01.01. Letters to William Bull, from 1773 to 1805. contd
My dear friend, Your kind letter must be answered, whoever else waits. I should have written more early in the week — but for a strange notion which got into my head, that Mr. Thornton’s intended journey into the north would bring you to London. I found out today, by my own sagacity, that it is not unlikely he may call and take you up in his way. Our dear Betsey is, we hope, upon the recovery; but the transition from health to sickness is usually more rapid — than the return from sickness to health. I think she gains strength, though slowly; she sleeps more, and better; and though the enemy still shoots his fiery darts at her, I think they neither fly so fast, nor wound so deeply, as they did. If the Lord is pleased to restore strength to her nerves, and to raise her spirits, which have been much depressed, I hope she will soon find herself upon peaceful ground, and that she will live to praise him. After what she has gone through, it seems almost miraculous that she is as well as she is; and perhaps the gradual and slow progress of her recovery may give a better hope that it will be complete and permanent, than if it had been more speedy.
Mrs. Newton has been much exercised; sometimes I have feared she would be overdone — but the Lord has mercifully renewed her strength; and I do not know that her health, upon the whole, has been much worse, during the last trying month, than for any equal space of time since our return from Weston. But we are growing older, and may expect that as years increase — infirmities will increase also. To those who are not cut off by a sudden stroke, or by some violent acute illness — sooner or later, days will come which the flesh will account evil days, in which little comfort will be found — but what the Lord is pleased to afford immediately from himself. We are in his hands — and they are merciful hands.
Many a time he has known our souls in adversity; heard our prayers, and granted us relief from pain and sickness, from sorrow and perplexity. And though we are unworthy of his goodness, and have been unfaithful stewards of his manifold blessings — yet his word still gives us encouragement to trust in him, and call upon him as long as we live. May his Holy Spirit give us liberty and humble confidence to improve the liberty his promise allows — of casting all our cares upon him, with a persuasion that he cares for us. May his grace be sufficient for us, and our strength according to our day — and then all shall be well. Time is short, and the sufferings of the present life are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed. A happy end will make amends for all the difficulties we can meet along the way. Oh that we could learn to live with the Lord by the day, and leave the unknown to tomorrow, and all its need, with him. The trials of yesterday are gone — to return no more. Those of tomorrow — are not yet come. The Lord mercifully parcels out to us our lot of afflictions by minutes and moments — that we might not be overburdened. But we, foolishly looking back to the past, and forward to the future — load ourselves with an unnecessary and unprofitable weight! It is no wonder, therefore, that we are often weary! The heaviest part of our trials is owing, not so much to the dispensations which cause them, as the self-will and unbelief of our hearts. And our relief depends more upon the cure of our wrong inward dispositions, than upon any change of our outward circumstances. At my first setting out in life — my wickedness and folly plunged me into a variety of wretchedness. But since the Lord was pleased to find and call me out of the waste howling wilderness — my path has been comparatively smooth, and my lot has been a highly favored one. He led me about into various places and situations; in every place he did me good, and gave me favor among my fellow-creatures; and every change his Providence appointed me, was for the better, both as to personal comfort and to usefulness. Vile as my heart has been — he has preserved my character, he has kept me from gross errors in judgment — and from gross miscarriages in conduct. He has preserved to me my dear wife, and preserved our mutual affections unabated for near thirty years since he first joined our hands and hearts. At present I am happy in many kind friends, and endeared connections — happy in the exercise of my ministry, among a numerous, affectionate, and attentive people, many of whom are of the first rank for real grace and practical godliness. As yet, my bow abides in strength, and he has not yet taken his holy word out of my lips. Shall I not then praise him for all that is past? Ought I not to trust him for all that is to come? I have indeed occasionally had my trials, and some of them have been sharp; but their sharpness, as I have hinted, has been chiefly owing to my lack of faith and submission. I have reason to praise him for my trials, for, most probably, I would have been ruined without them.
I am not willing to close our correspondence as soon as you speak of. I shall hope to hear from you when you are in the north, and will endeavor to pay you in the same way. May the Lord, the good Shepherd, be sun and shield to you and to dear Mr. Thornton, throughout your journey, and bring you home full of grace and peace. Remember our love to Mrs. Bull and Tommy. I trust you continue to pray for your affectionate friends, John and Mary Newton
16 Jan. 1789. My dear friend,
I thank you again. The prayers, advice, and sympathy of Christian friends, compose a cordial very acceptable in an hour of trouble. Though our effectual help be in the Lord alone, such friends are not like Job’s miserable comforters, they are his instruments to us for good. I thank him for them (for who would smile upon me unless he gave me favor in their sight), and I thank them for their kindness. Our dear child Betsey has passed through so many changes, that I knew not what to say all last week, particularly on Saturday; we were hourly expecting her death. When I went to church on Sunday morning, I no more expected to find her alive at my return, than to find her well — yet she is living still, and apparently not so likely to die soon, as she was for many days past. Neither do I see any favorable symptoms to warrant the expectation of recovery. But I have little to do with appearances and symptoms. She is in the hands of Him who loves her better than I can. He does all things in wisdom, mercy, and faithfulness. We are allowed to trust in God, who raises the dead. I cannot be sufficiently thankful, that she is freed from the dreadful assaults of the enemy. I have not asked for her life — I dare not; but I have found liberty to pray that she might be in a measure composed, and she is as much so as can be expected, considering the nature of her malady, and her great weakness. When you are inclined to trot over to Weston, you will take, perhaps, my letters with you, and then you will probably see one that I send today to Mrs. Unwin which may contain some particulars not to be found in yours.
I cannot say that I was sorry to hear of Mrs. Wilberforce’s death, though I loved her, and believe she loved me, and though she will be missed by her family and dependents greatly. Yet she suffered so much, that I was rather glad than sorry to hear that she was entered into the rest and joy of her Lord. May the same grace enable us to persevere, and make us willing if such be our Lord’s pleasure, to suffer afflictions for a while — since they are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed.
Through mercy I am enabled to go through my public services with liberty and comfort. The doctor is just come down stairs, and says dear Betsey is certainly better at present. With love to Mrs. Bull, and Tommy, and your family, Your affectionate and obliged brother,
OMICRON.
30th Dec. My dear Sir,
Whether you returned to Clapham with Mr. Thornton yesterday, or stopped at Newport — as yet I know not. The latter is possible — but in either case you will receive this, to congratulate you on the completion of your journey, to thank you for your letter from York, and to express my hope that you found Mrs. Bull, and all at home, well and in peace.
Dear Betsy is very much recovered. She has not fully regained her strength — but her health is greatly restored, and her spirits are better. The Lord enabled her to go to church on Sunday, in the evening, and she has been there twice since. She has been several times abroad in a carriage, and walking in Draper’s Garden near us. Tomorrow she goes, if the Lord pleases, to spend a few days with a friend at Stoke Newington, for a little change of air, and better opportunity of exercise. When she first appeared at church I preached from Psalms 116:1-2, as a thanksgiving sermon. I am persuaded that many of the congregation had prayed earnestly for her, and were glad to see her again. A revival from the state in which she lay for several days, seemed a kind of resurrection. Such proofs of His power and goodness in answer to prayer, justly demand returns of gratitude, love, and praise; and give us fresh encouragement to call upon him as long as we live.
I hope we shall not call upon him only when we are in trouble — but keep closer to him, and more sensibly dependent upon him, if he sees fit to afford us an interval of ease and prosperity. And we may expect more changes; clouds will return, new troubles will arise — but, blessed be his name, we know where to apply for help in every time of need. He who has delivered, and who does deliver, will support and deliver to the end.
Pray for me, my friend, that the late dispensation, which was not joyous but grievous, may be sanctified to myself and to my dear Mrs. Newton. Though the Lord mercifully upheld me in my public line, I was conscious of a languor in my private walk, and in the inward frame of my spirit before him, which must have stopped my mouth from complaining, had he sent a still more severe visitation to arouse me. It is a mercy not to be deserted and put to shame before the people. But the exercise of gifts and of grace — are different and distinct things. Pray that I may not have suffered in vain — but may have reason to say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted."
Pray likewise for the dear child. She likewise is afraid lest she should lose the sense of what the Lord has shown her and done for her. Those jealous fears which arise from a sense of our own weakness, and the snares and dangers that surround us, and which urge us to cry to him, who alone is able to keep us from falling, "Hold me up — and I shall be safe!" are rather to be encouraged than suppressed. In this sense it is said, "Happy is the man who fears always." But I have a well-grounded hope, that she has been drawn by his grace, truly to yield and entrust herself to him, and that he has taken such fast hold of her heart, that nothing shall be able to separate her from his love. He will permit neither force nor fraud, to pluck those out of his hands, whom he has once enabled simply and sincerely to commit their all to him.
Mrs. Newton continues much as usual. She had been confined from church some weeks before Betsey’s illness, and has not been there yet. But she is not confined to her bed, nor often to her room. Last Thursday we entered the fortieth year of our joint reign. At our time of life — it is less to be wondered that one of us should be ailing, than that either of us should be well. My health hitherto seems as firm as ever, and I feel little abatement of my powers either of body or mind, so far as concerns my ministry; which ought to be, and I hope is, the chief consideration which makes health or life valuable in my view. But at the age of sixty-four — I cannot expect to get on thus well, for a great while. But it does not matter, my times are in His hands who does all things well. Only may he enable me to live to him while I do live, and to serve him while I can do anything; and when he calls me or disables me — to retire with a good grace and a good hope, rejoicing that I am no longer needed, and that he has other instruments coming forward to carry on his merciful designs, I hope with greater zeal and success than I knew in my best times.
Mr. Atkins, the blind man, desired me to speak to Mr. Thornton, on behalf of the youth (Cottam, I think, you call him), whom Mr. Neale sent to Newport. I thought I would — but upon second thoughts, which are sometimes best, it seemed better to refer the business to you. I truly believe Atkins is a good and benevolent person. He respected this young man (who had lived some time with him) and wished to assist him in his views to the ministry. John Ryland, according to the known warmth of his spirit, pushed him on. "Never talk of prudence, trust in God, he will incline your friends to assist you in the necessary expense. Faith jumps over mountains — or removes them, etc." Mr. Atkins hastily followed his advice, and he found friends to assist him at first — but they have dropped, and they have left poor Atkins in a difficulty. He is unwilling to desert the young man, and unable to support him. If you think the young man deserving, and choose to mention him to Mr. Thornton, as he is under your care, I judge it will come with more propriety from you. Let me know your mind when you are at leisure.
We all join in love to you, Mrs. Bull, and Tommy.
I have not time to treat on the particulars of your letter.
Dear Taureau, My dear wife thanks you for your kind concern about her; and so do I. Though she has now and then, and here and there, a pain or illness — she is, in the main, and upon the whole, tolerable; and, compared with what she was at this time last year, we have great cause for thankfulness.
I have already written more than the three lines you asked for; but when writing to you, would time permit, I would send three sheets. I will at least keep on until the barber or the breakfast stops me. This is Mrs. Newton’s birthday. For many years I used to keep the anniversary of her birth and my own, and of our marriage, as fast days. Not that I was sorry that we were born, or sorry that the Lord brought us together; but I observed it as a day of solemn prayer and praise. How very different must the history of my life have been, if she had not been sent into the world after me! Then, most probably, I should neither have known Guinea nor Woolnoth. She is evidently the human hinge on which my whole life has turned. She was the occasion, though not the cause, of that series of foolish conduct on my part, which plunged me into the misery of African bondage; and when I was there, I was so infatuated and degraded in my spirit — so riveted to my chains, that I think nothing but the attachment I felt for her, which remained when every other moral or prudential sentiment was effaced from my mind, could have induced me to return.
You will find an abridgment of my life thus far in Deuteronomy 32:10-15, "In a desert land he found him, in a barren and howling waste. He shielded him and cared for him; he guarded him as the apple of his eye, like an eagle that stirs up its nest and hovers over its young, that spreads its wings to catch them and carries them on its pinions. The Lord alone led him; no foreign god was with him. He made him ride on the heights of the land and fed him with the fruit of the fields. He nourished him with honey from the rock, and with oil from the flinty crag, with curds and milk from herd and flock and with fattened lambs and goats, with choice rams of Bashan and the finest kernels of wheat. You drank the foaming blood of the grape. Jeshurun grew fat and kicked; filled with food, he became heavy and sleek. He abandoned the God who made him and rejected the Rock his Savior."
You may find another in Isaiah 42:16, "I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them." I meet with several passages in the Psalms, likewise, which seem so suitable to my case, as if written on purpose, particularly in the 71st Psalm, which came in the course of my reading this morning. I have been a wonder to many — and may well be a wonder to myself! The 12th will be our wedding anniversary. Just forty years ago we joined hands, and entered together upon the world’s wilderness. We knew not the right path across it — but seemed disposed to take the first that offered. But we had not wandered far, before the Lord, whom we little thought of, was pleased to give us some sense of our need of a guide; and from that time, he has taken upon himself the care and cost of our journey. He himself has been our guard and guide, our sun and shield, our physician and provider, our Counselor and our comforter. Oh that we had more regarded his counsel, and more prized his comforts!
Very different has been the path by which he has led us, from that which we would have chosen, if permitted, for ourselves. Many situations we have been in, many changes we have seen; but having obtained help from God — we continue to this day.
Again we are spared to set up a new Ebenezer. The greater part of our journey is accomplished: how much farther we have to go, He knows — we know not. But I humbly hope he will still be our guide and guard, even unto death. The shadows of evening are lengthening upon us; the night comes; I hope it will be but a momentary night, ushering in an everlasting day.
Pray for us: I will try to pay you in kind. But I must break off. Mrs. Newton and Catty join with me in love to you, Mrs. Bull, and Tommy. The Lord bless you and yours abundantly. Amen.
I am yours truly affectionate,
John Newton
2nd Feb., 1790. My dear Mr. Taureau,
How vain are all things here below! So we read, so we preach. Is it a wonder that we find it so? The Lord gives, or rather lends; when he recalls his own, shall we not say, "Blessed be the name of the Lord!"
Perhaps we both need a cordial. If writing should prove one to me, and reading what I write should comfort you, I shall be glad. Well then, to begin, if possible, at the right end, I will tell you though you know it, that the Lord reigns; and that this Lord is our Lord. He to whom we have been invited, and enabled to commit all our concerns — has all power, and does what he pleases among the armies of heaven and the inhabitants of the earth. Consequently he is both able to help us, and to shield us from harm.
Again, his goodness is equal to his power, and his goodness has extended unto us. Were we not cast upon him from the birth? Did he not care for us in infancy, childhood, and youth? He not only spared — but preserved us, when we were sinning against him. Where would we have wandered — if he had not stopped us, and led us into his own fold? From that time, what a good Shepherd he has been to us! Yes long before, for he laid down his life for his sheep. His blessing has signally been with you and me, in our personal, domestic, and public concerns. He has given us many comforts, and some usefulness. He has led us about, permitted us to speak of his name in many places, and honored us with the friendship of some of his most favored people.
Once more, his wisdom is perfect. He does all things well; in time, manner, and circumstance. He does not indeed always inform us of his reasons — but we have good ground to be sure that they are always worthy of himself. If then he is wise, good, and almighty — to wish the slightest alteration in his plan and management, must be equally presumptuous and foolish! Lord, help us to say, "May Your will be done!"
We ascribe the death of believers to falls or fevers, etc. These are but the second causes. You will find the true cause in John 17:24, "Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory!" When the hour comes that he will have them with him to behold his glory — should we wish to delay them if we could? "But some of them have been so useful!" Surely they will not be useless where they are going; though we know not particularly the services appointed them there. I cannot doubt — but they will be much more noble, extensive, and important than anything they could attempt while here.
Mr. Thornton has been long a burning and shining light; he is eclipsed by his present decline — but death will not extinguish him. God will never lack instruments to promote his own cause, and to comfort his own people. I think it probable that no one man in Europe, in private life, will be so much missed at first; but I trust his place will be well supplied, even by those of his own family.
You know something of my peculiar obligations to him. I hope my respect and affection were in some degree proportionable. To him, under the Lord, I owe all my situation and comfort as a minister. It was a pleasure to me if I only saw him passing by. I believe I shall see his face no more here — but hereafter. Oh what a hope! what a prospect!
Mrs. Newton has been at no time worse than yesterday. She has had a better night than I could have expected, only, as we have so many tokens of the Lord’s compassion in this affliction. We are in his hands — He knows what I feel, and what, with submission to his will, appears desirable to me; but he knows likewise, and has in some degree apprised me of my utter unfitness to choose for myself, Lord, I would, I do submit. With our united love to Mrs. Bull and Tommy, I remain, your very affectionate,
John Newton My Dear Brother Bull, The pork came safe last week; thank you, for it. Mrs. Newton was pleased with your kindness, and ate two or three bites of it the two days following. It is the only meat she has eaten for some weeks, except a bite of pork yesterday, for a similar reason — because Judith sent it. More pork is come from you today. I thank you for this likewise; and my dear wife has again talked of eating a bit, because it is yours.
She has outlived the doctor’s expectation four or five days; but he thinks she can hardly hold out above a day more. She lies for the most part very quiet; sleeps a good deal; seldom has much pain; but the extreme weakness of her body seems to have given the enemy some advantage. Her mind is locked up, and there is no drawing one comfortable word from her concerning herself. But her patience under the Lord’s hands has been wonderful; and she discovers no symptoms of terror, or great distress. If the Lord is pleased to smile upon her, that she may smile upon and in death, when it approaches, I hope I shall be thankful. I humbly ask this as what seems to me very desirable; and I rather hope it will be so; but I have no right nor reason to claim it.
I trust I have sufficient warrant to say, that she knows herself to be a sinner, and knows Jesus to be the Savior. I cannot doubt but she has many a time, in the course of this long trial, committed herself to him. During her confinement, she studied the Bible with such attention, that she has marked almost every important passage in it from Genesis to Revelation with a pencil. She has gone through Dr. Watts’ Hymns and Psalms, and the Olney Hymns, in the same manner; so that very few are left unmarked, and frequently there is a cross annexed to every verse. Our affliction, though heavy to the flesh, has been attended throughout with many merciful alleviations. And to this minute, though she is so extremely weak, her spirits are good.
Through the Lord’s mercy, "my mind is calm and resigned. I have not one allowed wish to alter his appointment, were it possible. His choice and his hour must be the best. Instead of complaining that she is to be taken from me now — what reason have I for admiration and praise, that she has been spared to me so long, when I have justly deserved to forfeit her every day of my life, since he first gave her, or, rather, lent her to me! How few in the married state live together upwards of forty years! Still fewer, who preserve their mutual affection unabated for so long a term! Had not his blessing cemented us, we might, yes, we would have been weary of each other long ago. I hope to say, He has done all things well. At my time of life, if I weep, it ought to be as though I wept not: the end of my own pilgrimage cannot be very distant. May we meet again then, in his presence to stand among the redeemed before the throne; and we shall be done with sickness, pain, sorrow, and sin, forever! The Lord is very gracious to me. My health was never better. My feelings at times have been severely painful — but they have not affected my appetite nor my sleep; nor, so far as I can judge for myself, been any hindrance to my public service. Yesterday was a day of trial — but it was a day of liberty likewise. I think I have seldom had more liberty in the pulpit, especially in the forenoon, when I preached from 2 Corinthians 12:9. The letters from Bath give but little hopes of Mr. Thornton’s recovery; the physician says, It is possible. Lady Balgonie’s account is rather more favorable than Mr. Henry’s, though both written about the same time. I cannot say, that I expect to see him again in this world. There, my heart has another wound. My best friend and benefactor, to whom, under the Lord, I owe all that I have or am; but what is my private loss, compared with that of the public! But it is the Lord’s doing. If it be his pleasure to have his servant with him where he is, to behold his glory — we cannot detain him, nay, we ought not to desire it.
Now, I wish you a good night. I know not what the morrow may bring forth; I know not — but the Lord knows.
Tuesday is come, it is much like Monday. She is still living. Both her body and mental state are much as yesterday. Her stay cannot be long; but I still pray, and hope, and trust — that the Lord will break the force of the temptation, and bring her out of the pit, and put a new song in her mouth, before she goes. He can put it into her heart, whether I hear her sing it or not; but if he is pleased to show her a token for good, so that she can show it to us, I hope I shall not be unthankful. The treasures of both the Indies would be a trifle in my view, compared with the granting of this desire. She seems not to be so much harassed concerning her own interest in particular, as concerning the truths themselves, which she has formerly known and believed, and are the very foundations of hope. I am distressed — but not forsaken. The Lord is here. His mercy is great, his power infinite. He can break her fetters by a word, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, and give us the oil of joy for mourning. She would send her love, if she knew of my writing; I am sure she loves you.
Love to Mrs. Bull, Tommy, etc., from
John Newton 26 October, 1790. My dear friend,
I hope the receipt of this will not cause your spirits to droop, or your head to hang down, when I, who am most nearly interested, can begin with telling you, all is well. I am supported, I am comforted, I am satisfied. The Lord is good indeed! I can think without regret, of the day when the Lord first joined our hands, (excepting when I reflect on my folly and idolatry); and now I feel not much more regret, when I think of the day which separated us for a season. I trust we shall soon meet to part no more.
Perhaps the papers have already informed you of her release from her sufferings on Wednesday evening. For three days before, she gave little sign of life — but by breathing. Her departure was so gentle, that she was gone before we were well aware, though we had our eyes fixed upon her. This event, when it took place, was not an addition to my trial, rather a great deliverance. It freed my heart from a thousand pains and anxieties, which I could not wholly avoid, when I thought of the trying situation in which she had long lain. The dark cloud which hung over her was mercifully dispersed, above a month before her death. Though she had not spirits, or freedom to speak much to me, it was evident from that time, that the frame of her spirit was gracious. Her patience was most exemplary, not one complaining expression passed her lips. She was rather ingenious, when her sufferings were the greatest, to fix upon something for which she had cause to be thankful, that she was preserved from agonizing pain; that the Lord laid no more upon her than he enabled her to bear; and though she could not move her body, she still had the use of her hands. These she spoke of as great mercies. Her reluctance to dying was entirely removed. She spoke of it with great composure; and having mentioned some domestic affairs to me, and given some directions about her funeral, particularly desiring that Mr. Foster might bury her, she said, "Now I have done with this world," though she lived nearly a month afterwards.
I trust I am well warranted to consider her now as a happy spirit before the throne. It cannot be long at my years, before I shall be summoned to follow her! Had she gone to Newport one day, and had I gone after her the next day, and found her safe at your house, the separation of a single day would have been no great matter. A thousand years are as one day to the Lord, because he inhabits eternity, and, for a like reason, they should be so to us, since we are designed for an eternal state, and hastening to it. But I trust what has taken place will not make me weary of living, until the Lord’s hour shall arrive. His time is, and must be, the best. I am his, and not my own. My principal tie to the earth is broken — but opportunities of preaching the gospel, of proclaiming the Savior’s glory and grace, and being some way instrumental to the good of my fellow-creatures, ought to engage me as a stronger tie to be willing to live, while he has anything for me to do, or to bear for his sake — though it could be to the age of Methuselah. The eternal rest that remains for the godly — will make amends for all! And eternity, itself, will hardly afford us such opportunities as we enjoy now, of acting for God, and exercising those graces which were more eminently the mind that was in Christ Jesus, while he submitted to the evils of life, and endured the contradiction of sinners against himself, for our sakes.
Oh the promised Comforter! If his influence was so great as to make it expedient and desirable for the disciples to lose the personal presence of their Lord, because otherwise the Comforter would not come; how much more should we think it sufficient to make us amends for the removal of any mere creature, however dear! Can our attachment be stronger to our friends, than that of the disciples was to their dear Lord who conversed with them so kindly, was their teacher, friend, and provider? Yet, when they saw him ascend — they departed rejoicing. If they could be happy and comfortable without him, cannot the same Comforter make us so, though we no longer see the wife, or child, or the friend whom we loved?
Yes, he is all-sufficient. It befits me to bear testimony to his goodness. Doubtless, I feel the wound still — but it was made by a faithful friend, who will perfectly heal it, in his due time. And, in the mean time, I am not disqualified either for the duties of my ministry, or the comforts of society. The Lord bless you, and Mrs. Bull, and Tommy, and all dear to you, your heart, your house, your church and congregation, and all your stated and occasional services. Amen. Dear Miss Catlett joins in love; the stroke made more impression upon her spirits, than upon mine; but through mercy she is pretty well again. All our family are well. We shall all be glad to see you when you come to town.
I am always, your affectionate brother,
John Newton
18th Dec. 1790. My dear friend,
I am much as when you saw me; through mercy, no worse; and I think not a whit better, if by better is meant being less sensible of my loss. In this sense, I hardly expect, nor do I indeed desire, to be better than I am. She is always present to my waking thoughts, and I cannot wish to forget her. Innumerable calls for thankfulness, and causes for humiliation, are connected with the remembrance of her — for she was the Lord’s chief earthly blessing to me; and, through the evil of my heart, proved the occasion of disclosing the strongest proofs of my ingratitude and depravity. How often has the gift hidden the Giver from my sight! How often has my excessive idolatrous affection been a snare to us both! That she was spared to me so long, and that at last her removal should be made so tolerable to me, are striking instances of that goodness of the Lord to me, which has run like a thread through my life, and has made my history singular, if not unique in the annals of mankind.
Thoughts of her are always with me, as I have said, excepting when I am asleep, or perhaps some times when I am in the pulpit; yet I am by no means uncomfortable. My health and spirits are good: I eat and sleep well. I preach, write, and converse as usual. I hope in spirituals I have been rather a gainer by my loss than otherwise. I think, likewise, that in the time of my trial and since, there has been an additional blessing going forth in the public ordinances. The church is more thronged than formerly, and there seems an attention and earnestness in the hearers, which is very encouraging.
I thank you for wishing me fifteen years more, because I know you meant well. I can only say that I desire to leave my times and my all in my Lord’s hands. His I am, and, I trust, him I desire to serve. I am a sentinel upon my post, which I would not wish to quit, until my Commander is pleased to relieve me. I have not lost my relish for the many comforts and mercies which are still afforded me; yet, methinks, I see nothing pertaining to this world worth living a single day for. I may say it to my shame, I seem dead to the world — but, alas! not so much by the cross of Christ, as by the death of a wife! While she lived, and was in tolerable health, I was too much content with setting up my tabernacle here.
If I am not short of creature comforts, I am at the same time delivered from a thousand cares and anxieties, which so long as she had lived, would probably have cleaved to me, as close as my skin to my flesh.
It will, however, be well worth while to live while the Lord is pleased to enable me — for the preaching of the gospel, and to own me in it. And should he see fit to lay me aside, I hope still to be willing to live my appointed time. May his grace make me so! If I could exercise submission, patience, and thankfulness — I might be still useful, even if bedridden. I have no notion of a minister outliving his usefulness, provided he is preserved in a right spirit. Might not I sit quiet in a corner, and rejoice to see others coming forward to serve the Lord better than myself, when I could serve him no more? Might not I bear private testimony to his goodness, and his truth — when I could no longer speak for him in public? I have observed sometimes that caprice, peevishness, jealousy, and other evils have stained the old age even of good men. My chief prayer now respecting myself is, that I may be preserved from indiscretion and folly; and that if it pleases the Lord, my evening of life may be consistent with my profession, and that I may set without a cloud. When I think how signally he strengthened me of late, so as to preach when my dear wife lay dead, and to preach her funeral sermon, in answer to my prayers — I feel encouraged to hope that he will hear me in these petitions also.
I trust he will likewise hear my heart-prayers for you, for Mrs. Bull, Tommy, your house, and your ministry. Then it will be well with you in all respects. Betsey is pretty well, and a great comfort to me. I am sure she means her love — but is not at home to send it. I shall be very glad when you can contrive to smoke a pipe with your affectionate and obliged friend and brother,
John Newton 30th March, 1791.
Mon Cher Taureau, As to the Colchester business, it was settled when you were here. I was fully satisfied then, and therefore cannot be more so now. I sit down to write upon a more important subject. Mrs. Neale told me when I was there on Thursday evening, that Tommy was doing poorly. I entered plump into your feelings, and therefore now I must write. Whoever waits — Mr. Bull must be served. But what can I say to you? Were you a stranger to the strong topics of consolation, with which the good Word of God abounds — I could soon fill my paper. I would tell you:
that all your concerns are in the hands of Him who is infinitely wise, good, and powerful;
that to him belong the issues from death;
that diseases come and go at his command;
that he does all things well;
that he can sweeten the most bitter medicines;
that his wisdom prescribes for our good;
that he is so near, so kind, so all-sufficient, as to enable us to rejoice under our heaviest trials;
that the time is short;
that the Lord will make amends for all, etc, etc. But to write in this strain to you, would be, as they say, to carry coals to Newcastle. For all this, and more than I can tell you, you already know. Yet the Lord, who is the only Comforter, is often pleased to use us as His instruments to comfort one another. I may, if he pleases, drop some hint, which may touch your heart, not because it comes from me — but from Him; and, therefore, I will write on.
One thing, indeed, you could only know from me — but this likewise, I have told you before — yet I will tell it you again. I have not only read these gracious promises, and believe them to be true — but I have tried them, and found them to be true. I never was, strictly speaking, a father, though I think I have come tolerably near the feelings of one; but I have been a husband, and I think, in that relation, I have known all the tender feelings, both pleasing and painful, of which the human heart is susceptible. I have often thought that though I loved my friends well while living, and wished them to live as long as possible — yet if the Lord saw fit to remove them, and I had hope that they died in the faith — that I could pretty well make up my own loss, by considering to whom they were gone, and how they were employed, when I could see them no more. Thus the removal of Mrs. Barham, Mr. Thornton, and others, though dear to my heart, cost me little more than a sigh upon my own account. I thought, now they are safe and happy — now neither sin, sorrow, nor Satan, can touch them. They are escaped from the turbulent, tempestuous sea of this world, and are entered into the haven of eternal rest! These, and such kind of considerations, perfectly reconciled me to part with them for a time, expecting, before very long, to receive them again forever. But when my foreboding mind has anticipated the possibility of surviving my dear wife, the question: "How I could bear it? how I could ever expect to see another cheerful hour?" involved a difficulty which could only be solved by referring it to the mighty power of God — of Him that raised the dead. I did indeed hope that he would grant me grace to be silently submissive to his will — but that I would be able to watch hours by her bed-side for her last breath; that I would think, write, and speak of her with so much composure after she was gone; that I should sleep soundly in the room, in the very bed, where she suffered so much and so long; that I should still prefer my home to any other house, and still retain a relish for all my remaining comforts — was more than I knew how to hope or to conceive. At length, the trial which I most dreaded came upon me. Suspense was long; sensations were keen. My right hand was not chopped off at a stroke. It was sawn off by slow degrees; it was an operation of weeks and months; almost every following week more painful than the preceding. But did I sink? did I despond? did I refuse my food? did sleep forsake my eyes? was I so troubled in mind or weakened in body that I could not speak? Far, far from it. The Lord strengthened me — and I was strong. No part of my public service was interrupted; and, perhaps, I never preached with more energy than at that period. It was the Lord’s doing, and it was marvelous in my own eyes, and in the eyes of my friends. Indeed, some who knew me not, said it was overdone, and charged me with a lack of feeling. Indeed, I felt as much as I could well bear — but not too much; and to this hour I only stand — because I am divinely upheld. Were I left a little to myself, there is enough in my heart still to make me very wretched under a sense of my loss.
However, I hope and pray with respect to Tommy — that his sickness may not be unto death — but to the glory of God, and his and your future comfort. Give my love to him, and assure him that I shall be often with him in spirit. My love to Mrs. Bull; and I sympathize with her likewise in her part of this trial, and in all her trials, so far as I know them. My dear daughter Betsey joins me in love and best wishes. She knows that you thought of her, and prayed for her, when she was brought near unto death. When I think how near death she was — I do not give up any case as desperate, while life remains. The Lord our God can do great things in answer to prayer; but we are sure he will do all things well, for those who love him. Put your trust in him, and you shall not be disappointed.
I heard with great pleasure that Mr. C.’s son is respited. How different is his trial from yours! The Lord has given you, or lent you — a dutiful, hopeful, and affectionate son; and if it be most for his good and yours — he shall be long continued to you.
Believe me to be your affectionate and obliged friend and brother,
John Newton My dear friend,
It is time to thank you for your pork, and especially for your letter; likewise, to answer your kind inquiries in the affirmative, by saying that, through the Lord’s mercy, we are all favored with health and peace; and all join in love to you and yours.
Since the termination of my great trial, I have been remarkably favored indeed. I have hardly had any trial, either from within or without, the inward warfare excepted — of the size of a button. My health, spirits, and my strength for public service, have suffered no considerable abatement, my table is well spread, my appetite good, and my sleep sound and refreshing. But my clock, which struck sixty-six last August, reminds me that it will not always, nor probably long — be thus with me. But it does not matter. Not only the precious promises — but the long experience I have had of the Lord’s mercy and goodness, encourage me to trust him for the uncertain remainder of my span; that as he has done me good all the way, led me about, and kept me as the pupil of his eye, so he will be with me to the end, even unto death. Did he not redeem and deliver me from being a slave in Africa, take me up from the dunghill of sin and misery, put me among the princes, even his own children; tame the fierce tiger in my heart, and give me a name, a place, and service in his house? Has he not preserved me from gross errors, from gross misconduct, from the wiles and power of my enemy, though that devouring lion was always watchful, and often found me asleep? Has he not known my soul in adversity, and helped me when the help of creatures would have been utterly in vain? And does he not still invite me to cast my care upon him, and assure me that he cares for me?
I am little aware of what is yet in my heart; I know that after all this, I am still capable of distrust and repining. But he permits me to cry to him to hold me up; and as I know him to be a hearer of prayer, I trust I shall be kept in safety.
It is true, I still miss my right hand as sensibly as on the first day. But when it was taken from me, I was at once freed from a thousand anxieties, which otherwise would have pained me to this hour. I think, when she died — the world died with her. May the Lord prevent it rising again in my heart!
Yes, we hope for a transition in due time, from a throne of grace, to stand upon a throne of glory; to see Him who sits upon it, the Lamb who was slain, who loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood! Him, whom having not seen, we have obtained grace to love. Indeed, he is to be seen now — but only with the eye of the mind. He is the sun of the soul — and without him we should be like the earth if deprived of the light of the sun in the skies. There is a spiritual sunshine of which I can speak but faintly from experience; but I would be thankful for daylight, by which I can see my way, and get a glimpse of my journey’s end. Hereafter there will be a morning without clouds — a noon without night — a long, an everlasting day. Eternal sunshine!
Mr. Adams has been apparently near death; but by blistering his legs, they have drawn off much water, and relieved him greatly. His appetite recovers, and he can now sleep four or five hours at a time, which he could not lately. The doctors think he may possibly live some time — but they do not think he will ever be well. I saw him today. He is in a comfortable frame, willing either to live or die, as the Lord shall appoint.
Mr. S___ is in town; has been with me two or three times. I believe he is a good man, and I must love him. As he said nothing upon the subject of the letter which I showed you; neither did I. The best way of managing some things — is to forget them. Let them die in silence. The fire in my study would have been out before now, if I had not stirred it up. I told you that what was said or written made no impression upon me, and you believed me. What need, then, of any further debate?
Sometimes when I read books or letters, I am almost ready to think the writers were angels; but I suppose, if I lived with them, I would find them flesh and blood, like myself. If I was more sensible of my own inconsistency — I would less wonder at that which I observe in others. Wonderful is the patience of the Lord, who can bear with us all at once! We, alas! can hardly bear with each other one at a time. When I was assured that Mr. Wilberforce would renew his motion in the House this session, I preached (as I did last year) about the slave trade. I considered it not in a political, but in a moral view, from Jeremiah 2:34. I think myself bound in conscience to bear my testimony at least, and to wash my hands from the guilt, which, if persisted in, now that things have been so thoroughly investigated and brought to light, will, I think, constitute a national sin of a scarlet and crimson dye. A motion since made in the Common Council for a petition to Parliament on the subject, has been negatived. If the business miscarries again, I shall fear not only for the poor slaves — but for ourselves. For I think if men refuse to vindicate the oppressed — the Lord will take their cause into his own hands. And the consequences may be dreadful both abroad and at home, whatever mischiefs may arise from hurricanes, insurrections, etc. etc., I shall attribute to this cause. In the mean time, I would retreat under the thought that the Lord reigns. He has wise reasons, though often inscrutable to us — both for what he appoints, and for what he permits! Hereafter we shall know more. In the mean time, may we be found among those who are secured by a mark, because they sigh and mourn for what they cannot prevent. Ezekiel 9:4-6. With love to all your house, and to Mr. and Mrs. Greatheed, and my prayers that the Lord may bless you indeed, and give you peace always by all means.
I remain, your affectionate friend and brother,
John Newton 24th March, 1792. My dear Monsieur Taureau,
Mr. Bacon has found a student for you, his name is James Higgs. He has already been a preacher three years in the Tabernacle line. Mr. Bacon heard him occasionally during his residence at Hampstead, last summer, thought he had right views, a good spirit, and promising natural abilities. But he wishes for such improvement as he thinks your tuition might afford him. He is in some business — but would prefer devoting himself entirely to the ministry, and with a view of some time undertaking a stated and pastoral charge.
He is already twenty-eight years of age. He breakfasted with me this morning. I seem to like him very much. His knowledge of Latin and Greek are equal; that is, he knows not a tittle of either — neither did John Bunyan. I suppose it is too late to make him a nice classical scholar. But he may pick up with you many useful things in his mother tongue. He seems to be humble, modest, and sensible. And perhaps you may provide for the future service of souls, by helping him forward.
I told him I would write to you today, and that perhaps I might have an answer by Saturday. If you give him encouragement he will come down to Newport to see you, and to let you see him. For I advised it as best, that you should converse together, and know each other’s minds, before anything was finally determined.
I have nothing to add to my former letter — but more love and good wishes to you and yours, and to tell you we are still favored with health and peace. The abolition business comes on next Monday. Help us with your prayers, that He who has all hearts in his hands may give a happy outcome. On one side humanity, conscience, and the sense of the nation, are engaged — against personal interest and political influence on the other. But personal interest is blind, and mistakes its own cause. However, the battle is the Lord’s. I preached on the subject on the evening of the 18th, from Jeremiah 2:34, and charged all who do not express their detestation of this slave traffic, now things are so thoroughly investigated, and notorious — with blood-guiltiness. Lord, lay not the sin to our charge.
I am in mighty haste; but whether in haste or leisure, always your affectionate
John Newton My dear Sir And Brother,
I wished to wait upon you in the shape of a short letter (I have less time than ever for long ones) while Mr. and Mrs. Neale are with you, that I might meet you all together. If they stay their proposed time, I am not yet too late. I tried hard to smoke a pipe with you, when in town — but you were not at leisure one time, and the next not at home. Had it been necessary, without doubt we should have met. May we meet in glory! I trust we shall. He who has invited and inclined us to seek him, will not disappoint the hope he himself has raised, nor the taste to which only he could form such minds as ours. Such a state of happiness as the Word of God describes — a state of wonder, love, and praise, surrounding and admiring Him who sits upon the throne — would not have pleased me once. I would have preferred a pig-sty to it! Now I hope I can say, "Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever!" And you can say the same. Let us, then, rejoice, and lift up our heads. He has said, Surely I come quickly. No one has more reason to be willing to live than I. I am still strengthened for the comfortable exercise of my ministry, am heard with acceptance, have many kind friends, abound in all temporal accommodations, and have a pleasant home. It is true she is gone; but it is true the Lord, who can do all things, enables me to go on tolerably well without her, and her death freed me from many anxieties and cares.
Yet were it not for his will, and what belongs to my profession and my ministry — I think I would now feel but little attachment to this poor world. It is thought a great matter when the same play will fill the theater for thirty or forty nights running. The drama of human life, presented to my view, not for days — but for months and years, affords so little variety, more than variety of woe and wickedness — that I seem to have seen enough of it. But if the Lord is with me, I shall thankfully wait his appointed time. All is adjusted by infinite wisdom and love. Do you ask how I am employed? I am making extracts from love letters — not to a sweetheart — but to a wife. I have quires of these by me, which I wrote when at sea, and at other intervals of absence from home. Perhaps I shall find enough to make a Cardiphonia volume, which may bear reading when I am gone hence. This job cannot be performed by a substitute: it will engross most of my little leisure from other business, and will, therefore, I hope, be accepted as a plea, if I should be tardy in correspondence. This is a voluntary offering, for I do not owe you a letter, and yet I am a little mercenary, for I mean by it to draw a return letter from you. Our love to your guests, to Mrs. Bull, Tommy, and all your family; not forgetting the silent young gentleman, with whom I was much pleased when I saw him at Newport. The Lord bless you all. Amen.
I am yours indeed,
John Newton
19th Oct.,1792.
Mon Tres Cher Monsieur Taureau, Your very kind letter deserved a more early acknowledgment — but I thought I would wait until I could tell you, as I do now, that my book is finished. I sent part of it to the press a two weeks ago, and have had two printed sheets to revise. I have since been writing a preface and an appendix. I put the last hand (as I hope) to the whole this morning, and the first letter I attempt, after feeling myself a little at liberty, is to you. I hope and desire your prayers, that the Lord may be pleased to breathe his blessing upon the publication. I am not a proper judge of a work in which I am so nearly concerned. In some respects, it will be new; in some parts it may be amusing: but, oh that it may be useful! I am to be pitied, if I have employed a chief part of the winter in picking straws.
It will appear in two volumes, about the size of Cardiphonia — but not so much print. The type must be larger, the paper finer, and the page less crowded, to induce those who think themselves the better sort of folks (for whom I chiefly intend it) to read it. Many people judge of books as they do of men — by their dress and appearance. My patience has usually been tried on former occasions, by delays of the printers, I am promised, however, that it shall come abroad before August; about which time, if all is well, and the Lord favors my design, I have thoughts of visiting Southampton. This morning Mr. Cleaver called on me, to inform me that a minister or preacher in the Dissenting line is wanted, at or near Newport, in Essex, where he lives. He says that about £90 per annum is already subscribed by seven people, and more will probably be added, if they can meet a man of sound doctrine and sound life. He was advised to apply to me, that I might apply to you. I told him that I knew you had several olive plants in your nursery, which I hoped would prove fruitful. But whether any of them were fit for transplanting, or whether they would choose to grow in the Newport soil, I knew not; any more than what the soil of Newport is: but that I would mention it in a letter I had began to you. I have now fulfilled my promise.
Through mercy, I and my dear family are still preserved in health and peace; and I hope it is tolerably well with my family, or rather the Lord’s, in Lombardstreet. I trust he sometimes visits us. I love my friends. I hope I love more than my known friends. But my chief willingness to live another day in such a world as this, is upon the account of these two families. I have now no other strong tie to this life. My presence is not so needful to any other friends (whom I hope one day to meet in a better place) as to these. My times are in the Lord’s hands. This is a comfortable thought. He appointed the time and manner of my coming into the world — and he likewise appointed the time and manner of my leaving it. What I have known of his wisdom and goodness as to the former, warrants and requires me to commend the latter also to him. And I may be thankful that there is no need for wasting my time, by any cares or contrivances of my own. Yet when I began to write my sermons upon the "Messiah," I could not help feeling and expressing a desire that I might live to finish them. This desire, the Lord has granted. I felt and prayed to the like purpose while I was preparing, "The Letters to a Wife." I have been divinely indulged a second time. I hope I shall not always go on framing excuses for wishing to stay here. May the Lord make me always willing to stay my appointed time. But I long to feel a prevailing and abiding desire to depart and be with him, which is far better!
We return joint love to you and Mrs. Bull, and to Tommy, who, I think, is now big enough to be Mr. Thomas; or, Rev. Thomas is in my mouth. However, go by what name he may, I pray the Lord to bless him, and to make him a comfort and a blessing to you and to many.
I trust you will likewise continue to pray for us. This mutual prayer is one valuable branch of the communion of the saints. This clause, as it stands in our creed, is repeated daily by many who know no more of the meaning of it, than a goose does of algebra. Nor should we have been wiser than they, if the Lord had not condescended to be our teacher. May all the praise be ascribed to him, by you and by your very affectionate friend and brother,
John Newton
23 April, 1793. My dear Friend
I thank you for your kind letter, which I accept as a full compensation for any or all the censures I may meet from snarling critics. I cannot expect that any publication will be approved by those who have not feelings to qualify them for understanding it. But yours is not the only encouragement I have received.
I thank you likewise for your punctual remembrance of my memorable day. It did not return unnoticed, nor unfelt by me. Though, in this respect, every day since she left me has been nearly alike. Thoughts of her are constantly with me, as at first; but, through mercy, it gives me no pain. I am perfectly satisfied of the wisdom and goodness of the Lord in all his appointments, and particularly in that bereavement. I know that in very faithfulness, he has afflicted me. I hope it has been good for my soul. And perhaps, in some respects, my last three years have been the best and happiest of my life.
What I say to my people, is usually drawn more from my own experience, than from great books, (the great book of God alone excepted), and as the fifteenth of December fell this year on a Lord’s-day, I preached from 1 Peter 1:24-25. It was something to the purpose of my former funeral sermon, from Habakkuk 3:17-18. How striking is the contrast between the transient state of grass and flowers, of fig trees and flocks — and the abiding word of the Lord! How much is contained in scripture particles! An although, a but, or a nevertheless — is often worth a world of help, in an hour of trouble. The longer I live, the more I pity those who, when deprived of their earthly comforts, can find no cheering resources in the sure Word of God. It is no wonder that so many defy the Lord, like Pharaoh, or that so many sink under their burden, and die of a broken heart. The natural outcome of heavy troubles — is wild rage, dark despair, or despondency — unless they are sanctified. But when the Lord employs them as a means of grace, though not joyous for the present — but grievous, they afterwards yield the fruit of righteousness and peace. My health and spirits are good, my needs well supplied, my friends kind, my powers for public service not yet sensibly impaired, my auditory at peace among themselves, affectionate to me, and I hope in the main, in a thriving state. The ordinances are, I trust, accompanied with an unction — and though I see and feel enough to abase me in the dust before the Lord — yet, through mercy, I have peace of conscience through the great Savior. What more do I desire? Blessed be God, I have not a wish — but for more of his presence and image, for grace to serve him while I can, and that I may be found ready to meet his will in future life, and at the prospect of death. Tonight I am neither weary of life — nor afraid to die. I cannot answer for tomorrow; in myself I am unstable as water, and changeable as a weathercock. But he permits me to live with him day by day, and to leave tomorrow to his care.
I hope January will bring you to town, and therefore I content myself with what, when writing to you, I deem a short letter. I am much engaged at present, and therefore I chiefly write to prevent you from thinking me negligent or ungrateful. Dear Miss Catlett is well, and joins me in love to Mrs. Bull, my reverend friend Tommy, and all in your house. May the presence of the Lord dwell in it, fill your heart, and crown your ministry with his blessing.
Let us work while it is day — for the night comes. Let us watch while it is night — for the morning is at hand, the day is about to dawn to which no night shall follow, and when our sun shall no more set. A few hills and dales more — and we shall be at home! There the wicked shall cease from troubling, and there the weary shall be at rest!
I am truly and always your affectionate friend and brother,
OMICRON.
10th Dec, 1793. My dear friend,
I believe I thanked you for your last kind letter — but I am not sure. I know I intended it. For fear of the worst, I write again.
It may be some time before my leg is quite well. But it is well enough for the present, as it does not interfere with necessary duty. I walked to church last Wednesday, and home again, and hope to do so again today. When the distance is greater, or the streets very dirty, I have a carriage in waiting.
If I wrote, I told you that my texts on the Fast-day, were Jonah 3:9 and Job 34:29. My forenoon sermon is gone to the press. On such occasions I choose to print not what I might have said — but what I did say, and therefore I wrote it from beginning to end. I held it up boldly, and read it in the face of the congregation. I afterwards transcribed it, that it might be printed from a fair copy. This business superadded to the necessities of life, engrossed my whole leisure until it was printed. My illness gained me little time, I had so many kind friends calling upon me from morning until night. But I remember when it was otherwise — when I had not one friend in the world to interrupt me, or to look upon me. Who has given me all these friends?
Though, perhaps, many infidels have been converted, and many profligates reclaimed by the power of grace — I have reason to think my case upon the whole, is a unique in the annals of the church, considering what I was and where I was — when the Lord interposed to save me from the misery into which I had plunged myself, and from the destruction which I courted; and what he has done for me, and how he has borne with me since. He has made me a wonder to many. Why am I not more a wonder to myself? That 71st Psalm, now I am old, I call my own. It seems written purposely for me.
I have seen great and sore troubles; I have been brought up as from the depths of the earth; and I am permitted to hope, that now I am old and gray-headed, that He will not forsake me. He justly might forsake me at last, if his justice were not on the side of his mercy by the gospel — for I have been vile and ungrateful through life. What I most value in this life — will forsake me. My senses and faculties will fail. My friends are successively dropping off like leaves from the trees in autumn. Ah, when I stand like a naked trunk upon a hill, exposed, defenseless, to every storm; if the Lord was to forsake me likewise, what could I do? But he will not. He cannot disappoint the hope which only himself could raise in my heart, Psalms 119:49. And, through mercy, poor as I am, it is the leading desire of my soul, while I remain here — in his strength to go forth, and make mention of his salvation and his righteousness from day to day.
Though I am comfortably accommodated on every side, and have not a single wish as to temporals, I see that to live in such a world as this, abstracted from a regard to his will and service — would be a dull and tasteless affair for me. I thank him that I seem willing to wait my appointed time; but it is a pleasure to think I am not to remain here always, nor very long. The when and the where — I desire to leave to him. My times are in his hands; and as he has graciously promised to care for me — I have no need to care for myself. But I must attend my church. I shall send you my Fast-Sermon, when published. My love to Mrs. Bull, the Rev. Thomas, and all your house. Miss Catlett, who is well, joins with me. May the Lord bless you all. Poor dear Mr. Cowper. Let us pray for him! and pray for Your affectionate and obliged,
John Newton 5th March, 1794. My dear friend, When I read your complaints of a cough and hoarseness, etc., I pitied you a little, for though I believe you may be poorly, you have accustomed me to think that you are, at least, no worse than you describe yourself to be. I hope when the Lord shall be pleased to send the frost quite away, you will find relief. This severe weather must be trying to valetudinarians (editor’s note: a valetudinarian is one who is overly concerned about his health).
I sympathized with you in the death of your student. (Mr. Thomas James, an amiable and promising young man, cut off, Feb. 3rd, 1795, at the age of twenty, while pursuing his ministerial studies.) But now that the Lord has declared his will — by the event, I hope you will think it rather a subject for joy than sorrow, that your young plant is safely housed, where no storms or changes can affect him! But when I came to your son’s dangerous return from Bedford, and the many circumstances which concurred to heighten and lengthen your anxiety; I pitied you very much. A state of suspense in a point where the heart is much interested — is very painful. I know, by repeated experience, how busy imagination is at such a time in contriving and foreboding the worst that can happen! I joined with you in praising the Lord for his preservation. I, likewise, join in your prayers, that a life so spared — may be wholly devoted to the Lord, and prolonged for a blessing to many.
Though rubs and alarms of this kind are not joyous — but grievous for the time — yet afterwards sanctified reflection upon them may do us good. They quicken our attention to the hand and providence of God, and bring us to a closer dependance upon him. When the comfort we feared to lose, is returned to us again — we feel it doubly; and we are likewise reminded of the precarious tenure by which we hold all earthly things! Blessed be the name of our Lord, it is not so with our spiritual concerns. Our best blessings are in safe and sure hands. Neither frosts, nor floods, nor flames, nor heights, nor depths — can separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. In Psalms 116:1-2, there is a process described, which, perhaps, has been verified to you and to me more than once. "I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live."
Trouble excites prayer,
prayer brings deliverance,
deliverance produces praise,
and likewise teaches and encourages us where to go for help next time — yes, as long as we live.
We do not come to the Lord upon a mere perhaps whether he will hear us or not, for he has heard us often. Nor can we, nor need we say, that if he will help us but this one time — we will not trouble him again. We shall always need his assistance — and he is always ready to afford it. While we live in this poor world, trials of one kind or another will come in quick succession; but as he has delivered, and does deliver — we may humbly trust he will deliver to the end. His good promises, "My grace is sufficient for you," "As your day is — so shall your strength be," are as a plank sufficient to bear us up in safety, in the deepest water.
Mr, Jones, who succeeded you at Surrey, fell in the street on Wednesday, and broke his thigh. And yet I am still upheld, and go out and come home in safety
Farewell for the present. May the Lord be with you, and all yours. We join in love. I am your affectionate and obliged friend and brother,
John Newton 20th Feb., 1795. My dear friend, My ears have been failing for two or three years past — but lately a cold in my head almost wholly sealed them up! For about two weeks, I could not hear a syllable of what passed in company. But the Lord has been pleased to relieve me, and my hearing, though still dull, is tolerable — sufficient for all necessary purposes. So far as my deafness proceeds from increasing years — it would be foolish to expect amendment. May I hear the voice of the good Shepherd speaking to my heart; then I may well submit to an abatement of creature converse!
I may be thankful that I am not mute. He still permits me to make mention of his name with acceptance to my hearers, and I hope with some accompanying impression of his influence. He might justly take the word of his truth utterly out of my mouth, and might have done it long ago; but he is patient and gracious. I trust he knows that the chief thing for which a continuance in this poor world appears to me desirable — is that, while I can speak at all, I may speak of his glory and grace to my fellow sinners!
We are still comfortable at home. Dear Betsey is in good health; and my cold did not prevent me from preaching at Easter seven times in five successive days.
We are comfortable likewise at the church. Though I feel that my memory is decaying, often by the day — it does not yet fail me in the pulpit. Perhaps I never had more liberty and command of thought than at present; and I trust the Lord favors us with his presence.
It is a part of my daily habit to look back to my slavery in Africa, and to retrace the path by which the Lord has led me, for about forty-seven years, since He called me from infidelity and madness! My astonishing unsought deliverance from the hopeless wickedness and misery into which I had plunged myself, taken in connection with what He has done for me since — make me say, with peculiar emphasis, "Oh to grace how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be!" "By the grace of God — I am what I am!" 1 Corinthians 15:10
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see!
Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home! The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine!
All in our house join in love to you, to Mrs. Bull, the Rev. Thomas, and all your family. May you and yours be as a garden watered by the Lord, always green and flourishing; and as a spring of water for communicating blessings to many.
I am your affectionate
OMICRON.
22nd April, 1795. My dear friend, Your two guineas are included here. I seem satisfied in my mind, that you paid them to me when you were last in town; and unless you are more certain that you did not, than I can pretend to be that you did — I cannot take them, lest I should cheat you by taking them twice! I cannot be quite positive — but I think if I had not received them, they would sometimes have occurred to my mind as unpaid. When this comes to hand, you may take it for granted that I have paid the money to your account. So much for gold and silver.
You wonder I do not mention my dear departed wife when I write. Indeed it would be a gratification to me to make her the top of a paragraph in every letter I write to my friends who knew her, or to talk of her to them by the hour. My feelings on this head are little less lively and abiding now than they were, when I had lived but a week after her. But I cannot command my sensibility, unless I was conscious that my thoughts of the Savior were at least equally constant and equally warm. He is the best friend, he was the greatest Sufferer. And that I am capable of thinking more of her than of Him — is certainly both an effect and a proof of my depravity. On the other hand, I cannot wish to forget her quite yet, because there is no other earthly object in my memory so well suited to excite gratitude to the Lord, and that humiliation of heart which becomes a chief sinner.
I find it difficult to draw the line between too much — and too little. Indeed, everything is difficult and impracticable to me if left to myself; but so far as the Lord is pleased to strengthen me, I can do and bear all things that occur in the path of duty.
However, it is still a truth, that, whether I show it or not, at all times and in all places (except now and then in the pulpit) — I miss my right hand. The Lord made me willing to part with it. I feel not the remotest wish to have it (if possible) again — but I still miss it. The idea of my dearest wife is seldom absent from my mind for five successive minutes. The time is short. I hope to meet her again to unspeakable advantage, and I am perfectly satisfied. I am rather pleased than otherwise — that she is gone before me. For, as the aspect of the times is stormy, and I know not what the Lord may do with us, I find comfort in thinking that she is safely arrived in the haven of rest. As dear Mrs. Thornton observed to me upon the death of my dear Eliza, "I have now one care less upon earth — and one more treasure in heaven." As to my own continuance or removal from this poor earth, I have nothing to do with it. Through mercy, I have no more desire — than I have right to choose. I shall live — while infinite wisdom and goodness see fit; and when He appoints — I shall depart. I hope both you and I are, in a measure, useful in our places — but, certainly, neither of us are necessary. If I had never been born, or if I had perished in my sins — God would not have lacked instruments to carry on his work. I know that dying times require dying strength; and I rely on his promise for it when needed. At present, while I am in health, the when, the how, and the where and the when of my death — does not cost me a moment’s anxiety! Only may he enable me to be faithful while I live — and waiting and ready for my summons. I hope to die like the thief upon the cross. I have no hope, no comfort in myself! But he remembered me in my low estate, and I trust will remember me to the end.
I chiefly admire in Riccaltoun, his Essays on the Human Constitution, and his Commentary on Galatians 1:1-24. Indeed, I admire him throughout, as the most original thinker and writer that I have met with. Some of his sentiments are rather singular and new; but when I suspend my full assent, I am not able to refute his arguments. The account of him which I published in the magazine is likely to be useful to his son, who is a man of good character, with a large family, and much encumbered by engagements he entered into in behalf of his father. A friend, not far from St. Paul’s, sent me £10 for him, and the Edinburgh ministers are talking of a subscription for him. My correspondent says, they wonder that a minister of the church of England should be his first advocate, and that they appreciate it.
Next to the hope of perfect happiness hereafter, the chief mercy in this life, seems to be honored with some usefulness here. With love to Mrs. Bull, Thomas, and your nieces, from myself and Miss Catlett, and my prayers for your peace and comfort in all things, I remain your affectionate and obliged
John Newton
2nd May. My dear friend, A pig came to our house on Monday; and, though he neither brought an introductory letter, nor could tell us who sent him — we, being something in the habit of receiving strangers, bid him welcome. In return, he entertained us. Mr. Bacon and Mrs. Gardener were very agreeably at dinner. I can only thank you now for both pig and letter.
Though your spirits are weak, I am glad to find that your faith and resignation are strong. Yes, all will be well in the end; and all is well along the way, if we can but think so, and be satisfied that the infinite wisdom and love, to which we have committed ourselves, upon the warrant of his faithful promise, will assuredly take care of us, and lead us in the right path. We are not to expect that the Lord will miraculously interpose to change our constitutions, or to overrule the connections he has established between causes and effects; nor is it needful. If he is pleased to give strength according to the day, and to support us under our appointed trials — it is upon the whole, better for us than if we were quite exempted from them, for
"Trials make the promise sweet,
Trials give new life to prayer,
Trials lay us at his feet,
Lay us low and keep us there!"
I thank you for promising to remember me on my anniversary. My wife is still continually present to my mind, as at the first. Yet I hope I may say, to the praise of the Lord’s goodness, the wound is healed. The remembrance of the event is not painful. And if sometimes a sigh escapes me, it proceeds from a certain tender feeling, which I am unable to describe — but I cannot call it sorrow. I rather account the last five years since her death, taking all things together — the happiest part of my life. The comforts arising from our union and affection, I still think were more valuable than any of the world’s poor playthings. Yet I paid dearly for them in anxieties and inquietudes from which a single day was seldom free. And, too, too often the gift hid the Giver from my eyes! By her removal I was relieved at once from a thousand cares and snares which had beset and followed me through life. I am thankful that she was spared to me so long; for, though I have often thought that, if she had left me twenty or thirty years sooner, I would not have entered into a new connection, I might have thought otherwise if put to the trial; but, at the age of sixty-five, a second marriage would have been ridiculous, though my regard for her and her memory had been much less than it was. And though the loss could not be made up in kind, it is as well repaid as the nature of the case will admit. No widower can be more happy in domestic life, than I am. Such is the attention and kindness of my dear child and my affectionate servants, that nothing occurs at home to ruffle my thoughts the year round. My needs are all supplied. I am surrounded with friends. My ministry is comfortable to myself, acceptable, and I hope useful, to my hearers: in a word, I can think of nothing which I have not — worth wishing for, if a wish could bring it. Surely, the Lord has dealt wonderfully and bountifully with me! My health, likewise, is so remarkably confirmed, that I scarcely know — but by the date of the year, that I grow older. I feel no inconvenience from the changes of wind or weather; and though I have taken no journey into the country this year, I am as well as usual. The air of Coleman-street agrees as well with me as the air of Hampshire. Thus my health continues; but it will not, it cannot be so always, nor, perhaps, long. But this is no concern of mine. My times are in His hands — who has led me, and done me good thus far; and he helps me to trust the rest to him. I have only to pray, that while I do live — I may live to him; and that when he shall call me hence — I may be found waiting and willing, and that in the mean time, he may preserve me from staining the decline of my life, by any gross impropriety or folly. I still feel evil enough within me, to convince me that, unless he holds me up — I cannot be safe — no, not for an hour. My dear Betsey joins me in love to you and yours. She likewise has been favored with health until lately. I hope she is mending, though slowly; she has been confined to the house seven weeks, cannot yet go to church, which I believe is a chief part of her trial, for the Lord has taught her to love to be where his people are met in his name. I trust her illness will be sanctified, and in his best time removed.
We hope one day soon, to be done with sin, sorrow, and pain, and to join with those who are singing before the throne the praises of Him who loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood. When we meet there, we shall part no more. Give our love to Mrs. Bull, the Reverend Thomas, and all friends, particularly to Mr. and Mrs. Greatheed. May grace, mercy, and peace be with you, and your affectionate and obliged
John Newton
15 Dec. 1795. My dear friend,
I may say, as Isaac, "I am old, and know not the time of my death!" Nor am I anxious to know it. My judgment accords with what you say of the grave; but I believe you can contemplate the subject with more sensible pleasure than I do. To me, at present, the passage seems dark; yet I am not startled, because I humbly hope that the Lord will be with me there, and then I am sure it will be broad light all around me. His people generally find it so, if their last illness leaves them in possession of their senses, and declare it to be so, if they can speak.
While the frail tabernacle is being taken down, a light of a different kind from what they experienced in health, seems to break in: they see invisibles, and hear unutterables, and breathe the air of the heavenly state, before they leave the body. What is death to a believer? Not that spectre and skeleton which a terrified imagination represents it. To a believer, death is a messenger to open the gate into eternal life! Or rather, it is the hour when the Savior, who is now preparing a place for his people, will come, according to his promise, to receive them to blessed himself!
Through mercy, I do not feel myself afraid or unwilling to die. But the prospect of death is at some distance; and I believe — were death actually to stare me in the face this minute, I would tremble! Death is a great, unknown, untried transition. I often attempt to realize the moment after death; but my thoughts are overwhelmed. I can form no conception how I shall be, and what I shall meet — when I cease to breathe, and while those around my bed, if I die in a bed, are saying, "He is gone!" But though I am at a loss for particulars, I have a book which informs me of as much as is needful to know: that those who die in the Lord are gloriously blessed; that they shall be like him, and with him, forever; that all tears shall be wiped from their eyes, and they shall weep no more, for sin and sorrow shall not be able to follow them. I thank the Lord for this precious book, and for enabling me to believe what I read in it. Otherwise, how miserable must I be now, flesh and heart are upon the point of failing! But I have not much time to run on. I wish you much of that holy unction, that oil of joy, which is the best cordial for low spirits, and wonderfully strengthens weak nerves.
Betsey’s illness is not removed — but it is so far relieved, that she was twice at church yesterday, after more than eight weeks of confinement to the house. This is a chequered life — but the suspension of our common comforts is designed to make us more sensible of their value, and more thankful for them when restored. For unless we meet with some interruptions, we are too apt to look upon them as matters of course. The Lord bless you all — father, mother, son, nieces, tutors, and students, servants, and all. May your house be a church, and your heart a well-watered garden for yourself, and a spring of living water for your people. Amen.
I am always your affectionate and obliged,
John Newton My dear Brother Bull,
I am a little balked that the time of your coming to town and my leaving it so nearly coincided, that I could but just see you. But as I know the ways of man are not in himself, and believe both your movements and mine are under a wise and gracious guidance — I hope it was all right. A baulk has done me good before now. If we live until the Christmas vacation, I hope to be made amends.
We spent ten weeks pleasantly abroad, and returned safely, and found all well at home, the 14th of September. We go on now in our old track; we had a nice time at Reading. I believe Mr. Eyre accepted the living of St. Giles’ the very day I went there, and he was expected almost every day while I stayed — but did not come until I had left it. The people were hungry, the Lord made me able and willing. The time was short, so we made the most of it. I never preached so often in an equal space; five times in the church; twice in Mr. Young’s school; every morning at Mr. Rings, and every evening in a large room of one or other of our friends. I call it all preaching, for the rooms were crowded, and I spoke nearly as long and as loud, as if I had been in a church. I trust the Lord was with us, and I trust he will be with them. I have found good individuals in many places. But perhaps I have no where met with a body of professors so compact and united, so lively and yet so solid, judicious, and free from wild fire, as the bereaved people at Reading. The two dissenting ministers likewise, Mr. Douglas, and Mr. Holloway, are such as I have seldom seen. They were generally present with their wives at all our meetings, when not engaged themselves. I stayed with them a two weeks, and left them with regret.
Mr. Gunn fully supplied my place at St. Mary’s; he is a nice curate. He pleases the people, and he pleases me. Though very popular, he is very humble, and remarkably punctual and attentive. The Lord has granted my desire. Expecting to be laid aside soon, or at least thinking it very probable at my time of life — I have long wished and prayed for an assistant who might keep the people together and in peace, while the pulpit remains mine. I thought myself suited first with Buchanan — but he soon went to India. Then Benamor seemed just the thing — but in one month he was translated to nobler employment in a better world; but now I hope Mr. Gunn will answer my wishes. And though he seems more troublesome than any of us to the clergy in general, the Lord Bishop of London licensed him to my curacy without the slightest hesitation.
Indeed, I have reason to hope that the Lord favors us with his presence and blessing at St. Mary’s. The church is often nearly full on a Wednesday, quite crowded on the Lord’s-day, and we have a large and increasing number of inquiring young people. While we go on thus, though I have seen enough of the world for myself, and know that while I remain here I must groan under a body of sin — I have great cause to be thankful that my life and health are prolonged. We may be glad to work while it is day, for the night comes. And I apprehend eternity itself, will not afford such an opportunity of preaching and exemplifying the gospel of the grace of God, to the glory of his name and the salvation of souls — as we are favored with here. Every added day of life, if is improved — is of great value, and an over-balance for all the trials we meet with in our earthly pilgrimage.
I told you I had a young man in view to send to Cambridge, and that I meant to send him to you for a time. His name is Morris; he was with us the last time you drank tea with us. And from what he then saw and heard, he longs to be with you. I hope you will be able to receive him on your foundation. At any rate, he must be in your house. I have no doubt of your liking him when he comes. I cannot see into the heart; but so far as I can judge from repeated conversations, I have no doubt of his being truly serious and gracious. He seems likewise to have strong natural abilities, and I believe would make a tolerable preacher at present.
Admiral Duncan and his brave tars have much praise for the late victory; and the gratitude of the nation at large is shown by celebrations, gluttony, drunkenness, and singing "Rule Britannia." Had the Dutch fleet been permitted to reach Brest, I think it probable that an invasion would have been attempted. I hope some people give the praise to the Lord Almighty, who disappoints the designs of our enemies, and does not yet take vengeance of such a nation as this. He has a remnant among us, and therefore He still seems to say, Destroy it not, for a blessing is in it.
Company comes in one upon another: I can only add my love and dear Betsey’s to you, Mrs. Bull, and my brother Thomas; and my prayers that the Lord bless tutor, students, family, church, and congregation, in body soul, and spirit. Pray for us.
I am your very affectionate friend, brother, and much obliged and obsequious servant,
John Newton 28th Oct., 1797. My dear Friend And Brother,
I am sensible that you have many infirmities: so it has been ever since I knew you — yet you are still alive, and I think still likely to live a good while. It seems probable that I shall die before you — but that will be as the Lord shall appoint. May it be our care and prayer — to live to him while we do live, and leave the rest to him who does all things well.
I am certainly favored with a measure of health and strength, which is not common at my years. I never could preach with more ease and liberty than at present — yet I feel I grow older; the shadows of the evening are advancing upon me. I willingly leave the how and the when and the where of my death, to the Lord. I would only pray (and I hope you will pray for me) that when the summons shall arrive, it shall find me ready, willing, and waiting.
Yesterday and today I have not been quite well. I thank the Lord I am better again. When he sees it needful — he gives us some intimations of our frail state. Mine, indeed, have been few and slight. My judgment is satisfied, that when the Lord shall call me home — it will be unspeakably better to depart and be with Jesus. I have no painful doubts about the event. Surely I know whom I have believed. Surely I have committed my soul, my all, to him. I do it daily and hourly. And I am sure that the good word on which he has caused me to hope — shall stand firm when the frame of nature shall be dissolved. And yet, somehow, clouds and veils hang over the prospect. When I think of the moment after death, my mind is startled at the change that will take place, so new, so inconceivable. But the Lord has said, As your day is — so shall your strength be, I humbly hope, therefore, I shall find a dying strength reserved for a dying hour.
He bids me cast this last care, as well as all my other cares, upon him, and he promises to care for me; therefore, I would say, Welcome, life, with all its trials! Welcome, death, with all its apparent gloom! May the Lord support you under all your infirmities. In this uncertain state, we know not whether we shall meet upon earth; but I trust we shall soon meet where sin, sorrow, pain, and care, shall never intrude. Oh for the ear of faith, to listen to the songs of the harpers! As loud as from numbers without number — sweet as from blessed voices! My dear Miss Catlett joins in love and best wishes to you, Mrs. Bull, and Thomas; and always I am your very affectionate
John Newton
8th Nov., 1797. My dear Sir and Brother,
All is well, and I ask your pardon; I ought to have been more explicit. Is is true that I have liberty to appropriate a part of Mrs. Ekin’s money to prepare a young man for the college, as well as to support him there. And I am ready to do so; only, as you desired me to procure a foundation student, if I could, I thought I might as well propose one of my own as a stranger, and the saving might enable me to send one more to the university. It will be time enough to talk of the foundation when there is a vacancy; nor shall I then wish for it, if it interferes with your intentions in favor of another. But if there should be a vacancy, and while you have no one in prospect whom you prefer, I shall be thankful for the help.
Mr. Morris had left London before your first letter came, and has not yet returned. I believe him to be a valuable and promising young man — but I have only seen him a few times at breakfast. You will be a better judge than I when you have him under your roof. If he behaves well, you will encourage him now and then by a smile, or a kind word, by mentioning him as my friend. I do not mean to ask anything extraordinary out of the common line for him — but only such little notices and attentions, as, though they cost nothing, are much prized by a generous and feeling spirit.
I thank the Lord I am as well as an old man can be. I think and I hope that the Lord bears testimony to the word of his grace at St. Mary’s more than ever, which makes health doubly valuable. May he make me willing to resign it at a moment’s warning; and to sit quiet in my chair or my bed, and rejoice that his work is prospering without me, and that others are serving him better when I can serve him no longer! A sentence in Dr. Cotton Mather’s life struck me more than fifty years ago, and has been often upon my mind from that time — "My usefulness was the last idol I was willing to part with — but now I can part with that, and am content to be laid aside and forgotten, so that he may be glorified."
God would not have lacked instruments — though I had left my bones in Africa, or had been food for the sharks! Oh for grace to retire at his bidding, like a thankful guest from a full table! I have had a long and highly favored day. But the night is surely coming; pray for me, that my decline of life may not be stained with foolishness, impatience, jealousy, or anything that might disparage my profession or ministry. The dark prospect of the times affects me much, as it does you. And, like you, I have often questioned — how shall I behave if such and such things should take place? This seemingly humble diffidence, I am afraid, implies a supposition that I can do pretty well at present, and while things remain no worse than they are. Whereas, I am satisfied in my better judgment, that the Almighty power which sustains the stars in their orbits — is equally necessary to carry me with safety, honor, and comfort through the smoothest day of my life. Let it suffice that he knows where we are, and what we are — and can increase our strength according to our days, to any assignable degree. We do not need shoes of iron and brass — while we walk upon a soft carpet; but should the road become very rough and thorny, these shoes are always at hand — and if we ask for them, we shall have them. Faithful is He that has promised, who also will do it.
Wednesday brought news of the death of my brother at Leith. Our branch of the noble family of Newtons will soon be extinct, for I am the only survivor. He was a sober, moral man, an excellent sea officer, and much respected and approved in his post. He was friendly to the gospel, and constantly attended it. I do not know how far he was wrought upon by it; but his deportment upon his dying bed gives us hope that the Lord prepared him for the change, though he said but little. His widow is a gracious woman, and I doubt not but He who ever lives — will still be a husband to her. This is one attendant of old age — to see our friends and relatives drop off before us, like leaves from the trees in autumn, until we are left naked trunks. But Jesus lives. With more love from us to Mrs. Bull and Thomas, and our best wishes and prayers for you all, I still remain and hope always to be, Yours affectionately,
John Newton
11th Nov. 1797. My dear friend,
Though I have but little time for writing, I must thank you for your letter. I am very glad Mr. Morris pleases you. I had no doubt but you would think him a promising plant. He informed me himself of the advice you gave him. I am in hopes that my letter will confirm both, and make him willing to do nothing in the preaching way, without your express direction. I think you might exert your authority in this case, were it needful, without any fear of grieving the Holy Spirit; but I trust a little persuasion will suffice. He must not be a village preacher, if he means to go to Cambridge.
I preached yesterday from Hosea 11:8-9. The church was very full, and I hope we had the Lord’s presence. In the morning, my apprehensions how the day might close, were rather dark; as I know there is much discontent abroad, and many people busy in fomenting it, and making bad worse. I was afraid lest such a concourse of people might lead to some riotous proceedings; but through the goodness of Him who rules the winds and the seas, all went off very smoothly. I hope the Lord smiled upon the design.
I would relieve all your complaints, if I could. The Lord, who loves you much better than I do, easily could — but he does not; accordingly, he sees it best for you to have them. Infirmities must ordinarily increase with increasing years. I seem, at present, to be an exception to the general rule; but my time cannot be very distant. Oh, to be able to say, from the heart, in the hour of trial, "How weak this prison where I dwell, How frail this tottering wall, The breaches cheerfully foretell. The house must shortly fall!" The Lord, who can exempt us from troubles, can do much more; he can support and can comfort us under them. He could have prevented the three young Hebrews from being cast into the furnace, or kept Daniel out of the den; but his power and faithfulness were more signally displayed by suppressing the effect of the flames, and by shutting the mouths of the lions. Is he not all-sufficient? Has he not promised us strength according to our day? Let us boldly venture upon his word, which cannot fail.
John Newton
20th Dec. 1797. My dear friend,
I am sorry that you are weak and poorly; but knowing that you often touch the mournful string, I am willing to hope you are a little better than you think yourself.
If we take the report of sense — the times are dark indeed. But what says faith? What would become of us if the Scriptures were not true? And if they are true, there must be such dark times, because they are foretold, and not one jot or tittle can fail. Perhaps dark times are the brightest; for they are usually seasons when the Lord’s people are stirred up, and when many who would not hear him in prosperity, are glad to seek him. I think the gospel is spreading among us, and I hope the prayers of the true remnant will so far prevail, that our enemies will not be permitted to swallow us up. They are at war not with us only — but with our God. He is taking his own wise measures, to plead his own cause, which ought to be the dearest concern of our hearts: surely we cannot wish him to lose it? Yes, the times are dark; for though his hand is lifted up, they will not see it. Dissipation and folly are as rampant — as if the nation were in perfect peace and security. Can we assign any reason why such a nation as this, which has abused greater light and privilege than any in Europe, should be exempted from the general shaking? Do not think that my faith is very strong. While I smoke my pipe peaceably, I can talk or write, according to what I read in the Bible; but were the French actually permitted to come, if I was left to myself, perhaps I might flee into the woods, or creep into a cupboard. However, I am aiming to rely upon Him, who has said, "As your day is — so shall your strength be." The Lord is faithful, and if this promise is fulfilled, we shall do very well. Why should not we take joyfully the confiscation of our goods, and count it an honor to lay down our lives for his sake if called to it, as others have done before us? They were no better in themselves than we, nor had they a better gospel than ours. Is not He who supported them — able to support us also? Their feet were as tender as ours; but when the way was very rough, he gave them shoes of iron and brass; and I trust there are more such shoes upon the shelf for our use likewise, if we should need them.
I cannot be poorer than I was when the Lord brought me from African Egypt, from being a slave of slaves. Nor can I be in more apparent danger than I have often been at sea in a storm; even the French are not more irresistible or more inexorable than the raging billows in a tempest. The Lord has delivered me from the paw of many a lion, and of many a bear; why then should I be afraid of this atheistic Philistine, who has defied not only the armies of the living God — but the living God himself?
Indeed, I trust they will not be allowed to execute all their malicious rage and threatenings against us. But they will probably alarm us. And then, like Israel at the Red Sea, we shall cry to the Lord, and I hope like them we shall be heard and preserved. He could have easily prevented Pharaoh and his army from following them; but, had he done so, Israel would not have known that glorious display of his power and goodness on their behalf in dividing the waters and drowning their enemies.
All these things shall eventually promote the glory of his name, the good of his church, and the spread of the gospel. The French, like the Jews when they crucified the Messiah, will only execute what God has already appointed to be done. I wish to watch, and pray, and mourn for the abounding of sin, and the abounding woes with which sin has filled the world. Nor would I forget my own sins, which contribute to fill the national cup; for the rest, I know that He does and will do all things well. And when you and I shall meet on one of the green and flowery mounts, which Dr. Watts speaks of — we shall see it more clearly. Until then may His peace rule in our hearts. Give our joint love to Mrs. Bull, brother Thomas, Mr. Morris, and to all your family. Pray for us. We shall be glad to see you in London. May the Lord be a sun and a shield to you and to us.
I am yours very affectionately and obliged,
John Newton 26th April, 1798. My dear Old friend,
Though the flame of our affection is not much supported by the fuel of frequent letters and converse, I trust it still burns brightly, for it is fed from a secret, invisible, and inexhaustible source. If two needles are properly touched by a magnet, they will retain their sympathy for a long time. But if two hearts are truly united to the Heavenly Magnet, their mutual attraction will be permanent in time and to eternity, Blessed be the Lord for a good hope — that it is thus between you and me. I could not love you better if I saw you or heard from you every day.
Dear Miss Catlett, and I, and all the dear family we are with, consisting of about twenty people, are well. We lie down and rise up, go out and come in, in peace and safety. What a wonderful mercy, in such a world as this, when so many are suffering and falling around us, and we, though upon the same field of battle, remain unhurt! The calendar tells me that if I live until next Monday, I shall enter my seventy-sixth year. I believe you will pray for me on that day. My eyes, ears, and legs likewise admonish me that I grow older. My writing days seem almost over, as I cannot see well to write; but I make an effort to send you one letter more, which may probably be the last you will receive.
I have requested your prayers; shall I tell you what to ask for? You need not pray for my sudden death, for I have as little reason as most people to be weary of life, and, through mercy, I feel at present quite willing to live my appointed time. Nor need you pray for my long continuance here, for I see little except my profession and ministry worth living for another day. But pray that I may be enabled to leave the time and manner of my death entirely in the Lord’s hand. That if he sees fit to summon me suddenly, I may be willing to go without delay; and that if he is pleased to lay me aside, I may be as willing to retire and wait his time.
Pray likewise for me, that no gross imprudence or misconduct may stain the latter part of my life — but that I may be enabled to exemplify in myself what I have labored to inculcate upon others from the pulpit. I have observed in some good men and good ministers, improprieties in their latter days, which I have been willing to ascribe rather to the infirmities of old age, than to a defect in real grace. I pray daily to be preserved from these, and I request your assistance. I have known good men, in advanced life, to be garrulous, peevish, dogmatic, self-important, with some symptoms of jealousy, and perhaps envy, toward those who are upon the increase — while they feel themselves decreasing. Do, my friend, pray earnestly that it may not be so with me — but that I may retire, if laid aside, like a thankful guest from a plentiful table, and may rejoice to see others coming forward to serve the Lord, (I hope better and more successfully,) when I can serve him no longer. May I never forget that the Lord brought me from Africa, where I was the slave — the scorn, and the pity of black slaves — what he has done for me since, and what a long and highly favored day I have had since he was pleased to put me into the ministry. Such likewise shall be my desire and prayer for you, if you should be spared to old age; for as yet I consider you rather as a youngish man.
I know, what as yet you know not, that the loss of a good wife, after a connection of many endeared years, can only be made up by the Lord himself. But when he removed mine, he left one in Miss Catlett, the best substitute the nature of the case would admit. Her tenderness and attention make my heart shrink sometimes, when I think what a trial she will have if it should be her lot to close my eyes. Do join me in prayer for her, that He to whom all things are easy, may give her strength according to her day.
Give our love to Mrs. Bull, brother Thomas, and all who are dear to you. Love to Miss Neale, Mrs. Tipgin, and more than I can name, who come often to visit. I shall expect to hear from you likewise. The Lord bless you and yours, in body, soul, and spirit. Amen.
I am your affectionate and obliged
John Newton
Aug. 1st, 1800. My dear friend, My head, hands, and heart have been so full, that I could not write when I wished. I can answer your kind inquiries about my dear Eliza in few words. Her present state is very similar to dear Mr. Cowper’s during the first two or three years of his illness. She is in a deep melancholy, and her distress is probably aggravated by the dreadful suggestions of that enemy who, when he is permitted, is always ready to worry those whom he may not destroy. In all that concerns herself she is quite deranged; but I thank the Lord she is mild and quiet, and can pay some attention to what passes around her. She expects to die every hour, though her bodily health is not amiss; and she thinks that the moment after death will sink her into the pit without hope, for that all her religious profession was but hypocrisy, and that now the Lord had detected her, and cast her off forever. Do you ask how I feel for her and myself? Through mercy, I can say, Though cast down, not destroyed. My trial is great — but the all-sufficient Lord is my support. I am sure this affliction did not spring out of the ground. I trust the outcome will be to his glory and our good. I am enabled to preach as usual, and when thus employed, I am helped in a good measure to leave my own personal cares behind me for the time, though they often return with weight when the service is ended.
How often have I made a surrender of myself and my all to the Lord? How often have I aimed to say, I hope with sincerity: Lord, when, and where, and what you will! He is now pleased to take me at my word. I have told many that the post of trial, if supported in a right spirit, as befits a sinner and a believer, is a post of honor. This honor is now assigned to me. May his grace be sufficient for me! May he give me strength according to my day! I humbly hope he will; and then the hard — will be easy, and the bitter bud — will produce a sweet flower. He has designs by this dispensation, which, though beyond my reach, I am sure must be worthy of his wisdom and love. I am a short-sighted creature; I cannot tell what worse things this trial may prevent, or what blessings it may produce. My chief desire for myself is, that He may preserve me from dishonoring my profession by despondence, impatience, or any wrong tempers.
I scarcely know a person of her years, who has given more satisfactory, uniform, and abiding proofs of a real state of grace, than my dear child. Her walk has long been not only unblamably — but highly exemplary. About a month before this awful gloom overwhelmed her, though she was then very disconsolate, the Lord was pleased suddenly to break in upon her mind with such power, light, and love, as she said she had never before experienced, nor ever expected. Then her apprehensions of dying were overborne, and she was heartily willing, had such been the Lord’s pleasure, to have gone home. Though short, it was a precious view. It lasted but about a quarter of an hour. Now, she says it was a delusion. But it was a cordial to me, as showing me how easily and quickly the Lord can say to the troubled mind, ’Peace, be still!’ For His time, which must be the best time, I am now to wait. You and yours, I know, will pray that I may be enabled to wait with faith, hope, patience, and resignation. I trust all will be well at last, and if so, all must be well now.
I believe either you or my good friend, Mr. Thomas, have seen dear Mr. Ring’s cottage. It is a delightful spot. There my dear Eliza is under the care of faithful Dr. Crabb. There she has every advantage that fine air, extensive prospects, convenient walks, and the best medical advice can afford; and there she must be for a season, until we see more of the Lord’s will. She is in safe hands.
I could write on, (though my eyes are very weak;) but Mr. Ring wants to write on the other side. A letter from you now would be great charity. Collect all the prayers for us that you can; and may the Lord bless you and yours, in your heart, house, ministry, and make you a blessing to many. My warm love to you all.
I am your affectionate and obliged
John Newton
20th May, 1801. My dear friend, At length I have the pleasure of a letter from you to answer. My poor weak eyes will try to thank you for it — but they cannot allow me to write much at one sitting.
I have paid three visits to my dearest Eliza. The first was an interesting interview indeed. But I trust the Lord was with us. We behaved pretty well. We were mutually afraid of overdoing each other. This suppressed, in a measure, many emotions on both sides, for I had not seen her for about eight months. The second and third time we were calm. Her derangement still continues — but my great trial is alleviated by many mercies. The horrors which once overwhelmed her mind are removed. She long thought that the Lord had detected and would punish her as a hypocrite, and that death, which she hourly expected, would sink her down to be a companion with Judas.
But, now, through mercy, when her mind is diverted from her own case, she is, in all other respects, as composed and correct as at any former time. She and her three friends are always together, and she attends the sick and distressed like a nurse; her benevolent feelings are all revived, and she goes about doing good according to her power, as she did before the storm came upon her. On the Lord’s day evening, she is usually a sort of chaplain to those (of her ward) who will attend, and I suppose has sometimes a dozen hearers. To them she reads a chapter, and often throws in a word of her own by way of explanation. She then reads a sermon, and gives out a hymn. I hope the Lord has sent her for the good of others. She has, in some cases, been very useful, as I shall tell you, if I live to see you, when you come to town. She is respected, beloved, and kindly treated by all in the house, and many of the rules of the place are dispensed with as much as possible in her favor.
Yet my trial is great. But I know it did not spring out of the ground. I believe not a sparrow, or even a hair from our heads, can fall without His notice. I believe that no creature can give us either pleasure or pain — but as instruments of his will; and that those who fear and love him, will, sooner or later, number their sharpest trials among their chief mercies. And, as I am well satisfied that her soul is bound up in the bundle of life with the Lord, and as I believe, though a chief sinner, I am, I trust, pardoned and accepted in the beloved — I aim to resign her and myself into his hands, and to hope that all will work for his glory and our final benefit. He has made me in a degree willing — but I find the flesh is weak. But this he knows likewise. He knows what I feel, and, through mercy, I am supported, though not by sensible comforts, or lively frames. But I am enabled to trust in his written Word.
It is some addition to my trial, that I cannot fill up my time with writing and reading as formerly. But he knows this also; and should I be quite blind, I ought to be thankful that I had the use of them seventy-six years, and not to complain that they failed at last. Lord, I and all I have is yours. You can take nothing away — but what you first gave. My memory, likewise, is so faint, that I often forget what I said or did two hours before. Yet it seldom fails me when in the pulpit, or when expounding in the houses of my friends. Perhaps I never preached longer, louder, or more frequently than at present. Perhaps I was never heard with more attention or acceptance. (Phillip, 1:29.) If he enables me to suffer as a Christian, this post of trial may be a post of honor, and may encourage others in their affliction to trust in him when they see his faithfulness and goodness in my case. He does, he will do, all things well. May I say from my heart, Not my will — but your be done.
Mr. Raban’s death seems to have been very sudden. I should like to hear more about it. I have written to his widow. May we be always ready.
Love to Mrs. Bull, to brother Thomas, to your students, and to all who love the Savior. My eyes have let me run on longer than I expected. Perhaps because I am writing to you. I am, indeed. Your very affectionate and obliged,
John Newton
4th June, 1802. My dear friend,
If my eyes will give me permission, I must thank you, however briefly, for your very kind letter of the third. As my anniversary was on a Wednesday, I preached about Mr. Self, from the case of the demoniac in Mark 5:1-43, which so nearly resembled my own, and particularly from verses 18, 19.
I am now two days into my seventy-eighth year. My health and strength are remarkable for my age; but I feel some symptoms of declining years. The day of opportunity wears away, and the night is approaching when no man can work. But while the Lord enables me to preach, and the people are attentive and willing to hear me in my poor broken way — I ought to be willing to live to the age of Methuselah, if I might but promote his glory, and be any way useful to my hearers. I am bought with a price; consequently, I am not my own. I wish to say from my heart, Lord, grant that the short uncertain remnant of my time may not discredit my profession, by pride or any evil tempers; and that when the summons shall come, it shall find me ready and waiting to go. To this purpose I have been permitted and encouraged to pray for many years past, and our God is a hearer of prayer. My dear child joins with me in love to you and yours, and in thanks for your kind prayers and wishes on our joint behalf. I have much to be thankful for on her account. The Lord has done great things for us, and I am waiting and praying for complete relief. But, however he may dispose of us while here, I am sure that he does all things well, and that his choice for us will be eventually better than anything we can choose for ourselves. If there is any alteration since you saw her, I think it is for the better, and I am not without hope that a full deliverance is gradually approaching; but I trust we are both under the direction of infinite wisdom, goodness, and power, and there I would leave it, and say, (Oh that I may say it from my heart!) Not my will — but may yours be done!
Now my eyes bid me hasten to a close. The Lord bless you, in your person, family, and ministry, and return you sevenfold into your own bosom, all that you have desired and prayed for us. Love to Mrs. Bull. Brother Thomas Bull made us a kind and very acceptable visit yesterday, an hour and a half long.
I am your very affectionate,
John Newton 5th August, 1802.
(Editor’s note: Miss Catlett, after this, returned home, gradually recovered, and was, some time previous to Mr. Newton’s death, married to Mr. Smith.) My very dear Bull,
You will not expect me to write much; but I must tell you that I have seen your letter to Mrs. Neale. It awakened my most tender sympathy for you and yours, and my concern was mingled with joy to find the Lord so graciously supported you. Faithful is he who has promised. For lack of eyes, I refer you to Matthew 7:24-27, which occurred in my reading this morning. How shall the house upon the rock be proved to be upon a sure foundation, if it was not assaulted by the same rain, storms, and floods which swept away that which was built upon the sand?
I could fill the sheet — if I could see; but I cannot. My dear Miss Catlett cordially joins in all that I mean, when I subscribe myself, your affectionate and sympathizing friend and brother,
John Newton 9th March, 1804.
Time — how short! Eternity — how long!