greater part of them I shall enrich these pages. following is, I believe, the first in the series :

No 15.

TO MR. JOHN HADDON.

MY WORTHY FRIEND,

The

Dorking, July 25th, 1809.

"I know no other way of expressing the pleasure your letters and your society have afforded me, than by endeavouring to repay your kindness, or at least by shewing you that I am sensible of the obligations under which I am laid by you. The pleasant interviews, the truly social walks, and the various other enjoyments which we experienced together, have left an impression of attachment to yourself on my mind, which I am persuaded will not be easily obliterated. The country is indeed as pleasant in itself now, as it was the week before last; yet, believe me, it is not half so much enjoyed by me as it was then. The same streams indeed glide pleasantly along the same bills majestically rise—the same enlivening prospects strike the eye, and pervade the soul, with admiration-and every thing around me seems to say, 'Tis Surrey still;' but there is a sad deficiency in all my perambulations-it is, that I am all alone."*-Yesterday I went to Brockham;

*This is a quotation from a beautiful poem of Henry Kirke White's, to whose charming productions Spencer was most ardently attached. The poem itself so accurate.. ly describes the state of his own mind, and the melancholy

but there was no Haddon to meet me on my way thither, or to return with me any part of the way

musings in which he indulged, in his solitary walks, when deprived of the pleasure of his friend's society, that I need not apologize for its introduction here :

SOLITUDE.

IT is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is, that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tir'd hedger hies him home;
Or by the wood-land pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent ev'ning sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds with sullen wail,

Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,

To these mild complainings of this sainted bard, a reply, characterised by the same tenderness of thought and ele

home. Last Tuesday evening Mr. Moore very politely offered to take me to Epsom, to hear Mr. Clayton the next day; which offer I most willingly accepted. On the whole, we had rather a pleasant day. Mr. George Clayton preached on Mat. xxi. 28. It may perhaps give you pleasure to hear, that I preached very comfortably last Lord's day from the new bible, which is exactly the thing. I should know very little of the trials and difficulties of life, 'were I always to live as I now do. I really feel sometimes as if I needed something to quicken me to diligence, and put the graces of the Spirit in exercise, which, I am afraid, were I long to glide down life's stream so easily as I now do, would begin to die. Ease is a dangerous foe to the prosperity of

gance of expression, has been furnished by the pen of Mr. Josiah Conder, of London:

ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE,

In the 2d vol. of H. K. White's Remains.

BUT art thou thus indeed alone?

Quite unbefriended-all unknown ?
And hast thou then His name forgot,

Who form'd thy frame and fix'd thy lot!

Is not his voice in evening's gale ?
Beams not with him the star so pale!
Is there a leaf can fade and die,
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To thine Almighty Friend is known :
And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"

religion in the soul, and opposition of some kind is essentially necessary for us who profess a religion which is described as a race to be run; as a battle to be fought, and which is represented to us by every metaphor which gives us the idea of active labour and unceasing exertion. I hope to have the happiness of frequently meeting with you after my return to town; and I have the pleasure to inform you, that my appointments favour such intention. Mr. Wilson has written to inform me, that I shall preach in town for five Sabbaths after the vacation. The manuscripts you sent highly delight me. Mrs. Smith

wishes me to leave Herbert with her, to which I know you will not object. I continue about the same in my health as I was when you left me; and am very thankful that be I have not to preach so many times as at several other places. That the good will of Him who dwelleth in the bush may ever counte nance and console you; that the divine Spirit may ever lead you into all the truth; that you may possess every evidence that you have found favour in the sight of the Lord; and that Christ Jesus may be your eternal portion, is my humble, earnest prayer. Let us hope hereafter to behold his face together, in a world where we shall be liable to change and separation no more, but where we shall be enclosed in glory, changeless as his own. This is the desire of one who can truly call himself

"Your's most affectionately,

"THOMAS SPENCER."

"My kind hostess desires to be respectfully remembered to you. I expect I shall be in town next Tuesday."

Mr. Spencer left Dorking after the last Sabbath in July, and preached the six following Sundays in and about London. The places at which he laboured during these six weeks were White-Row, Pellstreet, Jewin-street, Camden chapel, Adelphi-chapel, and Hoxton-chapel. At Jewin-street he preached four Sabbaths, out of the six, afternoons and evenings. In the meanwhile his health still continued but indifferent, and indeed so much exertion both of mental and of physical strength was but ill calculated to promote its vigour. His mind however seemed every day to grow in activity and zeal. In the pulpit,-in sqciety, he was all animation and life. Like most who are the victims of much nervous irritability, his flow of spirits was excessive, which frequently led to ungenerous and merciless observations from those, who either had not the wisdom or the candour to attribute, what might appear as levity in him, to its real cause. It is indeed an unhappy circumstance, when such is the natural tendency of a man's mental constitution, and from nothing perhaps have young ministers suffered more than from this. At the same time, it is a shame and scandal to the Christian world, that there should be so many, who, professing to be the friends of students and youthful preachers, encourage and excite this unhappy bias, for their own amusement, and are then the first to censure the youth they have betrayed!

But where such is the natural disposition of a pious and devoted mind, its exercise in company is often followed by the keenest anguish and the deepest melancholy, in hours of solitude and reflection. The severe and malignant ceasurer should remem