Madeley, April 28, 1821.
My much endeared Friend,
THOUGH circumstances certainly appear against me, and give you just
reason to suspect that no very overwhelming tide of affection flows
towards my expatriated brother and fellow-labourer; though I seem to have
lost all the ardent, or the softer feelings of the friend, in the cold
and apathetical conclusions of the mere calculator; though like the
callous brethren of the afflicted Joseph, I seem unconscious of your
grief, and can, like them, selfishly sit down to eat and to drink, or
rise up to consult with others, to decide your fate, and fix you in
sorrow;—though, I say, all these things appear against me, and though my
friend is constrained to number me among the annoying trio, yet still I
feel within me a pleasing conviction of real genuine affection, which
enables me to rise above appearances, and which persuades me that I am
not quite a stranger to that love which many waters cannot quench, and
which the floods cannot drown. The fact is, my dear friend, that the
decision to which you allude in your last was my painful and not my
pleasant duty. I felt, I hope, something like the surgeon who has been
called to perform some operation on the most beloved of his friends; were
he to hesitate, or were he to decline, how justly would he be answerable
for all the painful consequences which might result: but while he
proceeds, though steady to his point, though the fixedness of his eye
seems to proclaim him devoid of pity, though his unshaking hand seems to
indicate no shrinking from his work of torture; yet still the tenderest
emotions may exist within, and to the discriminating eye may be seen in a
thousand varying turns. I do not, indeed, wish you to give me credit for
a perfect similarity to all this, and yet I do hope that when time has a
little more sobered down the strength, and perhaps intensity, of feeling,
you will feel more disposed to thank me for the thankless duty which my
friendship for you enabled me to perform.
My sister and brother Holland are with me at present and have been here
for some weeks past. Many, indeed, are the pleasures of endeared and
social intercourse, and I feel truly thankful that we have been permitted
to enjoy them. We have never met as a family since my sister was
married, and, though there has been all along an interchange of thought
and feeling through letters, yet we have found how far short all this
comes of vivâ voce and personal communications and endearments. I have
no doubt but that a similar result would be experienced, could you and I
occasionally meet together. And when we consider the almost insuperable
impediments which lie in the way of such a meeting, some feeling,
perhaps, steals into the mind which would have us think somewhat hardly
of the divine appointments. Let us, however, be thankful that, though we
have not all the sweets of friendship, yet that so many are still
reserved to us. And who can tell but that these may be increased, if we
are only more faithful in bringing each other, with our mutually known
concerns, to our compassionate God and Saviour?
* * * * *
After speaking of the arduous duties of his parish, as oppressive to the
flesh, the mind, and the spirits, he adds, in his usual heavenly strain,
to the same friend:—
“It is still very blessed to be engaged in any way for the blessed
Saviour. This is, indeed, a work which pays in the doing. I pray
God I may love it even more and more. But, were it otherwise, were
every step toilsome and thorny, were there no brook to drink of by
the way to enable us to lift up our heads, were the yoke galling and
the burden heavy, were the cross, instead of concealing a latent
good, only cruciating, were the cup of sorrows divested of all sweets
and only filled with strongest bitters; still we have enough of
stimulus arising from the glorious prospect of that blessedness above
to inspirit our souls, and to enable us to toil up the most arduous
ascent, and not only to drag on our wearied feet, but to lift them up
with all the alacrity of cheerful obedience; for the joy which is set
before us, we may well endure the cross, and, like our blessed
Master, despise the shame. O, my dear Armstrong, may we both of us
live more with heaven in our eye, and with a lively feeling of our
Saviour’s love in our hearts! And then every murmur will be hushed,
and nothing be heard from our joyful lips but the language of
thanksgiving and praise.”
I hope the children of my late endeared friend will forgive the following
little notice of a father’s practice and of the habits of his children in
their juvenile days:—
“Your letter, received yesterday evening, speaks somewhat at large on
pocket money. I think it probable, from what you there say, that
threepence a week will be less than you would choose; if so, I will
alter, though I think that threepence altogether unearned is quite
sufficient. I do not give a single penny to my own altogether
gratuitously—_i.e._, independent of their own conduct and exertions;
but still, while William was with me, I gave most liberal inducements
to him and them, that they might readily gain sixpence each weekly,
and have sometimes gone as far as a shilling, and even more. Two of
my children have some of their earnings in the Savings’ Bank; one has
a guinea and another has £1 3s. Indeed, my — boy is always scheming
so largely that he has only a few shillings in hand, and these are
devoted towards making a present of the new Life of Mr. Fletcher to a
poor lad, who, a few weeks since, had behaved generously to him. But
this his excess of generosity arises, I think, more from his ability
to acquire, than anything else. “Oh,” he says, “I will soon earn
it;” and in earnest he begins, and soon does. But then, he is always
poor, and unless I can snare him into something like saving habits, I
fear he will always be so. —, who has a guinea in the bank, is as
generous as —, nay, has the greater appearance of generosity; for he
has always something by him, and brings it out whenever anything
benevolent is proposed; while —, being always behind hand, has to
gain his before he can give it. But all my children have habits of
giving; some are careful, but none are penurious, and I hope never
will become so.”