CURATE OF OLNEY. 317 though it was evident that he was a fit man, and though he had a title to a curacy, he was refused. Thanks to the He waited some time, and then (1764) he was offered the curacy of Olney on the recommendation of Lord Dartmouth, who had the living in his gift. powerful influence of this nobleman (to twenty-six Letters of "Cardiphonia" were Green, bishop of Lincoln, was induced to candidate, and afterwards ordained him. whom the first addressed), Dr. admit him as a The Vicar of Olney was a pluralist, and lived elsewhere. On John Newton, therefore, devolved all the labour of the parish. He did vicar's work on curate's pay. He received 601. per annum, a stipend much less than his salary as a tide-waiter had been. But he did not complain; and though offered a better cure, would not change. He longed to do some good in the world after having done so much harm in it; to tell sinners of the Saviour whom even he had found. This seemed a fit place, and he stayed in it. With such an income, however, it was impossible for him to relieve the distress with which he was continually brought into contact. Like Muller of Bristol he prayed, and help was sent him. His Letters to Dr. Haweis, containing the Narrative of his early life, having been published, he had sent a copy to Mr. Thornton of Clapham, a man distinguished for piety and philanthropy. He soon after paid Mr. Newton a visit at Olney, and allowed him 2001. a-year to help the poor and needy. John Newton's curacy of Olney was, of course, chiefly remarkable for his friendship with William Cowper. Into the many vexed questions which have arisen out of this, we do not here enter. We do not consider that either by temperament or education he was a suitable companion for the refined and shrinking poet; but that they loved each other reciprocally, and that Newton was the kindest of friends to the poor distracted recluse, we do not believe any honest inquirer into the matter would doubt. In 1779, he removed to London, having been presented by Mr. Thornton to the rectory of the united parishes of St. Mary Woolnoth and St. Mary Woolchurch Haw, Lombard Street. There he laboured with remarkable and visible success for the rest of his prolonged career. He had been settled here somewhat more than ten years, when he was called on to encounter the greatest sorrow he ever knew. His wife had always had a good constitution, but the fit which had terminated his seafaring life in 1754 had, as it were, changed her; she never wholly recovered the fright she then experienced. Some time afterwards she had accidentally received a blow on her left breast, which had then caused her some pain, and afterwards rose to a tumour. But he thought it had been healed. In 1788, unknown to her husband, she consulted a surgeon, who told her plainly that he could do nothing for her. It proved to be a cancer, which at last carried her off, Dec. 15, 1790. Of his grief on this bereavement some faint idea may be gathered from our recollection of his early, long, and steadfast affection to her,* an affection which time only matured. But he knew well that he had no reason to sorrow as those must who have no hope; and, with a resolution which was *"Being with him at the house of a lady at Blackheath," says Mr. Cecil, we stood at a window which had a prospect of Shooters' Hill. 'Ah,' said Mr. Newton, 'I remember the many journeys I took from London to ascend the top of that hill in order to look towards the part in which Mrs. Newton then lived: not that I could see the spot itself, after travelling several miles, for she lived far beyond what I could see when on the hill, but it gratified me even to look towards the spot; and this I did always once, and sometimes twice a-week.' 'Why,' said I, 'this is more like one of the vagaries of romance than of real life.' 'True,' replied he; but real life has extravagances that would not be admitted in a well-written romance; they would be said to be out of nature.'' characteristic of him, he not only did not refrain from preaching during the most critical time of her illness, but he even preached on the very day of her decease, and three times while she lay dead in his house. In Oct. 1791, he wrote to some friends in the country, still thinking of her: "The sun shines bright upon you this morning (for it is a fine day), but I cannot see it, the houses hide it from me; but I have light from it. It is thus with my soul. I seldom have much sunshine, but light I trust I have from the Sun of Righteousness, by which I see my way, and have an imperfect glance of the end to which it leads. Well, such a glance is worth all this poor world can bestow. The redeemed before the throne; look how they shine!-hark how they sing! They were not always as they are now; they were once like us, sorrowing, suffering, sinning; but He has washed them from their sins in His own blood, and wiped away their tears with his own hands. Amongst them are some who were once dear to us, with whom we have shared in pleasure, and sympathised in pain. There, I trust, is my dearest. I cannot describe my feelings last night when I looked upon the bed in which she languished so long; but it was a comfort to think she is not here now. I hear no moans, I see no great distress; she is gone-she is risen, and I hope ere long to follow her." In 1796, he writes, "Blessed be God I go on not uncomfortably, though my wound is as fresh as at the first day. The Lord is good. I still have much to be thankful for. I can still relish my comforts and friends, but I have little tie to the world now but my ministry. I am the Lord's, and am willing to live his appointed time. I am like a labourer in harvest, who does not wish to leave the field till he has finished his day's work, yet who looks now and then at the sun, and is glad to see the approach of evening, that he may rest." He preached almost to the last. In 1806, when he was eighty-one, Mr. Cecil counselled him to stop. "What!" he exclaimed, "shall the old African blasphemer stop while he can speak?" He would not stop. He continued to discourse to his crowded congregations long after his sight had grown so dim that he could not read his text. But at last his summons came. Gradually, painlessly, and with his faculties about him, he passed away on the 21st Dec. 1807. From the time when he first thought of becoming a minister, till he could not see to guide a pen, he was an indefatigable correspondent: and few men have had more of their correspondence published, or deserving of publication, than he. In speaking of his characteristics as a letter-writer, we have to notice mainly his intense earnestness. He never forgot that he had been raised from being a servant of slaves to be a minister of Jesus. The whole of his extraordinary and most masculine energies were devoted to the spread of Gospel truth. This oneness of object, while in some respects it makes his Letters valuable, in others diminishes their interest. They are often affectionate addresses, rather than vivid, various, and life-reflecting letters. But he could be witty and graphic. Many of his letters to Mr. Bull ("My dear Taureau ") abound in playfulness, while his letters to Dr. Haweis are as graphic as anything in Scott. His best books, as an author, are letters, which he republished; and if he had left no Olney Hymns, no Sermons, and no Memoirs, his "Authentic Narrative," and his unrivalled "Cardiphonia," would suffice to account for the affection and veneration in which his memory is and ever must be held by all Christians. C. M. C. THE SHIPWRECK OF ST. PAUL. The view of St. Luke's narrative adopted in the following pages is taken from an admirable treatise on the " Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul," by Mr. Smith, of Jordan Hill. He fully exposes the old fallacy of the "impossible seamanship” displayed in the management of the vessel, especially during the gale, and satisfactorily explains many discrepancies as originating in the non-nautical minds of our translators. It should be borne in mind that the summer Etesiæ, or trade-winds of these seas, according to authorities reaching from Aristotle down to modern "Sailing Directions for the Mediterranean," come from the north-west. Slowly working to windward while these prevailed, the ship crept along the coast of Asia Minor, and at last dropt down from Cnidus to the eastern extremity of Crete, and, "hardly passing" the headland of Salmone, was at length forced to lie-to in Fair Havens. Here the scene of the first Canto opens on the morning of the day when the change of wind induced the ill-fated attempt to gain the more commodious harbour of Phenice. The latter place is identified by Mr. Smith with the modern Sutro, a port lying west and a little north of Fair Havens, in the hollow sweep of coast beyond Cape Matala. CANTO I. THE autumn sun had crossed the line With downward march through Libra's sign, As when the Indian hunt has closed In firm chivalrous rank opposed The circling stags appear, |