in general, I am, for myself, determined not to make a gain of godliness; I will make no provision for myself. I have abundance of cloathing; and as to food, I will eat of whatever is set before me, asking no questions, either for the sake of conscience, or appetite; and for my drink, nothing is so salutary for me, as cold water. I am persuaded, I shall not live long in this world; at least, I hope I shall not. I am alone in the world; I shall want but little here, 'nor want that little long.' I reject, then, with my whole soul I reject, the liberal offer, you so recently made me, of a fixed stipend. I will have no salary, I will have no collections, I will preach the gospel, freely. I will work in your fields, I will eat at your table, I will slake my thirst at the limpid stream, which furnishes your family; but you shall make no change in the order of your house, on my account. I will associate with your associates. I expect to meet them, at the table of my great Lord and Master, in mansions beyond the grave; and shall I hesitate to meet them, upon equal terms, in this lower world? I am pleased with your situation; with your house of worship; with your neighbours; with every thing I am pleased; and if that God, who brought me hither, will graciously vouchsafe to indulge me with the privilege of tarrying here, until I am liberated from this body of sin and death, I shall be still better pleased.
The good old gentleman could no longer suppress his feelings. He arose from his seat, caught me in his arms, essayed to speak, paused, and at length exclaimed: "O my God, is it possible? Why such, I have thought, ministers of Jesus Christ ought to be." But, my friend, I replied, every minister of Jesus Christ cannot live, as I can. I have no family, no home, no want. If I had a family, I should be worse than an infidel, not to make provision for my household; but God, by separating me from my beloved companion, and from my cherub boy, has enabled me to preach the gospel, freely. I never saw any man so delighted, and especially with my determination to continue with him. Dear, kind-hearted man, both he, and I, then believed, that death only could separate us.[1] In a place, so remote from the world, I imagined I should enjoy, uninterruptedly, every wish of my heart; and again and again I felicitated myself in the prospect of finishing my weary life in this sweet, this calm retreat, unincumbered by care,—conferring, as well as
- ↑ If the reader wishes to peruse a delineation of the feelings of the subject of this biography, upon visiting this delightful retreat, after the demise of its philanthropic owner, with a sermon, preached upon the occasion, he may see both in the Eleventh Letter, Vol. I. of the "Letters and Sketches of Sermons," recently published by the now departed preacher.Editor.
