LETTER I.
As well as very bad implements and worse eyes will permit me to do it by candlelight, I will endeavor to make some return to your kind letter, which I received, not by Quashee, but the mail. I also got a short note by him, for which I thank you.
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And now, my dear friend, one word in your ear—in the porches of thine ear. With Archimedes I may cry Ἑυρηκα. Why, what have you found—the philosopher's stone? No—something better than that. Gyges' ring? No. A substitute for bank paper? No. The elixir vitæ then? It is; but it is the elixir of eternal life. It is that peace of God which passeth all understanding, and which is no more to be conceived of by the natural heart, than poor St. George1 can be made to feel and taste the difference between the Italian and German music. It is a miracle, of which the person upon whom it is wrought alone is conscious—as he is conscious of any other feeling—e.g. whether the friendship he professes for A or B be a real sentiment of his heart, or simulated to serve a turn.
1 His nephew, who is deaf and dumb.
God, my dear friend, hath visited me in my desolation; in the hours of darkness, of sickness, and of sorrow: of that worst of all sickness, sickness of the heart, for which neither wealth nor power can find or afford a cure. May you, my dear friend, find it, where alone it is to be found! in the sacred volume—in the word of God, whose power surpasseth all that human imagination (unassisted by his grace) can conceive. I am now, for the first time in my life, supplied with a motive of action that never can mislead me—the love of God and my neighbor—because I love God. All other motives I feel, by my own sad experience, in my own person, as well as in that of numerous “friends,” (so called) to be utterly worthless. God hath at last given me courage to confess him before men. Once I hated mankind—bitterly hated them—but loved (like that wretched man Swift) “John or Thomas.” Now, my regard for individuals is not lessened, but my love for the race exalted almost to a level with that of my friends—I am obliged to use the word. I pretend to no sudden conversion, or new or great lights. I have stubbornly held out, for more than a Trojan siege, against the goodness and mercy of my Creator. Yes—Troy town did not so long and so obstinately resist the confederated Greeks. But what is the wrath of the swift-footed Achilles to the wrath of God? and what his speed to the vengeance of Heaven? and what are these even, to the love of Jesus Christ, thou son of David? I had often asked, but it was not with sufficient humility; or, perhaps, like the Canaanitish woman, God saw fit to try me. I sought, but not with sufficient diligence—at last, deserted in my utmost need, (not indeed like Darius, great and good—for I could command service, such as we too often pay to God—lip service and eye service,) desolate and abandoned by all that had given me reason to think they had any respect and affection for me, I knocked with all my might. I asked for the crumbs that otherwise might be swept out to the dogs, and it was opened to me, the full and abundant treasury of his grace. When this happened I cannot tell. It has broken upon me like the dawn I see every morning, insensibly changing darkness into light. My slavish fears of punishment, which I always knew to be sinful, but would not put off, are converted into an humble hope of a seat, even if it be the lowest, in the courts of God. Yes, at last I am happy—as happy as man can be. Should it please God to continue his favor to me, you will see it—not only on my lips, but in my life. Should he withdraw it, as assuredly he will, unless with his assistance I humbly endeavor by prayer and self-denial, and doing of his word as well as hearing it, to obtain its continuance, mine will only be the deeper damnation. Of this danger I am sensible, but not afraid. I mean slavishly afraid. He that hath not quenched the smoking flax, who has snatched me as a brand from the burning, will not, I humbly yet firmly trust, cast me back into the furnace. I now know the meaning of words that before I repeated, but did not comprehend. I am no Burley of Balfour, but I have been, as I thought, on the very verge and brink of his disease; but I prayed to God to save me, and not to suffer me to fall a prey to the arts and wiles of Satan, at the very moment I was seeking his reconcilement.
I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and soberness. I have thrown myself, reeking with sin, on the mercy of God, through Jesus Christ his blessed Son and our (yes, my friend, our) precious Redeemer; and I have assurance as strong as that I now owe nothing to your Bank, that the debt is paid—and now I love God, and with reason. I once hated him, and with reason too, for I knew not Christ. The only cause why I should love God is his goodness and mercy to me through Christ. But for this, the lion and the sea-serpent would not be more appalling to my imagination, than a being of tremendous and indefinite power, who made me what I am—who wanted either the will or the ability to prevent the existence of evil, and punishes what is inevitable. This is not a God, but a Devil, and all unbelievers in God tremble and believe in this Devil that they worship—such worship as it is, in his place. I have been looking over some of my marginal pencilled notes on Gibbon, and rubbing them out. I had thought to burn the book, but the Quarterly Review and Professor Porson have furnished the antidote to his poison, whether in the shape of infidelity or obscenity. See Review of Gibbon's posthumous works.