Chapter I: CANNOT describe the feeling of regret which the receipt of your last

letter occasioned, and I sit down, with depressed spirits, to dictate an answer. There is something exceedingly gloomy in the recollection that one of the dearest friends I have on earth, is about to depart to a place where there is no human probability of our ever meeting; and that he should depart also without my being permitted to look him in the face, to clasp his hand, and to bid him a parting adieu. I feel truly grieved at the circumstance, and the more so, as I had expected that you would have been detained on shore longer than the time fixed on for your departure, and consequently that you would have had some little spare time to pay us a farewell visit.

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I feel comforted, however, with the hope of hearing from you occasionally, and do give you my promise that I will endeavour to write to you _every other month_, whether I hear from you or not; and my poor scrawls shall be duly forwarded to your good brother, as you have desired. I will inform you of our proceedings here as minutely as I can; and will take care to touch upon such of a more public nature as I conceive may possibly escape the attention of your other correspondents. But while I am thus writing, I cannot conceal from my Armstrong what has recently passed in my mind. I have long thought it to be a circumstance highly disgraceful to our Church that so few individuals have appeared who are willing to leave the comforts of life, and to endeavour to forward, by their own exertions, the grand and momentous work which the God of all grace is evidently carrying forward in all quarters of the globe; and I now begin to feel a desire (should the providence of God be pleased to open my path), to step forward in this great work. I have opened the matter to my Mary, and she tells me that she is willing to accompany me to any place where I should see it my duty to go. It has pleased God to give us a competency as to this world’s goods, and should any situation similar to the one you are going to, occur, we should really feel no hesitation in accepting it. What our future path may be is uncertain; but I should not wonder if my dear Armstrong hears of our following in the steps which he has marked out for us. There seems much to be done abroad, and few inclined to do it; should, therefore, God be pleased to accept of my poor intentions to be engaged in forwarding it, I shall rejoice in the circumstance, and gladly spend and be spent in so glorious an employment. I have said to my Armstrong what has been mentioned to no other individual whatever, my Mary excepted; I must therefore request he will not make the slightest allusion to it for the present.

I have taken the liberty to send you and Mrs. A. a small token of parting love; may they prove the means of your frequently remembering the unworthy donor, and whenever you think of him offer up a silent prayer for his spiritual advancement. I have also to request that you will accept of the enclosed notes; {30} they may, perhaps, prove serviceable in procuring a few more additional comforts for your voyage and future accommodations. May the God of love accompany you in your voyage, make you abundantly useful in your passage, and still more so in your destined situation. My prayers, my best wishes, do certainly attend you; and though we may not meet on earth, yet I hope—I would I could say more, but my treacherous heart will not permit me—but still I hope that you and I, our partners, and the children whom God may graciously give us, may all meet in that blissful state above. My Mary desires her kindest regards to Mrs. A. and yourself.

Believe me,

Your ever affectionate Friend,
G. M.

TO THE REV. J. ARMSTRONG.

Wellington, July 6th, 1812.

My dear Friend,

AS it respects myself, I must say that I feel the comparatively trifling duties which I have to perform to be a burden, which at times seems insupportable; but it is the burden which God has placed upon me, and, therefore, I strive to go on and to press forward, notwithstanding all my difficulties. You would hardly conceive how much I dread any public exercise until the moment in which I am actually engaged in it; I am filled with the most dismal forebodings; but then, through mercy all my fears vanish; and I have reason to believe, that my feeble efforts are not altogether in vain.

Nothing further has elapsed respecting any change in my situation. My Mary feels a good many apprehensions on the subject at present, and I believe I must leave matters till some circumstance or other makes my way clear and evident. _Our_ time is very seldom _God’s_. There is a haste—a precipitancy—in our proceedings, which is never to be discovered in those of God. The creation of the world—the calling of his peculiar people—the coming of the Messiah—all show that God is slow in operation. I feel, my dear friend, that I have daily and hourly need of learning a lesson on this subject. Whenever I feel hurry of spirits, and solicited to do something or other in haste, I invariably find that it turns out badly. It is the power of the enemy—God’s procedure is orderly—calm—deliberate: he leads us gently on, and, while he forcibly convinces the mind, he opens our providential path.

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We live in troublesome times, in a troublesome world. But still we have much to be thankful for, notwithstanding all, and we have a blessed hope of things infinitely better in the world to come. I delight to think of those blessed scenes, and am persuaded that we all of us lose much for want of reverting to them more frequently. With heaven in our eye, how cheerfully are we enabled to march forward; how courageously do we charge through all opposing difficulties; how contemptuously do we look upon the things of time and sense! Here was the grand support of the Redeemer; “_For the joy which was set before him_ he endured the cross, and _despised_ the shame.”

I have lately been very much gratified by reading a piece of Dr. Watts’ on the Separate State. We are apt to form too spiritual notions of the world to come, and, consequently, having nothing upon which we can solidly ground our investigations, we lose much of the interest and delight which would otherwise be imparted. When the _literal_ meaning of Scripture seems to be absurd, we think we are fully justified in seeking other interpretations; but to reject the plain and obvious sense merely because it interferes with our pre-conceived notions of the subject, is, in my opinion, quite unwarrantable. We read of _cities_, _temples_, _altars_, _mansions_, _feasts_, _trees_, and _rivers_. And no doubt but many of our enjoyments will be exceedingly similar to those which _Adam_ enjoyed on earth, when in a state of innocence; and it is very probable that the employments which _engage us now_ will _fit us_ for similar _hereafter_. All our peculiarities of mind and disposition will have room for their full exercise: the traveller may be permitted to take excursions into distant worlds. The _philosopher_ may pursue, without limitation, the investigations of science and of art. _The soul which is enchanted with_ harmony, may, like David, be the leader of some celestial band; and the _divine_ will be delighted with fresh discoveries into the nature, the attributes, the perfections, of his God; while the other myriads of beings, each in their proper class and society, will be enjoying to the utmost of their capacity the blessings which are most calculated to administer to their delight.

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From your sincere Friend,
G. M.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Wellington, August 13th, 1812.

YOU have my condolence, my dear Miss — in not being able to attend the kind of ministry you approve of. Most individuals have a turn of mind, a peculiarity of thinking, which, in a great measure, may be considered as their own; and hence it should seem advisable that when the choice rests on ourselves, we should attend that ministry which comes nearest to our own case and circumstances. But, alas! this privilege is seldom allotted us; local situation, parental restraints, and a variety of other things, render it in general necessary to attend some place or other, which is not, perhaps, in every view, that which, if left to ourselves, we would have fixed upon. The question, then, is merely this—ought we, under the circumstances, to quarrel with the dispensations of providence, or quietly and patiently submit, endeavouring to extract from existing circumstances all the good we possibly can? The language of wisdom, as well as of piety, seems to direct to the latter course, as that best calculated to promote our present comfort, and future welfare. God has certainly some wise end or other to answer in every thing of this nature, and if we recollect, at the same time, how tenderly he loves us, how much he desires our spiritual improvement, as well as our eternal felicity, we shall rest so completely satisfied that we shall not have a single desire to alter in the minutest particular. But we are too apt to lose sight of the wisdom and love of God, as connected with our affairs, we listen to the suggestions of Satan, and fondly imagine that if we had the disposal of things we could easily regulate our concerns, so as to make them more effectually conduce to our welfare. How presumptuous is such language, when stripped of its false colouring, and presented under its real and proper appearance.

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On the 30th November, 1812, he writes to his sister—I think that I mentioned in my last that there was an increase of congregation, and that I could discover some traces of the operation of the Spirit of God in applying the word. These effects, I gratefully acknowledge, are still to be seen, and it has pleased God to encourage me by bringing to my knowledge two instances in which I hope a decided and saving change has been produced—one on a lady of respectability in an adjoining parish, and the other on an individual among the lower circles.

On the 11th January, 1813, he writes to the same, on the birth of his eldest son;—I feel grateful to God for his goodness and mercy, as manifested on the present occasion, and I am cheered with a pleasing hope that the deposit which has this day been placed in my hands, will become an heir of immortality, a glory to his God, and an instrument of good to all around him. He has been the subject of my prayers for some time past, and I feel persuaded that God will not disappoint my hope. I, and its dear mother, feel anxious on its account, but what is our solicitude concerning him compared with that of the dear Redeemer! How kindly is he interested in his welfare; how ardently does _he_ long to see in him of the travail of his soul that he may be satisfied! What encouragement does this consideration afford to the exercise of patient hope and persevering prayer.

And on the 24th of the following month, he wrote in reference to the baptism of the infant. We hope, should all be well, on this day se’nnight, to devote our little charge to his gracious God in baptism. I feel it to be a solemn occasion, for I cannot but think that much, both of its future happiness and usefulness, may depend on the manner in which it is thus surrendered. I am somewhat apprehensive that we shall not quite please you with respect to the name which we think of giving it. But it has long struck me as being a foolish custom which prevails at present of giving those names by way of distinction, which, in fact, owing to their commonness, are no distinction at all. George, Thomas, Henry, John, are used from generation to generation, and thus individuals are incessantly mistaken and confounded either for other. We have, therefore, ventured to step out of the beaten track, and have accordingly fixed upon Cecil, as one which, from many pleasing associations, has become endeared to both of us.

TO HIS SISTER.

Wellington, March 16th, 1813.

I have enclosed a copy of a new edition of _Alleine’s Alarm_, published by Mr. Gilpin. It was this book, to which, under God, I feel indebted for the determination which some years ago I received, with respect to my views and conduct. I love it greatly in its old and less inviting garb, but far better now. Ah, my dear sister, many profess religion, many enjoy some of its comforts, feel pleasure in an attendance upon its institutions and its ordinances; but, to walk closely with God, to get a deep and thorough knowledge both of him and of our own souls, to penetrate beneath the surface of religion and to forward the life—the inward life of God in the soul, something more is required. In order to this, our eye must be kept constantly directed to one and the same point; we must learn that one thing is supereminently needful, and that everything which stands in competition with it must be considered as dung and as dross. May God in mercy impart to both of us such clear, such vivid and luminous views of its importance, that the present world and all its gaudy trifles may be lessened in our estimation, and that true and vital godliness, deep and genuine spirituality, may become more and more the objects of our pursuits. We were yesterday with dear Mrs. Fletcher, and received, as usual, much profit from her choice, savoury, and spiritual remarks. The book, which lay open before her, was her Bible. I could not help thinking how much more efficaciously we should all of us proceed, both as ministers and private Christians, if this blessed book were more frequently and more seriously perused. There is a strange feeling with respect to it existing in the minds of most persons who may be considered as even pious characters. They would not feel happy if they suffered the day to pass over without reading their chapter or chapters, but still they do it as a duty, merely as a duty. How rarely is it taken up as a privilege, as the book of books, as the very choicest treasure which we could possibly open; and yet, unless it be thus resorted to, thus feelingly read and studied, how can we expect to be great proficients in the Divine Life—how can we drink deep into the Spirit of our God? Could we see into the manner in which many individuals perform the duties of their closet, we should not be much at a loss to discover the reason of their want of spirituality. It might all be easily and naturally traced to this one single source—their hour thus set apart is gone through in a manner not very dissimilar to a horse in a mill; they go round and round with the same lifeless formality; and when their duty is over, they pass with unaltered uninfluenced feelings to anything which may next engage their attention; but how different from those who walk in their solitude with God; who go to their closets as if they were about to meet the very best friend they have upon earth; who feel heavenly emotions on every such occasion rekindled; whose hearts are made to burn within them; in short, who so wait upon God as to renew their strength; who carry from their privacy a holy influence which is easily discovered in the whole of their converse, tempers, and pursuits. Give our kind love to Eliza, and accept the same yourself. To both of you we feel no small degree of affectionate regards; we often talk of you, but still oftener make you the subject of our thoughts.

TO THE REV. J. ARMSTRONG.

Wellington, April, 1813.

My dear Friend,