XVII.

Birmingham, 1792.

My dear Tommy, Grace and peace be with thee.

WE are arrived safe at your old lodgings, where we found the dame and the little maid. I preached last night for the first time; our house was well filled with persons of different description, and of different complexion. Was I skilled in physiognomy I should send you an extraordinary portrait; the different countenances reflecting such different aspects, according to the inward state of mind, and the different cases of conscience. However, there were two of us in the pulpit; one black enough, and the other as white as snow. I believe the devil looked through the very eyes of some of my audience, but you know two shall withstand him. When Jesus works with us there is execution done some way or other. I am fired and filled with indignation against Tippoo the Black Prince; I hope to see him fall from heaven like lightning; and, if God will be with me, I hope to smite him with the hammer of the word as hard as any anvil-man in Birmingham can smite. There was a church parson there to hear, but I know not his name: when I had done, there came a young man to me as pale as death, and asked after my name; I told him Wm. Hunt. He replied, Huntington. I told him I was a bastard, and went by various names; but my real name was Christian: he replied, that is the best name of all. He seemed as if he had read my books and got some benefit; but the devil had perplexed him about my name, in order to prejudice his mind. As you have got Sir John Falstaff in London, I hope, Tommy, that you will bring him into your way of living; give him plenty of spring water, little sleep, and empty him from vessel to vessel, and drag him from pulpit to pulpit, and I think you will waste him a little, and make him more fit to travel; and if you can bring him to buckle his own shoes you will be of infinite service to him. My kind respects to your father, spouse, and all friends; while I remain, dear Tommy, ever thine, in the best of bonds,

W. HUNTINGTON.

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