Part 10

* * * There is much, very much, connected with any experience in these matters calculated to teach us that this is not our rest; and often have I thought, when pondering the uncertain future, that but for the small degree in which the hope of things beyond, steadfast and eternal, keeps its hold, I should be ready to sink; and then I think of kind rich promises on which I try to lay hold, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass," and "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." And so, dear M., I trust it will be with us all, if our trust be but rightly placed; and in this I fear I have sometimes, perhaps often, been mistaken. I am sure it is well to have this sifted and searched into, and none of the pains which must attend such a process are in vain. When we have learned more fully what and how frail we are, then we can better appreciate the help that is offered, and the abundant blessing of peace when it does come. The depth of our own capacity for suffering is known to few of us; and when we have made a little discovery of it, some short acquaintance with the dark cold caverns of hopeless woe into which it is possible to fall, even when all externally is bright and apparently prosperous, how thankful then should we feel for the daylight of hope!

Perhaps I am using strong language. I would not use it to every one, but I think thou knowest that words are feeble rather than strong to express what may be the real portion of one whom spectators look on as very happy; and I do feel sure that not a grief that can befall us even in this hidden world of ours, but _may_ be the stepping-stone to a joy with which also a stranger doth not intermeddle; and how shall we sooner find it than by "casting all our care on Him who careth for us"? "He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust, and is touched with a feeling of our infirmities."

_3d Mo. 14th_.--Letter to M.B.

* * * I am abundantly convinced that if we can find the right place and keep it, and endeavor to fulfil its duties, whatever they may be, _there_ is our safety, and _there_ is our greatest peace; and what a blessing to know in any degree where the knowledge and the power are both to be obtained! * * *

_6th Mo. 21st_. After a fortnight's visit to my dear aunts, I followed Louisa to Tottenham. Many an occasion of deep instruction was offered to us at the Yearly Meeting; and yet from all this what remains? A solemn inquiry for all; and how much so for me, now that every principle of the heart and mind must prepare to encounter unwonted exercise and trial, now that I daily need all that I can have in a peculiar manner, and now that the future, amid the hopeful calm which it sometimes assumes, will sometimes almost frown upon me with lowerings of fear? Fear it is, not of others, but of myself, and fear of the ignorance or precipitancy of my yet but very partially regulated mind. Oh for that other fear which only "is a fountain of life, preserving from the snares of death!" Oh for that love which casteth out the slavish fear, and maketh one with what it loves--first with that God from whom it comes, and then with those in whom it dwells! Dwell, oh, that it may, in our two hearts, their best, their first, their strongest, dearest bond, and dwell, too, in the hearts of those I leave behind, and cause that still and henceforth we may be "together though apart"!

The responsibility of having so important an office to fulfil towards any fellow-being as that of sharing in, influencing, and being influenced by all his wishes, actions, and tendencies, has felt very serious. * * * * Never before had I so strong a sense of the identity of our highest duty towards ourselves and towards each other; and that _to live_, and _to be as_ and _what_ we ought, in the best sense, is the chief requisite for influencing one another for good.

_6th Mo. 24th_. Though I have this morning been helped and comforted, I must confess much unsubdued evil has manifested itself even within these few days. The bitter waters within, the tendency to what is evil, the corrupt root, have sadly appeared.--Oh, there is the one cause, not minding enough the good part which shall not be taken away, and so disquieted at the loss or disturbance of lower things. "How shall we escape if we _neglect_ (not only _reject_) such great salvation?" I was made mercifully sensible, last night and this morning, that such is our Father's love, that His aim is chiefly to bestow, our duty to receive, that He calls and invites; but it is not that we may work a performance of our own, but receive His own good things. Oh, the folly, the ingratitude, of being inattentive to such a blessing! Oh, the rebellious pride of choosing our own self-will, and our own way, when the privilege may be ours of becoming the obedient and loving children of God--of receiving from Him the willing and the obedient heart which we may offer up to Him again, and which He will accept!

_6th Mo. 30th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to various engagements.]

* * * These "fill the past, present, and future" of these last months at home with many and various occupations and meditations. It is a blessing not to be more disturbed within, if it be but a safe calmness. Oh, that is a large condition; but how unsafe is all calmness resulting from shutting our eyes from the truth of our worst side! Yet I think when we can really be glad at the thought that our worst side is seen and known, there is some hope of remedy and of peace, and (may I not say?) _alliance_ with the Physician who has all power and skill. Then only can we welcome any thing, however trying, which we can believe comes from His hand, or may tend to make us any nearer the pattern we strive for, or any more likely to fulfil rightly the serious part we have to take in life.

_7th Mo. 16th_. I hope I do sincerely desire to seek for strength to cast my many burdens on Him who careth for me; and, oh, if I did but live in the spirit, and walk in the spirit, more faithfully, surely I should know more of what it is to "be careful for nothing," but in every thing to make known my requests unto God. Quiet is most congenial. Oh that the few weeks remaining to me here, may all be given to Him who alone can bless! But this desperate heart--might it not well be despaired of? I trust I have got to this point, "God be merciful to me a sinner." "Let me fall now into the hands of the Lord, for His mercies are great," and not into-human hands, nay, _not my own_. I thought I saw some sweetness in the words, "By His stripes ye are healed."

_7th Mo. 17th_. Why do I not feel that nothing I can _do_ is so important as what I _am_, and that things without had better be ever so much neglected, than things within set wrong for their sake?

_7th Mo. 21st_. Had very comfortable feelings yesterday in meeting. Oh, it was joyful to believe that God was near to bless and to forgive. This evening, I have longed to commit my soul and its keeping into my Father's hands. Oh for a little more faith in His infinite, everlasting mercy! To come even boldly to the throne of grace, is the high calling even of those most in need of mercy.

_7th Mo 26th_. Letter to C.B.C.

* * * I hope that so far I have been favored with a measure of real help and good hope, though often sensible of multiplied difficulties and dangers, amid the desire to maintain such a state of mind and feeling as I ought. Perhaps the strong light in which I have often perceived how the best earthly hope may be blighted or blasted, even when all seems outwardly favorable, is a true blessing; and would that it might lead me oftener where all our wants can be best and only supplied! I know that _self_ is the foe to be dreaded most, and that is so ever near, sticks so close, that there can be no remedy effectual that is not applied with the penetrating power and all-wise discretion which are no attributes of ours. And yet how often do we vainly try to help ourselves!

Two days after this, she wrote to her friend M.B. and alluded very feelingly to the prospect of leaving her old home and its associations. Ever taking a humble view of herself and of her fitness for the duties she was expecting to assume, she writes of

"feeling increasingly my deep unfitness and lack of qualification for so very responsible an undertaking as sharing in and influencing and being influenced by all that concerns another. May I be permitted the privilege of which thou hast spoken, that the Lord's presence may go with us, and give us rest, and be to us a little sanctuary wheresoever we may come. _Then_ all will be right. * * * So thou seest just where I am,--in need of faith and hope, and sometimes wanting all things, even amid circumstances which I can find no fault with. Farewell, dear M.; and if thou nearest that I get on well, or am in any way made happy or useful, one conclusion will be very safe, respecting thy unworthy friend,--that it is not in _me_."

This closes a correspondence which appears to have been attended with much comfort and profit to the two friends.

_8th Mo. 11th_. The time flies, and then the place that has known me will know me no more, except as a sojourner and pilgrim to my father's hearth; and yet I cannot realize it: could I, how should I bear it? This day, much as before, weak in body, death-like in mind; but this evening had such a desire for retirement--so undesired before--and such precious feelings then. Oh, I could go through much with _this_ to sustain me, but I cannot command it for one instant; and, oh, how I felt that He alone can keep my soul alive, whose is every breath, natural and spiritual! Oh, what a joy to feel His Spirit near, the thick, heavy wall of separation melted away. Would that the way could, be kept thus clear to God--my life, my strength, my joy, my all!

Much that is very interesting has passed,--chiefly a visit from T.E. and his wife, of Philadelphia. The day they left us, we sat in silence round the dinner-table, till he said that words seemed hardly needful to express the precious feeling of union that prevailed. * * * It was very sad to lose them; and yet I never felt before so strongly how the individual blessing to each soul is not a merely being present, and recognizing, and rejoicing in such times as these. How the words of one that hath a heavenly spirit and a pleasant voice may be heard in vain!

_8th Mo. 20th_. How can I describe these eventful days? One lesson may they teach me, that God is love, and that whatever good thing I am blessed with is not in me. He has been so kind, so gracious, and I so very perverse, frequently so distrustful, so easily wounded; but He, as if He will not take offence, again and again has pity on me. How was I met and saluted with the words, "_By Myself have I sworn_," as part of some promise! Then I felt and rejoiced in His faithfulness to all in me and in all the universe that is His. _By Himself_, then _He_ will never fail; and I hope I shall be preserved by Him.

_8th Mo. 21st_. I was so grievously stupid last week, so unable to realize any thing--feared when I should come to myself that it would be terrible; but no, it is not so: I have love for all, and I hope it will grow for all and take in all. It is not that one love swallows up another, as one sorrow does: yet I am very weak, and need daily help. Oh that it may not be withheld!

With this record her Journal concludes; and, in reflecting upon it as a whole, the reader can scarcely fail to observe the evidence it gives of progress in the Divine life, of growth, as it were, from the blade to the full corn in the ear, now early ripened for the heavenly garner; and perhaps in nothing is this progress more discernible than in the manner in which through many fluctuations she was enabled to look away from the suggestions of unresting self, which were so painful to her sensitive and conscientious spirit, and to stay her mind on her Saviour, entering into that rest which the apostle says is the portion of those who believe,--"a rest which remaineth for the people of God," and which they only realize in its fulness who have accepted Christ as all sufficient for every need of the soul, not only pardon of past sins, but also of daily recurring transgressions, and whose trials and provings of spirit have led to the blessed result of increased oneness with their heavenly Father.

_8th Mo. 21th_. To her sister F.T. she writes, the day before her marriage,--

"I am still a wonder to myself,--so thankful for dear mother's cheerfulness, and for the kindness and love of all around. I have taken leave of nearly all. Last evening we had a nice walk. Then for the first time I felt as if the claims of past, present, and future were perfectly and peacefully adjusted, to my great comfort."

The walk to which this allusion refers is very fresh in the remembrance of her sister and of her (intended) husband, who accompanied her. Her manner was strikingly calm and affectionate; and as they returned home, after a pause in the conversation, she said, taking a hand of each,--

"I have heard of some people when they are dying feeling no struggle on going from one world to the other; and I was thinking that I felt the same between you. I don't know how it may be at last."

Strangely impressive were these words at the time; and when we remember that she never saw that sister again after the morrow, can we doubt that this preparation was permitted to soften the bitterness of the time, so near at hand, when this should have proved to be the final parting on earth?

In looking back to this time, there is a sweet conviction of the peace which was then granted her, which did seem something like a foretaste of the joys of the better home which was even then opening before her and upon which her pure spirit had so loved to dwell.

She was married, at Liskeard, to William Southall, Jr., on the 28th of 8th month, 1851. She was anxious that the wedding-day should be cheerful; and her own countenance wore a sweet expression of quiet satisfaction and seriousness; and the depth of feeling which prevailed in the whole party during that day was afterwards remembered with satisfaction, as being in harmony with what followed.

In a tenderly affectionate note, written from Teignmouth the same evening, she says, "I can look back without any other pang than the necessary one of having stretched, I must not say broken, our family bond;" and then she adds the sincere desire for herself and her husband, "Oh that we may be more humble and watchful than ever before, and that my daily care may be to remember those sweet lines which helped me so this morning,--

"When thou art nothing in thyself, Then thou art close to me."

A fortnight spent among the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland was a time of much happiness. It was her first introduction to mountain scenery; and her letters to the home circle she had just left, contain animated descriptions of the beauties around her. A few extracts from these, showing the healthy enjoyment she experienced, and the cheerful and comfortable state of her mind, particulars which acquire an interest from the solemn circumstances so soon to follow, may not be unsuitably inserted:--

BOWNESS, 9th Month, 1st, 1851.

MY DEAR L.:--

* * * We had a lovely ride and ferrying over Windermere to Colthouse meeting on First-day. * * * I am almost well, and able to enter into these beauties. Will you be satisfied with seven sketches, such as they are, for this day?

I thought, as we passed Doves' Nest, and read in the guide-book F. Hemans's description of her dwelling there for twelve months, and how many sad hearts, beside hers, had come thither for a refuge from sorrow, what cause we had to be thankful for (so far) another lot; and yet, dear L., with all I see around me, my heart is very often with you, and turns

From glassy lakes, and mountains grand, And green reposeful isles, To that one corner of the land Beyond the rest that smiles.

Beyond the rest it smiles for me, Thither my thoughts will roam-- The home beloved of infancy, My childhood's precious home!

And yet somehow it is not with a reproachful smile that it looks on me, nor with a regretful heart that I think upon it. It is delightful to think of dear father and mother's coming to Birmingham so soon, and of meeting R. this day fortnight.

To her Mother.

GRASMERE, 3d of 9th Month, 1851.

MY DEAR MOTHER:--

We have had a lovely day, and I scarcely know where or how to begin the tale of beauty. If there be any shadow of truth in the notion that "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," we must have been laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed upon the glorious mountains; looked down from the summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere, and the far-off Windermere; looked with almost awful feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate Langdales, under the twin mountain _Pikes_, "throned among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent, which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere; surely all this, and much, much more, has made the days very precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections. The moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image; and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the quiet corner of the churchyard where we had sat by Wordsworth's grave. It was growing dark, but we could just read on the plain slate head-stone the sole inscription, "William Wordsworth."

* * * But I cannot make you fully imagine these scenes, so varied, so picturesque. How little pleasure I had in anticipating this journey, while those formidable things lay between! The thought of the mountains seemed not worth a straw, and now looking back to only this day week is wonderful. Home still smiles upon me like a lake that catches a sunbeam; and sometimes I feel truly thankful that the way that I knew not has led me here. * * *

The thought of seeing you is bright indeed.

Thy loving daughter,

ELIZA.

To her Sister.

LODORE INN, 5th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED M.:--

* * * I am glad to say that we still have very fine weather. At Keswick we were planning how we could see Frederick Myers, but that evening his widow was returning to the parsonage with her three fatherless children, and we could only look on the family vault in the lovely churchyard, the school-room, library, etc., and think of his anticipations, now no doubt so happily realized, of the "'well done,' which it will be heaven to hear." A fine black storm hung over Skiddaw and Saddleback, and _such_ a rainbow spanned it. The western sky was full of the sunset, and the lake lay in lovely repose beneath. Of the clouds we really cannot say more than that they are often very beautiful, and sometimes dress up the mountains in grandeur not their own; but I have seen none that might not be Cornish clouds.

I am quite well. * * * For my sake be cheerful and happy.

Thy very loving sister,

E.S.

To her Father.

SCALE HILL HOTEL, 8th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED FATHER:--

On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore, we set off for a treat indeed--a canter up Borrowdale. The morning splendid. Keswick Lake sparkling behind us. The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine of morning overhung by not less beautiful shades. We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere, and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its "ancient" fellows behind. We at last ascended the steep zigzag which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming our resolution now and then by admiring the plodding industry of our mountain horses. It was indeed pleasant when the last gate was opened and we were safe within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the foaming "beck" which runs out of Sty Head Tarn. This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the noble dark Scawfell Pikes--the highest mountain in England, (3166 feet)--were its majestic background. But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes, this would indeed have been the most impressive we have beheld. On we rode till deep shady Wastdale opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head of the Pass.

I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been favorable. I think of you all with double affection, which accept very warmly from

Thy affectionate daughter,

E.S. To her Sister.

PATTERDALE, 11th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED L.:--

* * * This delightful morning, Ulleswater, which we admired as much, if not more than any lake which we have seen, was of the brightest blue, and the valley behind as rich in loveliness, when we set off for Helvellyn. The top is just five miles from the Inn. At last the pony was tied to a stake, and we wound up the Swirrel Edge. The rocks are almost perpendicular, and strangely shivered, and we looked down on the Red Tarn sparkling in the sun with, as it were, thousands of stars. At last we reached the top, a bare smooth summit, whence the wide misty landscape stretched all around us. Six lakes should have been visible; but we were obliged to be content with the whole stretch of Ulleswater, eight miles behind us, Bassenthwaite to the north, and perhaps a bit of Keswick; but I would not have missed the scene for any reasonable consideration. Scott, of course, stood on the top of the hill looking down on the Tarn, with Striding Edge on his right. Alas! no "eagles" are ever "yelling" on the mountain, nor "brown mountain heather" is in sight--only common mountain grass.

On the top of Helvellyn she wrote the following lines in a sketch-book:--

How softly the winds of the mountains are saying, "No chamber of death is Helvellyn's dark brow;" On the "rough rocky edge" are the fleecy flocks straying, And "Red Tarn" gleams bright with a thousand stars now.

The "huge nameless rook" has no gloom in its shadow; It catches the sun, it has found it a name; And the mountain grass covers like the turf of the meadow The arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecan.

There is not on earth a dark city's enclosure, Or vast mountain waste, where the traveller may roam, That peace may not soothe with its balmy composure, And love may not bless with the joy of a home!

To her sister.

ULVERSTON, 15th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED M.:--

Thy very welcome letter yesterday met me soon, after returning from Swarthmore, where, of course, we had a very different assembly from yours.