_January_ 28, 1798.
You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. I
don't deserve your attentions. An unnatural indifference has been
creeping on me since my last misfortunes, or I should have seized the
first opening of a correspondence with _you_. To you I owe much under
God. In my brief acquaintance with you in London, your conversations won
me to the better cause, and rescued me from the polluting spirit of the
world. I might have been a worthless character without you; as it is, I
do possess a certain improvable portion of devotional feelings, though
when I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not according to
the common measures of human judgment. I am altogether corrupt and
sinful. This is no cant. I am very sincere.
These last afflictions, [1] Coleridge, have failed to soften and bend my
will. They found me unprepared. My former calamities produced in me a
spirit of humility and a spirit of prayer. I thought they had
sufficiently disciplined me; but the event ought to humble me. If God's
judgments now fail to take away from the the heart of stone, what more
grievous trials ought I not to expect? I have been very querulous,
impatient under the rod, full of little jealousies and heartburnings. I
had wellnigh quarrelled with Charles Lloyd, and for no other reason, I
believe, than that the good creature did all he could to make me happy.
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