But amidst all this wreck and ruin of property which I have gradually been called to witness, what abundant cause have I for gratitude that it has not come nigh me. How graciously has God been pleased to provide for me and mine! For though my family is large, and its wants are continually increasing, yet I have all and abound. I have ever yet had enough, and a little annually to spare; and I have no doubt but that, with a little frugality, I shall be able to put by a little more towards the settling of my dear children when they shall come of age. Had I known of the present posture of affairs, I might have done a little more for them, but I am very thankful that I have done what I have. And may the God of love so regulate my conduct for the future, that I may never, in any instance, unnecessarily encroach upon their due; for I feel the force of the apostolic observation: “He that provideth not for his own,” &c.
The following is a deeply affecting letter; but, like many of David’s Psalms, if it begins in complainings, it ends in praises.
AS to myself, I can say but little: I seem to be more of a loitering formalist than anything else. Many things which I began when I first entered upon my charge here have gradually dwindled into the merest nothings, and these have at length been given up. And most of those which are still continued seem to have lost that interest and power with which they were once accompanied. As to my own feelings and conduct in the midst of all, they are my shame and constant humiliation. I am so accustomed to see this gradual deterioration in many instances, that I almost invariably expect it in all others, and this makes me less earnest in prayer and less zealous in action. In all the coldness of apathy, I seem anticipating nothing but eventual failure in everything; and then, when nothing further is to be done here, I as coldly anticipate a removal to some other scene, where similar efforts will be productive of similar results. These, my dear A., have been my general feelings for some months past. I have often paused to analyze my spirit and my conduct: sometimes I have been ready to imagine that my indifference argued a deadness to popularity and applause, and that while I was so content that others should see that I was nothing, I was gaining some increase of humility, and, of course, was making some little advancement in the Divine life. But within these few days, I have been awakened from my sleep of carnal security, and have been deeply humbled before my God on account of it. I see that, instead of stemming the torrent, I have too criminally suffered it to spread, till it has threatened ruin to all the plain below. Instead of propping I have rather undermined the tottering fabric, and thus aided the natural decay from time and seasons. Had spirituality been cherished in my own soul—had patient self-denying labours been uniformly pursued—had ardent believing prayer been constantly offered—who can tell how much this tendency to deteriorate might have been counteracted? Who can tell, rather, what increase of prosperity might have now called forth my grateful praise? My motto, therefore, has now become that of the cheerful, believing and animated Apostle St. Paul. It is said of him, “He thanked God and took courage.” Instead of dejectedly witnessing this natural process, and as despondingly anticipating still more and more, I feel, through the grace of my Saviour, enabled thankfully to adore him for all the good which yet remains; and, with a measure of cheerful courage, to devote myself to my future work. And I cannot tell you the sweet peace which has been imparted to my distrusting mind, and the animated glow which has been diffused through my cold and apathetical heart; but to think that this blessed peace and love should have so long been strangers within my breast, is cause of my humiliation before my compassionate Redeemer. May my endeared friend never have similar cause of complaint!