TO THE SAME.
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.”