"Merry books once read for pastime,
If we dared to read again,
Only memories of the last time,
Would swim darkly up the brain."
I hope these feelings are not infectious, or I certainly would not inflict on thee the description. But do not take this as a general picture of me. It is a morbid occasional state of things; consequent, by reaction, on the exclusiveness of aim with which those things were followed. I learned sooner than I suppose many do, the earnestness, coldness, reality of life; and there has come an impression of its being too late to prepare for life, and quite time to live. However imperfectly, I have learned that to live ought to be to prepare to die; but, without stopping to describe how that idea has acted, a secondary purpose of being of some use to others has. I might almost say, tormented my faculty of conscientiousness. Don't suppose that this is any evidence of religion or love. I believe it rather argues the contrary. Every attempt to do good ought to spring naturally from love to God and man; not from a wish merely to attain our beau-ideal of duty. Now, though I so much like reading, I did not seem able to make any use of it; for strangely confused were long my ideas of usefulness, and there has followed many a conflict between these two unsanctified tendencies. Perhaps they have done some good in chastening each other and chastening their owner. Do not think I prospered in either, for I have, as I said, a poor memory; and then I wanted to see fruits of my labors, and spent a great deal of time in making charts; one of the history of empires, one of the history of inventions and discoveries; the latter, especially, was not worth the labor. I have had a taste of many things, and yet, to speak honestly, excel in hardly any thing: the reason of this is partly a great want of order. I never attempted any thing like a "course of reading:" but, when I began a book, the book was the object more than my own real improvement. I read often D.E.F., before I had read A.B.C., and so grew confused, and then, if it is to be confessed, the childish pride of having read a book was not without its influence. Poetry in modern times has certainly become diluted in strength and value; but, though I have not at all a large acquaintance, I think there are many good modern poets. I much admire Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality," as well as many of his shorter and simpler pieces—"The Longest Day," for instance. There is a great deal of good instruction, as well as deep thought, in his poetry; but there is not, I think, very clearly an evangelical spirit; indeed, the "Excursion," which is beautiful, is unsatisfactory to me in this respect. Longfellow I think not clearly influenced by religious principle, but I do not see any thing contrary to it. Some of his short pieces are like little gems,—so beautifully cut, too. Elizabeth Barrett's [Browning] deep thoughts, rich poetical ideas, and thoroughly satisfactory principles, when they appear, [1846] make her a great favorite with me and with us all. Even her fictions, though so well told, are not wrought up, or full of romantic incident; but the tale is plainly used merely as a thread on which to string rich thoughts and lessons. How much this is the case with the "Lay of the Brown Rosary!" Even the sad pieces, such as the "Lost Bower," end generally with a gleam of light, not from a mere meteor of passion or sentiment, but from a day-spring of Christian hope. Perhaps I am too partial, for I know that taste, which in me is particularly gratified with E. Barrett, will influence our judgment. Some of Trench's poems, too, I think, are worth learning; his "Walk in the Churchyard" I particularly like.
3d Mo. 25th. Letter to M.B.
* * * But, oh, I do believe that if people did but accustom themselves to view small things as parts of large, moments as parts of life, intellects as parts of men, lives as parts of eternity, religion would cease to be the mere adjunct which it now is to many. * * * I am convinced that till it be made the one object of our earnest love and endeavors, till we have an upright heart, till the leader of the fir-tree points direct to heaven, and all lateral shoots not merely refrain from interfering, but mainly grow in order to support, nourish, and minister to it, we shall never have that perfect peace, that rest of spirit, that power to "breathe freely,"—conscious that we are as if not all that we ought to be,—which constitute the happiness of a Christian. But enough of this: don't think I pretend to any such attainment, though I can sometimes say, "I follow after."
I much admired that part of Jane Taylor's "Remains" which describes her cheerful and unmurmuring acceptance of a humble quiet life, and her dislike of mere show and machinery in benevolence. I do not think the best public characters are those who accept formally, and for its own sake, a prominent station, but those who, following their individual duty, and occupying their peculiar gifts, are thereby made honorable in the earth. To them, I fancy, publicity is often an accident of small moment; and they who walk in the light of heaven mind little whether earthly eyes regard or disregard them. I do not, however, covet for any one whom I love a conspicuous path. There must be many thorns and snares.
4th Mo. 4th. Much interested with Hester Rogers's life. The Methodist standard of holiness is full as high as Friends'—viz. the gospel standard. Struck with the accordance with G. Fox's experience. He was asked if he had no sin, and answered, "Jesus Christ had put away his sin, and in Him (Jesus) is no sin." This was a young man. He grew much afterwards, doubtless, in faith and knowledge. What would be thought of a person, especially young, who should profess so much now? Is the gospel changed? It is, or we lack faith in its principle. We do not perseveringly seek, determinately seek, to know for ourselves what this high attainment is.
Nice visit at the Union on First-day. Congregation enlarged, notwithstanding substitution of Bible for Tract, and very quiet. Cornelius, a helpless sick man, seeming near death, melted my heart with his talk. I felt quite unfit to be called a "sister" by such a saint.
4th Mo. 10th. "To have had much forgiven" is, I can joyfully yet reverently record this evening, my blessed portion; and in the sense, which as a cloud of warmth and light now dwells in my heart, of the loving-kindness and tender mercy of God in Christ Jesus, I have been ready to say, in effect, "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name," "who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases, who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies." How is all given me gratis, without money and without price! Nothing is mine but confusion of face for my oft-repeated rebellions.
Oh, it is not that we can get salvation for ourselves; it is that we hinder not, refuse not, turn not from, but accept, wait for, pant for the free gift of our Saviour's grace. "To Him who is able to do exceeding abundantly," the work belongs. He can cause that even as sin hath reigned, so shall grace reign; and that as death hath triumphed, so shall spiritual and eternal life triumph also. Amen and amen.
4th Mo. 17th. How short-lived were the feelings I recorded at the close of last week! I believe an earnest talk with a chatty caller on minor matters, recalled my heart that same evening from its happy abiding-place. I have thought of the words, "Jesus Christ the end of your conversation," and fear he is but a by-end of mine. It is hard to analyze our feelings: perhaps when discomfort from excitement and discontent is greatest, my sin is no greater than when in listless apathy and earthly-mindedness my thoughts are bounded by the seen and the temporal.