Wellington, Salop. Dec. 29, 1814.
My dear Friend,
* * * * * * *
IN my last I mentioned to you the illness and expected removal of my
youngest brother, James. He has since been called to his rest, and I am
truly thankful to be enabled to state that his death was attended with
circumstances highly satisfactory, especially when it is remembered that
he was not in any way a communicative lad, but, on the contrary, very
silent and reserved. Well! he is gone—gone, I trust, to eternal glory.
The Lord, in his rich mercy, prepare us all to follow him! He was the
youngest among us, and the least likely to be first called. I hope that
we have most of us been induced by the circumstance to watch and to be
sober; “so to number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom.” As
far as regards myself, I think I may say that the lesson has been very
salutary. I have been led to consider myself as the next which shall be
called, and, of course, eternal and invisible things have appeared
exceedingly near. I thank God that death has no sting to me. Its sting
is sin, and that my gracious Redeemer has mercifully removed. The
anticipation, therefore, far from being a means of uneasiness, is matter
of entire and sober satisfaction; not that I have any cause for
disquietude here below—not that I have any restlessness of desire arising
from a querulous or pettish feeling of discontent. No, my dear friend,
God has been, and still continues to be, abundant in mercy and truth.
But still these things are not my God—this world is not my home. I seem
to myself like a school-boy very agreeably placed at school—fond of his
master, pleased with his companions, and interested by his studies, he
has every sober ground for satisfaction, and, as such, does not pettishly
wish to be gone—does not for a moment think of leaving till his vacation
shall arrive: but still the thoughts of home delight him, and when the
summer which calls him there arrives, he most cheerfully complies—his
kind master, his pleasing companions—his engaging studies—all are most
gladly left; for these are not his home. Ah, my dear friend, how lightly
should we all sit to the things beneath, to those which are nearest and
dearest, did we but consider heaven more as our _own_ place—as our
heavenly Father’s house!
I often wish, my dear friend, that the bounds of our habitation were so
fixed that we might not only correspond with, but face to face converse
with, each other. This privilege I now enjoy with my friend King, who
for nearly a year has been on the same spot, and even in the same house.
But I still feel my heart longing after my absent friend. This indeed
may originate in some latent feeling of ingratitude and discontent, which
leads me to overlook the mercy vouchsafed, and to long for that denied.
And yet I am not conscious that this is altogether the case: hardly a day
elapses in which I do not thank God for the blessing granted me, through
the medium of my present friend. He is a most choice and valuable young
man—one of ten thousand. And yet the question frequently arises in my
mind, why did I ever know—why did I feel so exceedingly attached to my
absent friend, if it were not the intention of a gracious and indulgent
God to give him to me in like manner? But the ways of the Lord are in
the great deep: his footsteps are not known; and yet gracious, though
unknown, I would therefore be thankful that I have a dear—dear—very dear
friend, to whom I can write, and for whom I can pray, if I can do no
more; and my mind is solaced and comforted with the hope that a day is
coming in which we shall join to part no more; that glorious inheritance
is at hand where some adjacent mansion shall be assigned us, or where
distance shall prove no impediment or barrier to our intercourse. May
our loving Saviour, who is “the way, the truth, and the life,” guide us
and ours all safe to this glorious kingdom!