To Mrs. Hannah More. 

1787

My Dear Madam, 

It is high time to thank you for your favour of the first of November. Indeed, I have been thinking so for two or three weeks past; and perhaps it is well for you that my engagements will not permit me to write when I please. 

Your hermitage! My imagination went to work at that, and presently built one, I will not say positively as pretty as yours, but very pretty. It stood (indeed without a foundation) upon a southern declivity, fronting an inland prospect, with an infant river, that is a brook, running between. Little thought was spent upon the house, but if I could describe the garden, the sequestered walks, and the beautiful colours with which the soil, the shrubs, and the thickets were painted, I think you would like the spot. But I awoke, and behold, it was a dream. My dear friend William Cowper has hardly a stronger enthusiasm for rural scenery than myself; and my favourite turn was amply indulged during the sixteen years I lived at Olney. The noises which surround me in my present situation of carriages and carts and London cries, is a strong contrast to the sound of falling waters, and the notes of thrushes and nightingales. But London, noisy and dirty as it is, is my post, and if not directly my choice, has a much more powerful recommendation: it was chosen for me by the wisdom and goodness of him, whose I trust I am, and whom it is my desire to serve; and therefore I am well satisfied with it; and, if this busy imagination (always on the wing) would go to sleep, I would not awaken her to build me hermitages: I want none. 

The prospect of a numerous and attentive congregation, with which I am favoured from the pulpit, exceeds all that the mountains and lakes of Westmoreland can afford; and their singing, when their eyes tell me their voices come from the heart, is more melodious in my ear than the sweetest music of the woods. But were I not a servant, who has neither right nor reason to wish for himself, yet has the noblest wish he is capable of forming gratified,— I say, were it not for my public services, and I were compelled to choose for myself, I would wish to live near your hermitage, that I might sometimes have the pleasure of conversing with you, and admiring your flowers and garden, provided I could likewise at proper seasons hear from others that joyful sound which is now the business, the happiness, and the honour of my life to proclaim myself. 

What you are pleased to say, my dear madam, of the state of your mind I understand perfectly well. I praise God on your behalf, and I hope I shall earnestly pray for you. I have stood upon that ground myself, and I see what you yet want to set you quite at ease; and, though I cannot give it you, I trust that He who has already taught you what to desire, will in his own best time do everything for you, and in you, which is necessary to make you as happy as is compatible with the present state of infirmity and warfare. But He must be waited on and waited for to do this; and for your encouragement it is written, as in golden letters, over the gate of his mercy, "Ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened to you." We are apt to wonder that, when what we accounted hindrances are removed, and the things which we conceived would be great advantages are put within our power, there is a secret something in the way which proves itself to be independent of all external changes, because it is not affected by them. The disorder we complain of is internal, and in allusion to our Lord's words on another occasion, I may say, it is not that which surrounds us, it is not anything in our outward situation (provided it be not actually unlawful) that can prevent or even retard our advances in religion: we are defiled and impeded by that which is within. So far as our hearts are right, all places and circumstances, which his wise and good providence allots us, are nearly equal. Such hindrances will prove helps, such losses gains; crosses will ripen into comforts. But till we are so far apprised of the nature of our disease, as to put ourselves into the hands of the great and only Physician, we shall find, like the woman in Luke viii. 43, that every other effort for relief will leave us as it found us. 

Our first thought, when we begin to be displeased with ourselves, and sensible that we have been wrong, is to attempt to reform, to be sorry for what is amiss, and to endeavour to amend. It seems reasonable to ask, ‘What can we do more?’ But while we think we can do so much as this we do not fully understand the design of the gospel. This gracious message from the God who knows our frame, speaks home to our case. It treats us as sinners, as those who have already broken the original law of our nature, in departing from God our Creator, Supreme Lawgiver and Benefactor, and in having lived to ourselves, instead of devoting all our time, talents, and influence to his glory. As sinners, the first things we need are pardon, reconciliation, and a principle of life and conduct entirely new. Till then we can have no more success or comfort from our endeavours than a man who should attempt to walk while his ankle was dislocated. The bone must be reduced before he can take a single step with safety, or attempt it without increasing his pain. For these purposes we are directed to Jesus Christ, as the wounded Israelites were to look at the brazen serpent (John iii. 14, 15). When we understand what the Scripture teaches of the person, love, and offices of Christ, the necessity and final causes of his humiliation unto death, and feel our own need of such a Saviour, we then know him to be the light, the sun of the world and of the soul, the source of all spiritual light, life, comfort and influence; having access to God by him, and receiving out of his fulness grace for grace. 

Our perception of these things is for a time faint and indistinct like the peep of dawn; but the dawning light though faint is the sure harbinger of approaching day (Prov. iv. 18). The full-grown oak that overtops the wood, spreads its branches wide, and has struck its roots to a proportionable depth and extent into the soil, springs from a little acorn. Its daily growth, had it been daily watched from its appearance above ground, would have been imperceptible, yet it was always upon the increase. It has known a variety of seasons. It has sustained many a storm, but in time it attained to maturity, and now is likely to stand for ages. The beginnings of spiritual life are small likewise in the true Christian. He likewise passes through a succession of various dispensations, but he advances, though silently and slowly, yet surely, and will stand forever. 

At the same time, it must be admitted that the Christian life is a warfare. Much within us and much without us must be resisted. In such a world as this, and with such a nature as ours, there will be a call for habitual self-denial. We must learn to cease from depending upon our own wisdom, power, and goodness, and from self-complacence and self-seeking, that we may rely on him whose wisdom and power are infinite. 

Commending you to his care and blessing, 

I remain, my dear madam, with great sincerity, 

Your affectionate and obliged servant, 

John Newton.

 [Newton, John. Letters by the Rev. John Newton: Edited by Josiah Bull (pp. 258-261). Kindle Edition.]