John Newton's Letters

Letters to his wife, from 1750 to 1754

Written during three voyages to Africa, from 1750 to 1754.

"Those who go down to the sea in ships, who do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep." Psalm 107:23-24

 

PREFACE

When, after repeated checks of conscience, I obstinately broke through all restraints of religion, it pleased God for a time to give me up to my own willfulness and folly; perhaps as much so, as ever poor creature was given up to himself, who did not finally perish. The way of transgressors is always hard. It proved so to me. The miseries into which I plunged myself, could only be exceeded by the dreadful wickedness of my heart and life. At length I was driven to the desperate determination of living upon the coast of Africa.

Towards the close of the year 1749, Mr. Manesty promised me the command of a ship to Africa, in the ensuing season. On this promise (for I had no other dependence) I ventured to marry on the first of February following, where my heart had been long engaged. After I had gained my point, I often trembled for my precipitation. For, though I am sure I would have preferred the person I married to any other woman in the world, though possessed of the mines of Potosi, she had no fortune; and if anything had happened to involve her in difficulties upon my account, I think my strong affection for her would have made me truly miserable.

I have often thought since, that we were then like two inexperienced people on the edge of a wide wilderness, without a guide, ignorant of the way they should take, entirely unapprised of the difficulties they might have to encounter. But the Lord God, whom at that time I knew not, had mercifully purposed to be our guide and our guard.

The imminent danger and extreme distress to which we were reduced by a storm, in my passage from Africa to Liverpool, had, by the mercy of God, made such an impression upon my mind, that I was no longer an infidel or a libertine. I had some serious thoughts, was considerably reformed—but too well satisfied with my reformation. If I had any spiritual light, it was but as the first faint streaks of the early dawn; and I believe it was not yet daybreak with my dear wife. She was young, cheerful, and much esteemed by her connections, which were genteel and numerous. She was not lacking in that 'decent religion' which is compatible with the supposed innocent gaieties of a worldly life; and which disposes people to be equally ready and punctual (in their respective seasons) at church and at cards, at the assembly or theater, and at the sacrament. Farther than this she knew not, nor was I qualified to teach her. It is rather probable, that, if I could have remained at home, my great attachment to her would have drawn me into the same paths, and that we should have looked no higher for happiness than to our mutual satisfaction in each other.

But God had designed better things for us. The season for sailing approached, and I was constrained to leave her, to take the command and charge of my ship. This necessity of being absent from her, which then seemed to me bitter as death, I have now reason to acknowledge as one of the chief mercies of my life. If I could have obtained my fond short-sighted wish, and have continued with her, I see that, humanly speaking, it might have proved the ruin of us both.

The summons I received to repair to Liverpool, awakened me as out of a dream. When I was forced from her, I found both leisure and occasion for much reflection. My serious thoughts, which had been almost smothered, began to revive. And my anxiety with respect to what might possibly happen while I was abroad, induced me to offer up many prayers for her, before I well knew how to pray for myself. He who takes notice of the cries of the young ravens in their nests, was pleased to hear mine. In a word, I soon felt the need of that support which only religion can give. The separation likewise tended, on both sides, to give a certain tenderness and delicacy, and thereby a permanency, to our affection, which might not have flourished to equal advantage through life, if we had always lived together.

This brief introduction may possibly throw some light upon several passages, which will occur in the course of my correspondence.

The only expedient we could then think of to alleviate the pains of absence, was writing. Letters were accordingly exchanged, by every post, while I stayed in England: and when I sailed, and could not expect to hear from her for a long time, I still continued to write on the usual post-days. And this practice afforded me so much relief and pleasure, that it was not long before I wrote (if business and circumstances would permit) almost every day of every week. Few, if any, of my letters miscarried. The first volume (These Letters were originally published in two volumes.) of this publication is formed by a selection of extracts, from those which I sent home during the three voyages I made to Africa. Those in the second, are extracted from a number almost equal, which I wrote when we were occasionally separated, after the good providence of God freed me from that iniquitous employment in which I was too long ignorantly engaged, and appointed me a settlement on shore.

When I first undertook this painfully pleasing task, I had not the least thought of the Letters appearing in print so soon. I intended them for a posthumous legacy to my friends and to the public. But, in the progress of the work, my objections to publishing them myself, were gradually weakened; and I became more willing to erect, as it were, a monument to the memory of a valuable and much valued woman in my own life time. The only justifiable plea I can allege for printing these Letters at all, is a hope that, by the blessing of God, they may be made useful to some of my readers; and, if this hope be not ill-founded, the sooner they appear the better. Some testimony in favor of the happiness of wedded life, some intimation of the snares and abatements which attend it, seems not unseasonable in the present day. And perhaps I am, by experience, qualified to be as unexceptionable a witness, in both respects, as most men.

I am aware that I shall expose myself to the charge of egotism; but this I may cheerfully submit to, if my heart does not deceive me with respect to my motives and proposed end. Neither the censures nor the praises of men ought to have an undue influence upon those who profess to act with a view to the glory of God, and the benefit of their fellow-creatures. And, as to myself, now far advanced in life, and standing upon the brink of the grave and of eternity, it does not become me to be very solicitous what mortals may say or think of me, either at present, or when I shall cease to be seen among them, provided I am justly chargeable with nothing unsuitable to my profession and general character. We must all shortly appear before the tribunal of the great, unerring Judge, the one Lawgiver, who is able to save or to destroy. Then the secrets of all hearts will be unfolded, and every character will appear in its true light.

Yet, as my Letters are of a singular cast, and I tread upon rather new and unbeaten ground, the respect which I owe to my readers requires me to request their candid perusal, and to soften, if I can, such objections as I foresee may arise in their minds (as they may be differently disposed) to different parts of the book.

It is proper to make an apology to the public at large, for the detail of many incidents, which, however interesting to myself, especially at the time of writing, are certainly not sufficiently so to deserve general attention. If I had not suppressed the greater part of these, my two small volumes would have swelled to folios. To have suppressed them all, besides defeating my main design, would have made the little remainder appear harsh and stiff; would have given the Letters an air of declamation, and have destroyed that freedom which is essential to the epistolary style. It is difficult to draw the exact line, and to fix the proper medium; and especially so to me, on a subject in which I am so nearly concerned, and on which I could not well consult my friends. I have kept this difficulty in view through the whole, and have acted to the best of my judgment. What some people will blame, others may approve, and my books will be open to all. Besides, as the workings and emotions, common to the human heart, are much fewer than the various events and occasions that may excite them; some account of my own feelings, under certain circumstances, may apply to the feelings of others in their more important affairs.

To my more serious readers, I may well apologize for most of the Letters of an early date; which I should certainly be ashamed of now, if they were printed by themselves. But, as I began to write, about the same time that I began to see spiritually; and, in proportion as light increased upon my mind, my Letters assumed a graver cast; I was willing to insert such a series as might mark the progress of that spiritual knowledge which the Lord taught me to seek, and which I did not seek entirely in vain. My Letters, which at first were trifling, soon became more serious: and, as I was led into farther views of the principles and privileges of the Gospel, I endeavored to communicate to my dear correspondent what I had received. And, in due time, he was pleased to make them a means of affecting her heart, and impressing her with the same desires and aims. For which mercy I can never sufficiently adore and praise him.

If those who think lightly of marriage, or who chiefly engage in it upon selfish motives, preferring the wealth, and pomp, and glare of the world—to a union of hearts; if such people should treat all that I have written upon the subject as folly, rant, and enthusiasm, I cannot help it. To them, I owe no apology. I only hope they will not be angry with me, for expressing a friendly wish that they might be even as I was, excepting the heart-aches and inquietudes that I sometimes felt, which I considered as a price paid (and I thought the purchase not dear) for my satisfaction. Long experience and much observation have convinced me, that the marriage state, when properly formed and prudently conducted, affords the nearest approach to happiness (of a merely temporal kind) that can be attained in this uncertain world, and which will best abide the test of sober reflection.

To infidels, skeptics, and libertines, if such should be among the number of my readers. I cannot expect that any apology of mine, for what might be justly 'exceptionable', would be either acceptable or sufficient. They will be glad if they can pick out any sentiments, either false or trivial, to exhibit as specimens of the whole. Yet I have something to say to them; not in a spirit of defiance—but of meekness. These characters were once, alas! my own. Had my abilities and opportunities been equal to the depraved taste of my heart, I would have rivaled Voltaire himself! My own experience convinces me, that nothing short of a divine power can soften that mind which, after having stifled repeated checks of conscience, has renounced revelation, and is hardened like steel by infidelity. I know the gall and bitterness, the effects, and the awful danger, of that state. Such people are entitled to my compassion and my prayers; if, perhaps, it may please God to give them repentance, to the acknowledgment of the truth.

It is not the smallest evil resulting from this malignant poison, that those who are infected by it, cannot be content with going on in their own way alone; but usually labor, with a zeal almost equal to that of a fanatic, to draw others into the same path. There is a something within them which will, at times, remonstrate and recoil, in defiance of their utmost efforts. At such seasons, (like children in the dark,) unless they have company, their spirits will flag. This prompts them to employ every art of sophistry and deceit to gain proselytes.

Rational deductions and learned arguments are not necessary to evince the truth of the Gospel. It proves its own importance by its obvious tendency, and by its uniform effects. Let a thinking man suppose, for a moment, that the motives, hopes, and rules proposed in the New Testament, were to be universally understood, cordially embraced, and strictly observed, tomorrow; the sure consequence, that a change equally universal, in the general habits, tempers, and pursuits of mankind would likewise tomorrow take place, must force itself upon his mind. The wilderness would become a garden: fraud, violence, discord, oppression, and profligacy, would instantly cease: order, justice, peace, benevolence, and every branch of morality, would instantly flourish. Men would live as brethren, and treat each other as they could equitably expect to be treated themselves in similar cases. Such are the actual effects, where the Gospel is truly received. How many who, like the man possessed with a legion, or, like me, were miserable and mischievous; a burden to themselves and to their friends, and a nuisance in the community, have been, and still are, brought to their right minds, rescued from the tyranny of contending inordinate passions, and taught to fill up their places in society with decorum and usefulness! The Gospel, thus embraced, is presently found to be exactly suited to the needs, desires, and fears of the human heart. It adds a relish to all the comforts of life; diminishes the pressure of afflictions; affords a balm for every wound, a cordial for every care; and enables the believer to meet death with composure, dignity, and hope.

How ungenerous then, how cruel, are they who endeavor to rob us of this precious blessing, when they have nothing to propose as a substitute! But, blessed be God, their attempts are no less vain than desperate. They may blind the eyes of a few—but they cannot deprive the sun of its light.

Such is the power of guilt and fear—to alienate the mind from God, that those who would tremble to be seated in a carriage drawn by unruly horses with no one to manage the reins, are reduced to deny a governing providence of God over all his creatures, and especially over mankind. They think it less uncomfortable to suppose, that the contingencies to which we are liable, in such a world as this, are the mere unavoidable result of second causes, than that they are under the direction of Him whose almighty power is combined with infinite wisdom and goodness. For they know and feel, that, if there is a God, if he is wise and good, and if he takes cognizance of the hearts and actions of men—that they have everything to dread. From people of this stamp I can expect no favor. I once thought, or wished, as they do; but the Divine Providence, which I long denied and defied, convinced me of my error by multiplied merciful interpositions in my behalf. May the like mercy and compassion be extended to many others who, at present, know not what they do!

I return from this digression. My views in sending these Letters abroad, are chiefly four:

1. As a public testimony of the thanks which I owe to the God of my life, for giving me such a treasure; for uniting our hearts by such tender ties, and for continuing her to me so long.

2. As a monument of respect and gratitude to her memory. She was my pleasing companion, my most affectionate friend, my judicious counselor. I seldom or never repented of acting according to her advice. And I seldom acted against it, without being convinced by the event that I was wrong.

3. I hope to show, by the most familiar kind of proof, example, that marriage, when the parties are united by affection, and the general conduct is governed by religion and prudence, is not only an honorable—but a comfortable state. But, from what I have felt, and what I have seen, I am well assured that true religion, by which I mean the fear of God, a regard to his precepts, and a dependence upon his care—is absolutely necessary to make us comfortable, or happy, even in the possession of our own wishes. The fairest prospects, unless founded upon this basis, may be compared to a house built upon the sand, which may seem to answer for a time, while the weather is fine; but which, when tried by the storms and floods, the changes and calamities inseparable from the present state of things, will, sooner or later, fall, and involve the builders in confusion and distress.

4. I likewise hope, that my example may prove a warning to others, who set out with warm hopes of satisfaction, to be cautious of an over-attachment to their creature-comforts. My sharpest trials, and my most pungent causes for repentance and humiliation, through life—sprung from this source!

 

First voyage to Africa, 1750

St. Alban's, May 19, 1750.

My Dearest,
I could have reached Dunstable tonight—but I remembered that you had desired me not to ride late.

I think I fully obeyed you in not saying much when I took my leave. My heart was really too full; and, had I been more able, the fear of increasing your uneasiness would have prevented me. Were I capable of describing all the tender sentiments that have occurred since we parted, an indifferent person would allow me to be master of the pathetic. But I cannot express what I feel. Do me the justice to believe my affection goes beyond any words I can use.

I purpose to set off early tomorrow, and to attend service at church somewhere on the road; which I do not care to miss without necessity. But now I am particularly desirous of improving the first opportunity to implore, in a solemn manner, the protection of Divine Providence, that we may be favored with a happy meeting.

Gracious God! favor me and my dearest wife with health, and a moderate share of the good things of this life! Grant that I may be always happy in her love, and always prove deserving of it! For the rest, the empty gewgaws and gilded trifles, which engage the thoughts of multitudes, I hope I shall be always able to look upon them with indifference.

I make no apology for this serious strain. Believe me, I write experimentally; and, to the degree that I love you, I could not bear to be torn from you in this manner, if I was not supported by my principles; which teach me that I ought to be not only content—but thankful that things are so well with me as they are, and to expect no pleasure in this life without some abatement. I believe there may be people who can keep themselves in tolerable good humor, by the strength of their own minds, in a course of prosperity; but, when crosses and disappointments take place, or when they are constrained to part from what they hold most dear, if they cannot call in religion to their aid—they usually sink and despond. At least I have always found it so.

I have a good horse and a good road, and pretty good spirits likewise, considering that the more haste I make, the more I increase my distance from you. But, when I reflect, that now your interest, as well as my own, calls me away, methinks I can scarcely go fast enough.

I am likely to perform the whole journey alone; but I want no company. It will be always a full entertainment to me, to recollect how very happy I have been in yours, and to animate myself with the pleasing hope, that in due time I shall be so again.

I am, etc. inviolably yours.

 

Liverpool, May 27, 1750.

I was forced to defer writing so long on Friday, that I was constrained to leave a thousand things unsaid. I therefore begin now in time. When you write next, let me know at what hours you usually rise, breakfast, dine, sup, and go to bed, that I may keep time with you, or, at least, attend you with my thoughts, if I should be otherwise engaged.

Oh! that it was possible for you to go with me where I go, to cheer and enliven me amidst fatigues and difficulties, without sharing them! How light would they then seem to me! But I submit. At least, happen what may, it will give me pleasure to think that my better, dearer part, is in safety at home.

I have now received your letter of the 24th, and kissed it a hundred times! I beg you not to give way to uneasy apprehensions for me; for, while you are well and easy, I am as happy as I wish to be, during my absence from you. I would be sorry to find this absence become more easy to me by time. Let it suffice that I eat, drink, and sleep well, and am in health and spirits to do everything that may appear necessary to procure us a future happy encounter.

I acknowledge that at intervals, and when alone, the recollection of the past almost overpowers me with a tender concern; but do not be grieved for me, for I find a pleasure in the indulgence of such thoughts, which I would not part with upon any less consideration than that of being actually with you. I have written myself into tears now, and yet I feel a serenity and satisfaction, of which, until I could call you mine, I had no perception. I cannot bemoan your absence without remembering, at the same time, how happy, and how long happy, I have been with you. This is a kind of bank-stock, a treasure of which I cannot be deprived. And while I retain the recollection, that I have been so happy, I cannot be quite uncomfortable. But why do I say, I once was?—I am so still; for the consciousness that you love me, is a present and permanent comfort, and will be so at all times and in all places. Your love was my principal desire; and, without it, all that you had besides in your power to bestow would have been dull and insipid.

Since you have kindly promised to write by every post, I wish we had a post every day.

 

Liverpool, June 29, 1750.

Though, at taking up the pen, I have not a single sentence ready, I expect something will soon occur, when I write to you. I am going to set you a pattern how to fill a sheet with nothing, or what is little better than nothing. But, as I know you will make favorable allowances, I am content to appear at a disadvantage.

Do not think of me as suffering or grieving—rather consider how happy you have made me, and that you have put me into a situation from which I can look upon princes without envy: and that, notwithstanding my regret for parting with you for a season, I would not change circumstances with any man in the kingdom! Of the many temporal blessings for which I am indebted to a gracious Providence, I set a higher value upon none more than this—that I was formed with a heart capable of tender and unselfish affection, and directed to you for the object of it.

I am, entirely yours.

 

Liverpool, July 10, 1750.

I must be up late tonight to attend the tide; but, by writing to you, I can agreeably fill up the time, which might otherwise seem tedious.

I pity those who must fly to company and noise, to fill up their vacant hours; and must be always changing the scene, though often for the worse. Whereas I, when I am most retired and solitary, by directing my thoughts to you, have more pleasure than they can conceive of in their gay moments. I say this the more assuredly, because I have formerly been on the other side of the question; and have sought satisfaction, in that manner of life, with so much earnestness, that I should, at least sometimes, have found it, had it really existed to be met with. But I can scarcely recollect an hour of my past life with any pleasure, excepting the time I have passed in your company; and for that I think the innumerable troubles and sufferings I previously underwent—not a good purchase.

I was on shipboard this morning until past two o'clock. The weather was perfectly serene, the moon shone bright, and, having nothing from within or without to discompose me, I passed the hours pleasantly in thinking of you. It was with great satisfaction I indulged the hope that you were then in a gentle slumber, under a safe and sure protection, and as free from inquietudes as myself. I then imagined the scene changing to what I must, in a little time, expect; when dark nights, heavy rains, violent winds, mountainous seas, and awful thunder, will sometimes all combine to alarm me. But this anticipation gives me no uneasiness at present; for even then I shall hope that my dearer, better part, will be as calm and undisturbed as she is now. And, as to the other half of myself, now on board the Duke of Argyle, it may be pleased with the expectation of an ample amends at the completion of the voyage. I shall probably at such times often repeat to myself a part of the verses which I addressed to you, at a time when I had little hope of obtaining the happiness I attempted to describe. They were then, therefore, a mere rant—but they now express my settled judgment and choice:

These threatening seas, where wild confusion reigns,
And yawning dangers all around appear,
I value more than groves or flowery plains,
Since 'tis the only way that leads to her.

Believe me, I would think it well worth the trouble of another journey to London, to have an interview with you, if only for a quarter of an hour. But it must not be, and I submit.

You either misunderstand the latter part of my letter, or I expressed myself awkwardly, which is most likely. I did not mean to say that you were lacking in religion; I said, or meant to say, that, as I thought myself not lacking in love, when I first offered you my heart, and yet found afterwards, that my notion of it has been greatly enlarged by a more intimate relation to you; so it might be a happy circumstance if we could be reciprocally helpful in improving each other's ideas of religion. If I seemed to take the upper hand, and affect the dictating strain, I ask your pardon. I ought to be sensible that I am not qualified for it, and to be more ready to learn—than to teach.

I am, etc. yours.

 

Liverpool, July 20, 1750.

I received your welcome letter of the 17th, which, when I had read it about twenty times over, furnished me with many pleasing reflections; and led me to compare my present state with the base insipid life I must have led, even in the most affluent circumstances, if my sincere love had not obtained the only adequate prize—a reciprocal affection from you.

I am still of opinion, that, at first, compassion and generosity induced you to think favorably of me. It did not suit with your temper to be unaffected by the pain and uneasiness of anyone, much less of one who, though under a thousand disadvantages, you had reason to believe really loved you. And, if I am not mistaken, you used some constraint with yourself, in the beginning, to bring your inclination to coincide with the power you had to make me happy. Thus I thought when I received your hand in marriage. Yet I was no less easy and secure, than if I had made the most successful improvement of our long acquaintance in gaining your heart. For I knew you too well to fear that, after you had gone so far, you would stop short, until your affection was equal to my own.

I was pretty well assured in my own mind, that I should make it the chief business, or rather pleasure, of my life, to study and seize every opportunity of obliging you; and I was no less certain, that the most trivial instance of such an intention would not be overlooked by you, or lost upon you. The event has answered my expectation. I have now the same confidence that you love me—as that I love you; a confidence which I would not exchange for any consideration the world could offer; a confidence which renders me superior to all the little entertainments that would allure me while I am here, and which I hope will satisfy and cheer me when, in a few days, I shall leave them all behind me. I long to be gone, for, after parting with you—all scenes will be equally indifferent to me, until the happy hour of our reunion.

I thank you for your promise of writing weekly, and you may depend upon my not being behind-hand with you. But remember that there is no regular post from Africa, and that the length of the passage of a ship is very precarious. I hope, therefore, you will not indulge discouraging thoughts, if you should not hear from me as soon as you may expect.

The weather has been dark and rainy. It is some time since I saw the north star. When I am at sea, I shall watch it at the hour we agreed upon, that I may have the pleasure of thinking that sometimes our eyes and thoughts are fixed upon the same object.

I am, etc. yours.

 

Liverpool, July 29, 1750.

I think, if I stay here much longer, I must adopt your method, and follow a long letter with a very short one. For, though I always take pleasure in writing, I begin to be ashamed of sending you little more than repetitions. I have expressed my affection (so far as my knowledge of words can express) in so many different forms and phrases, that I am quite at a loss for new ones. I must either write but little, as you do, or to little purpose, unless I begin again, as from the first; and in that case I believe my second round of letters would be very similar to the former, because I write from my feelings. My heart dictates every line.

And, though my head often interposes, and observes that this expression is hardly grammar, the next not well turned, the third unnecessary, and so on; yet heart persists in his own way, and whatever occurs to him goes down upon the paper, in defiance of head's wise remonstrances. The contention arises sometimes to such a height, that head tells heart, he raves and is an enthusiast. And heart calls head a conceited pedant, whose narrow views are confined to a little nicety and exactness in trifles, because He is a stranger to the emotions of love. As you know which side of the debate I favor, I need not tell you that when my strains are dull, it is none of poor heart's fault, who always does his best to please; but because head refuses to assist him, and leaves us both to shift for ourselves: though I often tell him, that I will neither regard heart, head, nor hands, unless they all consider themselves as belonging to you, and ready at all times for your service, as myself. It seems wrong to say, a man has his heart in his mouth when He is in great fear. I think he may properly be said to have his heart in his mouth, when he is capable of relating, in suitable terms, what really affects him. So, had I my heart at my fingers' ends, I should perhaps write a letter worthy your perusal. Until then I must beg you to accept what I send, because it is the best I have.

I am, yours, etc.

 

Liverpool, July 31, 1750.

I was kept some little time in suspense for yours of the 28th, which made it, if possible, more welcome when it carne. Yet I am sorry that I hinted anything to give you an anxious thought upon my account. The pain I complained of in my head, or a much more severe one, would be vastly more tolerable to me, than to hear that you are made uneasy. If it had not been a common thing, and usually soon over, I should not have mentioned it; but was unwilling to be guilty of a short letter, without assigning a true reason. I am much concerned that you should have such a weight upon your mind, and beg you, by all the regard you have for me, to strive against it.

If my dearest M*** will permit me to offer my best advice, and which I propose as a rule to myself—it is this—To endeavor to cast all your care upon Him who has promised to care for us, if we will but put our trust in him. I long attempted to apply the specious maxims of philosophy, to soften the cares and trials of lift—but I found them ineffectual and false; or, however they might have soothed some of the most ordinary and trivial inquietudes, yet I am very sure that, under this aggravated circumstance of separation from you, I should be miserable and without support, if religion did not assist me with nobler and more powerful motives of consolation. I go from you with the less regret, because I leave you in the hands of Him who is able, and I trust willing, to preserve you from all evil, and to make every thing easy to you. And I look forward to the various scenes of my intended voyage with cheerfulness, because I am sensible that, in the most remote inhospitable climate, a protecting Providence will surround me, and is less to be depended on in the most apparent dangers, than in the greatest seeming security.

Let me again and again entreat you not to give way to melancholy; assure me that you will strive to be cheerful, or I protest I shall be unwilling to laugh, or even to smile, lest I should happen to be unseasonably merry, when you are sad. Scarcely anything will inspire me with so much life and spirit, as the hope that you still possess that cheerfulness which used to be so engaging and so natural to you. Let me not have to charge myself with having spoiled your temper, unless you mean to frighten me indeed. I remember that before you quite consented to marry, you told me that I was pressing you to a life in which you should often regret the condition of happy M.C. And I endeavored to persuade you, that you would only change pleasures, not lose them. I hope, if you will but help me by keeping up your spirits, I shall be able to make my words good. It will surely be my constant study to approve myself,

Your obliged, affectionate, and grateful, etc.

 

At Sea, August 20.

This, I hope, will go on shore by the pilot-boat, to inform you that I am now at sea, and with a prospect of a fair wind. I should be in high spirits—but that the thought of being so many months at an uncertainty with respect to you softens me into tears. And your favor of the sixteenth, which I received last flight, has renewed my anxiety for you. Let me beg of you to be as cheerful as possible, and to believe that the good Providence which, after a long separation, brought us together last year, when we were less interested in each other, will again join us, to our mutual satisfaction. Once more, my dearest, farewell! May the good God bless you with health and peace, and restore me, at a proper time, to your arms; and for what is to take place in the interval, I would make no conditions—but leave all to Him.

I cannot seal my letter without one more farewell. I need not put you in mind of writing by every probable opportunity. I press to my lips the paper that will be with you in a few days, while I must be kept from you for many months. Adieu.

I am, yours, etc.

 

Ramsay, Isle of Man, August 24.

I could not have greater pleasure than in the opportunity which now offers me of relieving your uneasiness on my account. We have already met with unfavorable winds and weather; particularly a violent gale last night, and in a narrow, dangerous navigation. The weather likewise was thick and dark. My own caution and diligence would soon have been of little use; the wind blew so that we could not carry our sails, and there was no friendly port within our power. But my dependence upon God's providence kept me in tolerable peace. I was relieved by the same consideration which I believe distressed my shipmates, I mean, that we could do nothing further.

I felt a persuasion, that, if not so soon as we could wish, yet before it was too late, some alteration would take place in our favor. Accordingly, this morning the weather cleared up, and the wind abated, and enabled me to put into this place; where we anchored about two in the afternoon. The wind now rages more than before, and, had we continued this night at sea, the consequence (humanly speaking) might have been fatal.

I readily inform you of the danger we have been in, now it is happily over; and hope you will not be alarmed because I am still liable to the like; but rather be comforted with the thought, that in the greatest difficulties the same great Deliverer is always present. The winds and the seas obey him. I endeavor, in every scene of distress, to recollect the seasons in my past lift, in which, when I have given myself up for lost, I have been unexpectedly relieved. Instances of this kind have been frequent with me, some of them perhaps as remarkable as they have been recorded; particularly my preservation in the Greyhound in the year 1748, which can only be accounted for by an immediate and almost miraculous interposition of Divine Power. Then I apply the argument of David—The God who delivered me from the paw of the lion, and from the paw of the bear, will also deliver me from this Philistine. The God who preserved me from sinking and starving, (from both more than once,) who raised me friends among strangers, when I had disgusted all my own by my follies; and, above all, who has not only afforded me the necessaries of life—but indulged lay softest wishes, obviated the many hindrances in my way, and made me happy in you—surely it would be not only ungrateful—but unreasonable, to distrust him now who has done so much for me hitherto.

I would be almost content, that you should be in-different concerning me during my absence, provided your love might revive upon my return; that so you might experience all the pleasing, and be exempted from all the painful sensations of a married state. But then I must not know it; for I could hardly bear the noise and impertinence of the world, were I not enlivened by believing myself to be often upon your thoughts.

I confess, at some times, I can hardly acquit myself from the charge of selfishness, that, for my own gratification, I should so earnestly press you to make your peace of mind dependent upon me. That you should be unhappy, and that I should be the occasion of it, would be painful to me indeed! But, I thank God, all is well hitherto; and if you (as I doubt not) will kindly accept my utmost endeavors to oblige you on our future happy meetings, as a compensation for the anxiety you must now and then suffer, I hope I have not done wrong.

 

At Sea, September 3.

I wrote you three letters while in Ramsay Bay—but could not send the last on shore. We sailed from thence the 29th of August. The fair wind lasted but one day, which was not sufficient to run us clear of the land, and I had some trouble and fatigue until Saturday when we got a breeze that has brought us into what the sailors call sea-room. The wind is now contrary again—but I have reason to be thankful we are so well as we are. I am at present little more than a gentleman-passenger; I shall, perhaps, have little care upon my head until we arrive in Africa, then I may expect care and trouble in abundance; but all will be welcome upon your account. Therefore, while I have leisure, I shall appropriate an hour every two or three days (sometimes, perhaps, daily) for writing to you, that I may have a sizeable packet ready at a short warning.

 

At Sea, September 10.

There is a strange mixture of pleasure and pain in the life I now lead. When I think of the regard which you express in your letters, (one of which in their course I re-peruse every post-day,) I feel a satisfaction which no wealth could buy from me. But, when I think of the uneasiness it causes you, I could almost bear to be forgotten. I know I have said this often—but I must repeat it when you write in a melancholy strain. You charge me, in that which I have now at my lips, with making hours seem more tedious to you than days and weeks did formerly. I am sorry. I beg you to strive to be cheerful.

Though I feel absence painful indeed, I do not deserve much pity, because I am absent for your sake. I am likewise engaged in active business, and have some new scene offering every day, to relieve my mind; besides, I have been long used to suffer, and did not begin to know what peace or pleasure meant until I married you. On the contrary, you, by marriage, exposed yourself to cares and anxieties to which you was before a stranger; and you have done enough to make me happy, if I could be happy alone—but that is impossible. Unless you are happy likewise, money, pleasure, health, nay, love itself, will not make me amends.

 

At Sea, September 14.

Last post-day I finished a large sheet, and did not leave room to write my name, for I had crowded one hundred and eighty-one lines into it. Should this come first to your hand, you may wonder where I could find subject-matter. Nothing (necessary business excepted) seems deserving my attention but religion and love; the one my constant support, the other my constant solace: and was I not favored with some taste for these, I should find a settled gloom in my heart, though placed in the gave scenes of life. For, at the age of twenty-five, I have seen enough to force my assent to the confession which experience extorted from Solomon in his latter days, "All is vanity and vexation of spirit." I mean, all that can be possessed exclusive of these two principles; but under their regulation the scene is changed, and the whole creation blooms with beauty.

Religion, rightly understood, is doubtless sufficient of itself to bear us through all the changes of this world, and guide us to a better. But our gracious Master has made us capable of tender and social affections, to add to the comfort of the present life. I know nothing that is required of us as a duty—but what is both consistent with our happiness, and has a tendency to promote it. Nor is there a single gratification prohibited, that is not, in its natural consequences, productive of pain or disgust. But you will say, why all this to you? You are guilty of no excess, (except your partial regard to me may be deemed one.) I answer, it was a grateful reflection on the goodness of God, and a sense of what I owe him, especially for giving you to me, directed my pen; and to whom could I so properly address these thoughts as to your dear self, since to you I am secondarily indebted for my present peace?

 

At Sea, September 18.

I suppose that I am now about half way to Sierra Leone, and not less than fifteen hundred miles from my dearest—a great distance, and hourly increasing! But it is not sufficient to divide you from my thoughts. I have read three more of your letters, and as often as I take them in hand, I have a pleasure in the repeated marks of your affection, which nothing else could afford. Although I am obliged to go to sea, and, what is more, to Guinea, I would not change conditions with the most wealthy bachelor on shore. No fox-hunter can follow his hounds with more alacrity than I now traverse the pathless ocean in quest of a country which—but for your sake, I should be as earnest to avoid. I am obliged to you, not only for the happiness I have found, and hope to find, at home—but for a pleasure while abroad, in what would otherwise be very unpleasant. When I left Africa, in the Greyhound, I seemed resolved never to return there again; but my resolution was formed when I had no hope that you would ever make it worth my while; and I knew that nothing else could. But, upon the encouragement (though slender) which you gave me when I arrived there in the Brownlow, everything appeared with a different aspect. And though, perhaps, few people in the same space of time, have met with more dangers and hardships than I then did, I believe no one heard me complain; because, what I had in view upon the end of the first voyage, so fixed my thoughts, that I could consider nothing as a real hardship, that had a probability of being acknowledged and rewarded by you; I ventured all upon your honor, and was not disappointed. If the bare hope of your love was such a support, judge, if you can, how the proofs I have since obtained of it must influence me!

 

At Sea, October 16.

I am much obliged to Mr. Addison, from whom I took the hint of setting apart stated times for writing to you, and reviewing your dear letters. This expedient is a great relief in your absence. When I awake in the morning, if it is what I call a post-day, I am no less pleased than children are with the thoughts of a fair-day.

We have not yet seen the land—but I deem myself within one hundred miles of the Bananas, which is the first place I propose to call at. There I spent a part of my wretched time in thralldom, of which you have often heard me speak.

Little did I think in my sorrowful days there, when I went almost naked, so that my skin in many parts of any body has been blistered by the heat of the sun—where sometimes I have not had half a good meal in the course of a month, where I was reduced so low as——to be the sport of slaves,
Or, what's more wretched yet, their pity.

I say, little did I think that I should soon revisit that place in a state to excite the envy of those who would once have scorned to let me sit in the same house with them. Still less had I reason to hope that you, whom, in the midst of my distress, I passionately loved, would requite me as you have done. With such a hope, I could have borne all pretty well. But Providence was mercifully intent to make my situation completely miserable for a time, in order to preserve me from that utter ruin, into which my folly and wickedness might otherwise have plunged me. I have nothing now to ask—but a disposition to be thankful to Him, the author, and to you, the appointed instrument, and mean, of my recovery. I can now look with pity upon all that the vulgar account great and honorable. I pity poor kings, as sincerely as I do a beggar; and consider wit, learning, and fame, likewise, as mere trifles, compared with our mutual love, which may it please God to continue, I was going to say to increase—but that is unnecessary.

 

At Sea, October 19.

This morning we discovered the land of Guinea. It is exactly four months from the day I took my mournful leave of you. I hope my next post-day's pleasure will be dated from my intended port. The passage from England has not been the shortest—but remarkably pleasant, and free from disaster.

Last night we were disturbed by a tornado, which I believe I have told you is a violent squall of wind, accompanied with heavy rain, thunder and lightning. The darkness of the night added to the horror of the scene. But with proper care, under the blessing of Providence, these boisterous visitants, though very troublesome, are seldom dangerous; nor do they often last above an hour. At these times my mind is generally calm, when every body, and everything, is in confusion around me; which is in a great measure owing to my sense of your love, and a hope that you are sleeping in safety. If it please God to permit me a happy return to you, a short interval will fully recompense me for the inconveniences of a whole voyage; and all the rest will be clear again.

If I do but win your acknowledgment, that I am not guilty of the stupid ingratitude too common with many of my gender, who undervalue their most desired blessings, merely because they are possessed of them; but that my regard and behavior, since our marriage, has been answerable to the professions I made before-hand—I say, if you believe this, I shall think nothing hard or troublesome, that may confirm your good opinion of me, which I certainly prefer in itself, to all its pleasing consequences; for I am disinterestedly

Yours, etc.

 

SIERRA LEONE, OCTOBER, NOVEMBER

We arrived here the 24th of October; a hurry of business has forced me to pass ten days without writing to you.

Though this country is not England, it does nearly as well for me in your absence; and, on the other hand, if you could live here with me, without inconvenience to yourself, the gloomy mountains and forests of Sierra Leone would be to me as a Blenheim. They who pity me because I am not fond of what they call pleasure, know not the motives which render me superior to it. I was once no less eager after their pleasures than they are now. But you have so refined my taste since, that nothing short of yourself can thoroughly please me.—As it is midnight, I only add my prayers for your peaceful repose.

 

Sierra Leone, November 8.

I have enclosed you, under another cover, two sheets of the largest paper, full on all sides, containing nearly four hundred lines; and I have as much more ready to send by the next opportunity. If it please God to continue my health and welfare, my stock will be still increasing, for I generally devote some time, twice a week at least, for writing to you. But, for fear anything should prevent my packet from reaching you, I commit these few lines to the care of Mr. M****.

I think, were I allowed two wishes short of the happiness of being with you, the first should be, that you might have early information that I am well; and the second, that I might have a letter from you, informing me that you were well, and easy, when you wrote. I do not impose upon you by saying that I prefer your peace to my own. I would do or suffer much to obtain a letter from you; and then resign it unopened, rather than miss one opportunity of writing to you. If I am favored with any good quality, I think it is a grateful temper, which makes me glad to acknowledge and return the smallest favor I receive, even from an indifferent person. Judge, then, what an effect the many endearing obligations I am under to you, heightened by the ardency of my affection, must have upon me! It is upon this principle that I not only submit to the scenes in which I am now engaged, with patience—but embrace them with cheerfulness. Had I been able to live always with you, I think I should not have loved you less; but it would not have been in my power to show it so much. But I hope, now you find that, for your sake, I can take pleasure in my very pain, you will do me the justice to believe, that the confidence you have reposed in me has not been misplaced. I commend you, upon my knees, to the blessing and protection of God.

 

Bananas, November 21.

Since I came hither, I have been cruising about in the boat in quest of trade, without one leisure evening for writing to you, which has been my chief inconvenience. For the vicissitudes of winds and weather, the scorching days and damp foggy nights, are to me but mere trifles. I have lately had a visit from my quondam black mistress, P. I. (those two letters pronounced distinctly, and not in one syllable, as Pi, exactly sound her name,) with whom I lived at the Plantanes. I treated her with the greatest complaisance and kindness; and, if she has any shame in her, I believe I made her sorry for her former ill treatment of me. I have had several such occasions of taking the noblest kind of revenge upon people who once despised and used me ill. Indeed, I have no reason to be angry with them; they were, what they little intended, instrumental to my good. If my situation, at that time, had been more favorable, I should probably have missed you. I may say, with an old Grecian, "If I had not been ruined, I should have been ruined indeed!"

 

At Sea, December 3.

Through this is not my post-night, I am willing to write, because I am behind-hand, and because it is the most pleasant way of filling up a leisure hour. It was not inclination—but business, that made me limit myself to twice a week, for it would be an agreeable employment to write to you twice a day, if I had nothing to call me off. But, however my hands and head are engaged, my heart is always with you. It can be but seldom, if at all, that you are out of my thoughts for five minutes together. Whether I am visiting, trading, or watching, your idea is still before my eyes.

I would give something for such a sympathetic, needle and dial-plate, as is mentioned in the Spectator, that we might be able to correspond without being interrupted by distance. But perhaps I am better without it, for I should hardly attend to anything else. And we already have what is more valuable, a sympathy of mind and affection. I believe, if we could compare notes, we should find that our thoughts are often engaged in the same manner, at the same time.

 

Shebar, October 14.

I suppose you have often observed, for I have, (and, to my credit be it spoken, we think pretty much alike,) that what we very much hope for, or fear, more seldom happens than such things as are quite out of our thoughts, and beyond our prevention. An instance of this lately I shall mention, by way of change of subject. I went on shore at this place lately on account of trade; and the next morning, walking by the sea-side to look for the ship, she could not be seen. Upon this I sent off a boat, which returned in the evening, and brought me word, that they had been some leagues beyond the place where I left her—but could discern nothing of her. I leave you to judge of my anxiety. I could not account for it, the weather being perfectly fine, and we had too few slaves on board to cause any disturbance.

For once, and for a few minutes, I almost wished myself unmarried; for the most sensible part of my trouble was, that, whatever difficulties I may meet with, I cannot now suffer alone. I was at length, in some degree, relieved by the dependence which I always endeavor to maintain upon the good Providence which has done so much for me hitherto.

I put to sea with two boats which I had with me, and after sailing some hours discovered the ship, when I was upon the point of giving up all hope of ever seeing her again. I soon reached her, and found all well on board. The night I left her had been dark and hazy, she had dragged her anchor and had slipped to sea, and was carried a good way by the current, unperceived by the watch upon deck, who doubtless had been careless, and perhaps asleep. I brought her safely back again yesterday. So that this adventure was only to caution me, and to teach me never to think myself quite secure.

 

Shebar, December 21.

My Dearest,

Must I imitate the news-writers? They, in a scarcity of foreign news, rather than fall short of their usual number of paragraphs, entertain their readers with relations of strange monsters, apparitions, wonderful sights in the air, or terrible noises under ground. For they take news in the strict sense of the word to signify anything that has not been heard of before, whether true or false.

Most of my letters to you remind me of Aesop's feast, which, though consisting of several dishes were all tongues, only dressed in different ways. Thus, whether I write in a grave or a jocular strain, the subject is still love, love; which is as inseparable from my idea of you, as heat from that of fire.

 

Cape Mount, December 31.

I Sent you from Sierra Leone two sheets, like the two I now enclose, and I have two more in readiness for the next ship, and shall think myself happy, if I can employ my leisure to afford you any entertainment. I am apt to grieve at the probability of my voyage proving longer than I expected; but I am soon checked by considering how much cause I have for thankfulness. For I am in perfect health, and have met with no harm or disappointment hitherto. I am informed there is a ship upon the coast which has letters for me; I hope to be with her in a few days. My mind revives at the expectation; for then I shall be able to boast of a real pleasure in your absence, besides that which I find in writing to you. It is now the last night, and almost the last minute of the year, being very near twelve o'clock. How can I conclude the year better than by writing to you, and praying to the Lord to bless you, and to spare me a little longer to love and deserve you, and to be happy with you?

 

Rio Junque, January 8. 1751.

I was prevented writing on Friday by a violent pain in my head which was perhaps partly occasioned by not receiving a letter from you. I have one from Mr. M**** dated October 24. He promised to let you know when he intended to write—but I would hope, for my own peace, He neglected it. For I am sure you would not miss the opportunity, if you were able to hold a pen. I must now wait until I arrive at Antigua. Then I hope to be gratified.

When I meet with anything cross, or contrary to my wish, I dare not now complain; because, in gaining you, I secured the principal aim of my life: a real good, which, if set in opposition to the little disappointments I meet with from without, outweighs them all. Nor need I envy others their wealth or prosperity, when it is a thousand to one if any of them have such a dear M**** as I can call my own. I should therefore be sorry to change with the very best of them, in all points; or to part with a small portion of your regard for any worldly consideration.

This has been one of the most fatiguing days I have met with, and therefore, though it is not my regular post, I write a little by way of amends. No one, who has not experienced it like me, can conceive the contrast between my present situation, distracted with the noise of slaves and traders, suffocated with heat, and almost chop-fallen with perpetual talking; and the sweet agreeable evenings I have passed in your company. But all is welcome for your sake. I shall never forget, and you doubtless well remember, the evening when you first gave me your hand, as an earnest of what has since followed; how I sat stupid and speechless for some minutes, and, I believe, a little embarrassed you by my awkwardness. My heart was so full, it beat and trembled to that degree, that I knew not how to get a word out. I hope I shall never entertain a fainter sense of the invaluable present you then made me; though a greater intimacy has since restored to me the use of my tongue. But I am writing in the midst of talkers, and am obliged to answer questions about business, so that my head is too confused to touch upon subjects of this kind, without spoiling them.

 

Shebar, February 15.

When you think any of my essays more confused than usual, (the best need your excuse,) I beg you to consider, that I was probably myself sensible that I should acquit myself but poorly before I began. Sometimes I am fatigued, at others embarrassed, with the business of the day, or destitute of a subject, or unable to collect my thoughts. But I had rather appear to a disadvantage than recede from a good custom. :For, though I hope my affection is fixed upon a basis which no change of circumstance will be able to shake, yet, knowing the weakness and inconstancy of human nature, I would be always careful not to omit the smallest outward mark of my regard, lest I should in time be so unhappy as to make it a precedent; and lest, from being remiss or negligent in one particular, I might at length prove so in many. For, as it is remarked that no man becomes very wicked all at once, I believe it may be the same with a bad husband; that he begins with inattention to smaller faults, and from thence proceeds to commit greater. Therefore, when you find little else to please you in my letters, I hope they will be agreeable to you, as a proof that, at least, I was not unmindful of you; but willing to show my attention to you, if not so well as I could wish, yet in the very best manner I was able.

Shebar, February 20.

Last night (which made it a remarkable night) I dreamed of you. Methought we were walking together, and mutually hearing and relating many things which had occurred since our parting. It was a pleasing illusion; but at day-light the noise of the people over my head broke the charm, and reminded me that, for a time, I must submit to a very different scene. But I seemed more refreshed by my dream than I should have been by a longer sleep.

I sometimes wonder that my sleeping fancy does not oftener transport me to you. Were it true, as some suppose, that our dreams are usually influenced by our employment when awake, I should surely dream of you always. For my attention is seldom so engaged by the most pressing business, as to exclude the thoughts of you five minutes at a time. Perhaps my mind, being so taken up with you when I am awake, is glad to take the opportunity of sleeping when my body does. Yet I well remember that when I first loved you, I dreamed of you, night after night, for nearly three months successively; though I certainly could not have half the regard for you then that I have now.

 

Shebar, February 26.

If our correspondence was made public, I suppose many people, who, though married, are strangers to the delicacy of mutual love, would smile at me for writing so often, and at you for accepting my frequent and long letters so favorably as I know you will. I pity them no less than they can pity me.

I could tell those who undervalue only because they do not understand, that there have been men of as much politeness and good judgment as they can pretend to, who have placed much of their happiness in possessing and deserving the affections of a worthy woman. If you understood Latin, you would be much pleased with some letters of Pliny to his wife. He was the first favorite of the emperor, and as a scholar, a courtier, and a philosopher, inferior to none of his age. You may find two or three of them translated in the Tatlet—but they fall short of the spirit of the original. But, were the billet-doux of our modern fine gentlemen, upon the commencement of an amour, (which is the only time they are desirous of pleasing,) compared with the epistles of Pliny to his Calphurnia, they would appear very trivial and empty. The grateful remembrance of past pleasures, the anxiety and tediousness of absence, the impertinence of all business compared with love, the inquietude of passing a day without a letter, and the promised satisfaction of a happy meeting, are topics which he dwells upon with equal elegance and passion. Having said so much of Pliny, I must add, in my own behalf, that I love as well as he did, though I cannot express myself so well; but for plain, downright affection and gratitude, I would not yield to the best Pliny that ever wore a head.

 

Shebar, March 5.

It was an expression of Cato, that it was more honorable to be a good husband, than a great senator.

The point of honor seems to have varied since his time. We now find too many who value themselves upon a contrary character, and yet are not the worse received in company, not even by those of your gender; who I think, both in justice and compassion, should unite in despising the man who dares to use a deserving woman ill, because he has not a heart to value her.

But, had Cato said, there was more profit and comfort in being a good husband than in being an unmarried emperor, he would have said but the truth. And, however fashionable it might become to dispute or contradict this maxim, there would always be a favored few, who would not be disputed or laughed out of their experience. And it is only by experience it can be known. We need not wonder, therefore, if a married life is thought lightly of, by those who judge of it only by hearsay. For a man might as well pretend to paint a sound, as to describe the various sensibilities connected with a happy marriage, in such a manner as to make a stranger understand them.

 

Shebar, March 22.

A desire of rendering myself agreeable to you has long been a motive of my conduct. This I may well style my ruling passion. I was changeable as the weather until my regard for you fixed me, and collected all my aims to the single point of gaining you. Then my faculties, which before were remiss, were roused, and indolence gave way to application. It has been observed, that those who have wearied themselves in vainly searching after the philosopher's stone, have often found out useful things which they had no thought of seeking. So I, in the pursuit of the methods by which I hoped to influence you, obtained, unawares, advantages of another kind. The desire of pleasing you, insensibly made me more acceptable to others. In one essential respect the comparison happily fails. These philosophers were poorly rewarded for their trouble by their petty discoveries, while their principal object was still unattained. Whereas I not only found the means leading to my chief desire pleasant and profitable—but in due time completely gained my end. I long for the opportunity of thanking you again and again.

 

Shebar, March 29.

The Spectator tells us, that Socrates, in discoursing upon marriage, placed it in such an advantageous light, that he induced all his auditors to marry as fast as possible. And yet it seems he was, at that time, himself wedded to a noted shrew; so that he could hardly draw many persuasive arguments from his own experience. Surely, had he been matched like me, he would have spoken with still greater emphasis. Methinks, if I had his eloquence, I could delight to speak on this subject from morning to night. I could tell the foolish world how strangely they wander from the path of happiness, while they seek that satisfaction in luxury, wealth, or ambition, which nothing but mutual love can afford.

I give and take a good deal of raillery among the sea captains I meet with here. They think I have not a right notion of life, and I am sure they have not. They say I am melancholy; I tell them they are mad. They say, I am a slave to one woman, which I deny; but can prove that some of them are mere slaves to a hundred. They wonder at my humor; I pity theirs. They can form no idea of my happiness; I answer, I think the better of it on that account; for I should be ashamed of it, if it was suited to the level of those who can be pleased with a drunken debauch, or the smile of a prostitute. We shall hardly come to an agreement on these points; for they pretend to appeal to experience against me. Just so, some of the poor objects in Bethlem, while raving in straw and dirt, mistake their chains for ornaments of gold, announce themselves to be kings or lords, and are firmly persuaded that every person who pities them is out of his wits.

 

Rio St. Paul's, April 17.

May you always feel a satisfaction equal to that which the receipt of your two dear letters last night gave me, and I need wish you nothing farther until we happily meet. Could anything enhance the value of such marks of your affection, it would be my receiving them so unexpectedly. For I had long given them over for lost, or worse than lost, exposed to the ill-bred curiosity of some sea-bear, who, incapable of understanding, much more of valuing your delicacy, might have insulted them by some shocking jest, to the diversion of his brother animals, over a can of nasty flip. Do not think I extend the direction of Divine Providence too minutely, if I suppose there was something remarkable in my getting them at last (for they have been transferred to six or seven different vessels successively.) They are of great importance to me: they could not have arrived at a more seasonable juncture to revive my spirits, which are sometimes a little flagged by the tediousness and difficulties of the voyage. I thank God that I possess them safe, and had the pleasure to find the wax whole, as it came from under your seal. I could almost hug every dirty fellow through whose hands they have passed, for taking such care of them. It will employ me agreeably for some days to answer them periodically, if you will allow the word in that sense—I mean, to comment upon every period.

 

Rio St. Paul's, April 19.

You wonder that such a smart girl as Miss H**** should throw herself away upon an unsuitable husband. But are you sure that your own judgment has not been often called in question upon this head? It would ill become me to blame her for matching at an apparent disparity, because to such a partiality in your conduct I owe my happiness. And though, upon comparison, I should prove a little more tolerable than he, yet you are so much superior to her, as still to leave a proportionate difference between us. I believe the motives which induced you to give me your hand, are not understood by at least one half of our acquaintance. How often must they have said, "What! the accomplished, easy, polite Miss C**** married to that awkward piece of formality, whose ridiculous behavior was for years a standing jest among us! Strange!"—But I could tell them that you yourself, with all your ease and politeness, were alloyed with a quality almost as singular and unfashionable as any of mine; I mean, an artless generosity of mind, upon the knowledge of which I raised my first wishes, and to which I am indebted for their completion. My love to you occasioned my troubles, my troubles inspired you with compassion, that compassion encouraged me to perseverance, which, long persevered in, induced first your good opinion, then your good-will, and thus, by pleasing gradations, I reached the happy summit of my wishes. That I may be always worthy of my privilege, and that you may be no loser by my gain, is my constant and earnest prayer!
 

Rio St. Paul's, April 30.

Now for a word of condolence on the catastrophe of poor Fancy. I am really sorry, having a delight for everything that has, in any degree, the merit of pleasing you. Besides, he was so good-natured, and had a fidelity and assiduity which might shame many who walk upon two legs. But, when I recollect his manner of life, I must, notwithstanding his premature death, pronounce him to have been a happy dog. While many poor puppies have wandered forlorn in the streets, exposed to the gripe of the butcher's surly mastiff, the kick of the weary and peevish traveler, or of the more heavy iron-hoofed horse, and many similar calamities, highly favored Fancy was brought up within doors, in peace and plenty, and, to say all in a word, indulged with your smiles and caresses. While I—what would I give to be so caressed and smiled upon! If after all this he came to a violent end, many of the greatest heroes have been served so before him. So the mighty Caesar, after all his honors and success, was seized by mad dogs, (that were fawning upon him a little before,) who bit him (as we are told) in three-and-twenty places until he died. Caesar and Fancy equally afford a proof, that no situation in life is perfectly secure—but enough of trifling.

 

Mana, May 3.

You know the grove where we have sometimes walked together; but where I more frequently passed many hours by myself. I call that grove my chapel, and my study. There I have offered many prayers for your welfare. There I have formed plans for my future conduct, and considered in what manner I might best deserve and return your love. There is not a tree in the whole walk—but, if it could speak, and would speak truth, might bear testimony to my regard for you. For I believe you know that it is my frequent custom to vent my thoughts aloud, when I am sure that no one is within hearing. I have had many a tender soliloquy in that grove concerning you, and, in the height of my enthusiasm, have often repeated your dear name, merely to hear it returned by the echo. These and many other harmless things, which the insensible and the mercenary would term fooleries, I have done; and that not only when a desponding lover—but when a happy one. I am so far from being influenced by that detestable maxim, Possession quenches love—that I can hardly allow my affection for you before marriage the same name by which I would express (if I could) what I now feel.

 

Cape Mount, May 7.

I have been through fire and water for you today. That is to say, I was exposed for some hours to a. more scorching sun than you can easily conceive of; and then cooled, when I landed, by the surf, or violent surges of the sea, breaking upon the shore. I charge all my fatigue to your account, because you only are able to pay me for it; and for your sake it is all welcome. I am now warm with the hope of quitting this troublesome coast in a few days.
 

Shebar, May 14.

My last broke off abruptly. I was ill, and disconcerted by an incident in business, which might have had bad consequences. But I am well again, and all is to rights. A happy restoration to you is the principal end I propose, and, if I attain it, I am not very solicitous whether my passage homewards be long or short, pleasant or otherwise, so that our meeting be safe and happy at last. The scenes of life I have passed through have taught me a degree of patience and thankfulness, which support me under ordinary troubles; and I hope the God in whom I desire to trust, will preserve me from very heavy ones. I seem persuaded that he who has done so much for me will, at a proper time, do more; if I do not put hindrances in my own way, by impatience and unthankful complaints. lit the mean time, my assurance of your love is my constant support and feast. I must not expect to slide through life without meeting any rubs. If it would please God, I could wish to bear all my pains by myself, and to enjoy all my real pleasures with you.

 

Shebar, May 17.

Through in this country there is no winter, properly speaking, the different parts of the year are no less different than in England. For about seven months the weather is remarkably fair, with light winds, and seldom a threatening cloud to be seen. In the remaining five we have either incessant heavy rains, or sudden storms of wind, with violent thunder and rain. This uncomfortable season is now commencing; but I hope we shall not suffer much by it, as I expect to sail, and change my climate in a few days. I only mention it as an excuse for any faults in my letters, which I would have you impute to my situation, which I leave you to guess at as well as you can. Two hundred people confined in a small vessel, in bad weather, occasion noise, dirt, and trouble enough. Besides the common business and care incident to other ships, we have a large number of slaves, that must be attended, fed, cleaned, and guarded against, let what will stand still. When I compare a day passed in this manner, with one of the happy days I have known with you, I can scarcely imagine a greater contrast. But, when I turn my thoughts forward, and indulge the hope of being restored to you again, that prospect reconciles me to all that is before me.

 

At Sea, May 24.

At length, my dearest M***, I have lost sight of Africa, and have been three days on my passage towards Antigua. Innumerable dangers and difficulties, which, without a superior protection, no man could escape or surmount, are, by the goodness of God, happily over. I now think myself every hour drawing nearer to you; or (which is the next comfort to it of which I am capable) to the receipt of more letters from you, to confirm my prayers for your welfare, and for the continuance of your love. Of the latter I cannot doubt for a moment. I think myself as unalterably fixed in your affection, as I feel you are in mine. This persuasion, so needful to my happiness, is riveted in my heart, and I would not part with it for mines of gold. Yet there is something inexpressibly engaging to read the tender acknowledgment under your own dear hand. You will quite spoil me for a letter-writer. The great beauty of an epistolary style is conciseness; I seem rather to study circumlocution when writing to you, that I may make some amends in quantity for what I fall short in the quality of my letters, if compared with yours. It is now ten in the evening. I am going to walk the deck, and think of you; and, according to my constant custom, to recommend you to the care and protection of God.

 

At Sea, June 27.

Sometimes my letters resemble the course of a hare. I digress from one thing to another, until I make a fair round, and return to the subject with which I began. At other times, like the fox, I lead you a chase right out, leap over all bounds of regularity; and you cannot guess, by the manner of my setting off, where or how far I may lead you; nor can I tell myself; but fear I tire you to keep pace with my rambles. But if, upon the whole, you are pleased or amused, my end is answered. In this my desultory way, I am almost at the bottom of my twelfth large sheet, and am now expecting to see Antigua every minute, where I hope to be furnished with new materials. I had but two opportunities of writing from the coast, and shall therefore carry eight sheets with me, which I shall disperse homewards as fast as I can, as occasions offer, for my justification, lest you should in some anxious moment suspect me of negligence: though I rather believe you are disposed to judge favorably of me, even if appearances should be against me. Indeed, your idea is constantly with me, and I hope in due time I shall prove the reverse of Aesop's dog, and, by long gaping after the shadow, come at length to repossess the substance. Eager as I am for the receipt of your expected letters, my heart goes often pit-a-pat, lest I should hear that you have been ill or uneasy. But I check my fears, by considering that I have committed you to Him who is able to take better care of you than I could, if I was present with you. To Him I again recommend you, praying that we may at length be restored to each other, and that I may always prove worthy of your affection.

 

Antigua, July 4.

As I have been for three nights almost sleepless, I can hardly keep my eyes open, not even to write to you. But I have been long providing against busy times, and now enclose you three sheets as a specimen; and have six more ready to send as ships may offer. The business of this is chiefly to acquaint you, that I arrived here in safety yesterday, and have received your several favors of the 20th of December, 11th of January, and 2d of April. That which you mention to have written in October has not come to hand. But my joy-for those received has been so great, that I have not yet been at leisure sufficiently to regret the one which is lost. Had not the news of my dear father's death been accompanied by these confirmations of your health and your affection to me, I should have felt it more heavily, for I loved and revered him. But enough of this. My tears drop upon the paper.

Tell me, my dearest, if you can, how two opposite passions find room for exercise in my breast at the same time? I rejoice greatly in the consciousness of your love, and I sorrow greatly for my father's death. These different emotions seem not to interfere. But I have now given vent to my grief, and shall not indulge it. Religion, which is the best philosophy, has, I hope, prepared me, in a measure, for every event; at least, for all but one: that one, indeed, I cannot think of without trembling.

 

Antigua, July 5.

You caution me to be careful of my own life for your sake, which is, indeed, the most engaging argument you can assign; for I know nothing but yourself that makes a continuance in this life very desirable, unless as it is a state of improvement for a better. But, if I dared, I should a little blame the strength of your expressions upon the point. God only knows which of us must depart first; but, it is probable, one must survive the knowledge of the other's death. If it should be my lot, I cannot tell how I should be able to bear it; but I would wish our love to be so regulated, that neither of us should be rendered miserable by a separation; but rather be supported by a well-grounded hope that a few more rolling years would re-unite us, never more to part. In a world liable to such unexpected and unavoidable changes, there is no probability of being happy, even in the enjoyment of our own wishes, unless we hold them in subordination to the will and wisdom of God, who is the author and giver of every blessing.

Your last letter is the best, because the longest, and because you seem to have written it when you were tolerably easy, and at peace in your own mind. If this was in any measure owing to hearing from me, I hope you will be peaceful for the remainder of the voyage; for I expect frequent opportunities of writing, and I am not likely to let one of them slip.

 

Antigua, July 9.

This is my fourth letter in five days. I write by every ship, that you may have the most early information possible of my arrival and welfare, to relieve the anxiety which, I fear, you must have felt; and I now send the two last of the eight sheets I brought with me. Should all my packets arrive safely, and nearly together, your love must strengthen your patience, or you will be wearied by the perusal. But I believe you will receive them with as much pleasure as I wrote them. I cannot more strongly express my confidence of your affection. I have, perhaps, told you before, that, when we married, I had not deserved much of your positive love; but I knew, from your temper, that I might be sure your heart was free from any other engagement or preference; and for the rest, I depended on your generosity, and on my own sincere endeavors to deserve you. But even this confidence in myself, and in you, did not induce me to expect you would advance so fast, as in a few months to overtake me in the race in which I set out seven long years before you.

 

Antigua, July 23.

Your last letter has the only additional excellence which I could wish for in a letter from you; I mean the length. You are greatly improved indeed. At the end of five years, with some difficulty, I drew six lines from you. In less than two years afterwards, I obtained eleven lines and a half more. After marriage you stipulated to return one line for my two; and, though you fell something short of your agreement, I acquitted you; for, besides that one of your lines is worth ten of mine, I considered, that, at the time of articling, you could not foresee that I should be so unreasonably prolix as I have proved. Could any one who knew us both have imagined that you should already imitate me as far as one hundred and twenty lines? Yes, any one who knew us both, perhaps, might expect it. But, if he only knew me, I think he would not. When I say you imitate me, I mean only in the length; for you leave me in full possession of my tautologies, perplexities, and repetitions. I have thought that your writing so correctly was, in some measure, owing to your brevity. But I was mistaken. You have shown me, that, as you have the are of imprinting your character and spirit in three or four lines, so you can, if you please, enlarge to as many hundred, without sinking below yourself in a single expression.

I admire the delicate turn of your writing. You need not be careful who sees your letters; for, though you touch upon the most interesting subjects in a manner quite intelligible to me, a stranger could pick little out of them. I would imitate you in this, if I could, while conveyances are so uncertain. However, I hope that, if my flights were exposed to public view, there would be nothing found but what tended to your honor, though, perhaps, my own prudence might be called in question. I might even be excused by competent judges; but, in the crowd we call the world, what a mixture of wonder, envy, and contempt, should I excite! How would they exclaim, This is mere cant, bombast, enthusiasm! I hope most of my poor essays to thank you have merit enough to meet with such a reception from the ignorant and selfish. Imagine Handel playing one of his best pieces to a parcel of gypsies, who, until then, had only heard such music as gypsies are accustomed to; would they not gape and stare at him, and wish that he had done tuning his instrument, and would give them something worth their hearing? Or if a clown, who had seen a puppet-show, should go to the theater, in hopes of something to make him laugh, and hear Garrick repeating the soliloquy, "To be, or not to be," he would probably wonder what the audience could find to admire or applaud in such dry stuff. It grows late, or I could run over fifty more instances of the readiness of people to despise what they do not understand. And then I would endeavor to prove (I think it no difficult task) that this folly is never more completely absurd, than when the dull, or the cruel, or the cross, or the unamiable, or the envious, or the selfish, or the abandoned, affect to undervalue the happiness of the marriage state.

 

Antigua, August 4.

You will perceive by the date, that this is one of the days which I pass, as much as I can, in retirement and reflection. My correspondence with you falls in with my design. I hope a mutual affection will be rather a help than a hindrance to us in our most important concerns. Not one of the many blessings which God has bestowed upon me, excites in me a more ardent desire to be thankful than that which he has given me in you. And the remembrance of our past endearments is a powerful preservative, to keep me from low and unworthy pursuits. In like manner, nothing reconciles me so much to the troubles and hazards incident to my situation, as the thought that I endure them for your sake, and that from you I expect a recompense answerable to my wishes. I hope I may say this, without derogating from those motives which ought to have no less weight with me if you were out of the question. My meaning is, that I ought to be very thankful to the goodness of the Lord, who has thus ordered my duty and my inclinations to go hand in hand, and in a manner bribed me to my true interest. And this enhances my regard to you; that I am not only indebted to you for my pleasures here—but that you will be a mean of preparing me for those which I hope for hereafter. This is the proper foundation for abiding love. A love like mine is calculated for all seasons and changes, equally suited to enlarge the advantages of prosperity beyond the comprehension of a stranger, and to gild the uneasy hours of pain and trouble. I may lose money, health, liberty, or limbs; but, while it pleases God to preserve my memory, nothing can rob me of the consciousness that you are mine, and that I am favored with the dearest place in your heart. The vessel is now under sail, so I must conclude. I hope to follow her soon. Adieu, my dearest! Believe me to be almost continually praying for you, and studying how to approve myself.
Yours, etc.

 

At Sea, August 14.

I am so pleased with writing to you, and so used to it, that, though I hope to deliver you my packet with my own hand, I cannot desist. I now begin a book for your entertainment, and shall only mark the date here and there, reserving my bounden subscription to the end.

I suppose most people, when entering the marriage state, promise themselves much satisfaction; and, I am afraid, very many are greatly disappointed. Why has it been otherwise with me? How was it that, at a time when I was mistaken and wrong in every other part of my conduct, I should direct my addresses to, perhaps, the only one in the sphere of my acquaintance who could make me happy? Undoubtedly the hand of God was in it. How wretched must I have been had my heart been so closely engaged to a giddy, inconsiderate, or mercenary character! Besides my other obligations, I must always consider you as the principal instrument, employed by Divine Providence, to wean me from those errors and evils which otherwise must have soon issued in my destruction. This will be a motive of regard which will always remain, though length of time should abate the force of many other endearing considerations; and when life has nothing more in itself desirable, I shall have reason, with my dying breath, to bless God for the influence you have had over me.

You will not wonder that I write in a serious strain, when I tell you that I am sitting by a person in his last agonies, and who, only five days since, was healthy and florid. This is my surgeon, who, by an obliging behavior during the whole voyage, has gained a great share of my regard. But I fear he must go—cut short in the vigor of life, amidst a heap of amusing purposes and prospects, if he reached England!

 

August 19.

My poor surgeon is gone, and buried in the sea; a sepulcher of which, while living, he could not bear the thought. But it makes no difference to him now. Besides my personal regard, I shall miss him upon your account. For, from the time I knew him so well as to judge him worthy of the subject, I have often found some relief by venting my mind to him in talking about you. I have none with me now but mere sailors, to whom I should degrade your name if I mentioned it, and shall therefore keep my pleasures and my pains to myself. Yet now and then, when I am sure I am not overheard, I breathe out your name, "My dearest M***," and find music in the sound.

We have had very bad weather lately, and I should have been afraid of a hurricane, (for this is the season,) but that my dependence upon the providence of God is become almost habitual. I have had so many and such great deliverances, within these few years, that I hope I shall learn, by degrees, to think myself in no more danger in one time or place, than in another, while I am in the path of duty, and do not place confidence in my own abilities, or mistake the means for the end.

 

August 21.

I submit, with due deference, to your judgment in my own favor, and will entertain as good an opinion of myself as I can, with any regard to truth. Indeed, if I am not better than formerly, by my connection with you, I must be quite incorrigible. For a proof that I once was a very poor creature, I could, if you would not be angry, cite your own opinion upon several occasions, and summon more witnesses than two or three. I divert myself sometimes with the recollection of what passed between Mrs. P*** and me, when I first saw her after we were married. It was to this purpose:"Dear Madam, wish me joy." —"Of what, Sir?"—"Of my marriage."—"With "whom, pray?"—"With my dear M***."—" "What, M***! M*** C***?"—"Yes, she owned that name lately—but has now cast it off, and desires you would know her by mine."—"Ah!" says she, sighing and shaking her head both at once, "I wish it was true." Her sister interposed—"He only jests." She answered, "Then he is much altered; very lately he would not have jested upon this subject."—"No, really, it is downright earnest; why are you so backward to credit it?"—"Nay—only—because—I do not know—stay—no—it is impossible." When she had repeated this, or something like it, two or three times, I begged her to collect herself, and give me her reasons. She did not care to speak out—but hinted an unsuitableness of tempers; that you were cheerful and sprightly, and I heavy and dull; and though I might be mad enough to match at a disparity, you were more mistress of yourself than to make such a wild experiment. This she minced up as complacently as she could, not to offend me; but I am confident her real sentiments, and those of most of our acquaintance, were as I have expressed.

I told her she had judged rightly of me—but it was plain she did not so well know you. At length she was convinced, — but still insisted, it was strange, it was passing strange; but that she should love you better than ever. "With all my heart, Madam," I replied, "and so shall I likewise."

 

August 25.

When I am in easy circumstances, I try to heighten my pleasure by the recollection of past times, when I have been much otherwise. When I am in a safe harbor, or on shore, I think of past difficulties and dangers. When (as at present) I possess plenty, I recall to mind the seasons when I was destitute of bread to eat, or a shirt to wear. And, to sum up all, since I have been happy in the return of your affection, I often compare the state of my mind with what it was when I despaired of gaining it.

I have been lately looking back to the hour when I first saw you, and from thence through all the various turns I met with until you had the goodness to give me your hand and heart; and, though you have abundantly made me amends for all my sufferings, I think nothing short of yourself could have satisfied me; and that, to the degree I loved you, I must have been miserable to the end of my life without you.

Do not think I consider you as the whole cause of my wretchedness; you were indeed the occasion—but the cause was wholly in myself. I gradually deviated from the principles in which I was educated, until I became profligate and abandoned; and the way of transgressors will always be hard. From this state God might indeed have appointed some other way for my recovery, though I had never known you; but, to all human appearance, you were the instrument of snatching me from ruin. And at last, if you had not been one of a thousand, to conduct the absolute influence you had over me with prudence and caution, we might both have been unhappy.

December 12, 1742, was the memorable day on the event of which my future life was to turn. I was then advancing towards eighteen, you were within a month of fourteen. How wonderful that, when we were both so young, an impression should be made upon my mind, almost at first sight, which neither distance nor absence, nor all my sufferings, nor even all the licentiousness and folly I afterwards ran into, could obliterate!

I knew not at first what ailed me. I was uneasy, when you were absent, yet when you were present I scarcely dared look at you. If I attempted to speak, I trembled and was confused. My love made me stupid at first. I could not bear to leave you; but once and again broke my engagements, and disappointed my father's aim to settle me for life, rather than be banished far from you.

 

August 30.

In March, 1744, I was impressed, and sent in a tender on board the Harwich. Here I began a new stage of my life. Here I met with a shrewd man, who robbed me of my principles, and poisoned me with infidelity. Then bad soon became worse.I forsook God, and he left me, for a time, to follow the way of my own heart. I deserted from the ship at Plymouth when sent upon duty—but was apprehended, brought back like a felon, degraded and punished as I well deserved. Surely no misery could be greater than mine while I remained in that ship; but at Madeira I was exchanged, and sent to Guinea. In that ship I might have done well—but I would not, and at length thought it eligible to quit her, and to reside on shore in Africa. Here falling sick, and being therefore useless, I incurred the displeasure and contempt of my black mistress, P. I. and soon became the scorn and pity of slaves. Almost naked and famished, a burden to myself and to all around me, helpless and hopeless, I dragged through almost a year. My outward situation was then a. little amended; and I thought myself fixed for life, when a message reached me in a most providential manner, inviting me to return to England. The invitation would have been in vain, had it not revived in my mind the possibility (had I considered maturely, it would hardly have amounted to a possibility) of obtaining you. This gleam of hope determined me. If I had not known you, perhaps I should never have seen the coast of Guinea. But it seems more certain, that, if I had not known you, I should never have returned from it. Near a year (for so long I was on ship-board) I spent in dreadful wickedness. And I should have come to England as unworthy of you as ever, had it not pleased God to meet with me. Oh! I have reason to praise him for that storm; for the apprehension I had, first of sinking under the weight of all my sins into the ocean, and into eternity, and afterwards of being starved to death. Then I began to think; I attempted to pray, and my first half-formed prayers were answered. He whom the winds and seas obey, in a manner little less than miraculous, brought me in safety to Ireland.

 

September 2.

When I arrived at Liverpool, not meeting- with a letter from your aunt, I thought myself forsaken by her. This, added to the rest of the difficulties which I knew were in my way, made me despair of success; and, as I was now become more considerate, I thought it best for us both to break off; accordingly I wrote to her, with a heavy heart, and with watery eyes, that I intended to give you no farther trouble. But, upon the receipt of her answer, I was glad to change my mind; and I soon set off for London to see you. See you I did—but little more. I was tongue-tied as formerly; when I had just feasted my eyes, I returned to Liverpool at almost as great an uncertainty as before; I cannot say quite, for I saw so much generosity in your behavior, as encouraged me to hope on. And I ventured afterwards to put it to a final issue to yourself by letter. I believe, had you then given me an absolute refusal, I should have endeavored to conquer, or at least, to smother my passion.

When I received your answer, I kept it some time before I dared open it. When I did, I was transported to find you kind—for, though you wrote in the most cautious terms, I knew it was much in my favor that you would write at all, and that you designed I should understand it so. And I was sure you had too much honor and goodness to trifle with me, after I had stated the affair in so serious a light.

Then, my dearest M***, on that very day, I began to live indeed, and to act, in all my concerns, with a spirit and firmness to which I before was a stranger.

My next voyage, though troublesome enough, yet, enlivened by the hopes you had given me, was to me light and easy. And, as it pleased God to enable me, in some measure, to act up to my new resolutions, I was, for the most part, at peace every way. I informed you of my arrival at Liverpool, and, upon the receipt of your second dear letter, I set off to try once more what I could find to say for myself; and, as you were then disposed to make your company agreeable to me, I found it so indeed. Such are the outlines of my history, which I will close with thanking you for the invaluable present you made me, on the never-to-be-forgotten first of February, 1750. But I must request your patience while I draw an inference or two from it.

September 5.

And first, from a frequent review of the past, I learn to be easy and thankful in my present situation. The dispensations of Divine Providence towards me have surely been extraordinary. All the evil I suffered was the immediate result of my own folly and willfulness; but the good I have experienced was wholly unmerited, and for a long time unhoped for. Had it pleased God to continue my life upon any terms, I ought to be very thankful for it, as allowing me time for repentance. But, as though this were a small thing, my wild and roving behavior has been over-ruled to procure me a better prospect in life, than perhaps I should have obtained by following my proper business from the first with a steady application. And farther, as I have reason to think that riches, could I have acquired them, would have been tasteless to me without you; what sufficient acknowledgment can I make that even this last, best, crowning gift, should be added to the rest! Could my wretched course of life, for several years that I pretended to have you so much at heart, entitle me to this blessing? Alas! I was unworthy of you, in every sense of the word.

Since, therefore, so many blessings were in store for me, though I had cast off all fear and thought of the great God; why should I fear, now that I endeavor to acknowledge him in all my ways? I entered upon this voyage with little anxiety, though I well knew it would expose me to many dangers, because I had been protected before, and brought through the like unhurt. I parted from you with grief, it is true, and yet with a degree of cheerfulness, because I trusted that he who brought us together so much beyond my expectations and deserts, would restore us to each other again at a proper time; and, for the same reason, my heart now exults in the hope that the time is nearly approaching. My cares are sweetened with many comforts, and my pleasures, when I meet them, I believe, are with as little alloy as can be expected in this sublunary state.

I infer, secondly, (which I have often mentioned before—but cannot too often repeat,) how great my obligations are to you! I will not compliment you as the first and principal cause, (for that I look higher,) but surely I may consider you as the chief mean and instrument of rescuing me from guilt and misery, and forming me to a true taste for the enjoyment of life. In gaining you, I gained all at once. The empty shows of pleasure, which daily ruin thousands, have no more charms for me; and the difficulties and troubles which are, more or less, inseparable from this mortal state, appear light and tolerable for your sake. The only study now left me, (a pleasing study,) is, how I may best deserve and requite your goodness. Good night. I am going to look at the north star.

 

September 6.

I must mention one additional circumstance, which demands my thankfulness. I mean, the friendship and kindness of the whole family to which I am by you allied. Was it not very happy for me, that I should receive you from those very people to whom, of all others, I had the greatest desire of being obliged? For I knew it would have been in vain to expect your consent, unless it was allowed and confirmed by theirs. By the by, I should tell you that your unusual observance to your parents gave me some of my strongest hopes, that, if we were once joined, we should do well together; for I thought it morally impossible, that the best daughter I had met with, should not prove a good wife. I have seen the peace of some hopeful marriages disturbed, and sometimes destroyed, by dissensions arising from the new relations; but I have seldom seen such entire unselfish harmony as exists among us.

 

At Sea, September 9.

It is now such weather as often makes those who live on shore pity the poor sailors. The wind blows very hard, the sea runs high, and tosses the ship about without any ceremony. So that writing is difficult, and I must be shorter than usual; but I was not willing to desist entirely. For my own part, I do not think my case very pitiable. I am in good health, I am surrounded by a good Providence, to which a calm and a storm are alike; and, as the wind is fair, every puff pushes me nearer to you. I have shortened the distance between us about one hundred and eighty miles within the last twenty-four hours. Who would not purchase this speed (if it could be bought) at the price of a little inconvenience? Not that I am anxiously in haste. I am willing to make the best use both of fair and of contrary winds, and, if possible, with equal thankfulness; for I trust all my concerns are under a better direction than my own; and that you and I shall meet again, in the best concerted hour, and manner, imaginable.

 

At Sea, September 16.

The scene is much changed since yesterday. The wind is abated, and the raging billows are greatly subsided. I thank God we did not sustain the least damage, though such seasons are not without real danger; for the force of the sea, when enraged by the wind, is inconceivable by those who have not seen it, and unmanageable by those who have seen the most of it. God is often pleased to make this element his instrument of confounding the pride of those who presume to think their own heart, vigilance, and precaution, a sufficient security against it; while, at the same time, or at a worse time, he makes the use of common means successful, to such as acknowledge that their best endeavors must be in vain without his blessing.

It is a common error to be much afraid in times of great apparent danger, and only at such seasons. In a tempest, a fire, a pestilence, or an earthquake, we are alarmed, and cry, Lord, help us, and give ourselves up for gone. But, alas! were our frail lives any way inconsistent with the views of Providence, there is no need of such a mighty apparatus to remove us. A fever, a fall, a fly, a tile, or even a hair, are, and have been, sufficient to interrupt the schemes of the ambitious, to rob the conqueror of his triumphs, or to change beauty into a loathsome mass.

These thoughts have arisen from a grateful sense of my late preservation, and there is a propriety in offering them to you. I owe to you the most that endears life to me. I ought to be thankful for its continuance, though it were not thus enlivened, as its state of improvement and preparation for a better; but, for any happiness merely temporal, further than what shall be allotted me through and with you, I have neither conception nor desire. Farther than this I dare not say. God forbid that either of us should mistake the mean, his goodness in blessing us with affections so happily attuned to each other, for the end to which it ought to lead us; so as to place an undue stress upon what must be either taken from us, or we from it. Since we are sure we must at length part, let us endeavor that it may be upon such terms as may afford us, mutually, the joyful hope of a re-union, when we shall no more be liable to separation or disappointment. This must be happiness indeed!

 

At Sea, September 19.

I am a great admirer of Aesop's fables. They could hardly have been more adapted to the custom and humors of our times, had they been written in London. His apes, lions, foxes, geese, magpies, and monkeys, may be met with in our streets every day. As a proof that I am not partial in my censure, I will confess that I myself have frequently appeared in some of these characters. When I first knew you, I was a bear; I then became an owl, and afterwards exhibited the worst properties of all his brutes in my single self.

The morals, so called, usually subjoined to the fables, I think might be omitted without much loss. Let the reader moralize for himself, as I mean to do on a fable which commonly stands the first in the book. I must give it you from memory, and believe I shall not much deviate from the original:

"A rooster, scraping in a dunghill, found a diamond. "Oh! said he, what a fine bright thing is this! a jeweler would be overjoyed to find it; but, for my part, I think it a mere bauble, and would prefer one barley-corn to all the diamonds and pearls in the world!" Is not this a lively picture of some who would be thought fine gentlemen? In taste, discernment, and employment, how nearly do they resemble the rooster! Solomon assures us, the price of a virtuous woman is above rubies; which sufficiently explains what is meant by the diamond. Thus the libertine judges of a fine woman, every way qualified to make a man of sense happy. He will, like the rooster, allow that she is worth much to one who knows how to value her, (for beauty joined with goodness in a female character, will extort some homage from the most brutish.) I must own, he would say, she is very amiable; and, if a man should gain her, who can relish the good sense, tenderness, and generosity she seems to possess, he would, to be sure, think himself very happy; but these things are to me mere baubles. If I have my barley-corn I shall not envy him. My bottle and a brothel are more to my taste. Thus far my moral.

How is it that women, who profess a regard for honor, truth, and virtue, will, without scruple, converse in general terms with men who live in open defiance to these principles, if they are only recommended by a genteel address and appearance; and will permit them, upon the easy condition of avoiding gross vulgar terms, to say things which they must surely despise? If they would resolutely treat with contempt the man who should dare to hint, that he considers all women as alike, it would prevent the ruin of many of your gender, and be the most effectual step towards a reformation among ours that I can think of. But, now, let a wretch, by a complicated scene of perjury, baseness, and ingratitude, first ruin, and then abandon, a young creature who has been so unhappy as to believe him, he will probably be received in the next company with a smile, and marks of good will; while the poor dupe of his artifice, deprived both of peace and subsistence, shall be deemed unworthy of pity; and this from women who ought to be the patterns of commiseration and candor!

You, I know, think more justly. You do not suppose, that your having withstood or escaped all villainous designs, can warrant you to add weight to the affliction of those who have been over-reached. I may say of you, with the poet,

There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too.

I know not what I should digress to next—but I am just told, the tea-kettle boils; so, as the sailors say, no more at present.

 

September 20.

We have another heavy gale of wind, and it is not easy to sit fast, or to hold a pen; but, as the distance between us is lessening at the rate of seven or eight miles per hour, I am willing to fill up my paper as fast as I can. I wish I had words to convey some idea of the scene around me: but it cannot be fully described. A faint, and but a faint, conception may be formed from pictures, or prints, of a storm at sea. Imagine to yourself an immense body of water behind you, higher than a house, and a chasm of equal depth just before you: both so apparently dangerous; that you could hardly determine which to venture; and both so near, as not to allow you a moment's time to choose; for in the twinkling of an eye the ship descends into the pit which is gaping to receive her, and with equal swiftness ascends to the top on the other side, before the mountain that is behind can overtake her. And this is repeated as often as you can deliberately count four. It is indeed wonderful, that a ship will run incessantly over these hills and dales, for days and weeks together, (if the gale lasts so long,) without receiving the least damage, or taking any considerable quantity of water on board; and yet never be more than four or five yards from a sea, which, if it was quite to reach her, would perhaps disable her beyond recovery, if not beat her to pieces at a single blow. Need we go farther for the proof of a Providence always near, always kind, kind to the unthankful and the evil? For, though these marks of his care are repeated every minute, they are seldom acknowledged by seamen. For my own part, I see dangers so numerous and imminent, that I should be always in anxiety and fear, could I not submit myself and all my concerns to Him who holds the waves of the sea in the hollow of his hand, as the prophet strongly expresses it; so that, when most enraged by the winds, I am sure they dare not rise a single inch beyond his permission.

You have often heard of an ostrich, and perhaps seen one. This bird is common in the northern parts of Africa; and, if travelers may be believed, he has a peculiarity which, if my friend Aesop had known, he would, I think, have given him a place in his fables. They say, when an ostrich is pursued, he usually gets clear by running, if the place is open and plain, (for they are swifter than a horse;) but, if he is near an enclosure or wood, he sticks his head into the first bush he can reach, and, when he can no longer see his enemy, he thinks himself safe, and stands quiet until he is caught. We may smile at this folly in a bird—but how often is it an emblem of our own! When the thing we fear is impending, and before our eyes, we are alarmed; but soon drop our apprehensions, and perhaps are unwilling to own we had any, when the danger is over, as we suppose; that is, when we cannot see it. Our own wisdom, or diligence, or vanity, serve us for a bush; and we little think of the many calamities to which we are equally exposed from other quarters; though we daily see more people suffering by what they slighted, than by what they feared. May you and I learn to fear the Lord, and we need fear none but him. He could preserve us safe and happy, though fire and air, earth and water, men and devils, were to conspire against our peace.

 

September 21.

How different is today from yesterday! The sea hardly seems to be the same element. The weather is quite fair, the wind moderate—but still favorable, and the water smooth. When the country is loaded with snow, and the trees without a leaf, how pleasing is the alteration produced by the returning spring! The ground, by degrees, is covered with flowers, the woods arrayed in green, and music is heard from every thicket. Seamen often experience as great a change in a few hours, which makes it the more sensible. A little bad weather now and then, makes the return of fair more pleasant. I seem today to breathe a new air, and with a new life.

You are very kind to wish yourself at sea with me; but, dearly as I value your company, I could not consent to pay such a price for it. I can easily submit to the inconveniences of a seafaring life while you are safe on shore; but they would distress me greatly if you were affected by them. I am like a prudent merchant, who, not willing to risk his whole fortune in one adventure, leaves the better and larger part of His riches at home; and then, if anything happens, he can comfort himself with the thoughts of a reserve.

Excepting the pain of your absence, (which I hope I shall always feel when from you,) I have little to disquiet me. My condition when abroad, and even in Guinea, might be envied by multitudes who stay at home. I am as absolute in my small dominions (life and death excepted) as any potentate in Europe. If I say to one, Come, he comes; if to another, Go, he flies. If I order one person to do something, perhaps three or four will be ambitious of a share in the service. Not a man in the ship must eat his dinner until I please to give him leave; nay, nobody dares to say it is twelve or eight o'clock in my hearing, until I think proper to say so first. There is a mighty bustle of attendance when I leave the ship, and a strict watch kept while I am absent, lest I should return unawares, and not be received in due form. And, should I stay out until midnight, (which for that reason I never do without necessity,) nobody must presume to shut their eyes, until they have had the honor of seeing me again. I would have you judge, from my manner of relating these ceremonials, that I do not value them highly for their own sake; but they are old established customs, and necessary to be kept up; for, without a strict discipline, the common sailors would be unmanageable. But in the midst of all my parade, I do not forget (I hope I never shall) what my situation was on board the Harwich, and at the Plantanes.

September 25.

While I am writing, the ship keeps running towards you. The wind has been mostly fair for more than a week. Sometimes I almost fancy myself in a dream, and think, Can it indeed be possible, that I am within a few weeks of so much happiness as a return to you includes? Perhaps I may find you ill, perhaps I may not reach you at all, near as I think myself. Hundreds have perished much nearer home. But all dark thoughts give way to my dependence upon God. I know I do not deserve so great a blessing as to be restored to you again: but neither did I deserve to be blessed with you at first. I hope, arrive when I will, I shall bring home a disposition to be thankful. I have advanced about eight hundred miles this week. How many deaths and dangers have I escaped in that space! Why then should I fear these that are still before me, if I am always under the same protection?
 

At Sea, September 26.

The weather is at present very cold, wet, and windy; but, I thank God, my heart is warm and calm. I think of past times, when I have been happy with you, and I count nothing a hardship that does not interfere with my hope of being so again. I would not wish to fix the hour myself, because I cannot choose for the best. I suppose myself about three hundred and fifty miles from Ireland, and I have at times been too impatient to see it, because I should be so much nearer to you. But, were we now very close to the land, I might perhaps wish myself far out at sea again; for the wind, in its present degree and direction, which is only inconvenient here, would there be dangerous. How often have I found, that the accomplishment of my own short-sighted designs would have been to my hurt! And yet, alas! I feel it difficult to submit my concerns to a superior management, though I am convinced, in my judgment, that I could not order them so well myself. The story of the Fairy, who would never assign a reason for what she did—but always did right, though some of her proceedings appeared to contradict her promises, I think well suited to illustrate the conduct of Divine Providence, which will surely do us good, if we can humbly trust it, without nicely examining the aptness of the means by which it works. Dr, Parnell's Hermit is a still more solid and satisfying illustration of this subject. How miserable, for instance, must both you and I have been, if my desire had succeeded, before I had a little learned how to treat and value you? And how unlikely was the path that I trod for several years, to lead me to your possession? And, though I should have thought myself happy, could I have avoided the necessity of leaving you for the long term of this voyage, yet I am assured that, when we are permitted to meet, we shall both derive advantages from the separation.

The ship has so many motions, that writing (unless to you) would be quite troublesome. So I shall leave off, though I cannot say the tea-kettle boils, nor am I sure that it will, for the sea often puts the fire out. But, if you drink your tea in peace, I can make a good shift without any.

At Sea, October 2.

I have been prevented from writing in the day, so must try my eyes by candle-light. Indeed, at present, I could not write with pleasure to any one but yourself; for, as I expect every hour to see the land, my head is full of the charge of a ship valuably laden, and the lives of many people entrusted to my care. Not that I have more anxiety than is needful to make me use my best endeavors. For the success of the whole, I can with some comfort depend on the good providence of God; but I must not presume to be preserved by a miracle. It is sufficient if my best diligence is permitted to answer the proposed end; which, of itself, I am sure it cannot do. The innumerable possibilities of miscarriage to which a ship is liable, are far beyond the reach of human foresight or prevention. It is my mercy to be convinced of this, and, at the same time, to be able to look higher for protection.

When Caesar was once at sea in a storm, and the mariners themselves were startled at the danger, he is reported to have said, "Fear nothing, you carry Caesar and his fortune." Perhaps I may, with less presumption than he, take some comfort in the thought of my own importance; for though, strictly speaking, I am a mere nothing, I hope I may rank myself with those to whom all things are promised to work together for good, and that my best interests are fixed upon a foundation that cannot be shaken. When I do give way to fears or wishes of a temporal kind, I think it is chiefly on your account. I would be thankful for life—but am in some measure freed from the dread of death, further than for the grief it would occasion to you. I ought to strive to get the better of this thought likewise; but I have not yet attained. In the wretched, unthinking part of my life, I was full of fears, which I do not now wonder at. The wonder is, how any one who lives as I then did, can be otherwise. Surely the sudden and various passages from this world to the next, must shock those who have nothing to hope for—but everything to fear, by the change. The wicked flee when no man pursues; the shadow of danger discomposes them; and, whatever boasts they may make of their courage, it most commonly fails them when most needed, unless they have hardened themselves beyond the power of reflection. But the righteous are bold as a lion. No difficulty can overpower their resolution, when they are in the path of duty.

Were some mirthful ladies of your acquaintance to read what I write, they would call much of it stuff, and preaching; and admire that you have patience to read it. Perhaps a time will come, when such will wish they had thought as you do. However, I do not write in this serious strain for your perusal only—but for my own; to quicken my remembrance of the past, when I shall be restored to you, and be in a state of more apparent safety; in hopes that these passages may contribute to the forming of my behavior then, answerably to my deliberate and cool judgment of things now; that I may not be like the sailor, who once, in great distress, made a vow to the Virgin Mary, that, if she would deliver him, he would present her with a wax-candle as big as the ship's main-mast; and, on being asked how he would raise money to pay for so large a candle, he said, "Let us first get on shore, and then the saints will not exact too strictly upon a sailor's promise."

 

At Sea, October 3.

What a tasteless, unpleasant voyage would this have been, if you had not secured my happiness before I came out, and given me something to remember, and something to hope for, that has supported me at all times; and yet you denied me at first with so grave a face, and had such absolute command over me, that I had almost taken you at your word. I may be obliged to Mrs. H.'s advice, that I did not fairly give up my suit; though, upon second thoughts, I believe it was more owing to my opinion of your generosity. For I thought, that to send me away empty again, would argue a selfish caution, of which I could not suppose you capable, without wronging you. So I ventured to touch again upon a subject on which you had positively enjoined me silence. And I remembered you forbade me again—but I thought you did not speak in so peremptory a manner as before. In a little time you heard me without interrupting me, and from thence proceeded to argue and object, in a cool, conversible strain. When it came to this, I promised myself success. I remembered that line, The woman that deliberates is gained—I then began to press my point more closely, until you actually yielded and gave me your hand in consent; which, though I had been so long entreating for, I could not receive without trembling and surprise. I could hardly think myself awake. I never until then was sensible of the force of my love; and I slept that night with a content and sweetness which I had not known before. I often recollect these circumstances, and the much-ado I made about you before marriage, to make me careful that my behavior now may be suitable to my former professions. But, I thank God, it does not require much care or pains; for to do all in my power to please and oblige you, seems as natural to me as it is to breathe.

 

Liverpool, October 8.

The news of my arrival will make this letter, however faulty, welcome to you. I could not write, at present, to any one but yourself. I am over-fatigued, having been incessantly waking for four days and four nights, which once brought on a temporary delirium, though not so violent as to prevent my knowing what I said or did. But almost everything I thought of (yourself excepted) seemed to be present before my eyes. But since I came here, I have had a good nap, which has much refreshed me, and I hope to be quite recovered tomorrow. In other respects I am in perfect health.

I hope to set out for London as soon as the ship is discharged; but cannot be yet sure. Should another voyage be proposed immediately, I must beg you to submit to the inconvenience of a long journey in the winter; for, now there is no ocean between us, we must not be separated, no, not for a single hour, without necessity. But I rather hope, and expect, that the lot of traveling will fall to me.

I hope you will rather be pleased with the knowledge of my being now so near you, than be grieved that we must wait a little longer before we meet. For my own part, I have so strong an impression of the dangers I have mercifully escaped in the course of the last week, that I dare not complain of a little delay; and, when the post shall bring me an assurance of your health and peace, I shall cheerfully wait the ordinary course of things.

 

Liverpool, October 11.

In about fourteen days from this date, I hope to be preparing for London. Mr. M*** says, that about March I may expect to be summoned again; and then he hopes to see you with me, and that he will be glad to make his house an agreeable home to you, and charge himself with the care of returning you to London, if you do not choose to reside in Liverpool while I am abroad. Mrs. M*** likewise wishes to see you. She thinks she pays my judgment a compliment, in forming a favorable idea of you beforehand. I smile, and say nothing. She will perceive, when the time comes, that any opinion of you, derived only from the knowledge of what I am, must greatly wrong you.

Many welcome me home; but, alas! Liverpool, without you, is almost as poor a home to me as the wildest part of Africa. I only say almost, because I am much in Mr. M***'s family, and, when there, find some alleviation of your absence. All the rest is wearisome and tedious. I enjoy myself best when retired in my room, and especially when I am writing to you.

 

Liverpool, October 13.

If I could write a quire, I should be unable to express my pleasure on the receipt of your dear, punctual favor of the 9th. It is like your kindness to offer to meet me upon the road—but I beg you to spare yourself the trouble. I do not even desire you to come to London, as I have no business to detain me there, and I should be under some restraint at the house of an acquaintance. The pleasure of having our first interview quite at home, among ourselves, seems worth waiting for a few hours. I am glad you made yourself quite easy upon the news of my departure from Antigua. But, now I am safely arrived, I may venture to tell you, that my passage homewards at this time of the year (the hurricane season) was the most apparently dangerous part of the voyage: I thought it so before I sailed; and yet I ventured to foretell a happy arrival; because I trusted to that Providence which has never failed me. In effect, all proved favorable; and, excepting two or three hard gales, I might, for the most part, of the way, have come safely in a Gravesend boat.

 

Liverpool, October 18.

I have been searching (in vain) for epithets and phrases—but I must stop.—They say, the Greek is a more expressive language than our own; if so, I wish we both understood it, for it is impossible for mere English to do justice to a twentieth part of what I have in my mind. Yet I ought not to quarrel with words, lest my actions, however well meant, should fall equally short of what I owe you. But I know you will kindly value them according to my intention, which I am sure is strong and sincere, to make you every return in my power. I hope soon to name the day of my leaving Liverpool, and shall mind your caution about my health.

 

SECOND VOYAGE TO AFRICA, 1752

At Sea, June 30.

I begin to write the moment we are under sail, and shall snatch every interval while my friends stay with me.

The first thing I shall say is, that I am really easy. Though I have no relish for mirth, my mind is at peace. The knowledge of your love, the recollection of the happy time I have passed with you, and the powerful considerations of a more serious kind, which I have often repeated to you, have all the effect upon me that you could wish. And I assure you the resolution you have shown has no small influence, both as an example, and in giving me hope that you will strive to be composed, and to depend, with me, upon the good Providence which has already done so much for us. I do not complain of being something moved at parting; because I should be a wretch indeed, were I insensible of the value of what I leave behind. I can from experience pronounce, that the pains of an affection properly directed, are in no degree proportionably to its pleasures. I already look forward to a time when—but I have no words to express myself, so must refer you to our last meeting on the second of November. Such another interview will be a full amends for the disagreeables of a long voyage. May the good and gracious God bless and preserve you! Remember my last advice. Be patient and thankful, and expect me, at the best time, to return and be happy with you again.
 

At Sea, July 11.

Though my letter by the pilot-boat went twelve days ago, I have not written to you since. We were exercised for some time, while near the land, with very thick weather, and westerly winds; and I would not begin my sea-correspondence until I could tell you (as I thank God I now can) that we are safely in good sea-room. I am almost ashamed to say, how easily I bear your absence. Surely it is not that I love you less than formerly; yet I seem to myself, to make a better shift without you than I ought. Though I think of you continually, and pray for you almost hourly, much oftener than ever, my love and care for you are much freed from inquietude and anxiety. I have my serious hours; for it is only from serious thoughts, at some times, that I can derive considerations sufficient to make me cheerful at any time.

I am now settled in a regular course; for so far as circumstances will permit, I do everything by rule, and at a fixed hour. My time is divided into seasons for devotion, study, exercise, and rest; and, thus diversified, no part of it is tedious.

I have been following you, in my mind, to London this week, where I hope you arrived in safety last night; but, lest I should be mistaken in the time, I purpose to travel it over again next week. I have almost dismissed my fears upon your account, for I have so often recommended and resigned you to the protection of God, that I seldom doubt of his special care over you. But I have bound myself in a strict promise, and engaged to use my whole interest with you to join me in it, that when He shall be pleased to bring us together again in peace, we will both endeavor to show gratitude by our conduct, as well as to express it in words. In the mean while, it is one of my daily and nightly petitions, that he may teach us to extract a real good out of these our painful separations, by improving the occasion to the increasing, and fixing our best affections on himself. From his favor and goodness all our blessings, even our mutual love, proceeds. He is able and willing to prosper all our wishes and desires, so far as they are rightly grounded; and, from his notice, neither time nor distance can separate us. He is an ever-present and an all-sufficient Helper.

 

At Sea, July 24.

I know you have thought of me today, because it is my birthday. I have likewise observed it; but not so properly celebrated, as solemnized it. I would willingly grow wiser and better, as I grow older, every year. I have now lived twenty-seven years—but how few thing have I done really worthy of life! unless I am allowed to consider the instances in which I have endeavored to show my affection and gratitude to you of that number. I have some hope that my remaining time will be better improved; and my prayer and wish for you is, that we may be both of one mind, and prove helps to each other in our most important business; and this will be the most effectual means of securing peace and satisfaction in our inferior concernment. I continue to conceive most of my prayers in the plural number, as when we were together; for every desirable good that I can ask for myself, I am equally solicitous that you should be a sharer in.

 

At Sea, July 27.

I had nearly missed my post tonight, by attending to our old sea form in crossing the tropic. This is the boundary of what the ancients called the torrid zone. We crossed the supposed line of this boundary today. On these occasions, all the people on board a ship who have not passed it before, are subject to a fine, which, if they refuse to pay, or cannot procure, they must be ducked; that is, hoisted up by a rope to the yard-arm, and from thence dropped into the water. This is such fine sport to the seamen, that they would rather lose some of the forfeiture, (which is usually paid in brandy,) than that every body should escape the ducking. And in many vessels, they single out some poor helpless boy or landsman, to be half drowned for the diversion of his shipmates. But, as I do not choose to permit any arbitrary or oppressive laws to be valid in my peaceful kingdom, I always pay for those who cannot pay for themselves. If this poor relation does not entertain you, the thought that I wrote it, and the persuasion that my inclination to send you something better is not wanting, will, I doubt not, make you some amends.

Indeed, I am at a loss for a subject. Suppose, for want of something better, I should observe, that it is a month since we parted. No, that will not do—-the word parted has spoiled all. Oh, that morning! It was a parting indeed! But do not think I am uneasy at the recollection. I only gave way to one tender sigh, and now it is gone. Well, suppose we turn the glass, and look forward to our next hoped-for happy meeting! Yes, this is the very thing: at the mention of it, I almost forgot that we parted at all. Such a meeting as our last! Well, I am content, and acknowledge that one of those hours will make amends for all. Until that time shall come, all that we have to do is, cheerfully to fill up the part Providence has appointed us, without too anxious solicitude; to pray for each other's welfare, and to endeavor to live under the impression of the blessings we have already received, or have yet to hope for, from our all-gracious Benefactor; and all the rest will in due time come round, and you will find my dependence upon his goodness to be well founded.

 

At Sea, August 7.

I have no confidant now, as I had in my poor doctor last voyage, to whom I can ease my mind a little, by talking of you. For my chief mate, though in all other respects much to my satisfaction, has not that turn of temper which is requisite to relish the delicacy of the love I bear you; and to those who have not something of a fellow-feeling, my tenderness would appear only a kind of innocent folly. In this, you have greatly the advantage of me: you have friends about you, who will often speak of me, because they know it will please you. I would rather have your name so sounded in my ears, than to have Corelli himself entertain me with his own music. For want of this, I am forced to have resource to my old custom of repeating it softly to myself, praying, at the same time, that the happiness I have in you, may be repaid you a thousand fold.

So that, when I indulge myself with a particular thought of you, it usually carries me on farther, and brings me upon my knees to bless the Lord for giving me such a treasure, and to pray for your peace and welfare. I cannot express the pleasure and satisfaction I find in these exercises. When thus engaged, my fears subside, my impatience of your absence changes into a resignation full of hope, and every anxious uneasy thought is lulled to rest. This is my present temper, nor would I waste a wish for anything the world can afford, beyond the probabilities which lie before me.

 

At Sea, August 11.

I need not apologize to you for writing so much in a serious strain; but, were an excuse needful, I must plead yourself. For, when I take up my pen, and begin to consider what I shall say, I am led to think of the goodness of God, who has made you mine, and given me a heart to value you. Thus my love to you, and my gratitude to him, cannot be separated. And, as you are so good to prize my affection, by finding it tires accompanied, you may be assured of its being unalterable. All other love, that is not thus connected with a dependence upon God, must be precarious. To this want I attribute many unhappy marriages. I believe many people fall from their hopes of satisfaction in that state, by degrees insensible to themselves; and a secret change, or alienation of mind from each other takes place before they are well aware of it; until, in time, they proceed to such lengths as they would once have judged impossible.

I am not at a loss to account for this. God has subjected the present state of the world to uncertainty and vanity; not because he is a hard master—but because he sees, if we go on smoothly long, we are prone to forget that our great concern in this life should be to prepare for another. Now they who, by his grace, are led to consider the great truths of religion, and are taught, before the days of trial come, to submit themselves, their designs, and enjoyments to his wisdom and guidance, may, in a great measure, escape the bitterness of evil, or at least the most bitter of those evils to which mortality is subject: because the merciful design of afflictions is, to them, so far answered. But they who judge so ill as to place a dependence upon each other, which interferes with what they owe to their common Preserver, oblige him, if I may so speak, to quash their purpose, either by sickness, sufferings, death, or, what to me seems worse than all, a change of affection, to make them feel their offence in their punishment. I dare not say, that you and I have not been guilty of this error. But, since it has pleased God, as yet, to forbear afflicting us for it, I hope, for the future, we shall be more upon our guard, and not farther displease him.

 

Sierra Leone, August 17.

We arrived here the 17th, after a fine, and not very long, passage. We had no violent weather, nor painful event—but a visible hand of conducting Providence attended us all the way. I have begun trade, and things appear in a promising train.

I often ask myself, if I know any person upon earth with whom I could be content, in all points, to change; and I can confidently answer, No: for the knowledge and enjoyment of your love enable me to look with pity upon kings, and I would not part with what I now feel upon your account, for the treasures of both the Indies.

 

October 6.

The Hunter, which will sail in a few days, has a large packet for you; and I have further sent you a few lines by Mr. D****, a young gentleman from Scotland, who is on board her. He has promised to deliver my letter in person, though he has no business at C****—but to oblige me by seeing you; that he may answer any little questions you may ask, or inform you of some incidents which I may have omitted. It is not easy to say, what pleasure I could take in conversing with any person who had lately been with you; and I judge of you by myself. In other respects he is an agreeable man, and I have been much pleased with him. I am informed he has a tolerable estate in Scotland; but, having an eager desire of seeing new things, after having made the tour of France, he thought there might be something worthy of his notice even in Guinea. But I believe his expectations have been much balked.

It is now the noon of night, as Shakespeare somewhere expresses it. I left Sierra Leone this morning. I am very sleepy—but must not go to bed yet, being often obliged to watch when the ship is under sail. This I submit to cheerfully, because you have, beforehand, overpaid me for my trouble. I have been praying for your calm repose, and am pleased with the hope that only one of us is kept waking. I pity those who have only dull interest to animate them in their business; and am surprised to see how powerful an inducement this is to them who have not a better. But I believe love would support me through more, and with more alacrity, than their plodding motive. When I am wearied or perplexed with any affair, I have only to reflect that I am employed upon your account, and that I may look for my reward from you, when I have done my work, or rather, that you rewarded me before I undertook it, and all difficulties presently disappear.

 

Shebar, October 31.

Since my last, I have been a week on shore, and three or four days indisposed; but am now, I thank God, quite recovered. Your letter of the 12th of July came very seasonably, to comfort me in my illness. When you assure me that you are easy, I seem to have nothing to make me otherwise.

I have been sitting very gravely with my pen in my hand for some minutes, waiting for a thought to begin with; but with so little success, that, were it not to you, I should lay the paper aside, until I was in a better cue. But to you something must be said. I have rung so many changes upon love and gratitude, upon the pains of separation, and the overbalancing pleasures of meeting, that, though I cannot be weary of the subjects, I begin to be weary of my way of treating them. But then, where shall I find other subjects worthy either of your attention or my own?

Were I to muster up my learning, and tell you what Plato or Cicero said, and upon what occasion they said it, I should think the paper might have been filled more acceptably to you by a speech of my own. Were I to send you a sample of philosophy, you might justly say, "This is but a cold business." Shall I then try to be witty? Alas! one tender thought, one sigh that terminates in your dear name, would spoil my conceit. I can think but of one subject more, and that perhaps I have already overdone likewise, unless I could do it better. But, perform well or ill, you have little to expect from me but either love-letters or sermons. In all other topics I feel a vanity and unimportance, which disgusts me when I am writing to you. But I cannot be soon weary of reminding you and myself of our obligations to the Author of all good, for our distinguished lot. May a grateful sense of his mercies be mutual! May it engage us in such a course, that death itself may not separate us long; but that we may have a well-grounded hope of meeting in a state, when the recollection of our highest endearments while here, which are surely the highest pleasure this world can afford, shall, by our own confession, be but a small thing compared with the abounding joys to which we shall then be admitted; and when we may have reason, through eternal ages, to bless the divine providential hand that first brought us together.

 

November 10.

I have been walking the deck very pleasantly. It is my watch, for the ship is under sail. These silent night hours, when the weather is fair, are, to me, the most agreeable part of the voyage: for, in the daytime, the heat of the sun, the smoke of the furnace, and the hurry of trade, are a little troublesome; I mean they would be so, did not the thoughts of you interpose to enliven the scene. But, when the sun is set, the fires out, and all but the watch are asleep, I can enjoy myself without disturbance. I have a set of favorite themes to muse upon, which are always at hand, and cannot be easily exhausted. Sometimes I ruminate upon what is past; at others, anticipate what I hope is to come. And sometimes I look round me and reflect, how God has been pleased to distinguish me, in his providence, not only from the crowds, whose miseries and sufferings are obvious—but even from the most of those who suppose themselves, and would persuade others, that they are happy. But so scanty are the general notions of earthly happiness, compared with mine, that I doubt not there are thousands in possession of great outward advantages, who yet, in their brightest intervals, never felt half of the satisfaction which at this moment warms my heart; though now it is a time of trial and exercise with me, being removed a third of the globe from the only treasure I have, or wish for, upon the surface of it.

It is now a twelvemonth since we met, after the long absence of my last voyage. The recollection of that hour gives me a pleasure, which neither time nor distance can impair. And, when I reflect, that I may hope, by the blessing of God, to be favored with such another, I can smile at all the little incidental difficulties that may stand between us. Not that I have reason to think so highly of that one particular day; it has only the merit of being an introduction to the many which followed. For, when I am with you, I know little difference of days, except between the first and the last. These are very different indeed!

 

Cape Mount, November 20.

It has been out of my power to write of late. A part of the time I was on shore; and the rest, indispensably engaged. But my prayers, and warmest affection for you, have found a place in every waking' hour. I have made no great progress in trade as yet; but, as I am in good health, and mercifully preserved from heavy troubles, I am content and thankful; and doubt not of doing well at last, by the blessing of him who has been with me hitherto. Were I master of the whole coast of Africa, I would part with it, to procure you the same ground and degree of peace which I possess myself; and I am willing to hope, that you are, by this time, not far, if at all, behind me: for, if you seek it in the path I recommend to you, I am as sure you will find it, as I am that it is to be found no where else. Were I to confine my thoughts to the dark side of human life, and reckon up, not only the evils attendant on my present situation—but the numberless calamities to which the smoothest state on this side the grave is exposed, I should be always in fear, both for you and for myself. But, when I consider that the Most High is on our side, that he is all-sufficient—that we have already had innumerable proofs of his goodness to us—and that his promise runs, To him that has shall be given—then every disagreeable prospect vanishes.

 

Mana, December 1.

This day has been devoted to serious thoughts. I have had Mr. T**** on board with me a month; which, in one respect, was no small inconvenience, by breaking in upon my usual times of retirement. As I expected this would be a day of leisure, I resolved last night to dedicate it to Him to whom I owe my all. I find, by repeated experience, that it is impossible to serve him for naught. I who was yesterday fluctuating and unsettled, am now composed and happy. It is a pleasure to me that, in consistence with my plan, I can let you have your hour too; and write a letter, which you will accept, in a religious strain.

I spent the forenoon chiefly in a review of the various mercies I have received, the long list of my deliverances, enjoyments, and comforts.—The afternoon was employed in making known my requests, and submitting my views, designs, and hopes, to the disposal of my heavenly Father, whose wisdom and goodness are, I trust, engaged for me. In these exercises—oh! how I remember you! My first acknowledgments are for your love, and that you are mine, when I attempt to enumerate the blessings pertaining to this life; and my first desire is for a heart to value them. My prayers for you are, for your health, peace, and satisfaction, while we are separated, and for our happy meeting; but, above all, for your progress in religion, and that you may have a prospect of happiness, independent of all earthly comforts, and superior to them. So unselfish is my love, that I often earnestly pray you may, by grace, be prevented from making too much account of anything on this side the grave, not excepting myself. For though I value your affection beyond crowns and empires, I tremble at the thought of being over-regarded, or that you should wholly rest your peace upon such a wretched, feeble prop as I am. A love with all our heart, and mind, and soul, and strength, (such, I fear, ours has too much been to each other,) can be only due to our Maker, and great Benefactor. I mention this, because I have found it hard to distinguish in this matter. A long time it was before I dared appeal to my conscience, that I did not behold you with a regard which belongs only to God. And even to this day, I fear my heart deceives me. But I am endeavoring to avoid this error, no less for your sake than for my own; lest I should provoke him to wound me in the most sensible part, and to afflict you, for my punishment.

I hope you will not misunderstand me, as if I thought I loved you, or could love you, too much, (that one necessary exception only excepted.) You may be assured that my love (especially when thus limited) is incapable of change, and always upon the increase. Whatever may be expected on my side, from a temper naturally susceptive of tenderness, and from the many inexpressible endearments and obligations I have received from you, none of which are lost or forgotten by me, I feel at this moment, and trust I shall always feel, while I can subscribe myself.

Yours, etc.

 

Cape Mount, December 25.

I now sit down to wish you a happy Christmas; a merry one, is a frequent phrase—but that falls far short of my desire. For I have often found mirth and happiness to be two very different thing; and that either of them, when prevalent in a great degree, is inconsistent with the other. My heart is warm with the recollection of many endeared hours passed with you, when my happiness has been, for the time, complete, and yet I have not then felt the least inclination to be merry; and I have often been forced into a laugh, when I have not been pleased.

This has been a serious day with me; and, after what I have written already, I need not attempt to say, how much you have been concerned in it. It grieves me to think, that this is usually a season of festivity and dissipation. Surely they who think proper to notice it at all, should show their attention in a different manner. If we are really Christians, and do indeed believe the tenor of the Scriptures, with what serious thankfulness, and joyful composure, ought we to commemorate the coming of a Savior into the world? If the little good offices we perform to each other demand a grateful return, what do we owe to him, who, of his own free motion and goodness, humbled himself so far, and suffered so much, to redeem us from extreme and endless misery? Oh! my dearest M***, it is a most certain truth, that, if he had not pitied us, we must have been forever wretched. And, if we continue to neglect him now, our misery will be aggravated, by the refusal of the sure and only mean of relief And, however a round and series of what the world miscalls pleasure, may stifle uneasy thoughts for a time, they will at length awake, to the confusion of all who despise this mercy, and die impenitent. My subject has almost made me forget I am writing to you. For, blessed be God! I hope we are not like them. I trust we both desire to be wise in time, and to apply to the Giver of all grace, for that sufficiency which of ourselves we cannot attain. And, if we ask, we undoubtedly shall succeed. This hope fills my mouth with praise, since I now see a plain and secure path to eternal happiness, not for myself only—but for you likewise, whose welfare, if I mistake not, is little less dear to me, than that of my own soul. I find, as Solomon says, that love is stronger than death: for my regard for you often leads my views beyond the grave, and alleviates the thought, that we must sooner or later be separated here, with the prospect of being joined hereafter, upon much preferable terms; where our love will be refined and ennobled, and the consciousness of our being mutually and forever happy, will fill us with a joy of which we have no present conception; and yet, perhaps, this joy will be among the least in that happy state.

 

1753

Mana, January 12. 1753.

Were it not for the late alteration of the style, this would be new-year's day. It is with a pleasing kind of regret I remember how happily I began the last year, and how happy I continued for just six months afterwards. The latter half of the year has been of a different color; for, though I have, even now, much to be thankful for, I am absent from you. A seafaring life has its peculiar trials and difficulties, and the Guinea trade, perhaps, has more than any other. But, if I must be detained from you for a season, I am as well here as elsewhere; for to live without you, constitutes the very essence of Guinea to me, so far as the word expresses a disagreeable situation; and I hope and believe I should find myself as much at a loss, and sigh as often for something better, if I lived in the palace of Versailles, and could call it my own, unless you were with me. But, when I direct my thoughts forward, to the prospect of being restored to you again, the scene changes at once, and I seem to be at Versailles already.

It may be said, that my hopes are precarious, and may be disappointed. But here Religion comes to my aid, and tells me, that my best interest, though apparently contingent, is in effect firm as a rock; being supported by Him whose wisdom, power, and goodness are infinite; who cannot but be present with me in all difficulties and dangers; who knows our weaknesses and our wants, and has promised to relieve and supply them. My own experience has convinced me, a thousand times, that his promise is sure. Here is my refuge and comfort. Every other expedient would fail me in some tender hours, when I think of home; but in the trust I have just mentioned I find repose when, seemingly, most destitute and forlorn. My prayers are frequent, that you, like me, may always derive comfort from the same considerations.

 

Mana, January 26.

Though to be absent from you is the chief part of my trial, it is not the whole. In this unhappy country, I am in the midst of scenes, not only inferior—but opposite, to those which are inseparable from your company. But from being much among a people who are so far from possessing such mercies as I am favored with, that they are unable to form a conception of them, I may learn a lesson of gratitude; since the least pleasing part of my life is such, as still to leave me room to pity millions of my fellow-creatures. The three greatest blessings of which human nature is capable, are undoubtedly, religion, liberty, and love. In each of these, how highly has God distinguished me! But here are whole nations around me, whose languages are entirely different from each other, yet I believe they all agree in this, that they have no words among them expressive of these engaging ideas: from whence I infer, that the ideas themselves have no place in their minds. And, as there is no medium between light and darkness, these poor creatures are not only strangers to the advantages which I enjoy—but are plunged in all the contrary evils. Instead of the present blessings, and bright future prospects of Christianity, they are deceived and harassed by necromancy, magic, and all the train of superstitions that fear, combined with ignorance, can produce in the human mind. The only liberty of which they have any notion, is an exemption from being sold; and even from this, very few are perfectly secure that it shall not, some time or other, be their lot; for it often happens, that the man who sells another on board a ship, is himself bought and sold, in the same manner, and perhaps in the same vessel, before the week is ended. As for love, there may be some softer souls among them than I have met with—but, for the most part, when I have tried to explain this delightful word, I have seldom been in the least understood; and when I have spoken of its effects, I have never been believed. To tell them of the inexpressible and peculiar attraction between kindred minds; the pains of absence, the pleasures of a re-meeting, (if I may make a word,) and all the other endearments (were it lawful, or possible, to name them) which I owe to you, would be labor lost; like describing the rainbow to a man born blind. What needs all this ado? they have said, Will not one woman cut wood and fetch water as well as another? Their passions are strong—but few indeed have any notion of what I mean by tenderness. While I am writing, many past circumstances occur to my memory, and my heart swells at the odious comparison I have unawares made.

I have heard England styled the paradise of women; but surely, in this respect, it is no less the paradise of men likewise: for there, perhaps, they best understand the means of their own happiness, and of how much importance it is, to form a right judgment of the dignity and value of your gender; which whoever attains, thereby indicates that he possesses some degree of dignity in himself. In saying this, to be sure, I sound my own praise—but you will excuse me.

 

Shebar, March 5.

It is often remarked, that advice is more easily given than followed. I have of late, and perhaps sometimes too officiously, taken occasion to prescribe patience, when I have seen people uneasy under a sense of what we call disappointments, and want of success. Providence seems at length to put me to the trial, how far the arguments I have used with others will have influence upon myself. I have been now nearly seven months upon the coast, and am yet unable to judge when I shall probably leave it, and must expect to make a losing voyage at last. I should not write so frankly—but that I hope to he in a better place, and upon a greater certainty, before I send my letter home. But I am willing to give you my present thoughts, that you may judge, once for all, how I am supported, when things do not answer my wishes.

The interest of my employers, and my long confinement from you, are two points to which I cannot be indifferent. I hope I never shall, for then I must be ungrateful or insensible, either of which appears more terrible to me than any outward evils. But then my concern ought to be no more than is necessary to excite me to make the most of what lies before me. As I cannot charge myself with neglect, or any considerable false step, though I am sorry to be the occasion of loss to my friends, the thought should not break my peace, if I am conscious of having done my best.

As to what concerns myself; how far two unsuccessful voyages may affect my interest, or diminish my expected profits, I am tolerably easy. I have placed my dependence higher: I consider my friends and employers as instruments in the hand of God for my good. He can continue them to me, or raise me up better with equal ease. As to money, you know my thoughts of it. In itself, and as an end it is of no value; but of use, as a mean of procuring the conveniences of life; and therefore I am willing to embrace any honorable terms for procuring a competency: but still, without solicitude, I have enough for the present; and the promise of God warrants me to hope for what he sees needful for me in time to come.

In this manner I reason against my first grievance, which is neither so pressing, nor so constantly upon my mind, as the other—my long separation from you. Money matters affect me but occasionally, and I can relieve myself by employments or amusements; but your idea is before me at all times, and in all places. You are with me in retirement, and go with me into company; neither business nor relaxation, neither hurry nor indolence, can hide you from my thoughts. Everything I see equally reminds me that you are absent; and now the season is drawing near when we hoped to meet; and yet to be still deferred.—However, against this uneasiness I have some remedies, which never wholly fail me. I have often repeated them to you; think of your love, and that I am here for your sake.—I recollect the past, I anticipate the future, and am satisfied. I consider likewise the benefits I am favored with even now; my health, my preservation, and protection, while surrounded with impending dangers, whether on ship-board or on shore; and when I join to these the thought of my own unworthiness, and small improvement of my mercies, and my blindness and inability to choose (was it even permitted me) what is really best, upon the whole, for myself or for you, I have not a word to say. Instead of complaining, I ought to abound in praise. My chief trouble is from a fear lest you should not have the same resignation to the will of God. Excuse this doubt, my dear, I know your temper is tender and apprehensive; and I know (and I am not ungrateful) that you feel much for me. Though I value your love more than a thousand kingdoms, I could almost wish to possess it in a degree more consistent with your quiet. It is well the paper is full, that I can add no more, or perhaps I might contradict myself upon the spot, for my last assertion. How could I bear that you should love me less than you do?

 

Sierra Leone, March 23.

Sometimes in traveling, when I have met with two or three different roads, and have not been sure which was the right, I have deliberated a little, and even gravely taken the wrong; so it often happens in my writing to you. When I beat the bush of my brains for a subject, I start so many that I know not which to follow; and at last, perhaps, choose that which I am the least able to manage. I have been sitting in a wise suspense, whether I should try to divert, or advise, or thank you. I am awkward at the first; the second, if needful, (for I would not pay you a false compliment,) is difficult for me to perform rightly; and the third I have almost worn threadbare, though I have never expressed the half of my meaning. Then for other things, one day here is so like another, that there hardly arises a new incident in a month; which, by the by, demands my acknowledgment, for life is usually checkered with many events which, when well managed by an impatient temper, may furnish whole sheets, yes, quires, of complaints. And, as nothing extraordinary occurs in my own history, neither do I hear of anything interesting among the natives—politics or scandal have little place in this country;—under these circumstances I am hard put to it to write anything; and this difficulty I have made so often, not only an excuse—but a subject, that I am tired of that subject likewise. But, as when a man is thoroughly hungry, he will eat what would once have seemed hard fare; so, rather than forego the pleasure of writing to you, I make shift with anything that will serve to fill up the paper.

 

Bence Island, March 30.

I am now at the factory, in the river of Sierra Leone. We are at length preparing for sea, and I hope to find all in readiness when I return from Sherbro, where I purpose going tomorrow, in the long-boat, to finish my business in that river, and hope to be back in about a two weeks. Therefore, as it will be some time before I can write to you, I would not omit tonight, though we are very busy. I hope this will be the last cruise I shall make this voyage. I have had so many, that I should be almost weary, did I not consider that your interest leads me, and that your love will, I hope, in due time, pay me for my trouble.

 

Bence Island, April 10.

By the mercy of God, I am returned, safe and well, from my voyage in the long-boat, without meeting any harm, though not without some fatigue; but that is always welcome for your sake. No one here can guess, by my looks or behavior, how much of my heart is in another quarter of the world. In short, you would not yourself desire that I should bear your absence better than I do; yes, I fear, if you could see me, you would suspect me of indifference. But I should beg you to take my word, rather than judge by appearances. I hope to be, in a few days, on my way to the West Indies, where my thoughts have often gone before me, in expectation of finding letters from you, which, next to your company, is the greatest pleasure I can think of. Let those be pleased with letters-patent who can be satisfied with honors and riches; if I do not absolutely despise these things, I can pronounce them trifles, when compared with the satisfactions of mutual love, which so far resemble the joys of a good conscience, that nothing adventitious can either give them or take them away. They who possess an affluence of all other temporal good, if devoid of this generous tenderness, are, in my view, objects of pity. I speak, as St. Paul says, after the manner of men; for, notwithstanding all my encomiums upon love, I hold it to be very dangerous, and indeed destructive, unless regulated and governed by a due sense of religion.

 

Bence Island, April 19.

I have been very happy this evening, in a solitary ramble round this island. I studiously avoided all company, and chose a retired walk, where I could vent my thoughts aloud, without fear of being overheard. The night was perfectly fine and serene, and I was favored with a frame of mind that I cannot always command. The ship was in sight at a small distance, which gave the first turn to my meditations. My thoughts went back to the time when I first saw her upon the stocks in the builder's yard; and from thence led me to review the different scenes in which I have been engaged since I left Liverpool; which furnished me with so many instances of a kind preserving Providence, that I was, in a remarkable manner, emboldened and encouraged to recommend the rest of the voyage to the same gracious protection. May I never forget this night! I could not be long in the exercise of prayer and praise without interesting you largely in it; and I think I never prayed more earnestly for myself, than I have tonight for you. I am now quite easy and composed, which is the nearest approach to happiness that I desire in this world, when I am not with you.

 

Plantanes, April 25.

Accept this letter as a proof that, in the midst of company and business, I am still thinking of you. I write, and talk, and trade, at the same time. I am now to inform you, that I am just finishing, and hope to sail this night, or tomorrow morning, for St. Christopher's. I completed eight months upon the coast yesterday; in which time I have seen a variety of scenes, and have often been upon the brink of apparent danger—but am preserved in health and safety hitherto. If I call my long stay a disappointment, I would remember, that former disappointments, by the over-ruling providence and goodness of God, have proved, in the event, to my advantage; and I trust it will be so still. Thus I often preach to you, and you will not wonder, that having your peace of mind more at heart than anything that can be named, I should be frequently inculcating what I believe, yes, what I am very sure, will be the most conducive to it. If you could form a judgment of the numberless escapes and deliverances I met with last voyage, I think you would never fear for me again. I have now a better ship and ship's company, and am better provided than then. I leave this with a large packet enclosed, to go by a vessel which is expected to sail; in about three weeks, directly for England, and will probably arrive there before you can hear of me from the West Indies.

 

At Sea, May 4.

If I can contrive anything to say, I hope now to be more regular in my correspondence; for I have left the greater part of the cares and troubles, which used to divide my thoughts and time, behind me in Africa. I am now about three hundred miles on my way to St. Kitt's, and hope to get the trade-wind soon, which will be fair for the rest of the passage.

I lately enclosed you four sheets, which bring the history of my voyage down to the 12th of February. I have sent you twelve in all, by different conveyances, besides their covers, which were not blank paper. For all this, I charge your account, as the merchants say; or rather I acknowledge myself still your debtor for the favorable reception I know they will find, and which they are no farther entitled to, than as proofs of an inclination to please. If there is merit in that, I shall not affect so much modesty as to disclaim it: for it is the business and glory of my life, to endeavor to act up to those professions which first induced you to confide in me. My mind runs so much upon the wished-for pleasure of letters from you when I arrive at St. Kitt's, that I often dream I have them in my hand, and when awake, am often dictating for you; and by reading those I have already received, I can make shrewd guesses how kind and good you will appear in those which are yet to come. But when I have done my best, I persuade myself that I shall find, as I have usually done in all relating to you, that my expectations will not only be answered—but exceeded.
 

At Sea, May 7.

I was sensibly disappointed in missing the letter you mention obliging me with by a ship from London. I should have found in that some particulars of your long journey. How gladly would I have prevented you the inconvenience of that long and lonely journey, if performing it for you myself on foot could have done it. As it was, I could only attend you with my thoughts and prayers. How much am I indebted to the divine goodness for restoring you home in safety and peace! The mention of footing it, reminds me of my solitary walk to Liverpool in the year 1748. Solitary indeed it was then; but could I have known that the time was coming when you would accompany me on the same road, I should have thought it pleasant in defiance of heat, dust, and fatigue. But my only business at London, which was with you, I left unfinished: I was short of money, destitute of friends, without prospect of a livelihood for myself, and still more of having it in my power to make proposals to you; and therefore had nothing to cheer me. When I recollect these dark seasons, I cannot but pause to wonder at the goodness of God, who was even then leading me, though I neither knew him, nor the way by which I went. How wonderfully was every obstacle to our union removed, and how happy has that event been (I hope I may say) to us both. I might have proved a wretch, insensible and ungrateful, when I had gained my point. Such I see is the folly and inconstancy of many. But my satisfaction has been still upon the increase; and, so far as happiness is attainable here, I think I have known it, and with as few drawbacks, for the time, as any person living.
 

At Sea, May 18.

We are now about half way to St. Christopher's from Guinea, in point of distance; and I hope nearer in respect of time, as we are in the trade-wind, which blows most of the year from the eastern quarter. Though I count the days and hours I am from you, my time does not hang heavy upon my hands: a part of it is employed, twice or thrice a day, in praying for you; a part of it in reading and studying the Bible. The rest of my leisure is divided between reading, writing, and the mathematics, as my inclination leads. I pass my verdict upon the actions of Caesar, Pompey, and twenty other hot-headed heroes of antiquity; and when I reflect upon their mighty designs, their fatigues and risks, and at last their disappointments, even when they attained the desired object; I ask myself, sometimes with a smile, "What trifles are these compared with love?" sometimes with a sigh, "What trifles are these compared with eternity?" The latter question brings my censure home to myself; and forces me to confess, that the greater part of my own schemes and prospects are no less vanities than those which I pity in others. I am pleased with the mathematics, because there is truth and certainty in them, which are seldom found in other branches of learning. Yet, even in these, I am discouraged; for the more I advance, the more clearly I perceive, that the greatest human knowledge amounts but to a more pompous proof of our ignorance, by showing us how little we know of anything, and how many inquiries may be started, concerning which we can know nothing. Then again, what we can attain requires so much time and pains, that it scarcely quits cost; especially as it seems needless to toil for knowledge in this world, under so many disadvantages, when, possibly, before I have been an hour within the veil, I shall know more, intuitively, than my namesake, Sir Isaac, had ever a glimpse of. However, I still jog on in this road, partly to keep me from idleness, which is the source either of sin or disquiet; and partly, because I consider every little improvement I can make to be valuable, so far as it may enable me to appear to more advantage in the character of your husband.

 

At Sea, May 28.

I expect that we are now within three or four days' sail of our port. Thus far we have crossed the ocean again, without trouble or harm.

I hope you will derive encouragement and thankfulness by recollecting, from what you may have heard or seen, how many people in my way of life have parted from their families and affections since I left you, and with no less pleasing prospects and probabilities, who, before this time, have been cut off from the hope of a return. One instance I shall mention, because I think you know the man, Mr. ****, who sailed chief-mate of the Adlington. He had a constitution likely to wear many years, a good character and interest, and a wife and family. He had been master of a ship in some home trade—but chose to go as mate to Guinea, one voyage, to introduce himself into this line of business. His views would probably have been answered, if he had lived. But he was killed in an insurrection of the slaves, before he had been two months upon the coast.

If this story, and many more of the same kind, which the common newspapers will furnish, should increase your fears for me, I shall be sorry; and must say, the fault would be in yourself. I am still safe, though I was liable to the same danger. My slaves likewise were, for a time, disposed to be very troublesome; but I was always providentially favored with a timely intimation of their designs, so that they never proceeded to open disturbance; and, for several months past, they have been as quiet and tractable as children. Having had so many repeated proofs of a gracious and always present Protector, I think it would be not only folly—but ingratitude and sin, to distrust him now. So that even with regard to yourself, though you are unspeakably the dearest blessing and comfort of my life, for whose sake chiefly it is, that all other advantages appear desirable; and, though I have no information of your welfare, later than of nine months' date, yet I cannot say that I am uneasy. While I hear nothing to the contrary, I shall trust, pray, and believe that the Lord still preserves you in mercy to us both, and will, in good time, bring us happily together again.

 

St. Christopher's, June 3.

We arrived here in safety last night. I can say little more, as I expect to be called on for my letter every minute; and I would not miss the opportunity if I could only send a single line. I feel enough in my own disappointment, to oblige me to be punctual. I promised myself many letters from you, upon my arrival here: judge, then, (if you can,) how much I am chagrined, not to find even one. I am sure it is not owing to any neglect of yours; and, though I have not heard from you so long, I am not quite uneasy. I have committed you into the hands of God, whose goodness abounds to me daily. On him I depend; and endeavor to think, no news is good news.

 

Sandy Point, St. Kitt's, June 8.

I informed you, on the 3d, of my arrival—but was then too busy to enlarge. I have now leisure enough—but must confess I write with a heavy heart. I cannot account for having no letters from you, after so many months, if you are well. But I endeavor to compose myself by a submissive dependence upon the providence of God, to whom I have so often, and so earnestly, commended you. :For my peace' sake, I try to suppose that the letters I so longed for, have by some means miscarried. I will endeavor not to mention this subject any more—but I cannot promise to forget it: in every other point I have all possible satisfaction. Most of the cargo is sold, and at a good price. I hope the loss upon the voyage will prove inconsiderable, and I believe my own interest in it will be better than in the former. I was going to add, as usual, that I expect my best reward from you; but this thought gave rise to another, which drew from me a heart-felt sigh. But I remember my promise: I have sent a boat up to Antigua, upon the perhaps that your letters may have been lodged for me there. I know a separation must at some time take place—but I hope and pray it may be deferred until we have more strength to bear it. A perfect acquiescence in the will of God, could we attain it, would be worth more than mountains of gold and silver. I know, as I have often said, that our concerns are under the best and kindest management. I know who brought us together, and has blessed us with a mutual affection; for want of which, marriage is a clog and burden to thousands. And he knows our passions and our weakness; and, unless we overrate the comforts he bestows, will never deprive us of them—but with a design of giving us something still better in their room.

 

Sandy Point, June 12.

I have sent away all my spare sheets, and shall take care to be constantly provided with something for every opportunity. But to what purpose do I write, when perhaps my dear M*** may be past the power of reading? Indeed, I find it a heavy task now, to what it used to be; but, since I am not quite without hope of your welfare, (which is the very best I can say,) I must write on, lest I should subject you to an anxiety like that which I now feel. I am forced to assume an air of cheerfulness in company—but, maugre all my precautions, I often discover myself to be a hypocrite, by my involuntary sighs; and at night I dream I know not what.

Yet, when you read this, do not think I was unhappy when I wrote it. My hopes, for the most part, prevail; and I consider, even now, that, if we meet happily at last, I shall soon be overpaid for all my care. Under such a disappointment as this, it is necessary either that I should not be quite easy, or that I should love you less than I do. You will allow the former evil to be a mere trifle, compared with the other.

I have informed my owners, that I cannot undertake to do anything upon the Windward Coast next season, the trade is so overdone. If they will send me, I am ready to go; but I will not be blamed, in case of ill-success, for not honestly giving my opinion. If they take my advice, perhaps they may send me to some other part of the coast, or to some other part of the world. I am indifferent as to the how, or where, provided I may be permitted sometimes to tell you, it is all for your sake; and to hear you say, that you accept it so.

 

Sandy Point, June 21.

I have sent you several letters and packets since my arrival. I cannot now complain, as formerly, for want of a subject. I have one with which I could fill many sheets—but have promised not to touch upon it, if I can help it. So that I am at present under a double difficulty: it is equally hard for me to write what would entertain you, or to refrain from what I know would grieve you. Well, I must submit. My happiness with you is such, that all incidental pains and uneasiness seem mere trifles, when either past or to come, however hard to bear when present. My pleasures, on the contrary, whether at the time, in recollection, or in prospect, always afford me consolation. Thus, though there is, strictly speaking, more evil than good in life, yet Providence so orders it, or at least so orders my share, that I find a little of the real good overbalances a great deal of the evil. My fears and uncertainties upon your account are much preferable to my being a mercenary wretch, incapable of valuing you as I ought. When I consider how many I see who are blind to the merit of their wives, because they are secure of them, I learn how much I owe to the Lord for blessing Inc with the knowledge of my true interest, and a mind susceptive of tenderness and sensibility.

I believe I was rather sparing of my promises in the time of courtship; at least, I engaged for no more than is usual on such occasions; but it has been my happiness since, to endeavor to act fully up to what I had said. And I now see, by the conduct of many who treat such thing as matters of course, how nearly my duty and my pleasure were united, and how miserable I must have been, if capable of wronging the confidence you placed in me. I see that those who cannot find their satisfactions at home, seek them in vain abroad. And thus I understand the literal meaning of the word diversions; which are only, or chiefly, agreeable to those who wish to turn their thoughts from their own situation. What numbers are there who frequent the theaters, assemblies, balls, and all the various scenes of dissipation, without being really pleased for one half hour, either with themselves, or with any body or thing around them. They languish continually for a change, and, rather than continue in the same pursuit, are willing to change for the worse.

A letter from Liverpool, dated April 5, informs me of the death of our friend Mrs. M****. What a striking lesson! A beautiful woman, in the bloom of youth, with mirthful hopes and prospects, cut off in the first year of marriage! As you mentioned her being with child, I think it probable that she died in child-bed. Alas! the vanity of this world and all its enjoyments! How little do we know what to wish for! I hope I shall always be contented and pleased, if it should please God that you never have to encounter that terrible risk. How could I bear to consider myself as the immediate, though innocent, cause of your death! I own that children, from the consideration of their being yours, would be highly acceptable to me, if it were so appointed; but I hope I shall never be so mad as to wish for them, for fear the consequence should ruin me. I know I am already happy without them.

 

Sandy Point, June 23.

My letters were sealed, and just going away—but I gladly break open yours, to tell you, that the boat which I sent to Antigua has brought me (oh, how kind and careful is my dear!) six letters from you, besides several others from friends, which, though very acceptable, are of less importance to my peace. I am sorry now, that I disclosed my fears to you, as you will perhaps be uneasy for me, until you learn by this that my wound is healed. I assure you, I dissembled what I could, and expressed much less concern than I felt, because I was writing to you. I have to praise God for the mercy of this tiny, and to confess the sin and folly of my distrust of his goodness. I have only had time, as yet, to read your letters twice. I see already, that I cannot fully answer them—but lain sure my full heart means you thanks.

 

Sandy Point, July 5.

I think this is the twelfth letter I have sent you from hence in the space of a. month, and they have been all pretty full; and I believe I shall hardly send you above one, or, at most, two more, before I sail myself, which I hope will be within ten days. In some of my former, I have commented upon three of yours, which I have received here.

The next, in order of time, is dated the third of January. I began the new year very seriously, and wish I could say, the whole, hitherto, had been of a piece; but there has not a day passed without my prayers, that every blessing may rest upon you. I thank you for resolving not to like any one but whom I first approve. I wish not to trouble you with many exceptions; but perhaps sometimes your judgment and mine may differ a little, for you have too much good-nature and openness to suspect some of the poor fluttering things that intrude upon you. I aim at no one in particular—but you are sensible that some of whom you once thought better than they deserved, have before now explained their own characters, and justified my censure; and, sooner or later, all such will appear in their proper colors; for, where there are no good principles, professions and pretenses must fall to the ground. You have given a good turn to Mrs. P****'s backwardness to believe we were married; but, if we live to see her together, she shall speak, if she pleases, for herself, and tell us whether your compliance did not surprise her more than my perseverance. But I care not which it was, since I know that I am happy. Happy indeed, since you acknowledge that you think yourself so: for I never was so poor a wretch as to think of being happy alone. The only risk I ran was this—lest I should presume too much upon myself, in expecting to inspire you with a reciprocal regard. The event has, indeed, answered to my wishes; but, when I think seriously of myself, I cannot but wonder at it, and at my own hardiness in the undertaking.

You say, my love continued, and yours increased. But, has not mine increased likewise? I have no simile to illustrate the difference between the regard I bear you now, and that which I had for you before marriage. I was not a hypocrite then. My affection was, perhaps, as strong as, in those circumstances, it could be. But I loved you, as I may say, for your looks; my love had little more to feed upon. .As yet, there were none of those endearments and obligations, which now continually throng my remembrance. In short, I find, by experience, that love, to be stable and permanent, must be mutual; and then, after years and years of possession, it will be still increasing; and every new endeavor to please, will produce a new pleasure. How different is this from the vice which the libertine would disguise under the name of love!

 

Sandy Point, July 11.

If I have a good passage, I may be in England before this notice reaches you, for I hope to sail this evening, and the vessel by which I send it, is bound to London, and will stay here two or three days after me. But, as she is a better sailer than mine, may probably arrive first. I allow you to begin to think of my arrival, when you hear I am upon my way home—but beg you not to be impatient for news. Passages from the West Indies are very uncertain. It sometimes has happened, that a vessel, which has sailed a month after another, has reached home as much before her. I have told you, that there is not a stronger or safer ship than mine upon the sea; and the same good Providence which preserved me last voyage, in a very old and crazy vessel, will be with me now; and I am going in the finest season of the year. In short, though I ought not confidently to presume on anything in this uncertain world, I derive from the tenor of the dispensations I have met with for several years past, a cheerful persuasion, that the God in whom I trust will preserve me for farther mercies, and still make me an instance of his goodness to the most unworthy.

 

At Sea, July 23.

I am almost ashamed to say, that, though I have been twelve days at sea, this is the first time of my writing to you. But I hope to be more frequent in future. I have indeed been very busy, and am so still. But I will not offer so poor an excuse; for, if I can find time to eat or sleep, I can as well find an hour for your service, which is the second best business of my life. I have had much peace since I received your letters; but I may now venture to own, that my disappointment until I had them, was the greatest trial I have known since I could call you mine. You know the strength of my passion, and you know well (observe my confidence) the painfulness of absence and silence from what we most value. But it is now happily over; and I hope what I then suffered, will prove for the good of both hereafter.

The weather is fine, and the wind fair. I am drawing nearer to you every moment. Perhaps, as my prospect brightens, my genius may improve. My good intentions, at least, will not be wanting to entertain you. Thus much by way of preface. It grows late, and another agreeable employment awaits me, I mean to recommend you to God in my prayers, that every evil may be kept from you while you sleep. I shall then lie down myself, with my usual wish, (which sometimes happens,) that I may dream myself in your company.

 

At Sea, July 24.

You think, by my last letters, that I am grown more grave than formerly. I do not intend to be more dull, nor am I troubled with low spirits; but I own that gravity, so far as it is consistent with cheerfulness of heart, appears to me desirable. And I hope I shall return to you graver (in my sense of the word) than I have been; but that this change will not be to my disadvantage as a companion, and least of all to you. Cannot I remind you of many happy hours we have passed together, when noisy mirth, and the mistaken gaiety in which thousands are bewildered, would have seemed tasteless and impertinent?

Perhaps, when you read this, I may be at your elbow to ask you, if not, I beg you to ask yourself, When sometimes you have been sitting alone in a melancholy muse, perhaps the more lonely for not having heard of me—when your imagination has painted the dangers to which I was exposed, and your memory has officiously furnished you with instances of some who have suffered by such disasters; —or when you have recollected the circumstances of our past endearments—and, to finish all, when you have recalled me to your thoughts in the action of parting from you, without a word or sigh, for fear of increasing your trouble;—I say, when a mixture of these, and similar ideas, have wrought you up to that pitch of regret and concern which must be sometimes paid for the privilege of loving—tell me, if then, the world, with all its gaieties and amusements, has not appeared a bubble, a shadow, a wilderness? Why then should we not always be too grave to be pleased with them, since we have repeated proofs, that none of the world's gewgaws can afford us relief in our mournful hours? So far from helping us at such times, we prefer our own thoughts (though painful enough) to everything that offers to divert us, and carry it with caution to our dearest friends, lest they should steal our grief away; I have said, We and Us, all along, having no doubt but a description of my own feelings will answer to yours likewise. Yet, after all, we seem to be persuaded, that a more happy couple than we are, cannot be found. If so, do we not allow and prove, that happiness is not to be expected in this life; at least, not in any, nor all the things, that are of an earthly growth? Who has it, if we have it not? And what have we? Perhaps a precarious month in a year, which, considered in itself, to me is valuable indeed. But it must be owned, that the more we are pleased the short space we are together, the more we are at a loss in the long interval of separation; during the great part of which, we know no more of each other than of the silent grave.

The insensible. selfish creatures, whom caprice or custom yoke in a married state, without design or confidence, are strangers to our satisfactions: this is true; but neither do they feel the drawback. To quit a person dearer than eyes or life—to be at a painful uncertainty, for many weary months, for a welfare more precious to us than our own, and, from a sense of happiness at home, to be raised to a pitch incapable of tasting the common entertainments of life abroad—to be always fearing what may never happen, and regretting what can never be recalled—from these, and many more pains which I feel—but cannot describe, their insensibility secures them. These are appropriate, prerogative troubles, which none but lovers, nay, none but happy lovers, are capable of suffering.

 

At Sea, July 25.

A stranger might suppose I was yesterday complaining of my lot—but you know me better. That I can love; that my regard was directed to you, and has met with a suitable return from you, are my chief temporal blessings, in which, notwithstanding all disadvantages, I still deem myself happy; that is, in a qualified sense: so far as this imperfect state will admit, and far beyond my deserts, or the common attainment of mankind. But for this I am much indebted to my gravity, such as it is. For, should I grant, that a serious temper is not quite necessary to give us the full relish of our enjoyments when present, (which is more, however, than I mean to grant,) yet surely it is needful to support us in the want of them.

Though, in the moment of taking my leave of you, I felt more than I can express; yet, in the midst of my grief, and when quitting what I most valued, I thought myself happier than thousands can be in the possession of their wishes. I left you, and with the expectation of a long absence; but a sense of the Divine Providence, and my trust in God, greatly obviated my cares and fears, and led my thoughts forwards to the hour, (I hope now nearly approaching,) which will restore me to you again. I was like a person committing his dearest treasure to his dearest friend; and then went down stairs with a mixture of peace and grief not easily described; not as violently torn away—but as willingly foregoing you for a while, that I might the better deserve you.

I considered, that the Lord, who had joined us, could easily have so appointed our affairs, as to free us from the necessity of such long separations; and I thought it would have been so—but that He, who knows all things, knows the indulgence would hurt us in some particulars, perhaps in many, which we are not aware of. I felt for the uneasiness which your regard for me might sometimes occasion; but I saw, that even this might lead your mind more closely and frequently to him for help, and, if so, be a benefit. I confess, the thought of death, on either side, made me serious. If I had apprehended, that was the last time I should hold you in my arms, how could I have left you at all? No;—then methinks, wind and tide, business and honor, would have pleaded in vain, and I must have been carried from you by force. But this, which was my only dread, hardly occurred to me at the time, and was soon removed, by an inward persuasion that we should happily meet again. And, oh! could you form an idea of the evils I have since been preserved through, and kept for the most part in peace, seldom knowing where the danger lay, until it was past, you would allow that I am a living proof of the truth of those promises which I endeavor, by the grace of God, to make my stay and my trust.

I hope I have made out the advantage of a religious frame of mind, in my present situation. Let me now consider whether it will not be equally necessary, and conducive to our happiness, upon a re-union. Will it not be an additional pleasure, to think that we do not meet again, as it were by chance—but by the care of a watchful Providence, in answer to prayer; as a token of his favor, and an earnest, to encourage our future dependence upon him? How could I, loving you as I do, be easy a moment, without this dependence, in such a changeable state, and not knowing what the next day, or hour, may bring forth? Nor is religion a restraint upon any real or rational pleasure. For, as the apostle emphatically expresses it, God gives us all things richly, to enjoy; not grudgingly—but freely and richly; not to raise desires which may not be gratified; what he gives, is with the design that it may be enjoyed. It is true, there is a modus, a moderation, enjoined; but this, likewise, is for our benefit, that we may not spoil the relish of our comforts, nor indispose ourselves for the reception of his farther and better gifts.

 

At Sea, July 26.

Since, then, a serious and dependent spirit secures to us the best enjoyment of our blessings, and obviates, in a great measure, the inconveniences to which they are subject; what remains—but that we should resolve and endeavor, to the best of our power, to cultivate this temper, and to live so as has appeared to us most reasonable, when we have been uneasy and afflicted? The contrary behavior carries in it so much disingenuousness, that I am ashamed when I reflect upon my past guilt and folly. For it is certain, that I have often been least observant and attentive, when a grateful mind would have been most so. For these reasons, I hope, upon my return, to appear more grave than ever, to one part of our acquaintance; but then I shall be always cheerful, in the approbation of my conscience. I have chiefly written all this, upon my own account, that the perusal of it hereafter may confirm and strengthen me in my present views and desires.

 

At Sea, July 31.

I am persuaded, as I have often said, that, if it was in all points best for us to be always together, we should never be parted. He who has already done so much for us, could easily add this to the rest of His mercies, and, perhaps, at a proper time, he will. If not, let us entreat him to direct our thoughts and pursuits to a better state, where no separation, anxiety, or grief, shall disturb us forever. The trials of this life are highly useful and necessary, to prevent our minds from fixing here; especially to us, who have so much to prize in each other. But let not passion mislead us to suppose, that we are not capable of a happiness, as far beyond our present experience or conception, as the heavens are higher than the earth. Our mutual affection, which now makes life chiefly valuable to us, will, I trust, exist in a nobler manner, when the transient causes upon which it was at first founded shall, perhaps, have no more place in our remembrance; at least, will not be considered in the light we now esteem them—but will appear truly valuable, only so far as they were, by the blessing of God, subservient to a farther and better end. And how will it then increase our joys (if our joys will then be capable of increase) to think that we have assisted each other in obtaining them!

 

At Sea, August 5.

Supposing that, if you are in health today, you have been a partaker of the communion at church, I attended you with my prayers, about the time; that you might receive a blessing, and have cause to look back upon the opportunity with comfort. If it please God to continue our present favorable appearances, I hope to join with you, the next time, with a pleasure, which only they who have been long separated from public worship, and who have so many mercies to acknowledge as I have, can conceive. It comforts me to think, that you are favored with all the advantages of which my way of life deprives me for a whole year, or longer. And I hope you suitably improve them.

My affection carries my wishes and desires for you, far beyond the narrow bounds of the time we can expect to pass together here; and I shall be glad to find, that a preparation for an hereafter has a place in your thoughts, much superior to any concern or regard for me. For I am a poor, weak creature, incapable, dearly as I love you, of shielding you from the smallest evil, or of doing you any service so great, as by dissuading you from placing too much dependence upon a worm like myself. Think not that I undervalue your affection: I am sure I would not exchange it for all the kingdoms upon earth. But there is a regard, which is due only to Him who first inspired us with love to each other. While our mutual affection is restrained, in a proper subordination to him, I hope we shall not be blameable for preferring it, as I do, to whatever else can be named. But, if we exceed this boundary, we not only sin—but expose ourselves to a double risk of having our comforts blighted, either by death or by heavy troubles. All that we possess or value, is the immediate gift of God, who proposes the most ingenuous and grateful motives to win us to his service. But if, by fondly reposing on creatures, we pervert his goodness, and set up a rest independent of the Creator, what can be expected but that he will either recall the blessings we so little deserve, or throw in bitter ingredients to spoil our pleasures?

I tremble to think how much I have exposed you, by my blindness and folly in this respect. When I was so long at St. Kitt's, without hearing from you, that I almost concluded you were dead, my conscience confirmed my fears; for I knew that I deserved to be punished, where my feelings were most tender and sensible. This conviction lay upon my mind, with a weight that no words can express. Ah! thought I—but for me, she might have been still living and happy. My weakness and ingratitude have shortened her days! But God is merciful: after I had suffered thus for about a two weeks, I received your letters. But, had the event proved according to my dread and my desert, what would have become of me?—To survive you, upon any terms, would be a great trial; but it then seemed comparatively light, could it have been abstracted from the aggravation of having sinned you away. But—I cannot give you a just idea of the state of my mind at that time. I thank God, it is happily over, and I have now a comfortable hope that we shall meet again in peace. If we do, surely I shall not be such a wretch again.

 

At Sea, August 16.

Now I may write leisurely, for the wind is contrary. Though I am earnestly desirous to see you, I would not be impatient, nor wish, if it was in my power, to fix the time myself. I trust it shall be in a happy hour, and I desire to leave the when to God. Our times are in His hands. It will signify little, a hundred years hence, whether I have five, or six, or more weeks on my passage homewards from St. Kitt's, in the year 1753. And, indeed, it will signify but little when I have been half an hour with you. I shall then soon forget the inconvenience of delay. If I feel any concern, it is on your account; for my love would not willingly have you kept in an hour's suspense for me. But my judgment speaks more reasonably, and tells me that, as disappointments and hindrances have often proved of real service to myself, so perhaps, they may be to you likewise. And the dependent frame of spirit, in which I am now happy, would be worth your purchase, if you have not yet attained it, (but I hope you rather exceed me,) at the price of not seeing me this twelvemonth.
 

At Sea, August 18.

I am brought in safety to the close of another week. The evening of a Saturday, I usually allot to the exercise of prayer and praise. It is not foreign to this design to employ half an hour in writing to you, to invite you to join with me in praising our gracious Preserver, as we are jointly interested in each other's concernment.

The wind has been easterly a few days—but it now seems to be coming about fair again. For my own part, I consider the winds from every quarter to be fair: though, in compliance with our customary forms of speaking, I call those so, which allow me to sail to my intended port in a straight line. When it changes, I am obliged to change my course, and to go something about. But they all contribute to answer my best wish, at the proper time. And probably a contrary wind is no less conducive to this end, than a more direct one; for we know not when we go too fast or too slow. A ship has often been hurried into danger and distress by a quick passage.

I shall be with you in my thoughts tomorrow, in the church, in your retirements, and at your meals. I rise early to pray for your happiness, before you awake; and sit up past your hour, that I may beg a blessing upon your rest, before I go to rest myself. Some people would smile at all this. Let them smile, so that I may give the most sincere and serious proof of my affection, by praying, at all hours, and in all circumstances, for your peace and welfare.

 

At Sea, August 20.

We have again a fair wind, and very pleasant weather. I have often heard your gender compared to the ocean. I hope the resemblance does not generally hold, (I am happy to be certain, that in one instance it does not,) for there cannot be a more apt emblem of inconstancy. This spot of water which I am now passing over, which at present is as smooth as a meadow, spread round as far as the eye can reach, like a great mirror, and reflects the beams of the moon unruffled, has, perhaps, been the grave of many; at least, their terror, and will often be so. It may be, that the next who follow me, will find a very different scene. For let the wind blow with violence from any quarter, for the space of four hours, and all will be in confusion; the mirror broken, the level destroyed, and nothing to be seen but alternately yawning gulps and moving mountains, everyone seeming to rise higher than the rest, and the smallest sufficient to destroy the stoutest ship, and to confound the strongest human confidence in a moment; if not continually restrained by that sovereign power which rules the waves with a nod, and limits them to their bounds, beyond which, in their highest rage and confusion, they cannot rise the tenth part of an inch. How they feel, at such times, who have no reliance but on their own skill and precaution, I cannot say; but was it so with me, I should often prove a very coward; and, indeed, always; for, when danger was not apparent, I should dread it as being imminent. When I compare the various contingencies to which a ship is liable, with the best preventions or remedies that are can furnish against them, they seem so disproportionate, that, were it not for a superintending Providence, I should think it a wonder indeed if any one vessel made a voyage in safety. But, as in this view I should be always afraid, so now, since I am certain that I am under the care of God in all places, I do not, even in turbulent weather, suffer more anxiety, than is needful to engage my attention to the proper use of means. This is my part; and if means are succeeded, it is by the blessing of God, without which my diligence would be unavailing. The watchman wakes but in vain, except the Lord keep the city; but it does not follow, that, because the Lord keeps the city, the watchman may go to sleep—but rather the contrary.

 

At Sea, August 29.

I told you yesterday that I might probably dine today at Liverpool; but I must wait longer. Last night brought us, with fair wind and with fair weather, with in four hours' sail of our port. We stopped to wait for day-light, and a pilot. The day came at its appointed time—but, instead of a pilot, brought a strong gale of wind, with thick weather; so that I was glad to turn about and away to sea again; and may be thankful if I can keep clear of the sands and dangers which lie before the entrance of the river, which I trust I shall; for I believe the providence of God has not brought me safely across two oceans, to leave me to my own poor shifts at last. It really blew very hard, and looked very dismally at four this morning; but the weather is now more moderate, though still dark and rainy. I was something anxious in the night—but am at present tolerably easy. God is my defense; if he is on my side, I must be preserved: the winds and waves obey him.

I can now give you a new proof, that my dependence upon God is not in vain. When I wrote the above, I was in a very indifferent situation: a hard gale of wind, thick weather, and very little sea-room. Had things continued so another day, I might have suffered shipwreck within a few miles of my port; but I had scarcely laid the paper by, when the weather changed to quite fine, and the wind came about fair. Before noon I got a pilot on board, and I may now hope to be at Liverpool this very night. Surely no one experiences the goodness and care of Divine Providence more continually than I do! Surely the Lord hears and answers my poor prayers!

 

THIRD VOYAGE TO AFRICA. 1753.

At Sea, October 26.

My Dearest,
I now begin to prepare materials for new packets. The first thing in course is to tell you that, by the blessing of the Lord, all is well with me. We had an extraordinary good outlet to sea, and lost sight of the last land the third day after parting with you. We are all in good health and spirits. My time passes, perhaps, too pleasantly, considering that possibly you may be mourning at the very instant when I am most cheerful. But I excuse myself to myself, by pleading that it was your desire I should be as cheer fill as I can. At all times I have room in my thoughts for you; and the most pleasant of all my hours, are those which are devoted to praying for you. My mind attends you this week, from stage to stage, on your long journey home. The wise, tasteless many would smile at this attention, and call me a trifler. So let them. If it gains a smile of acceptance from you, I will account it a matter of importance; and smile at them, in my turn; though I rather ought to pity them.
 

At Sea, November 2.

We saw and passed the Island of Madeira, this morning, (which is distant from Liverpool about 1500 miles,) though this is but the thirteenth day since we left the rock. As we are now entering that part of the ocean where the wind blows from the eastern quarter the year round, I have the prospect of a quick passage. Should it prove so, it will be agreeable, especially as I have not been left to wish for anything particular, being sensible that I know not how to choose the best means and times for accomplishing my own desires, if the choice was given to me. Dispatch will be welcome, as affording hie the prospect of a more speedy return to you. But, should I meet with delay, I hope to acquiesce, and to believe that it will keep me back from something that would be worse. Was I to judge otherwise, I should sin against the experience of many years, in which I have always had my wishes gratified, so far as was consistent with my safety; and have met with no disappointment or trouble—but what I have afterwards perceived was intended, or at least overruled, for my benefit.

In two points we are, and have been, favored above thousands. First, in a tender and reciprocal regard, which renders it impossible for either of us to be pleased or pained alone; and, secondly, that this sympathy has been chiefly, I could almost say wholly, employed in a participation of pleasures, with very little interruption (the pain of absence excepted) on either side. I know not which of these blessings is most valuable—but certainly, when combined, (as with us,) they constitute the nearest approach to happiness, in a temporal view, that this imperfect state will admit. There are many who, in point of outward advantages, may seem equal, or superior to us; but then their contracted selfish spirits cannot relish or improve them. Again, there are others of generous and feeling dispositions, who, borne down by the pressure of accumulated afflictions, derive no advantage from their sensibility, unless it is a privilege to have a more exquisite perception of misery. There are those who could bear adversity in their own people with tolerable composure—but feel a tenfold distress by seeing others involved with them, whose peace is dearer to them than their own. Help me to be thankful! I have no rent-rolls, or stock-securities, to rely upon. But I have all inventory of another kind, a single article of which is preferable, in my eyes, to all the wealth of the Indies: health, content, liberty, love, the recollection of the past, and therein a lively image of what I may yet hope for, when it shall please God, in his good time, to restore me home, to receive from you, in one hour, an ample recompense for the toils of a whole voyage.

 

At Sea, November 23.

I aim, as well as I can, to mingle the agreeable and useful, in the course of my letters; and to offer what may entertain you, and, at the same time, improve us both. Our mutual happy affection supplies me with my largest fund, for the first purpose: and I am glad when I can properly introduce such reflections, as may assist us in making our present satisfaction subservient to a still higher end. You will not be displeased with me for saying, that, though you ape dearer to me than the aggregate of all other earthly comforts, I wish to limit my passion within those bounds which God has appointed. Our love to each other ought to lead us to love Him supremely, who is the Author and Source of all the good we possess or hope for. It is to Him we owe that happiness in the marriage state which so many seek in vain; some of whom set out with such hopes and prospects, that their disappointments can be deduced from no other cause than their having placed that high regard on a creature, which is due only to the Creator. He therefore withholds his blessing, (without which no union can exist,) and their expects. lions, of course, end in satiety and indifference.

Perfect happiness cannot be attained in this life; but to come as near it as possible, well deserves our close application. As people differ much in their views and inclinations, this attempt has been pursued by a great variety of mediums. The heathen philosophers were divided by a diversity of opinions—but they all agreed in an endeavor to teach mankind how to make the most of the good which life affords; and to bear its evils with the best grace possible. Some proposed one sort of rules; others offered new ones, and perhaps quite opposite to the former; but experience confuted them all. Being ignorant of the original nature, the true end, and the future destination of man, they failed in the cure of the evils under which he labored, because they knew not the source from whence they sprung. Some attempted to eradicate the passions, and placed happiness in a calmness, or rather an insensibility, of soul; not reflecting that the Creator does nothing in vain, and that we have not a single natural inclination in our frame—but what he designed should, under a proper restriction, be gratified. But, while they endeavored to guard against care, and to restrain irregularity, their schemes tended to destroy some of our most distinguishing properties, and to exclude all tenderness and generosity of sentiment. Others, to avoid this absurdity, fell into a greater, if possible. By supposing the greatest happiness to consist in the most constant enjoyment of sensual pleasure, they opened a wide door to folly and enormity; and left each person to pursue his own propensity, under the notion of pleasure, without having recourse to any standard by which to regulate their conduct. These were the two very different plans of those who are generally deemed the wisest men among the ancients, the Stoics and the Epicureans. The one pretended, that the world afforded nothing worthy of their notice. The other found, there was nothing in the world deserving of the value they set upon it.

We are relieved from this uncertainty by the Gospel, which has brought light and immortality, true happiness and the means of attaining it, to light. And, when we count over the various blessings we enjoy, we should always acknowledge, in the first place, this pledge and ground-work of every other mercy, that we were born in an age and a country affording us plain and sure instruction concerning our real interest and bounden duty, and how inseparably they are joined together. The Scripture teaches us how to enjoy prosperity in its full relish, by considering every instance of it as a gift and token of the divine goodness, always attentive to bless us; and likewise abates the pressure of adversity, by showing us how much our worst sufferings fall short of our demerits; how much more our Lord and Savior endured for our sakes; and by the assurance it gives, that, if we love God, all things, even those which at present are most disagreeable, shall work together for our final good. Now, whatever troubles we meet with, we can look beyond them all to an everlasting rest. The hour of death, so much dreaded by others, will put the true Christian in possession of eternal life. These things, reason, unassisted by revelation could never have discovered.

The Christian religion is a consistent system, including the truth and morality of every sect of philosophy, and avoiding the errors of each. We now see the use and excellence of the passions, when duly regulated; though they render us unhappy when misapplied, because then they fall short of their proper end; for God, who (as the Scripture says) made us for himself, has formed us, with a vastness of capacity, which he only can satisfy. And from hence proceeds that restlessness and disappointment, that love of change, which is the portion of those who place their highest desires and strongest hopes on anything beneath the supreme good. We can now say, that pleasure is our chief happiness, by using the word with a propriety unknown to the Epicureans. We seek for pleasure—but it must be of the noblest kind, and most lasting duration. Upon this maxim we cheerfully renounce every present pleasure which, in its consequence, would occasion a pain greater, or more lasting, than the pleasure proposed; and we can welcome troubles, when we clearly perceive they are but light and momentary, if compared with the far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory to which they lead. This is an abstract of my principles, and, I believe, of yours likewise. These shall support us, when we shall he constrained to leave each other; and these, I trust, shall join us again in a better world, to part no more forever.

 

Plantanes, December 10.

The three sheets enclosed will bring my history down to the end of November. I arrived in safety at Shebar, the second instant; found my friend Harry well and very glad to see me. Your picture, if it could speak, might tell you how well pleased his first lady was with your present; for she dressed herself in it before you, and seemed to think that in her new attire, she might stand in competition with you. I believe you will smile at her vanity, and think I pay you no great compliment, in preferring your picture to her reality. But, had the finest woman in England stood by, she would, in my eye, have fallen almost equally short upon the comparison.

I often look back, with a mixture of thankfulness and regret, upon the time we lately passed together at Liverpool, which I consider as the happiest part of my life. I never before had so much of your company, in an equal space, and with so little interruption. Seven such weeks are preferable to seven years of common time. After so many sheets and quires as I have written to you, I cannot always produce what is new. But the thoughts with which your love inspires me, are too interesting to be irksome, though often repeated.

Accept my thanks for your valuable, or invaluable, letter of the 28th of October, which I have just received. I thank you, likewise, for your punctual observance of our stated hour of retirement, which has been seldom omitted on my part; though, sometimes, hurry of business, or want of opportunity, have prevented me. But, if I slip the appointed minute, no business or company can prevent me from putting up, at least, frequent heart-felt ejaculations on your behalf. I congratulate Mr. B****, upon the agreeable company he had to London. I think the journey was at least as favorable to him as to you. I am sure I would rather have had his seat in the post-chaise than his office, however lucrative or honorable, unless you were annexed to it. But I remember, as friar Bacon's head said, Time was. I have been happy, and hope to be so again.

 

Shebar, January 10. 1754.

I often lose myself insensibly, in the recollection of past times; and purchase the recall of the most valued pleasures, at the expense of only a transient sigh. I think of our evening walks and retirements, when the setting sun, the trees, the birds, and prospects, have contributed to enrich the scene; though your company was, to me, that which completed and crowned the whole. I reflect with pleasure on some seasons, when our thoughts have risen faster than words could give them utterance, and we have surprised the tears silently stealing down our cheeks. What would the mirthful and fashionable world say to such a representation? They live in too much hurry, and have too little reflection, to understand this elegance of soul, which, under the guise of grief, affords the sincerest pleasure. My own experience would almost lead me to maintain what you, perhaps, will think a paradox—That they who best love, are best qualified to support the pains and anxieties of absence. Such trains of thought as I have mentioned, yield me more satisfaction than all the gewgaws of the great or wealthy could do. But it will not 'therefore follow, that people who are indifferent when together, are better pleased when asunder. In the former case, they are soon weary of each other; in the latter, they are soon weary of themselves. However, to me, the past and the future afford abundant subject for agreeable musing; and even the present, though not very agreeable in itself, becomes in some measure so, when I consider that I am here for your sake. And I am glad of the opportunity of manifesting that neither difficulties, nor dangers, nor distance, nor time, can abate the sense of what I owe you. However the case may be now, I can remember the time when you could have done very well without me. The first obligation, which was the ground of every other, was entirely on your side; and I still think myself far short of repaying it. Though, if I could cancel that, you have taken care to superadd new ones every succeeding day since.

 

Rio Junque, January 17.

In the midst of a thousand hurries and avocations, I must steal a few minutes to converse with you. I have been almost wearied today with noise, heat, smoke, and business; but, when I think of you, the inconvenience is gone. Which of your learned philosophers can define this wonderful, transforming thing, called Love, that can infuse a degree of pleasure into trouble and disquiet?

The ship that is to take my packet, is upon the point of sailing. I must wind up all, with fervent prayers, that it may please the Lord, the Giver of all good, to preserve us in peace and dependence, during the appointed term of our separation; and, in his good hour, to give us a happy meeting; and that we may learn to wait for that time with patience, with more than patience, with thankfulness that our prospects are only delayed, or prorogued, and not wholly cut off, as has been the case with many since we first joined hands. Above all, I pray, that in every scene of life, we may prepare for what we know must, sooner or later, take place; that we may believe and act upon the principles of the Gospel, to the glory of our Maker and Redeemer here, and then we shall be happy forever hereafter, beyond the reach of sorrow or pain, and shall never more know what it is to part.

 

Rio Sestos, January 21.

Lord Orrery remarks, upon a letter of Pliny (whom, I think, I formerly mentioned) to his wife's aunt, that the examples of a delicate marital love have been few. He says, "Men cannot, or will not, see the excellencies of their wives. From the day of marriage, the woman lays aside her reserve, and the man his civility. She grows forward and over bearing; he becomes sour and snappish. Or, if they appear fond, (as, from the novelty of the state, it sometimes happens,) the grossness of the passion is too nauseous to be named." Whenever I meet with an observation of this kind, it is an unspeakable pleasure to me to reflect, that I can put in an exception to it, in both your name and my own. Were I even assured, that the whole time since Pliny and Calphurnia lived, (which is more than sixteen hundred years,) afforded only forty such happy couples, I should not scruple to include you and myself in the number. And, in this consciousness, I find more pleasure than the greatest affluence of wealth could give me. I have enough. I have all in that mutual affection with which it has pleased God to bless us, and, without which, the treasures of both the Indies would, to me, be useless and tasteless. I think I have now some right to speak thus; for the experience of nearly four years has convinced me, that either the novelty so much talked of, is not necessary to my satisfaction; or else, which amounts to the same thing, that I find some new cause of endearment in you, every day.

 

Rio Sestos, January 25.

I expected, before I left England, that the present voyage would not prove successful, in point of profit; and I was not mistaken. I shall hardly reach the half of my last year's purchase. I hope the vessel I have bought, to trade after I am gone, may secure the owner's interest; but my own part of the affair will probably be moderate enough.

If a sigh should escape you on this account, I beg you to recollect yourself, and not indulge a second. Remember, that this failure in dirty money-matters, is the only abatement we have hitherto met with; and that, in other respects, we have as much the advantage of those who are envied by the world, as we fall short of them in riches. We have blessings which riches cannot purchase, nor compensate for the want of. And I see much cause for thankfulness that things are no worse. We want for nothing at present; and, for the future, we may safely rely on the good Providence that has done so much for us already. Besides, what I may get by an indifferent voyage, would, by many, be thought a great sum. We are both sensible that we are too shortsighted to choose well for ourselves, if the choice were allowed us; and, therefore, I hope we shall agree to resign our concerns to the disposal of a better wisdom than our own.

When I look back, and reflect upon the difficulties from which I have been relieved, and the advantages I have obtained, beyond my former hopes and probabilities, it would be very disingenuous in me to distress myself about small matters. Nor need I be over-anxious upon your account, for God can as easily provide for us, now we are joined in one interest, as if we had continued separate. If we make our chief application for what chiefly deserves it, we are assured, that all inferior good things, in such a measure and manner as is most expedient for us, will surely be added to us. Perhaps we may not be rich—no matter. We are rich in love. We are rich indeed, if the promises and providence of God are our inheritance. And, at present, we have every inconvenience, and I can think of no one thing, really desirable, the greatest sum of money could procure us, which we have not already, unless it were to free us from the necessity of these frequent and long separations.

This thought, indeed, were I to yield to my first emotions, would make me more fond of gold than a miser; though, in every other view, I can despise it. But, when I am cool, as my conscience tells me that I am unworthy of so great a blessing, so my experience persuades me that probably I cannot, as yet, be safely trusted with it. Perhaps the event might prove worse than anything which has hitherto befallen us. I am willing, indeed, to hope it would be otherwise—but my heart is deceitful, and has, more than once, deceived me in this very point. I might grow secure, and gradually neglect the due improvement of such an addition to my talents. Nay, such is the unhappy depravity of human nature, that I cannot be sure I might not, in time, be permitted, for my punishment, to forget what I owe to you. It is true, that at this moment of writing, it seems quite as easy for me to forget to speak, or to breathe; but there is an unhappy gradation, often observable in the course of life, by which people, from insensible beginnings, are carried on to things which once they could not have thought of without horror. The first deviations from the paths of duty and peace are scarcely discernible—but they become wider and wider.

I must recall, or soften, this last supposition; for I cannot bear even to suppose it. Can I possibly forget you? I hope not. Surely it would be better for me to be condemned to the mines for life, than to be deprived of that grateful confidence with which my heart at this instant overflows, that I am yours, and that you are mine. This, I trust, will be among the last reflections I shall be capable of making in this world. But, that it may be so, I wish to acquiesce in whatever methods it shall please God to appoint for the continuance of my affection. Perhaps he sees, that these intervals of absence are the best means for preserving me from an evil which I dread more than a dungeon or a galley. If it were otherwise, or whenever I attain strength sufficient to bear the indulgence without abusing it, he can easily put it in our power to live together here, until we are meet to be removed to a happy hereafter. That great word Eternity, rightly understood, is a cure for every evil, and casts a shade upon the brightest prospects that all on this side the grave can furnish. To us, I hope, it will be an eternity of happiness.

 

February 2.

Among, the many congratulations you will probably receive today, I believe you will think none more sincere or acceptable than mine; though, perhaps, I am in nothing more singular or unfashionable than in my manner of expressing them. The return of your birth-day requires from me an acknowledgment of the same kind as the return of my own. I commemorate both in the same manner. I was up long before the sun this morning, to invoke a blessing upon you, and to pray, that this may prove a happy birth-day to you, in my sense of the word. I am writing in a tornado. The elements seem all at war over my head—but, I thank God, I have peace within; and the storm does not interrupt my thoughts of you.

The day reminds me of that (prophetical, shall I call it?) agreement between your mother and mine, when we were in leading-strings; that, if we lived to grow up, we should be man and wife. There seems, indeed, nothing extraordinary in such a discourse taking place between intimate friends. But as, afterwards, the fellowship between our families was totally broken off for many years, and renewed by me, in the most contingent, and, as the phrase is, accidental manner, when I did not even rightly know your name; add to this, the unusual impression the first sight of you made upon my mind, when we were both so young that I knew not what, or why, I loved; and, further, the many difficulties which attended my pursuit, which was begun, and carried on for years against the advice and consent of all your friends, and of all mine, and, what seemed the greatest bar of all, against your own inclination likewise;—I say, taking all these circumstances together, I cannot but think it remarkable, that we were so particularly laid out for each other when we were infants. However this may be, I have abundant reason to praise the Lord, that, before I had been four years in the world, he should provide for me, in you, the greatest blessing of my life; with which he purposed to enhance and crown all his other mercies to me; and that you might be, in time, as a guardian angel, to preserve me from ruin. I desire to praise him for all the goodness that has followed you, from the hour I am commemorating to this day; for the gracious protection which preserved you for me through your early years; for your health and satisfaction since you have been mine; and for enabling me, thus far, to answer the trust you have reposed in me. And I humbly pray, that our affections and engagements maybe preserved inviolable between ourselves, and in a proper subordination to what we owe to him, the great Lord of all.

 

Settera Crue, February 6.

I have calculated, that, if all the letters I have sent you since our first parting, in May, 1750, were transcribed in order, they would fill one hundred and twenty such sheets as this, on all sides. An eye, less favorable than yours, might find very many faults in so large a collection; but, if they have the merit of pleasing you, it pleases me more to have written them, than if I had published so many volumes to be applauded by the world. I hope I need not be ashamed of them, if they were to fall into other hands. I hope I have, in general, expressed my regard in terms which reason and religion will warrant. I consider our union as a peculiar effect and gift of an indulgent Providence; and, therefore, as a talent to be improved to higher ends, to the promoting his will and service upon earth, and to the assisting each other to prepare for an eternal state, to which a few years, at the farthest, will introduce us. Were these points wholly neglected, however great our satisfaction might be for the present, it would be better never to have seen each other; since the time must soon come, when, of all the endearments of our connection, nothing will remain but the consciousness how greatly we were favored, and how we improved the favors we possessed. We shall hereafter have reason to be thankful, even for these frequent separations, if they should conduce to fix these views more effectually in our minds. With such thoughts I endeavor to oppose my impatience to see you. My occasional anxieties, and my indifference to everything around me, when you are not with me, I compare to the sense of feeling which often costs a person pain; but, if he were destitute of it, he would be incapable of pleasure, and little better than dead. If my heart were not susceptive of love and tenderness, I might escape many a twinge; but I have not suffered enough to make me envy those whose whole thought and solicitude terminate on their own dear selves.

 

Settera Crue, February 12.

What I daily acknowledge as the greatest blessing of my life, the return of this day reminds me to notice more particularly. It is the anniversary of our marriage: a point I had so much at heart; in which I had long so little probability of succeeding, was so very unworthy of success, and which has so happily answered, I may indeed say, exceeded, my expectations;—when I consider all these items together, I am at a loss for words to express my thankfulness to God. For four whole years I have possessed the height of my wishes. I do not except even these necessary intervals of absence; because I have been enabled to support them as well as I myself can desire; and because the consciousness of your affection, of which neither absence nor distance call deprive me, affords me a continual feast.

I arose before the sun to pray and give thanks for you, and to beg that you may always find as much satisfaction as you have raised me to; and that we may both have grace to act answerably to the advantages we have above thousands. If you look round upon those of your acquaintance, who have entered the marriage state about the time we did, I believe you will find but few who do not, in some degree, betray a sense of disappointment; or, who are so entirely satisfied with each other as, I trust, we are. I do not mean to form a comparison with any one in my own favor. Sincerity and tenderness are the chief of my inventory; but, if I ever grow richer in accomplishments, both the praise and the profit ought to be yours; and who can tell how far a desire to appear deserving of you may, at length, carry me?

The occasion might now lead me to a more serious strain, and to consider how we may make these blossoms of temporal good bear fruit for eternity; but, for this, I shall at present refer you to what I wrote on your birth-day. Let us remember, that in all situations, whether pleased or pained, we are equally advancing towards an unchangeable eternity. It is a part of human happiness, if rightly understood, to know, that the very best of it must, before long, be parted with for something unspeakably better.

 

Rio Junque, March 1.

I still continue in health, and all is well, excepting one late circumstance, which has given me, as you will believe, much concern; but I have now got over it. Not to keep you in suspense, longer than just to prevent surprise, I must inform you, that all my schemes in favor of Captain L**** are at an end. I told you, in a former letter, that I had bought a vessel upon the coast, and had given him the command of her. He went from me in good spirits, and with high hopes—but was seized with a fever before he had left me three weeks, which proved fatal to him in about eight days. I have been much affected by this sudden stroke. I have known him long, and believe he had a true regard for me: and it was by my inducement that he came hither. There are other reasons for my concern, which I need not mention to you. But the will of God has taken place, and it is my part to submit.

May we both profit from this receipt and awful instance of the vanity and uncertainty of human life, and of all relating to it. A healthy constitution and sprightly temper afford no security from death. How many such have I seen cut off upon this coast! And yet I, though supposed by many people to be in a consumption, and not likely to hold out for one voyage, am preserved from year to year! Let us feel the expediency of preparing for a change, which, sooner or later, we must experience. The death of every friend is a warning to survivors. And yours and mine will, perhaps, by some of our acquaintance who knew how much we loved, and how happy we were in each other, be alleged as a new proof that even those temporal satisfactions which will best abide the test of reflection, are no less frail and transient than any other.

I am in such a scene of confusion and noise, that I hardly know what I write. I only read, or think, as it were, by starts.

 

At Sea, April 8.

It is a whole two weeks since I wrote to you, and seems to me much longer. I know you will charge my silence to the hurry of business, and not to neglect. But I can now make you amends, by informing you that I am, once more, clear of the coast of Guinea. I sailed from Shebar yesterday morning. I have left my chief-mate, Mr. W****, in possession of the Race-Horse, (the vessel which I purchased for Captain L.,) with about a thousand pounds worth of my cargo, which I could not dispose of in the limited term of my stay on the coast; which I hope will save the voyage to the owners. As to my own profit, though it may not be so great as might have been expected, I hope it will be sufficient. A safe return to you will make up all deficiencies.

This has been a fatal season to many people upon the coast. I think I never before heard of so many dead, lost, or destroyed, in one year. But I have been kept in perfect health, and have buried neither White nor Black. Let us praise God for his singular goodness to us, and take encouragement to hope and pray, that he will crown this voyage also with a comfortable meeting. Amen.

 

At Sea, April 18.

A few days ago I informed you, that I had left Africa, in good health and spirits. It has now pleased God to give me, in my own person, an experience of that uncertainty of all human affairs, which I have so often remarked in the concerns of others.

I have been ill three days of a fever, which, though it is at present attended with no symptoms particularly dangerous, it behooves me to consider may terminate in death. I have endeavored to compose myself to the summons, if it should so prove. And I hope I may say, I am, in some measure, ready to live or to die, as may be appointed; and that I desire not to choose for myself, in this case, more than in any other. One specious excuse with which I have often covered my desire of life, was, that I might have an opportunity of doing something for the glory of God and the good of my fellow-creatures; that I might not go quite useless out of the world. But, alas! I have so little improved the talents and occasions which have been already afforded me, that I am ashamed to offer this plea any more. my only remaining concern is upon your account; and, even in that, I am in a measure relieved, from the following considerations.

My first and principal consolation is in the hope, that we are both under the influence of religious principles, and that you, as well as myself, are persuaded that no trouble or change can befall us by chance. Whenever a separation shall take place, as, if not now, it sooner or later must; it will be, by the express act and will of the same wise and good Providence which brought us together at first, has given us so much in each other already, and has continually shielded us, as yet, from the various harms which have been fatal to many of our acquaintance. Farther, I consider that The time is short. If I go now, in a few years, perhaps much sooner, you will follow me, I hope, in the same path, depending wholly on the divine mercy, through faith in the blood and mediation of Jesus Christ our Redeemer, according to the plain, literal terms of the Gospel. It is in this faith I am now happy. This bears me, in a measure, above my fears and sins, above my sickness, and above the many agreeable views I had formed in my mind upon a happy return to you. May this be your support, your guide, and shield, and I can ask no more for you. Then you will, at last, attain complete and unfading happiness; and we shall meet again, and, perhaps, to join in recollecting the scenes we have been engaged in together while upon earth. Then, probably, we shall clearly see what I now believe, and from which I derive another reason for acquiescence, that, as the goodness of God first joined us, so it was his mercy that parted us again; mercy to each, to both of us.

We have, perhaps, been sometimes too happy in each other; to have been always, or longer so, might have betrayed us into a dangerous security. We might have forgotten our present duty and our future destination. It has been too much the case already: I have greatly failed myself, and I have been but a poor example for you. Should it, therefore, please God to make my death the happy occasion of fixing your dependence, hope, and desire upon him alone, surely I can say, Your will be done. My heart bleeds, when I represent to myself, the grief with which such an event would overwhelm you. But I know that he can moderate and sanctify it, and give you cause hereafter to say, It was good for you to have been so afflicted; and, before long, the time will come, when all tears shall be wiped both from your eyes and mine.

 

At Sea, April 30.

It has pleased God to give me another reprieve. The fever has left me, and I feel my strength returning. You will congratulate me on my recovery. I thank you. But let us not be too secure. A relapse may soon happen; or twenty unforeseen events may, without sickness, prove equally decisive. I hope I am, in some measure, thankful for the present, and not anxious about the future; for the Lord will appoint what is best for us. My head was much confused when I wrote last; but I shall let it stand as a specimen of my thoughts in the hour of trial. I endeavored, from the first, to compose my mind for departure from hence, if such should be the will of God. And my belief of the Gospel (which I once despised) made me tolerably easy and resigned. When this grand point was, according to my poor attainment, settled, you were the chief, the sole object of my remaining solicitude; and I was desirous of leaving a few lines, while the fever did not render me quite incapable of writing, to certify you in what manner I was enabled to meet my summons; and to leave you my farewell advice, my blessing, and my thanks. But before I could finish what I intended, the occasion was mercifully removed.

I hope the remembrance of this visitation will be a long and constant benefit to me, and will give me a better sense of the value of health, which I had been favored with so long, that it seemed almost a thing of course. I bless God for restoring it to me again. If it is his will, I shall be glad to live a little longer, upon many accounts; and, among' the chief, for your sake, And, oh! may it please him to spare you for me likewise, and to grant that we may again meet in peace! My eyes will not yet allow me to write much.

 

At Sea, May 16.

I send this by a vessel which will probably arrive in England before you can have any news of me from St. Christopher's, to inform you, that the Lord has brought us safely within about a week's sail of that island. I have before mentioned the death of Captain L****, which was, indeed, a trial; but I soon acquiesced, as I ought always, in the will of God. When I consider, it is the Lord—should not I add, Let him do as seems him good?

There is, indeed, one trial, to which I always stand exposed; should this come, my heart and conscience give me cause to fear that, not only moral arguments—but the poor attainments I have made in religion, would fail, unless I was immediately strengthened from above. And I humbly trust I shall be, if I am ever called to a scene, which, at present, overpowers my spirits when I but transiently think of it. Yes! God would enable me to resign you also! He has promised strength according to our day; and he is compassionate and faithful.

Since I left Africa, I have been ill of a fever. It was rather violent—but unattended with pains, delirium, or any threatening symptom, and lasted but eight or ten days. Though it was not of the most dangerous species, I thought it right to consider it as a warning to prepare for eternity: and I praise God, the principles upon which I aim to rest my hope when in health, did not fail me in sickness. In surrendering myself entirely to the mercy and care of my Lord and Savior, my hopes so much exceeded my fears, that, had it been his will, I seemed contented to give up, even all those prospects which your love and a happy return to you afforded me, (for, at that time, no other temporal prospects had the least weight with me,) and to have died in the midst of the pathless ocean, at a distance from every friend. If my senses had not failed, I should have died praying that you might be supported, and the stroke sanctified to you. I wrote a letter to you in my illness, (confused as my head was,) when I was not without apprehension that it would be the last service my hand would perform for me. But the Lord has been merciful for me: I am not only still living—but perfectly recovered!

 

St. Kitt's, Sandy Point, May 30.

We arrived here the 21st instant, and I received your dear obliging letter of the 16th of February.

Before now, I hope you have received an account of my celebration of your birth-day, and, the happy consequence of it, the day of our marriage. You say, you endeavored to imitate me on the return of these days, not only in observing them—but in the same manner. My own attempts are so unsuitable to what I could wish, that I cannot suppose yours inferior to them. I hope you will always copy after a more perfect pattern. Our prayers have been thus far answered, and I hope the hour of meeting is not very distant. You will be the more sensible of this mercy, when you receive information of my illness, on the passage, and that my life was, for a day or two, thought very dubious by those about me. My health was restored at sea; but, for want of fresh provisions and proper nourishment, (for I had distributed my stock among the sick seamen before I was taken ill myself,) I continued rather faint and weak; but now, at Mr. G****'s, I have not only necessaries—but delicacies, and allow myself more indulgence than usual, with a view of recruiting.

I am glad you think my picture like me. I cannot persuade myself to think so of yours; yet I frequently look at it, and talk to it, because you sat for it; and I can supply the defects of it from my mind, where the dear original is painted, or rather engraved, to the greatest exactness. There I have traces impressed which no pencil could copy; a lively representation, not only of your person—but of your heart.

Now and then I have been constrained to omit our noon-tide appointment; but, in general, I have observed it with much pleasure, and have found it one of my best alleviations of your absence. At present the time falls out with me about eight in the morning, which is rather inconvenient; but I try to make it up, more or less, through the day; and I believe that one waking hour of my life, since I parted with you, has seldom passed without some breathing of prayer in your behalf.

 

Sandy Point, June 7.

I have found fewer opportunities of writing than I expected; but, before the close of this month, I hope to be at sea myself on my way home. Remember what I have formerly written upon such occasions, to prevent your uneasiness; or rather, remember what the Lord has written for your encouragement: "When you pass through the waters I will be with you." In all the dangers and difficulties that may affect either of us, our God is ever present. May we learn to sanctify him in our hearts, and to make him our dread, and we need fear nothing. It is my daily earnest prayer, that you may find peace and comfort in his promises, which are all yes and amen in Jesus our Redeemer, to them who trust in his atonement and mediation. If we have him on our side, nothing can be against us, so as to separate us from his love. Through him we shall prove more than conquerors. But if we rely on ourselves, or on anything else short of that only rock of salvation, we shall be confused and shaken.

The enclosed was written chiefly during my sickness, after leaving the coast. I had some expectation it would have been my last; but God was merciful to me. I desired to live upon your account, and my desire was granted. At present I am in perfect health, and happy in the hope of being soon restored to you again.

 

Sandy Point, June 13.

I have picked up a valuable acquaintance here, of whom I hope to tell you more soon. I was going to say he is one of my stamp; but he is far beyond me, in all that I most desire. I hope his example and converse will prove to my advantage. We are always together when business will permit: and the last two weeks has been the most pleasant time I have spent during my absence from you. To be from you, is, indeed, an abatement to every pleasure. But I hope I make some advance in submission to the will of God. I have resigned all into his hands, and while separate from you, that is, from all that I hold dear in this world, I perceive in some degree his presence, whose loving kindness is better than life itself.

A vessel arrived today from London, which brought many letters—but none for me. It is no matter. I trust in the Lord; and this keeps me from uneasiness. I was more afraid than hurt for want of letters here last voyage; and I hope I shall not be weak enough to grieve again without just grounds.
 

At Sea, June 21.

I left St. Kitt's the 20th instant, and am now about six hundred miles on my way homewards, in perfect health and peace.

I had a sacramental opportunity while there, on Whitsunday, and was glad to embrace it. The service was, indeed, poorly administered, by a man whose only distinguishing mark of a minister, I believe, was his gown and surplice. But I aimed to look beyond the man, to the Lord; and I hope I received a blessing. You may be sure I thought of you upon the occasion. I hoped, that you were engaged that day in the same manner; and I earnestly prayed, as I do daily, that every appointed mean of grace may be made effectual to your present comfort and final salvation. This is the one thing needful; which I ask with solicitude. I am more cool as to our temporal concerns; because I know we are not competent to choose for ourselves; and, therefore, I am content with begging a blessing upon them in general terms; so far as they may most conduce to the promoting his glory and our eternal welfare; resigning the particulars to the wise and merciful disposal of God. And I can say, to his praise, that things never succeeded more to my mind, than since I have been taught to aim at this method. May we be interested in the covenant, which is well ordered in all points, and sure; and then, both great mercies and small mercies (if any mercies could with propriety be deemed small) will be ours of course. Then we need be anxious about nothing; but, as occasions arise, make known our requests to God; and, if what we ask be really good for us, we shall certainly have it. The apostle's argument upon this head is unanswerable: "He who spared not his own Son—but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not, with him also, freely give us all things?" That powerful love, which brought down the Most High to assume our nature, to suffer, and to die for us, will not permit those who depend on him to want what is really good for them.

 

At Sea, July 6.

Tomorrow will be a feast-day with you, if, as I hope, you are well. My thoughts and prayers will attend you at the Lord's table. May you have his presence and blessing in all his ordinances! It is my allotment to be seldom favored with the benefit of Christian communion, and public ordinances; but, I thank the Lord, I know that He, who is rich in mercy, is in every place equally near to all who call upon him. Neither in the wilds of Guinea, nor in the pathless ocean, am I wholly without his gracious presence. Yet, were it lawful for me to choose, I would rather be a door-keeper in the house of God, than to dwell in splendor at a distance from it. However, it is a great satisfaction to me, that you, who are dear to me as my own heart, have always in your power the privileges which are but now and then permitted to me.

Two very different errors are frequent concerning the Lord's Supper. The first is, of those who keep away because, as they say, they are unworthy. If they mean, that they are determined to persist in those courses which are directly contrary to the design of our Redeemer's life and death, they certainly have no business at his table; but alas! what will they do if death should summon them, in this hardened disposition, to his tribunal? But, with respect to those who mourn for their sins, and strive and pray against them, it is an artifice of the tempter to deter them from the Lord's table, because they are sinners; when it is a sure and glorious truth, that sinners are the very people invited. The whole need not the physician—but the sick. All the ordinances, and particularly this, are designed to strengthen the weak, to confirm the doubtful, and to raise them that are fallen. Unbelief and a legal temper dishonor the Gospel, and disquiet the soul; and, indeed, the objection is founded in pride; for they own, that, if they were better, as it is called, they would readily attend. But it is best for us to renounce all seeming good in ourselves, and, as helpless, worthless sinners, to rely wholly on the mercy of God, in Jesus Christ.

There is an opposite error. Many rush upon this sacrament as though it were a mere ceremony, or a civil institution to qualify for an office; or a sponge to wipe off their past offences, that they may begin a new score. They have no sense of the evil of sin, and, therefore, cannot know their need of a Savior. But they presume that God is merciful, and are quieted. He is, indeed, merciful beyond our conception, and he has shown himself so in the method of reconciliation; but he has declared the way in which he will show mercy, and there is no other. For a person to partake of that bread, and of that cup, which exhibit to us the sorrows and sufferings of the Son of God for our sins, and yet willfully to continue in the practice of those sins, which it cost him all his agonies in the garden, and upon the cross, to expiate, is, as much as in him lies, to crucify the Son of God afresh, and to put him to open shame.

 

At Sea, July 13.

Or all the authors I have read, who have occasionally treated of a married life, and of the inadvertence, on both sides, by which it is too often rendered unhappy, I do not remember one who has touched upon the greatest evil of all, I mean our wretched propensity to lay the foundation of our proposed happiness independent of God. If we are happy in a mutual affection when we set out, we are too apt to think that nothing more is wanting; and to suppose our own prudence, and good judgment, sufficient to carry us on to the end. But that it is not so, in fact, we have daily proof, from the example of numbers; who, notwithstanding a sincere regard to each other at first, and the advantages of good sense, and good temper, in general, yet, by some hidden causes, gradually become cool and indifferent; and at length burdensome, perhaps hateful, to each other. This event is often noticed, and excites surprise, because few can properly account for it. But I see few marriages commenced, which give me hope of a more favorable issue.

It is an undoubted truth, that the Most High God, who is ever present with and over his creatures, is the author and giver of all that is agreeable or comfortable to us in this world. We cannot be either easy in ourselves, or acceptable to others—but by his favor: and, therefore, when we presume to use his creature-comforts without consulting and acknowledging him in them, his honor is concerned to disappoint us. Dreaming of sure satisfaction, in the prosecution, or enjoyment, of our own desires, we do but imitate the builders of Babel, who said, Go to, let us build a tower, to get ourselves a name. So we, too often, when circumstances smile upon us, vainly think of securing happiness upon earth; a sensual happiness, and on an earth that stands accursed and subject to vanity for our sins. In every state and scene of life there are instances of this folly; but, perhaps, it is in no one more insinuating and plausible than in the commencement of marriage between those whose hearts are united. But, alas! God looks down upon such short-sighted projectors as he did upon those of old. He pours contempt upon their designs; he divides their language; he permits separate views and interests to rise in their minds; their fair scheme of happiness degenerates into confusion; and they are left under the reproach of having begun to build what they will never be able to finish. This is the true cause of half the unhappiness complained of, and observed among those who come together by their own consent. Not for want of good- will at first, nor for want of any necessary qualification in themselves; but because, neglecting to own and to seek God in their concerns, he has refused them that blessing without which no union can exist.

You will not ask me how we set out, and in what manner our happy connection has been conducted. But perhaps you will see much reason to ask, (I am sure I do,) why we have succeeded so much better than others? And why we, unlike the most of our acquaintance, have preserved our regard unabated, and all our obligations fresh upon our mind, into the middle of our fifth year? I cannot pretend that it is owing to my being duly dependent, and humble, in ascribing all my blessings to the Lord; or to my having enjoyed them with an eye to his glory. Alas! I have given way to the evils which I knew I ought to avoid, and have neglected the good to which my conscience called me. But it is, because the Lord, in all his dealings with me, has been wonderfully, singularly mercifully and favorable. By his grace he brought me from a state of apostasy, to the knowledge of his Gospel; and, by his good providence, he has no less distinguished me in temporal. He brought me, as I may say, out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage; from slavery and famine on the coast of Africa, into my present easy situation. And he brought me from the most abandoned scenes of profligacy, when I was sunk into a delight with the vilest wretches, to make me happy in the possession of your heart and person. And thus he has continued to me, in your love and its endearing consequences, all that I hold valuable in life for so many years; though I have not endeavored, in the manner I ought, to deserve you for one whole day. Often the consciousness of my disingenuous behavior has made my heart tremble upon your account. I have feared lest you should be snatched away, for my punishment. But the Lord is God, and not man. As in a thousand instances, so particularly in this, I may well say, He has not dealt with me according to my sins, nor rewarded me after my iniquities. He has neither separated us by death, nor involved us in heavy afflictions, nor suffered our affections to fail. Let us praise him for these three articles, for there is scarcely one couple in a thousand that is favored with them all for an equal space of time.

Mr. Addison has treated, with propriety, on the want of complaisance, the improper freedoms, and several other failings, which, though seemingly of no great immediate importance themselves, may, in time, give rise to serious and abiding disgusts. The faults which he mentions are to be guarded against; but to attend to these only will not be sufficient. Philosophy and reasoning have their use; but religion alone can teach us, how to use the good things of this world without abusing them; and to make our earthly comforts blessings indeed, by improving them to a farther view; by tracing them, as streams to their fountain; by extending our views, from time to eternity; and making our mutual affection a mean of raising our desires to the great Lord of all. But herein, alas, I have greatly failed hitherto! And perhaps this is the reason why I am so long and so often separated from you. I now see that I may number it among my greatest mercies, that I was not permitted to remain always at home with you. Perhaps, by this time, I might have been hardened into an entire neglect of my duty to God, and my most essential duty to you; but, by being forced to leave you, again and again, I have had opportunity and leisure for reflection, and, I would hope, at length, for repentance. You have been much mistaken in your opinion of me. Your kind partiality has thought me very good, when, indeed, I have been very bad; very insensible and ungrateful, not only to God—but even to you. I have not properly answered the trust you have reposed in me; but, I hope, I shall be enabled to amend.

You say you sometimes show my letters. Though most of them are in an unfashionable strain, I am not very solicitous who may see them. I write from my heart; from a heart that is not ashamed (excepting as I have acknowledged above) in anything relating to you; a heart that hardly beats—but in concert to some earnest wish for your welfare; a heart that always feels the smallest instance of your kindness; a heart that would give up every pleasure this world can afford, rather than lose the joy it feels in being yours, and that you own an interest in it; a heart that would welcome any temporal troubles that might be a mean of final good to you. —Thus far I can go.- There was a time when I could have gone farther. Do not think my love impaired because I now desire to stop here. There was a time (what a mercy that the Lord did not tear my idol from me!) when you had that place in my heart which is only due to Him, and I regarded you as my chief good. But I hope that time is past; and never did I wish so earnestly for the first proofs of your affection, as I do now that you may be enabled to restrain it within due bounds; and that your regard may not prevent you from considering me as a frail, poor, mutable creature, unable of myself to procure you any real good, or to shield you from the smallest evil. Oh, may we adore Him, who provided us for each other, who brought us together, and has spared us so long! May we love each other until death, yes, I hope, in a future state beyond death! And, in order to this, may we, in the first place, love him with all our heart, and soul, and strength, who first loved us, and gave himself for us, to renew our forfeited title to the good things of both worlds. And to wash us from our sins in his own blood. This was love indeed! Where were the sensibility and ingenuousness of spirit which we sometimes think we possess, that this unspeakable Lover of souls has been no more noticed, nor more admired and beloved, by us hitherto? Lord, make us partakers of your divine nature, for you are Love!
 

At Sea, July 27.

You will observe, I have of late made an alteration in my post-days. Instead of a few lines two or three times a week, I now write a whole sheet every Saturday; and in the choice of a subject, I have an eye to the service of the following day. Thus I indulge my inclination in writing to you, without breaking the rule I have, for some time past, prescribed to myself: the forenoon of Saturday I allow for relaxation; but, when I have dined, if no necessary business prevents me, I endeavor to abstract my mind from worldly concerns, and to prepare for the approaching Sabbath.

I now mean to give you some account how I pass a sea-Sunday, when I am favored with a tolerable frame of mind, and am enabled, by the grace of God, to obtain some tolerable mastery over the encumbrances of the flesh and the world, which, in my best hours, are too prevalent with me.

My evening devotions, when opportunity permits, commence about six o'clock, the week and the month round; and I am, sometimes, engaged a full hour or more in prayer and praise, without any remarkable weariness or repetition. You furnish me with much subject for both. On a Saturday evening, in particular, I beg a blessing upon your Sunday, upon your public worship and retirement. And as I know, that where you are, you are unavoidably exposed to trifling company, to whom all days are alike, I pray that you may be shielded from their evil influence. I have likewise to pray for others; for our friends; for many of them by name, and according to the knowledge I have of their circumstances; and extend my petitions to the general state of the world, that they who are strangers to the Gospel, in which I have found so much peace, may be brought to the knowledge of it; and that they who neglect and despise it, as I once did, may, like me, obtain mercy. When these, and other points, are gone over, and my praises offered for our temporal and spiritual blessings, and likewise my repeated confessions of the sins of my childhood, youth, and advanced years, as they occur to my remembrance, you will not wonder that an hour is elapsed. The remainder of the evening I pass in ruminating on the mercies of the preceding week, the subjects of my reading, or whatever I can pick useful self-conference from.

I usually rise at four on a Sunday morning. My first employ is to beg a blessing upon the day for us both; for all who, like you, are preparing to wait upon God in public, and for all who, like myself, are, for a time, excluded from that privilege. To this succeeds a serious walk upon deck. Then I read two or three select chapters. At breakfast, I eat and drink more than I talk; for I have no one here to join in such conversation as I should then choose. At the hour of your going to church, I attend you in my mind with another prayer; and at eleven o'clock the ship's bell rings my own little congregation about me. To them I read the morning service, according to the Liturgy. Then I walk the deck, and attend my observation, as we call it; that is, to know by the sun, (if it shines,) at noon, the latitude the ship is in. Then comes dinner. In the afternoon I frequently take a nap for half an hour: if not, I read or write in a book I keep for that purpose. I wait upon you again to church in the afternoon, and convene my ship's company, as in the morning. At four o'clock I drink tea, which recruits my spirits for the evening. Then another Scripture lesson, and a walk brings six o'clock, which, I have told you, is my hour for stated prayer. I remember you then again, in the most particular manner; and, in trust, that you are still preserved in safety for me, I endeavor to praise the Lord for his goodness so long vouchsafed to us.

But, alas! when I look back upon a day spent in this manner, I cannot express how much I have to mourn over, and be ashamed of, at night.—Oh! the wanderings and faintness of my prayers; the distraction of my thoughts; the coldness of my heart, and the secret workings of pride, which debase and corrupt my best services! In short, every thought is wrong. But I remember that I am not under the law—but under grace. I rely on the promised mediation of my Savior, renounce my own poor performances, and implore mercy in his name and for his sake only, and that sets all to rights. I need no one to pronounce an absolution to me; I can tell myself, that my sins are forgiven me, because I know in whom I have believed. This leads me to praise and adore Him, that I was born in an age and country favored with the light of the Gospel; when there are millions of my species who have neither the means of grace, nor the hope of glory; and farther, that I have been called out from the unhappy apostasy, and licentiousness, and misery, into which I had plunged myself; when many thousands, who never offended to the degree I have, are either suffered to go on, from bad to worse, until there is no hope, or are cut off by a stroke, and sink into endless misery in a thoughtless moment! Lord, not unto me—but unto You be the praise. It was wholly the effect of your grace; for you would be found of me, when I had not the least inclination to seek you!

Though I have given you this account, chiefly of my passing a Sunday, it will, in the main, serve for the history of any day in any week, since I left St. Christopher's. It is thus I am enabled, ardently as I love you, to support your absence without impatience; though a re-union to you, such as our two former, includes all I can wish as to temporals. And, I trust, he who has brought me safely over two-thirds of the ocean that was lately between us, will do the rest in his own good hour. And, in the meanwhile, blessed be his name, my time does not hang heavy upon my hands. I trust you choose him for your portion also. Thus we shall bear separation better, and be more happy when together, than formerly. And, when we are called finally to part, (as, sooner or later, we must,) He will strengthen us according to the day of our trouble, and will assuredly unite us again to unspeakable advantage, and place us beyond the reach of every trial and every evil.

 

At Sea, August 3.

If our reckonings are right, I am now within a day's sail of Ireland; and I may hope (if the fair wind continues) to see Liverpool within a week. My passage thus far, like all the passages I have made since you have owned an interest in me, has been remarkably exempted from disagreeable events and apparent dangers. As I hope I shall not have occasion to send you another weekly sheet before I see you, I would employ this on a closing invitation to join with me in praising the great Author of all good for his numerous and repeated mercies and blessings vouchsafed to us both; and the rather at present, as this day will conclude another year of my life. How much reason have I to say with David, "O Lord, you crown the year with your goodness!"

We are never in a better disposition to ask, and obtain, further favors from the Lord, than when our hearts are impressed with a grateful sense of those we have already received. We have, indeed, reason to praise him above many; for his dispensations to us have been singularly favorable. His goodness has been manifested from the first moments of our life; yes, still more early, from the circumstances of our birth. It was by the ordination of this kind providence, that we were born in an age and land of light and liberty, and not among the millions who have no knowledge of the means of grace, or of the hope of glory; nor among the multitudes who are trained up, from their cradles, to substitute superstition for religion. But I shall defer speaking of spiritual mercies until I have said something of our temporal blessings.

Perhaps we have sometimes been tempted to think that, because we do not possess titles and estates, and are not of high distinction and estimation in the world, we have received nothing extraordinary; but two reflections will, I hope, suffice to correct this mistake.

Let us, in the first place, think of the miseries we know or observe in the world. How many are crippled or maimed in their bodies, or disordered in their minds? How many, at this minute, are nearly perishing through extreme want of the common necessaries of life? How many are chained to their beds by sickness and excruciating pains, and can find no ease by day or by night? not to insist on the more deplorable case of those who are suffering the agonies of a wounded spirit, or a terrified conscience. Let us reflect on the miseries and outrages, which the scourge of war brings upon cities, provinces, and whole nations. Or, if those scenes are too shocking to dwell upon, it will suffice to take the estimate much lower. Let us look round us at home, among our own acquaintance, or, at farthest, within the bounds of the news-papers. How many fatherless—how many widows, do we hear of? How many, from happy prospects, rendered suddenly miserable by what we call casualties? Take these things together, and let us ask our consciences, if a continued exemption from such a variety of evils, and a constant supply of the many wants we have in common with others, are not favors which we enjoy, and which are afforded, comparatively, to few?

But farther; let us, in the second place, turn our eyes to those who are placed in the smoother walks of life, whom customary speech calls the happy. Run over what you know of those who are most noticed for personal qualifications, for their riches, honors, or the variety of their means and modes of pleasure; and then let us ask ourselves, if there is any one among all these with whom we could be content to change in all points. If we should not accept such a proposal, as surely we should not, (I answer for you, no less confidently than for myself,) it follows evidently, that we have more to be thankful for, (our own partial selves being judges,) than many of those whom, perhaps, we have been disposed to envy; and if so, it is equally plain that there are no two people upon the face of the earth more indebted to an indulgent Providence than ourselves.

If I mention particulars, I must begin with what I have most at heart, our mutual, happy affection. In this, at least, we are rich; and this is a kind of wealth, with which gold and silver will bear no comparison; nor would many cart-loads of them purchase a single grain of so great a blessing. But let us not ascribe this to ourselves. How manifest, how powerful and marvelous, was the hand of God in bringing us together! For myself, I have reason to say, (as you well know,) that never was attempt of the kind successful under greater improbabilities; and yet, so peculiar was our turn, that had we missed each other, perhaps there was not one of each gender in the kingdom that could have made us so entirely happy. Then, after marriage, it was not impossible for us, more than others, to decline into that satiety and indifference so much complained of, and so often observed. If we had sunk no lower than into a cold esteem, a sort of mechanical good-will, the world might have judged charitably that we were well matched; but we could not have been able to write, to speak, to look, and to feel, as we do now. But farther, when all that we do possess was granted, we might still have been unhappy. without the especial protection of God. We were liable to sickness, death, and a variety of distresses, which, if they had not impaired our love, would have made it productive of more pain than pleasure. But, in this respect, we have been no less distinguished than in the rest. I can give you no idea of the many evils and dangers which surrounded me in my last two voyages; nor can I recount how many fell beside me, and at my right hand, who had equal prospects, better constitutions, and perhaps superior skill. But this was not all, nor even half; for I found, upon my return, that my dearest M*** was preserved to me, and had always the satisfaction to meet you in the most agreeable manner I could wish. And I have been conducted towards you thus far in safety the third time, and my hopes still flourish.

To the prime article, what we are to each other, many may be added, which, though subordinate, are very valuable: the union and harmony of every branch of our family; an easy sufficient way of life, creditable and decent, if not splendid. But want of room prevents me from enlarging on these items, and from the mention of several more; for I am not willing to fill the sheet with what relates merely to this transitory state. The blessings I have recounted, are in themselves great; but, when compared with the views and hopes revealed to us by the Gospel, they sink at once in their importance, and become, any farther than subservient to our spiritual interest, less than nothing and vanity. All advantages of this kind might have been permitted us for the term of a frail life, and yet we might have lived and died strangers to God, and to true peace; nay, we certainly should, had we been left to ourselves.

Let us, therefore, praise the mercy and goodness of God, for conveying to us all his gifts in the channel of redeeming love; and for leading us to build our hopes upon the mediation of the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by being made a curse for us, and dying upon the cross, has taken out that curse and evil which the transgression of our first parents had entailed upon the whole lower creation. Let us praise the Lord, that, though he has blessed us with so much of our hearts' desire, he has enabled us to hope that he has not appointed us all our portion of good in this life. Let us rejoice, not merely in our comforts upon earth—but rather in the trust we have that our names are written in heaven. Let us receive our Lord's gifts with thankfulness, and improve them to his service; and may they be doubly welcome to us, as tokens of his love, and earnests of his farther gracious designs in our favor. And, oh! may the consciousness of our past neglect, and our unsuitable returns for all his benefits, inspire us with redoubled diligence and care for the future; and engage us in a humble and daily application to our great Surety, who has undertaken to pay all our debts. And may you, my dearest M***, appear tomorrow at his table with these views, acknowledging that our talents have been all of his bounty, and the abuse of them, yours and mine, and all that we can properly call our own. May your confessions end in peace, and your sorrow terminate in joy, in receiving the pledges of his dying love. You will remember me, and I shall endeavor to be with you in spirit; and I trust, on the next sacrament day, I shall accompany you in person; and before that time, I hope we shall be permitted, with one heart and one voice, to praise the Lord, our light and strength and salvation, who holds our souls in peace, and suffers not our feet to be moved. O Lord, you have dealt wonderfully with us; therefore will we exalt your glorious name!

I am, unalterably yours.

 

Liverpool, August.

My last just informed you of my arrival here in health and peace. I can tell you little more at present. I lived almost without sleep nearly a week before we came in, and my head and thoughts are not yet quite settled.

It is not at present determined, whether you or I must remove from where we are; if you receive this without a postscript, you may expect me. I shall be clear of my ship African in two days. I have left her because she is such a heavy sailer. But there is another that was born (launched) the same day with her, which I may have if I please, and probably I shall not refuse her, though I know not what to do with her at present. My judgment tells me, that it would be better to sail six months hence, and I have almost induced Mr. M**** to think as I do. And yet I fear he suspects that I start objections, that I may have the more time to pass with you. I wish He could know the peculiar turn of my love, and he would fully acquit me of such a charge. It is true indeed, were I master of a small independence, though but a small one, I should glory in avowing, that nothing which the mercenary world calls advantage—not a large heap of yellow counters—should bribe me to the necessity of being so long and so far from my dearest M***. For when I consider myself only, I know and feel that the price of a kingdom would poorly pay me for your absence. But when I think of you as unprovided for, and liable to I know not what if anything should befall me; and still more, that your desire of making me happy was the occasion of your being in this precarious state; I almost grudge every hour in which I am not some way engaged for your interest. I should be ashamed to be long at home when your concerns require me abroad. However, I am to submit everything to the disposal of that all-wise Providence on which I am permitted to depend, and by which I never was, nor can be, disappointed. I have many reasons for desiring a little time with you, if it will suit my business; if otherwise, I have one reason against it that outweighs them all—the sense of what I owe to you. I considered, before we married, what must be the consequence on my side; I joyfully accepted the terms with all disadvantages; and, I thank God, I never yet repented, or thought for a moment that I could, either bear, or forbear, too much, while you were my motive and reward.

If you ask, how I pass my time here? I answer, that if an assemblage of all I can wish for could satisfy me, without your company, I need not set my foot out of Liverpool; yet, if I did not keep a strict watch over my heart, I should be uneasy and impatient amidst all; and more so here than elsewhere, for everything I see reminds me that you were with me last year.

 

Warrington, August 18.

I am thus far on my return from Manchester, and thus far on my way from Liverpool to London, and hope to be with you on Friday. You must prepare for another journey, for I promised to return within a month. Mr. M****, in His usual manner, talks of having the ship at sea in six weeks; but I believe it will be near twelve before all is ready. I have procured for my new ship, the name of the Bee; both for shortness and significance. I could comment a good while on the word Bee, and talk about the sting and the honey; but I forbear, as we hope so soon to meet.

I make this a day of rest; for I think it not right to travel on a Sunday, without a more urgent necessity than I can plead at present. But it has been a cold, unfruitful day. It must be so at times, while I am encumbered with the world and the flesh. But I am something enlivened by the receipt of yours of the fourteenth. Like Hezekiah, I spread the letter before the Lord. But my circumstances are very different from his: instead of complaining of enemies, my joyful errand to his mercy-seat, is to praise him for his goodness; for the confirmation of your health and peace, and for the happy prospect of being soon with you.

The last week I was at sea was no less stormy with us than with you; and, besides the many invisible and unheeded evils from which we were preserved, we were twice in imminent apparent danger, and never more so than for two or three hours before we arrived at Liverpool. Let these instances confirm you in the persuasion, that storms and calms are equally safe to those who trust in the God of the sea and the dry land. He sometimes gives me a view of impending harm, to teach me that I am insufficient to my own safety. But when deliverance is seasonable and necessary, I find it always at hand. Had the winds and weather, during the whole passage, been at my own choice, I could not have gained my port in a more satisfactory manner, or in a better hour than I did. I had the pleasure of returning thanks, in all the churches, for an African voyage performed without any disaster, or the loss of a single man, (for Captain L*** was fixed in another vessel, some time before his death.) This was much noticed, and spoken of, in the town; and I believe it is the first instance of the kind.

No part of your letter pleases me so much as that where you tell me you can sincerely say, The will of the Lord be done. To find us both proficient in this temper, would rejoice me more than the expectation of passing many winters at home; and yet I think I should not under value a single hour of your company. But I consider that, in a few winters and summers more, all our endeared hours will be as though they had never been; but the effects and consequences of our temporary connection will abide forever.