« AnteriorContinuar »
those consequences, which, as Ministers of Christ, we are forewarned by him to expect. ;
As one, however, that watches for your souls, and must give an account of his Ministry, I ear. nestly intreat you to consider what an awful thing it is to walk in the counsel of the ungodly, to stand in the way of sinners, and to sit in the seat of the. scornful. But if, whilst the whole counsel of God is declared, you should be found so lost both to your duty and your interest, as to continue to reject or neglect it, this, by God's help, shall not prevent my continuing to seek your good, in the use of the only means that can promote it. It shall not provoke me to return evil for evil, and railing for railing, but contrarywise blessing : 1 Pet. iii. 9. It shall not prevent my hoping for the recovery of a bitter opposer; having formerly been myself more bitter than he. It shall not prevent my endeavouring to affect him by invitations and persuasives. I will call upon my heart to wait, and hope, and pray, for his return to God. I will watch for the first appearances of it. I will omit no means to cherish it when it appears : nor dare I omit, if such a one still persists in his opposition, to declare to him fully and plainly the dreadful and inevitable consequences thereof.
Men and brethren, think seriously on these things—things that belong to your peace-and THAT before they are hidden from your eyes. I
shall soon cease to speak to you of them, and you to hear; but both of us assuredly must give an account of them to God. That we may be so prepared to meet Him, that he that soweth and they that reap may then rejoice together, is the sincere and fervent prayer of Your affectionate Minister,
RECEIVED your letter, desiring a few thoughts on the Peace, which you wish to disperse in your populous neighbourhood. Though I can say nothing as a politician, yet, rather than disoblige you by saying nothing at all, I will tell you what occurred on my first receiving the welcome news.
You know I am an invalid, and growing into years; and, as age and sickness naturally seek quiet, I retire during the summer months to a small village in Surrey, which lies some miles from the high road. Here, indeed, I obtain a relief which the town does not afford: but one inconvenience attends our situation—we have no means of knowing what is going on in the busy world, except the tidings which a gentleman from the city brings, who visits his family here once a week; and also what we learn from our weekly paper.
Now, our Friend, whose return on the Saturday