I have not had one help from without since I saw you last; nor have I
had _many_ of those joys and comforts from within which have sometimes
been indulged me. And indeed my animal frame would have been too weak
to have borne them, unless God had in a particular manner supported
it: for every faculty of my soul has been weighed down by continual
sickness. I have not only been incapable of any outward application,
but also of intense thinking or fervent prayer. But in the midst of
this _my_ weakness, the strength of God has more abundantly been made
manifest, that I might be abased even to the dust, and his free grace
exalted; so that I well understand what St. _Paul_ meant, when he said,
_Therefore will I glory in weakness, in distresses, that the power
of Christ may rest upon me_.――But I must finish this already too long
letter. Farewell! May the dew of heaven continually refresh you!
****
* * * * *
_January 19, 1756._
_Dear Sir_,
I AM much obliged to you for your letter, from which I have learnt
a very useful lesson, viz. Never to fancy that the particular
circumstances of others would be more advantageous to me than my own.
You are ready almost to envy _me_ my _many_ hours of retirement; when
at the same time, I am continually complaining that I have so _few_,
and often crying out, when _shall_ I have a _whole day_ to myself?
And then I frequently think, were I a man and in the ministry, my
time would then be _all_ spent for God; but _now_, what an inundation
of trifling flows in upon me, which ’tis impossible for me to avoid,
without altogether going out of the world.
I enter upon the subject, on which you bid me write with fear and
trembling. My abilities are really far from being equal to it: for
although I know many Christians, who would immediately cry out, that
it needed not one moment’s consideration, I dare not do so; for I now
really _feel_ the weight of it upon my soul. *’Tis a most alarming
truth, that a minister may speak with the tongue of men and of angels,
and that the power of God may so accompany his words as to make them
the means of converting thousands; and yet for want of duly searching
into his own heart, he may suffer it to be overgrown with poisonous
weeds, with tempers and inclinations, which if unsubdued, will
absolutely shut _him out_ from the kingdom of glory, to which he is
leading others. How easy for a man who is continually setting forth the
glorious truths of the gospel, and inforcing holiness of heart and life,
to imagine (for want of constant self-examination) that _he himself
is_ what he preaches? This is a most dangerous snare; and therefore how
absolutely necessary is that retirement which affords opportunity for
a diligent search into the recesses of the heart, and gives the soul
leisure to wait in awful silence before God, where, free from every
object of sense, and from the workings of imagination, it may with all
its faculties prostrate before the eternal Trinity, and feel itself
to be nothing, and God to be _all in all_? But then it may be asked,
shall not a man who with singleness of heart, spends and is spent for
the service of God, be so kept by divine grace, that his soul shall
suffer no loss by the want of retirement? Doubtless. Where _sincerity_
and _singleness_ of heart are preserved, that soul shall be defended
as with a shield. But this I take to be the grand temptation of every
minister of the gospel; he sets out perhaps (though this is not always
the case) with a single view to the glory of God and the salvation of
souls. The power of God accompanies his words, the hearts of the people
fall under him. His reputation daily increases, till at last he becomes
popular. He sees himself surrounded by a croud of people, who for the
most part hear him as an angel of God, their thirsty souls gasping
after the truths he utters. An innocent and an _holy_ joy fills his
heart; “Here are souls that may be won to Christ, and that _by me_!
Lord, what amazing love, that I who am the least of all thy servants
should be thus blest!”――So far all is well, all is happy: but the
subtil enemy of mankind so strongly impresses this, _by me_, that a
self-complacency, separate from the glory of God, arises in his heart,
and this, if not immediately quelled, leads him to the brink of a
precipice. God still, for the sake of others, continues his usefulness;
but every conversion which he is the means of making, is fresh food for
his self-love; and by degrees he becomes so dead to the love of God,
that he preaches even the purest doctrines of the gospel, with the same
spirit, with which a lawyer pleads at the bar. But on the contrary,
that _blessed servant_ of Christ who stedfastly pursues the narrow
path, who conquers every rising of self-love in its first appearance,
and constantly refers all the good he does or speaks to the author and
giver of all good, _he_ shall be kept in all his ways, and blest in all
his works. And though his soul may pant for retirement, as thinking he
should there enjoy nearer communion with God, and make higher advances
in the divine life, this _may not_ perhaps be immediately permitted
him: but in order that his future crown may be the brighter, _God may
make_ his present usefulness a _sure sign_ to _him_, that he ought
to continue his constant labours for others, though it should be with
much temptation, fear, and trembling. However this is very certain,
that God to a servant _thus sincere_, will point out a plain path,
either by _inward leadings_ which cannot be mistaken, or _outward
providences_.――Adieu! Pardon the weakness of this; let me see you the
first time you have to spare, and believe me
_Your ever obliged and affectionate servant_,
****
* * * * *
_Dear Sir_,
WHATEVER the Spirit of God makes useful to my heart, either from
scripture or from spiritual authors, I thankfully receive, and give him
the glory: but I well know there is but one great touch-stone, by which
all doctrines are to be tried; and therefore I hope your kind fears
for me, lest I should not enough esteem the written word of God, are
needless. I am so far from setting any human writer on a footing with
this, that I scarcely _read_ them at all, _i. e._ in comparison of
my bible. I _look_ over some few, but this is very different from the
manner of reading you recommend, and which I strive by the grace of
God to practise; nay, it would be the greatest slavery to me you can
conceive, if I were obliged to read many religious books: however I
return you the sincerest thanks for your care, and beg you will _in
all_ things watch over me with a “godly jealousy.”――But my dear friend,
could you imagine that I enquired after the _state_ of your _mind_
according to the _common acceptation_ of the word? I only desired to
know what spiritual blessings you had both from without and within,
that I might share them with you. And this I was emboldened to do by
the sweet account you had given in your former letter, of the blessings
you enjoyed at _Bristol_. The Lord refresh your soul continually with
the rich streams of his redeeming love, and may his everlasting arms
be beneath you! I know your present state, of hanging as it were in
suspence between the visible and invisible world, is a dispensation big
with divine love. And was I to pray for you that prayer which my soul
most loves, it would _be_, “that you _should_ lie in the hand of God
as an instrument, without choice, till the will of God was perfected
in you.” This would be the prayer of pure love and enlightened faith;
but if I descended to the tenderness of friendship, I should ask your
speedy recovery. If it should be given me to see you again in this
world of vanity and woe, I shall be thankful, and perhaps it may be so:
but I know not――_something_ seems to whisper me that the thread both
of your life and mine is nearly spun. For my part, I have within these
few days had a sweet call to eternity, by a sudden and violent disorder
in my stomach and bowels (called according to the fashionable phrase
a _nervous_ cholick) which seems to have set me a good way forwards
on my journey. Happy pain! Kind messenger! O my friend, I have nothing
but mercies to tell you of. So supported! Such wonderous grace! Such
boundless love! _I_ all sin and misery: the _Saviour_ all tenderness
and mercy: the _probable_ approach of death delightful: no sting
remaining. No clog upon my chariot-wheels. Mercies too from without
which I had never before experienced in a time of sickness. The Rev.
Mr. **** praying and singing by my bed, with such power of faith and
love, such unction from above! Does this hurry the spirits? Does this
endanger? How far from it? I protest not only my soul rejoiced, but
even my body grew better as he prayed. Do not fail to thank God on my
behalf, and pray for me that I may not be ungrateful to such amazing
mercy. May the Lord Jesus preserve you, sweeten every pain, and make
you rejoice continually with joy unspeakable and full of glory.
_Your ever-affectionate and obliged friend_,
****
_June 7, 1756_.
* * * * *
_June 15, 1756._
_Dear Sir_,
YOUR very kind letter has pained me extremely, but I hope it has been
made a means of humbling my soul before God. How little do I deserve
that you should write to me in this manner? Alas you do not know me; I
am less than the least of all the mercies of God; do not, I beseech you,
think so highly of me; it really makes me ashamed of myself. Oh that
I could be lower than the dust! Oh that I could shrink into nothing
at the presence of my God! The way too in which you speak of yourself,
puts me in a strange dilemma, I dare not pay religious compliments, and
yet how shall I write to you, as if I believed you? How much greater
has your cross of sickness been than mine? So long, so lingering,
such inconveniences as it lays you under. But yet this is certainly
_no_ excuse for a soul, _taught_ of _God_, as _your’s is_, to wish
its removal. *Did you _indeed wish_ for any thing but sanctification?
Surely, my dear friend, you wrong yourself; it cannot be. Oh remember
the glorious path you have often pointed out to me, of perfect
resignation! I have considered you as a pattern to me, _particularly_
in _this_. I must not think that _you_ have any “reluctance to bear the
cross;” it would wound my heart too much. Do I not know, that you love
God above all things? Do not I know the sincere desires of your soul
after holiness? And is there any way in the spiritual life, which so
immediately leads to holiness, as _willing suffering_? Happy are those
to whom God gives the grace of _doing_ much for him, for his cause,
for his people; but _ten times_ more blessed are they who _suffer_
with Christ. Is there a joy absolutely pure? It is that of suffering.
Oh did we but know the health, the peace, the life that is at the
bottom of every bitter cup; with what alacrity should we drink it?
With what thankfulness, nay, with tears of joy, should we cry, Lord,
what unbounded mercy, what astonishing grace is this, to a worm like
me; that I should be led in this _most excellent_ way; that I should
be made to tread in those footsteps which are _most eminently_ thine?
Dearest Saviour, sweet is thy cross, sweet is thy thorny crown; thy
stripes, thy wounds, thy pain, _more_ delightful than beds of roses.
Let other souls glory in mount _Tabor_; _my_ joy shall be to stay
with _thee_ on mount _Calvary_, that I may be made conformable to
thy death. Such would be the language of a soul truly sensible of the
great benefit of suffering, and embracing, with sweet complacency, the
cross, which thus united it with its Redeemer. May this be the language
of your soul and mine; then shall we be found unshaken in the fiery
trial, and come out as gold purified seven times. But after all, what
suffering have I had in this illness? It can scarce be called suffering,
when God sensibly supports. The suffering is when _he_ leaves the
soul (as it were alone) in pain or in affliction, to struggle with
the powers of darkness, which at such a time eagerly beset it. _This
I have sometimes known_, and _this_ is _suffering indeed_.――I have the
same confidence in God for my dear Mr. ****, that you have. Was I to be
removed, I doubt not but it would be made a means of good to his soul;
but it seems at present to be the will of God that I should continue
some time longer. My inward weakness is not so great, and my pain,
though pretty constant, is so slight, that it is scarce worth the
mentioning. I thank God that your health is returning, and trust we
shall meet again on this side the river; but in the mean time pray
earnestly for _me_. I fear ease more than pain. Farewell! May you and
I constantly join in this prayer, “Thy will be done in us, and by us,
in time and in eternity!”
_Your ever-obliged and affectionate friend_,
****
* * * * *
_July 1, 1756._
_My dear Friend_,
I RECEIVED your letter with much thankfulness, for I began to be very
uneasy at not hearing from you in so long a time. And you have for
these two days lain with such a weight on my spirit, that I know not
how to account for it. I well know the manner in which the praise you
bestowed was meant. But you know not how I dread self-complacency.
And therefore though I often find that praise humbles me, yet it gives
me a pain I know not how to express. I have indeed often heard you
speak those words you mention, but they never affected me till now.
And did you speak them “in the bitterness of your soul?”――Call me no
more your friend! I am not worthy the name. How often have I heard
them with unconcern, looking on them only as words of course, a kind
of common-place humility. Will you forgive me? I promise you for the
future I will pay more attention to every thing you say. I will not,
by the grace of God, be so indolent and so faithless in the things
which concern you as I have been. I know I am apt to think too highly
of those I love, and I hate to be disturbed in the thought. You cannot
imagine how ingenious I am in casting these burdens from me: a latent
fear of displeasing, and a false humility, furnish me with arguments.
“Why would I pretend to speak so and so, to people so much more
advanced in grace than myself?” Not considering that God can work by
the weakest and most unworthy. But cannot I pray for you? Oh my friend,
if ever I _have_ been wanting in ardent prayers for you, I hope never
to be so again. That communion of spirit which I have with you in the
life of Christ, shall I trust add wings to my prayers on your behalf,
and gain new degrees of strength to my own soul.
*Your last letter is a comfortable earnest to me, that I shall at least
have one companion in the way which God has sent me to walk in, _the
way of the cross, the inward crucifixion_, as you so justly call it;
(thanks be to God for this refreshment to my spirit!) Many speak of
this, and because St. _Paul_ mentions the being crucified with Christ,
they preach about and about it; but I see plainly that you not only
_speak_ but _feel_.――And _do_ you know _so much_ of the _bitterness_ of
the creature? The Lord be praised! May you daily know it more and more!
I am sure this experience will only make the hidden manna the sweeter.
And I am equally sure, that those bitter draughts are absolutely
necessary to every soul that would _wholly_ give itself up to God. ’Tis
easy to talk of the will being perfectly resigned, swallowed up in the
will of God, &c. And while this only floats as a notion in the brain,
no great sufferings will attend it. But when the soul really feels
what this implies, that it is a being cut off from the creature, then
it knows indeed what it is to suffer; then it fights as it were in
the midst of the fire. Every thought must be brought into obedience
to Christ; and God effects this in the soul as it is able to bear
it: first one trial comes, then another. One strikes at love of the
creature, another at self-love, a third at spiritual pride. And the
fight continues till Christ has brought down all his enemies, and led
captivity captive. And to attain this state of glorious liberty, who
would not rejoice to suffer? What a coward must he be, who would fly
from a field of battle, where to die is to conquer? Oh what blessed
encouragements has a Christian to fight manfully! Let us not be weary
or faint in our minds. We have not yet resisted unto blood, striving
against sin; but let us not fail to do it. Have we not a captain who
treads all the powers of death and hell under his feet? Is he not
Jehovah, mighty to save? And has he not promised that he will save even
to the _uttermost_? The way we have to travel is indeed long, and there
are lions in it. But what of that! Jesus the deliverer is with us, and
nothing shall hurt us.
Through Jesus we can all things do,
all things suffer, all things conquer, and what would we more? Farewel!
May the peace of God be with you, and make your soul to rest on him.
_Your ever obliged and affectionate
Friend and Servant_,
****
* * * * *
To Miss ****.
_Wednesday Night, February 13, 1754._
A COLD has been the means of preventing me from spending the evening
in the trifling manner which you, my dear friend, have been forced
to do; though I cannot but hope that your mind, in the midst of all
this noise and nonsense, has been enabled to keep itself in a state of
recollection; and that you are still more fully convinced that _all_,
the _world_ calls pleasure and gaiety, is mere vanity and vexation
of spirit.――I thank you for your letter; it has given me great
satisfaction, and fresh cause to praise God on your account: I rejoice
in your joy, and may our gracious and kind Redeemer increase and
establish your joy and peace in believing! You have indeed the utmost
reason to be thankful, that such a work of mercy has been begun in
your soul; and fear not but that blessed spirit who has convinced you
of sin, and led you to look to the only means of deliverance, will
perfect the work he has begun! What a happy sign, that you can already
lay hold _on_, and _apply_ the promises to yourself? O continue instant
in prayer, for still greater degrees of faith; and shun as you would
the most deadly poison, every _action_, _word_, and _thought_, which
is contrary to the Spirit of God! And always reflect with the most
thankful heart on the love of Christ to your soul. Think that our
merciful Saviour is more ready to hear than we to pray. Think with what
joy the father received the returning prodigal, and be assured that
_you_ and I, and every returning _sinner_, will be received with the
same joy, cloathed with the same glorious robes, and admitted to sit
down at the same _feast_, even the marriage-supper of the Lamb!
_I am, with the utmost tenderness,
Your ever-affectionate and faithful Friend_,
****
* * * * *
_Wednesday Night, March 20, 1754._
*_My dear Friend_,
I AM rejoiced, and bless God that your mind was in so happy a state,
while your body was in the midst of folly and confusion. You observe
very justly, that those diversions are _absolutely_ unfit for _one_
who is seeking _salvation_. Nothing indeed can be more contrary to
the _spirit_ of the _gospel_, than what the _world_ calls _polite_
amusements. What can be more absurd than for one who desires to be
a _Christian_, who desires the _mind_ which was in _Christ_, who
desires that _justification_ by _faith_, which alone can produce in
the _heart true_ humility and meekness, deadness to the world, constant
resignation to God, and fervent desire to do his will: than for such a
person (_in all the_ extravagance and glare of dress) to be _swimming_
or _skipping_ about a room, and wishing to draw the attention and
admiration of the most vile and profligate part of the human species?
What absurdity for such a person as this to sit in that house, which is
as much devoted to the devil as the church is to God, for three hours
together, to hear obscenities, at which a virtuous Heathen would have
blushed?――If you ask twenty of the people who do these things, whether
they are Christians, nineteen of them will answer, they are Christians
_to be sure_! What do you think of them? Or if they are not now quite
so good as they ought to be, they hope to be better by and by! But
can a soul which _truly_ seeks after salvation do these things? No
certainly. And when the Spirit of God has wrought in a soul this
hatred of the vanities it used to delight in, it has reason to rejoice
_indeed_. What greater mark of the love of God to us, than his having
thus drawn us to delight in himself? If we love a friend, we desire and
strive that this friend may return our love, and joy and delight in us:
and, amazing condescension! will the Creator of all things visible and
invisible, the _God_ who called _angels_ and _archangels_ into _being_,
thus deal with us _poor sinful_ worms? What heart can withstand such
love? What heart but must at this thought sink into the dust, and lose
itself in wonder, joy, and adoration? I have time for no more. _Adieu._
****
* * * * *
BLESSED _are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted! Blessed
are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be
filled._ These are the words of the God of truth: and can you then,
my dear friend, be discouraged because you are now mourning after this
God, who only hides himself from you, that you may _more earnestly_
seek him?――Heaviness may endure for a night, but _joy_ cometh in the
_morning_. There certainly is no heaviness like this heaviness: when a
soul has been sensible (though in the _least_ degree) of the influences
of the sun of righteousness, and finds his all-cheering beams
withdrawn, how _painful_, how _heavy_ is the darkness! This is indeed
_darkness_ that may be _felt_: but when the joy returns, what peace!
What happiness! Look, my dear, on the material sun, observe how all the
creation around you is _brightened_ and _gladdened_ when he shines; and
be assured, that on your earnest seeking after Christ, he will in like
manner shine again on _your_ soul, and make it _glad_ with the _light_
of his countenance.
_Your ever affectionate_
****
_Wednesday Night, April 1754._
* * * * *
_July 19, 1754._
I AM very glad, my dear, that your mind is in so happy a state, and
that you seem to have so true a sense of the _littleness_ of _all_
the world calls _great_ and desirable. The love of _God_, and the love
of the _world_ are directly opposite to each other. And therefore St.
_John_ says, _If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not
in him_: this is a sure rule to try ourselves by. We may talk well,
and act well in some outward things; nay, perhaps be zealous for the
genuine doctrines of the gospel: Yet all this while, if the love of
the world remains in our hearts, we may be very certain we are no
Christians.――I fear you have not much opportunity of being alone, but
see from your letter you make good use of that you have. However God
is both able and willing to preserve (either alone or in company) the
soul which constantly looks towards him. I was afraid your being at
**** might hurt you, but thank God, I had no cause for fear. You seem I
think rather to advance than go back. Give God the glory! For whatever
of good is in you, is all from his free and boundless mercy. And cease
not constantly to fight, in the strength of your Redeemer, against
every sin, and fear not but he will set you free, take off the heavy
burden you complain of, and cloath you with _his perfect righteousness_.
_Adieu._
* * * * *
*YOU tell me, my dear, that your present dark state of mind is owing
to your thoughts dwelling so much on worldly objects. But carry your
sincerity yet a little further, and tell me if it is not some _one
particular object_ on which your thoughts are fixed, and which rivals
your Creator in your heart? I much fear this is the case: and if so,
you will find it very difficult to conquer, but let not any difficulty
discourage you from striving to “pluck out this right eye, and cast it
from you.” The grace of God is sufficient for you, his strength is made
perfect in your weakness. And you may depend upon it, that as soon as
ever you have given up your idol, the sun of righteousness will again
arise in your soul with healing in his wings; the God of mercy will
again be known by you, as your reconciled Father in Christ; and the
blessed Spirit will lead, and guide, and fill you with that peace which
passes all understanding; and you will walk in all the ordinances of
the Lord rejoicing.
_I am your ever affectionate and faithful friend_,
****
Tuesday Morning, _August 12, 1754_.
* * * * *
_My dear friend_,