheerful, and disposed me to be humble and gentle to all men ; but these frames were never of long continuance. I used to pray earnestly to God not to take off the rod until it had done its work; and a power of mind to ask this in sincerity was delightful to me. Such was occasionally my state, until about eight weeks ago, since which time I have experienced a sad and growing decline. I began insensibly to feel worldly tempers making their appearance, and had too much reason to apprehend a decrease in my religious fervency. I did not, indeed, give way to sin. I cautiously took a part in common conversation. But still I saw too much worldly comfort about me, for my unfortunately versatile and inflammable imagination, not to be influenced by it. This is, in fact, my great unhappiness. I do not mean that it has betrayed me into actual sin, inward or outward. This I think it has not yet done. But, at times, I could not keep my mind pure when worldly thoughts arose. I felt too much complacency,-more, I am sure, than was consistent with a regenerate state (though here, perhaps, I judge too hardly of myself)—in thinking of my character and estimation in the world, my connexion with great men, &c.; but I certainly did not yield to these. I blamed myself; and, by reflections on the value of religion, and the nothingness of every thing earthly, endeavoured (and, in those times, without much trouble) to bring back my mind. But the thoughts I could least repel, and which, I think, have done me infinite mischief, were apprehensions of future danger. While I was very unwell, my sense of weakness kept off even the idea of worldly temptation. It seemed as if God had placed a providential hedge about me. And this (for which I think I felt sincere thankfulness) strengthened my hope of persevering to the end. Many and many a time have I, in the fulness of my heart, cried out repeatedly, O God! I thank thee, with all my soul I thank thee, for my afflictions. But, unfortunately for me, something like feelings of comparative health grew in me. My sensible weakness was less; my capacity of enjoying the world seemed to be more than I had reckoned on. And, with these altered sensations, I was alarmed to perceive an apparent diminution of humility, and, at least, of the relish for devotion. If I know my own heart, nothing could have happened to me so truly afflicting. My understanding and my will had seemed fairly turned from the world. I hoped that God himself was working out my salvation; and to feel myself thus, on the edge of a precipice, excited a degree of terror not easy to be expressed. The thought of religion declining in my soul, and the apprehension that my heart was still as fit as ever to betray me, made me so despondent as almost to ensure the very evils which I dreaded. FRAGMENT OF A LETTER TO THE Hotwells, July 15th, 1800. To describe to you my present melancholy situation, would answer no end but to afflict you. Besides, I see it in a light myself which nobody would believe. Religion, my dear Mr. Bourne, is another kind of thing from what the world imagine. I wished to be religious. In this, I was no hypocrite in the gross sense. But there is a refined kind of hypocrisy, by which we too often impose upon ourselves, and persuade ourselves that our heart is clean, when, in fact, it is all pollution. My case (for I feel I must say something of it) has been this. From early years I had a strong sense of religious truth, which I never uniformly yielded to. Whenever affliction came upon me, I was glad to have recourse to it; but, when health and ease returned, my shortlived devotion went out, like a lamp for want of oil. This doubleness of mind actually laid the foundation of my bad health. The often-repeated conflict affected the tone of my mind; and what would have been piety in a decided resolute Christian, became, in my versatile and unfixable mind, a kind of mental disease. In fact, I could not be easy without religious movements in my affections; and I had not determination of mind to lay a steady foundation for such affections, in the principles of my heart and the tenour of my conduct. I wished, in a real sense, to serve God and Mammon; I wished to enjoy devotion in the closet, and yet participate in certain enjoyments of the world. Stronger minds, who have been faithful to God's early calls, or to his first striking calls, whether in youth or later in life, are generally able to accomplish this. God enables them, because they use the world in subordination to duty. I never could reach this subordination; and, therefore, every mixture with the world, however innocent in itself, became, in me, a source of conflict, and, too generally, of contamination. This I really attribute to my want of an internal cordial principle of religion in my heart. Had I had this, I should have found, like other professors of religion, that "to the pure, all things" (that is, all things inno-cent) "are pure." Alas! I found the reverse. The world has been to me what the candle is to the moth. I went not into quiet retirement, to |