“I thank you sincerely for your letter, and for the volume which you have sent me. I have read the preface with the deepest interest—and heartily respond to every word which you have written in it. A friend at the Cape had lent me a German edition of De Wette, which I had consulted carefully. But, about a fortnight ago, a lady, till then a stranger to me, sent me a copy of Parker’s Edition. I value it most highly for the sake both of the Author’s and Editor’s share in it. But the criticism of the present day goes, if I am not mistaken, considerably beyond even De Wette’s, in clearing up the question of the Age and Authorship of the different parts of the Pentateuch. I shall carefully consider the Tables of Elohistic and Jehovistic portions, as given in De Wette; but, in many important respects, my conclusions will be found to differ from his, and, as I think, upon certain grounds. De W. leant too much to the judgment of Stäbelin.
“The above, however, is the only one of Th. Parker’s works, which has yet come into my hands, till the arrival of your book this morning. When I repeat that every word of your Preface went to my very heart—and that many of them drew the tears from my eyes and the prayer from my heart that God would grant me grace to be in any degree a follower of the noble brother whose life you have sketched, and whose feet have already trodden the path, which now lies open before me—you will believe that I shall not leave long the rest of the volume unread. But, whatever I may find there, your Preface will give comfort and support to thousands, if only they can be brought to read it. Would it not be possible to have it printed separate, as a cheap Tract? It would have the effect of recommending the book itself, and Parker’s works, generally, to multitudes, who might otherwise not have them brought under their notice effectively? I think if largely circulated it might help materially the progress of the great work, in which I am now engaged.
“You will allow me, I hope, to have the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with you, by making a call upon you before long—and may I bring with me Mrs. Colenso, who will be very glad to see you?
“Very truly yours,
“Jo. Natal.
“Please accept a copy of my ‘Romans,’ which Macmillan will send you. The spirit of it will remain, I trust, abiding, though much of the letter must now be changed.”
Writing of Dr. Colenso to a friend in February, 1865, I said:—
“I never felt for him so much as last night. We came to talk on what we felt at standing so much alone; and he said that when the extent of his discoveries burst on him he felt as if he had received a paralyzing electric shock. A London clergyman wrote to him the other day to give him solemn warning that he had led one of his parishioners to destruction and drunkenness. Colenso answered him, that ‘it was not he who led men to doubt of God and duty, but those teachers who made them rest their faith on God and Duty on a foundation of falsehood which every new wave of thought was sweeping away.’ The clergyman seems to have been immensely dumbfounded by this reply.”
Another most interesting man whom I met at Dr. Carpenter’s table was Charles Kingsley.
One day, while I was still a miserable cripple, I went to dine in Regent’s Park and came rather late into a drawing-room full of company, supported by what my maid called my “best crutches!” The servant did not know me, and announced “Miss Cobble.” I corrected her loudly enough for the guests to hear, in that moment of pause: “No! Miss Hobble!” There was of course a laugh, and from the little crowd rushed forward to greet me with both hands extended, a tall, slender, stooping figure with that well-known face so full of feeling and tenderness—Charles Kingsley. “At last, Miss Cobbe, at last we meet,” he said, and a moment later gave me his arm to dinner. This greeting touched me, for we had exchanged, as theological opponents, some tolerably sharp blows for years before, but his large, noble nature harboured no spark of resentment. We talked all dinner-time and a good deal in the evening, and then he offered to escort me home to South Kensington—a proposal which I greedily accepted, but, somehow, when he found that I had a brougham, and was not going in miscellaneous vehicles (in my best evening toggery!) from one end of London to the other at night, he retracted, and could not be induced to come with me. We met, however, not unfrequently afterwards, and I always felt much attracted to him; as did, I may mention, my friend’s little fox terrier, who, travelling one day with her mistress in the Underground, spied Kingsley entering the carriage, and incontinently leaving her usual safe retreat under the seat made straight to him, and without invitation, leaped on his knee and began gently kissing his face! The dog never did the same or anything like it to any one else in her life before or afterwards. Of course, my friend apologised to Mr. Kingsley, but he only said in his deep voice, “Dogs always do that to me,”—and coaxed the little beast kindly, till they left the train.