Letters to His Friends

by Forbes Robinson

Gwatkin has exploded Anthony, 'who never existed.' But for all that I think Anthony is much like Adam and Eve. The originals may 'never have existed.' Yet their story belongs to all time. And there will be Anthonies and Adams and Eves to the end of time. It comforts me to feel that that which makes for evil is not my true self, but a wretched, cunning animal existence independent of me, existing before I came into being, although capable of appealing to me—a serpent.

I am half glad and half sorry to hear of your harmonium. Public worship is a terribly difficult thing, and it is well at times that we should realise its difficulties, and have it stripped bare of many helpful accessories. Yet worship in a village church impresses me. As in a college chapel, I realise then the continuity of the race. An old church tells me of generations of men who lived my life, to whom the present was everything, and the dead almost nothing, who never could seriously believe that some day the world would whirl and follow the sun without them. It tells me more than most things of what St. Paul means when he said that we were all making one perfect man. And I am humbled and thankful to know that I in my generation can do something towards the Christ 'that is to be.'

Read the Old Testament itself. Nothing will atone for lack of knowledge of the Bible. Robertson Smith's and Adam Smith's books (especially the latter's) on the Old Testament Prophets ought to prove useful.… When I call a man by his Christian name, I usually make it a rule to pray for him. I shall do so in your case. I will try to pray every day. I wonder whether you would sometimes pray for me: I believe immensely in the power of prayer. It is the greatest favour I can ask of you, and I know I have no right to prefer the request; but it would be kind of you if you could occasionally. One needs all the help one can get in this strange life up here. Now I will end. I have written you a strange, unreserved letter. Forgive me. How I wish this dreadful war was at an end! U——'s going was a blow to me; but I am sure he did the right thing. I admire and love that man.…

To G. J. C.

Castleton, Swanage: 1900.

… You will not have misinterpreted my silence. I could not answer your letter until I had secured a time for quiet thought and for prayer. When I try to write, I feel the uselessness of words. I am doing better when I am praying for you than when I am writing to you. Yet I must write.… It is strange that God should have made us thus. To those whom He honours most He gives largest capacity for love, and therefore largest capacity for suffering. It is still more strange that we would not wish to be without the love in spite of the agony which it brings. It must be because

All loves are shadows cast
By the beautiful eternal hills
Of Thine unbeginning past.

I feel this truth 'in seasons of calm weather.' But at other times I ask myself, I ask God, angrily, Why should some men have no obstacle to their love? Why should another suffer more than any one can tell—more than, it sometimes seems to me, can ever be requited? I cannot answer the question. But I often think of the great unsatisfied heart of God, and then I think of this poor unsatisfied heart made in His image, and I feel that He understands me, and that I understand Him better than I used to do, before this terrible hunger of love began.

I pray God that He will deal tenderly with you, G——, and I am sure that He will. It cuts me to the heart to think of your suffering, and I would stop it this moment if I could. So would God—for He loves you more than I do—unless it were the best thing for you. It is written of the Son of man, emathen aph on epathen. May the same words be true of you and of me! God bless you and give you Light and Peace!

Peace is something more than joy,
Even the joys above;
For peace, of all created things,
Is likest Him we love.