Chapter 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_,

****

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_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_.

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_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_,

****

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_July 1, 1756._

_My dear Friend_,