_To the Same._
_Bristol, Sept. 5, 1735._ _Dear Sir_,
HOW welcome is a line from a faithful friend? even as welcome as a shower of rain in a droughty season. But here’s the misfortune, the very kindnesses of friends may be cruelty: Commendations, or even the hinting at them, are poison to a mind addicted to pride. A nail never sinks deeper than when dipt in oil. A friend’s words may be softer than butter, and notwithstanding, be very swords. Pray for me, dear Sir, and heal the wound you have made. To GOD alone give glory. To sinners nothing belongs, but shame and confusion. So much in answer to one part of your too kind letter. _Mrs. Powell_ you say continues very ill. No wonder, Sir; desperate diseases must have desperate remedies. Satan has desired to sift her as wheat; but CHRIST will pray for her, I trust, and then her faith will not fail. Oxford friends have not been wanting in letters, and I find I must not stay much longer here. For some are going to travel, some are dead, and one is married, so that we must join and warm one another, as well as we can in their absence. I hope to feast with you at _Crypt_ next Sunday. Amazing, that ever sinners should sit with their Saviour! To what dignity has CHRIST exalted human nature. And how did he do it? Why, by humbling himself. Let us go and do likewise. Give me leave, with due respects to all friends, to subscribe myself,
Your and spouses very humble servant and sincere friend,