LETTER XXXIV.

MRS. DOUGLAS TO THE REV. MR. OLIPHANT.

My very dear good Friend,

If my pen had kept pace with my heart, my congratulations would have reached you long ere this; but you know me too well to doubt their truth; and it would be equally injurious to your confidence, and my sincerity, were I to expend the short time I allow myself for writing, in apologies which are unnecessary.

Accept my heart-felt rejoicings on your preferment, which I consider as providential to myself. Your task was concluded. You had safely piloted my beloved child through his collegiate course; and would have missed your wonted employment, while no other sufficiently _marked_ to occupy your whole time, seemed to detain you henceforward at Glenalta, I dreaded to hear that you must leave me; but wherever duty called you would have followed her voice, and could I have asked you to stay if conscience disapproved the lengthened sojourn? _Now_ you _belong_ to us. All the energies of your admirable nature will be employed where your old friends may still benefit by them. You will continue to be our teacher and friend. You will become our pastor, and be reverenced and beloved by the poor, whose blessings you have so often felt in grateful showers on your head. I have settled in my own mind that you will not possess a comfortable home without inviting your worthy sister and her only child, to share it with you; and if such be your intention, you must permit me to assist in furnishing your dwelling for a lady’s reception. Much as we have been in the habit of looking up to you, I am not _sure_ that we should defer to your taste in such a matter.

I write by this post to Dublin, from whence you will receive my “bread and salt,” as the Russians call this species of offering to a new establishment. Oh, my dear friend, how deep is my gratitude to the Almighty giver of good, for the mercies I continually experience! It would have been a great alloy to the happiness of knowing how comfortably you are placed beyond the reach of those sordid cares which depress the spirit, had you owed the independence now conferred, to a stranger. I must have felt _some_ pleasure under _any_ circumstances at your being enabled to continue that character to which your pupils once assigned the appellation of the “good Benefico (_the good giant_),” but your little volatile friend Fanny, said to me a few days ago, and reflected my own feelings as she spoke, “Mamma, there are but two people in the world besides you to whom I cannot _grudge_ the delight of making dear Mr. Oliphant a man of easy fortune; and those two are my uncle and Mr. Otway.” But this theme, all inspiring as it is, must not make me forgetful of your request.

You earnestly desire to be made acquainted as minutely as possible with the progress of my dearly loved brother’s mind towards that heavenly rest, without the possession of which, the approach of that mysterious change which awaits all created beings, must be awful beyond description. You know that I was fortunate in seizing upon the character of my brother’s mind at an early period of our acquaintance. One of the first outlines that I took, discovered to me his strong aversion to control, _even_ in conversation. I perceived that having been long accustomed to exert an unrestrained free will in the regulation of his own occupations as well as amusements, and having also seen so much of design in the ordinary intercourse of the world as to make him suspicious of every formal attack upon his opinions, he met with a sort of predetermined opposition the slightest attempt to alter his views, upon any subject of interest. With this clue, I pursued my way, turning aside from, rather than courting, any opportunity of conversing upon topics respecting which I burned to know his thoughts. The usual style of our conversation was of that mixed nature which gave me an early insight into a mind replete with various powers. Its predominating tone was that of playfulness, and a common observer might have been borne out in calling General Douglas a humourist; but though possessed of all the requisites to inspire mirth, as well as taste its influence, I could see a dark cloud gathering underneath a smile, and catch a half breathed sigh, that wafted to my heart’s core the sounds, “All, all is vanity--delusion all,” when gaiety _seemed_ to dance around his heart. What would I not have given at such moments to have seized a hand, and with affectionate energy pressed admission to the sacred repository of gloomy contemplation; but the time was not come. A premature remark, however tenderly whispered, would have alarmed a retiring and delicate, as well as proud mind, unaccustomed to see itself exposed to view. I therefore waited till opportunity should naturally invite communication; and such presented itself ere long after my brother’s arrival amongst us at Glenalta.

You may remember the time when you and Frederick were reading Butler’s Analogy as part of the College course. My dear boy was fond of talking over with me each chapter as he proceeded, and I determined to read that inestimable work anew, for the purpose of refreshing my memory, in conversation with him. One day, employed in this manner, I was sitting alone in my dressing-room, when my brother tapped at the door, saying that you wanted me for a few minutes in the study, and asked whether he might remain till my return, as he also wished to speak with me. On my return, I found him eagerly devouring the chapter on a future state; and so absorbed was he, that at first he did not perceive my entrance into the room. When he did, he started, and said, “Caroline, I have to apologize for taking up your book to see what you were reading, and I find something that has struck me: but I make a discovery that _you_ are fond of these dark themes. Why have you never broached these subjects with me?” “Because,” said I, “that they _are_ both dark and deep, and lie hidden between us and our Creator. The controversies of men are seldom beneficial, and more frequently excite the passions than satisfy the pride of human presumption.” “Do you mean, then, to say,” replied our dear inquirer, “that religion is incapable of proof?” “So far from it,” answered I, “that every object in nature bears proof to demonstration of the great leading tenets of religion; but I mean to say, such is the perverseness of our hearts, that we repel, when offered by another, those arguments which we should be proud to originate ourselves, and refuse conviction, unless our vanity be gratified by taking some credit to itself, at _least_ in the _selection_ of those reasons which operate a change of opinion. For this cause we suffer books to teach, though we deny a friend the delight of converting us from the evil of our ways, and why? Alas! in human weakness we have the answer. The choice of a book is a _free_ act; the continuing to read it is a _free_ act. The advocacy of its doctrines, if they be arrayed with power, talent, and genius, reflects honour on our discrimination, and, to a certain degree, identifies us with the author, who perhaps has vanished from the arena of our paltry rivalry, having been called to his account; or, should he still be alive, is removed from the immediate field of competition. I _know_ these humiliating facts experimentally, for I have doubted, and I have been perverse.”

From this moment, every reserve on my brother’s part was at an end. He looked steadfastly in my face, with an expression which seemed to ask, is this indeed the _truth_, and not said to inveigle me into confidence? His own penetration assured him that I practised no deception. He took my hand, and spoke to the following effect:

“You are the very being to whom my whole soul shall be unfolded. Much is locked up within my breast that ‘ferments for want of air.’ You are right; you have in a few words drawn my picture; and _so_ truly, that I now confess I should not have acknowledged this moment the fidelity of your portrait, had you boasted the superiority over me, of one who had not been drawn aside yourself from the path to which you have returned. But though your having once doubted, is a bond between us, like that of a common language in a foreign land; there is much room yet for discrepancy; and the _nature_ of our stumbling blocks may be so extremely different that we may lose, rather than gain _accession_ of sympathy by attempting to travel together in a course where so many intricate bye-paths present themselves to distract attention and divide our choice. Every thinking mind which has felt what it was to be perplexed, has been conscious of gradation in the difficulties that embarrassed its progress: some were but apparent, and vanished on the approach of knowledge; others, more stubborn, required more time and pains to conquer, but yielded at length to the force of reason, while there are some obstacles to Faith so harassing, that no efforts of the understanding are of any avail in breaking down the barriers which they present to sincere uncompromising belief:

‘Man never reasons but from what he knows,’

and if all attempts to comprehend, are rendered futile by the imperfection of his faculties, it is vain to call upon his faith. Credulity, indeed, may receive all things; but where Heaven has granted intellect, impalpable and unseen as are its operations, it excludes the dogmatizing influence of arbitrary control, and will not bend to mere authority. Tell me then, Caroline, what chiefly puzzled you--what were the obstructions which principally encumbered your path, and if they resemble those which block my way. I will next inquire how you removed them; ask you to be my Hannibal; and prepare to follow in that track which you shall excavate for me through the rocky defile.”

I told him that after avowing the fact on which I look back with pain, of having been sceptically inclined in that period of youthful arrogance when new-born reason, proud of her first flights, imagines that her wing can soar above the clouds, and penetrate the sanctuaries of the Most High, I could have no objection to inform him how far I had been enabled to overcome, as also where my presumption met with its first check, while Reason was my only guide. I then gave him a brief sketch of my former uneasy sensations, and the causes which had led to them. He listened with the deepest attention, and, when I concluded, answered that by a remarkable coincidence in our views, the only difficulties which had greatly harassed me were precisely those which still haunted him with ceaseless perplexity. “I never,” added he, “stuck at the historical discordances of the Bible, because, though I did not take the trouble of going minutely into the inquiry myself, I was aware that others of superior learning did do so; and when such a man as Sir William Jones, versed in Oriental literature, and examining the records of antiquity with critical acumen, was satisfied with his researches, so as to pronounce upon the increase of evidence which every added information produced to him, confirmatory of Scriptural truth, I could not tarry to believe that _apparent_ contrarieties only require investigation to be satisfactorily reconciled to _my_ understanding also, were I patiently to pursue the testimony which might be collected. I never felt that Herodotus was to be set aside as a historian, because superstition has deformed his work, and fable occasionally obscured the truth of his narrative. Nor have I ever doubted that Cæsar wrote the Commentaries imputed to his pen, though Hirtius has added a supplement to the book. Why then should I deny that Moses was author of the Pentateuch, because the account of that great lawgiver’s death and burial is supplied by another hand; or conclude it impossible that Joshua, the son of Nun, should have compiled the narrative ascribed to him, in consequence of finding a few mistakes in the arrangement of facts, for which he was, probably, not to blame, and which are the cause of certain unimportant anachronisms in the story? _My_ difficulties have been of another kind, and the three points of free-will, the soul’s separate state, and personal identity, have been with me, as with you, the barrier over which I have hitherto been unable to pass. I have heard much of a Novel which has lately appeared, and I brought it with me, though I have not yet looked into it, feeling how idle it is to expect argument in a _story_.”

I told him that I had read _Tremaine_ with great pleasure, that I thought it an excellent, though not a faultless work, and should be happy to go over it again with him.

“You must tell me first,” said he, “how you arrived at your present conclusions? _You_ were not in _need_ of Tremaine when you read that book.” “Tremaine,” answered I, “would have set me _thinking,_ but would not have convinced me upon _all_ the topics which he discusses, though _some_ of his reasoning is admirable. He meets many difficult questions very ably, but to read any author on these subjects with advantage, the mind, if inclined to infidelity, must undergo a process for restoring it to its neutral state; and a few arguments of the _negative_ kind are a very necessary preparation for those of a _positive_ character.” “What are these negative arguments?” replied my brother. The first I told him presented itself in the form of a question, as to the _spirit_ in which I had doubted; and a little serious self examination “landed” me in the mortifying, but salutary assurance, that in the _strength_ of reason I had taken so much for granted, and assumed so many arbitrary positions on which to ground my scepticism, that, when brought back to first principles, I was obliged to confess the folly of my own inconsistency, and admit that the dogmas which I laid down required proof quite as much as those which they attempted to controvert. Till then I had misunderstood the Scriptural admonition to come as a little child for instruction; and conceived that it amounted to no less than a prohibition against the exercise of those faculties given us for the very purpose of discriminating between truth and falsehood. I _now_ began to comprehend that the soundest philosophy called upon me for a total relinquishment of my own theories in learning _any_ science. The empiric who sets up for medical skill, untaught by the rules of art, is not in a fit state to practice physic, nor even to become a student, till he has got rid of preconceived notions which militate against the best authority. Neither is the man who thinks himself a better lawyer than can be found in the Courts, without having been himself educated to the bar, in any condition to decide upon an intricate case. To learn any human branch of knowledge, requires that the person desirous to learn should come in a teachable state to the task, and not inflated with the vain idea of being already capable of communicating instruction. What more is demanded of us in the commencement of our religious course, than we see to be but reasonable in undertaking any earthly enterprize? And with what additional force does the injunction to prepare by an humble spirit for the reception of divine knowledge apply to the understanding, when we reflect on our utter inability to search into the counsels of God with our finite powers of capacity! When I had reached this conclusion, I saw every thing in a new light, and began to rest satisfied with the measure of information which the Almighty has seen fit to impart; determining no longer to waste life in prying into the hidden things which are not more suited to the present condition of our intellectual strength, than the unmitigated blaze of a meridian sun is fitted to the structure of our visual organs. I began to perceive the absurdity of expressions which had passed for sound sense upon my understanding. How often had I talked flippantly (at least thought within my own breast) of the _course of nature_, never recollecting that the poor Indian’s concatenation of supporters for the world, in his list of elephants and tortoises, is not more easily resolved into ignorance, than the arguments by which infidelity delays the confession that it is in utter darkness? Will the most sagacious reasoning on the formation of a bone, by the gradual accretion of calcareous matter; or the most ingenious display of physiological lore in tracing the growth of a plant from the cotyledon up to the forest’s king, apply to the _first_ created animal, or the _first_ formed oak? There the course of nature deserts us. The anatomist, and the naturalist, alike lay down their arms; here they are baffled and arrested. The former has no need of his animal laboratory in which the chyle is separated in the process of digestion from the daily food, and phosphate of lime is added to the soft cartilages that are intended to become the bony skeleton. The latter neither requires the acorn nor the “_nursing leaves_” to advance the oak from the seedling to the sapling, and thence to the full-grown monarch of the wood. He wants no gradual process of deposition by water; no metamorphosis produced by fire, neither calx, nor crystalization is demanded for the _primary_ minerals of the earth--the great “back bone” of creation. In _some_ period of time there was a _beginning_ of these things. Remove that period indefinitely, and you may lose sight of the difficulty in its distance from your eye, but you cannot reduce its real dimensions; it exists in its full size and bulk, though placed without the range of your vision. Arrived at this point (and driven to it you _must_ be sooner or later) you are involved in the absolute necessity of a revelation of some sort or other, unless you can believe that matter is self created, and carries within itself all the power, energy, and intelligence which we _know_ that it does not possess, or that man is a being governed entirely by instinct, like the inferior animals, and capable, at his first entrance into life of performing all the functions requisite to sustain his existence, and perpetuate its succession, as a crow is to build its nest. _Neither_ of these opinions being tenable without a surrender of that very experience derived through our senses, which we consider as the highest possible source of demonstration; the question which _next_ occurs is what account is there of any instruction to the first pair who were placed in the vast expanse of an unknown world, in which they were to become the founders of an unborn race of creatures? _Some_ record of a matter so vitally important to the new creation might reasonably be expected, and we naturally look for such. _One_ narrative alone there is to satisfy the curiosity of inquirers on this interesting subject, and to cavil at _that_ is easier than to supply another, or give a satisfactory reason why none whatsoever should have been preserved. Once admit, that those things most important _are_ usually handed down in some way or other from generation to generation, and that it is therefore _probable_ some attempt _was_ made to continue the knowledge of God’s first intercourse with mankind to succeeding posterity, it then remains only to try the history which is presented to us by the rules that we employ in every subject of human testimony. Now, the wise and the learned declare that the more severely they investigate, the more thoroughly are they convinced that there is evidence for the Bible’s having been written by the various authors to whom the several books which compose the Sacred Volume have been attributed, beyond that which can be found to substantiate the genuineness of any other work which has ever been printed. The wise and the learned also protest that the farther they scrutinize into collateral testimony, the more completely are they satisfied that these authors recorded _truth_, and not falsehood; and that the farther the search is carried, the more certain is the result to corroborate the validity of Scripture. When such gigantic minds as those of Newton, Boyle, and Bacon, with the long list that might be added on their side, bear evidence to this declaration, shall we take the _ipse dixit_ of a Voltaire, a Bayle, or a Bolingbroke, who may choose to deny, without being able to _prove_ the negative, or set up any attested credentials to supply the place of that revelation which they are desirous to annul? Testimony, be it ever remembered, has no concern save with matters of _fact_. When human reason has taken cognizance of all the circumstances for or against the existence of any event which is said to have taken place, it has done its duty, and finished its work. With the _nature_ of such an event, it may have nothing at all to do. If a hundred spectators, who have no motive for collusion, declare to having seen a stone three feet in length, and two in breadth, descend from the clouds, and if one of these witnesses happening to be a chemist, should report to me its analysis, which I find to differ from that of any stone on the surface of the earth, I am very unphilosophical in contradicting the possibility of an occurrence verified by so many credible spectators, upon the simple ground of my own ignorance. Though _I_ may never have heard of an Aërolite, such things are, and, being a product of the atmosphere, it is not extraordinary that its composition should differ from that of stones produced on the earth. Thus all my reasoning to the non-existence of these meteoric phenomena grounded on analogy would be fallacious, like that of the king in some Eastern climate, who laughed incredulously when he first heard of ice, never having himself seen water, except in a liquid state. The _more_ ignorant, the _less_ are we enabled to believe, if we measure truth by the estimate of our understandings. So far then is scepticism from being proof of a powerful mind, that the reverse is oftener the fact; and every advance which we make in knowledge and intelligence increases the expansion of _faith_, not only by enlarging the sphere of experience, and multiplying those arguments of which the mind takes advantage in examining any new matter presented to its contemplation; but what is of higher value, we are taught at every step a lesson of humility by being compelled to acknowledge the narrow limits of those abilities on which we so arrogantly relied for scanning the attributes of Divinity. Had the Bible _not_ told of things difficult to comprehend, I should have wanted one direct argument in favour of its coming from God. No scheme of merely human invention would have baffled all human sagacity to understand it in all its bearings, _unless_ the difficulty of doing so arose from _contradiction_ to reason, which is not the case. The Bible _tells_ us that it contains _mysteries_ too deep for human penetration; were such _discovered_, they would cease to be what the word of God has declared them; and of that word we are told that not a tittle shall pass away. We are desired to read and to search the Scriptures; but we are _not_ told that the utmost limit of curiosity shall be satisfied in this world. It is vain to attempt the Penetralia which will be shut against us, till the soul shall awaken in the etherial regions of a spiritual existence, disencumbered of its “mortal coil.” Respecting _internal_ evidence, the great stress rests with me in a small compass; I look no farther than into my own heart to see such depravity, such continual danger of yielding to temptation, which urges me to do the thing which my better spirit condemns, that I am ready to own my utter helplessness to attain, without a guide, either happiness or virtue. If I try the goods of this life, I am forced to cry with Solomon that all is vanity; pleasure but a bubble, which, glittering for a moment, passes away; that riches, fame, rank, power, beauty, are but gewgaws incapable of satisfying the cravings of an immortal soul; but even when the mind is of such mundane temperament that these things _do_ seem sufficient, and that it would fain build its tabernacle amongst them, Death, ‘the great teacher Death,’ interposes to prevent the dreamer from long enjoying the illusion of his wishes. Death comes at last to force the unwelcome conviction on all who will not otherwise entertain it, that the idols of earth must inevitably be torn from our grasp, and that the cold grave must close on every tie which binds us to this sublunary scene. This strong and simple truth is one of those irresistible and universal arguments that apply to all capacities of intellect, and to all conditions of fortune. All shall die; all leave whatever ministered to pride or vanity behind them. ‘A little earth that saves the world a nuisance,’ once scattered on the silent remains, the inheritance is seized, and he who, but a week before, lived in every tongue, descends into the narrow house where all things are forgotten. No more trace exists to mark his brilliant career on earth than lingers on the bosom of yonder ocean, whose waves dance gladly in the sunbeams, as if laughing at the engulphment of that majestic sail which lately skimmed upon its surface. In this _one_ general fact there is unspeakable reality of wretchedness--irrefragable assurance of human nothingness--and in this solitary certainty there is argument enough to make all mankind, from the emperor to the beggar, ponder on the _possibility_, if not the probability of an hereafter. All men hate to die. They are told that they shall _not_ die, that the body _only_ shall return to its dust, and ‘the spirit to God who gave it.’ Here is a _motive_ the most powerful, to seek, in order to believe, and if to believe, to act as shall accord with the directions afforded for securing a blessed immortality. Driven by that motive I go to my Bible, and not only discover the _only_ lamp which lights up a dark and dreary valley through which I _must_ pass, however horrible to my imagination; but I find also, that even the most imperfect efforts to assimilate my actions to that conduct which the Scripture enjoins, the feeblest endeavours to cultivate those tempers and affections which the Sacred Volume enforces, are rewarded by an inward peace which nothing beside has power to impart; and that in proportion as I attempt to prepare for _another_ world, I am happy in _this_, which is but its vestibule.

When I had proceeded so far in my little sketch of a “Confession of Faith,” my dear brother said, “You prove to me, that the subjects on which my mind has been long and anxiously revolving, are familiar to you; and from the little that you have said respecting these obscure points, I anticipate much comfort in entering more at large with you into the field of inquiry, but remember, that _my_ chief difficulties remain untouched, and before I let you entirely behind the scenes of my own incertitude, I must know how you get over a barrier which seems in my mind so insurmountable. You must also tell me whether you are one of those who hold _belief_ to be within our own power. If you _are_, I fear that we shall have to combat on the threshold, for I confess nothing irritates me half so much as to be told that I can believe if I _please_. _I_ feel that my _will_ has nothing to do with my understanding. Nay, so far from adopting the popular maxim, that we have faith according to our _wishes_, I find the tendency of my mind is rather to suspect in proportion to the desire that any proposition may be true, and, dreading disappointment, I investigate with more precision whatever I am most interested in hoping may prove to be a fact, than those matters of common occurrence, which are indifferent to me in their consequences.”

I replied, that I had purposely left the topics to which he alluded for the last. “You desired,” said I, “to know on what shore I had been landed, what haven of rest I have found, after having been tempest-tossed like yourself upon the ocean of doubt and vacillation. I complied with your requisition, and have told you that my bark is, I trust, safely moored in the harbour of conviction. I will now retrace my way, and tell you how I have been enabled to meet the tremendous questions of free-will, spiritual immortality, and personal identity, so far as to satisfy myself completely, that while in the flesh it is a vain attempt to explain them in any other way than by saying, that they are too high, and elude mortal grasp altogether. To know this is something, and we arrive at the knowledge by _means_ of reason, it is doubly satisfactory. Whether _my_ reasoning will carry any weight to _your_ mind, I will not presume to anticipate; but, as briefly as possible I will give you an idea of the course which I pursued myself with success.”

As my letter has run on to an overgrown length, I will conclude it here, where the subject naturally divides itself; and in my next will proceed with my narrative, in the hope that you will aid my purpose by observing on every defect in the chain of my endeavours, and furnishing strength to my weakness from the stores of your own information. My whole soul is engrossed in the cause which heaven has blessed already beyond my most sanguine expectations. Our dear friend, Mr. Otway, is a powerful auxiliary. I should say that he were the _principal_ instrument, if his knowledge of human nature did not teach him to lie by in a great degree, till I, as a pioneer, have cleared the path. “The still small voice” of female affection, like the mouse in the fable, will sometimes achieve more than the lion’s force, and I am heartily contented to rank no higher than “yon wee bit sleek, and cowering beastie.” as our favourite Burns styles this tiny animal, if I may only be permitted by my humble efforts, to unloose the cords which would restrain the spirit’s flight, and bind to groveling earth an angel of the skies.

Adieu, dear friend,

Your faithful and affectionate,

CAROLINE DOUGLAS.