Last Saturday was the twenty-fifth anniversary of our marriage, and a very happy day to us both. My dear husband wrote me a letter that made me tremble, lest he should get such hold of me as no human being must have. I have a very curious feeling about life; a satisfied one, and as if it could not possibly give me much more than I now have. "I have lived, I have loved." [4] People often say they have so much to live for; I can't feel so, though I am not only willing, but glad to live while my husband and children need me; and yet—and yet—to have this problem solved, and to be forever with the Lord! I want to see you. I can no longer see my dear Mrs. B.; she is too ill, and that makes me miss you the more. I hope that little MS. of mine did not task your sympathies; I don't want you to pity me, but to magnify Him who took such pains with me, and is carrying on just such work in thousands of hearts and lives. What goodness! What condescension! The least we can do who have suffered much is to love much…. I have been studying the Bible on the subject of giving personal testimony, and think it makes this a plain duty. There is nothing like the influence of one living soul on another. Then why should we not naturally speak to everybody who will listen, of what fills our thoughts; our Saviour, His beauty, His goodness, His faithfulness, His wisdom! I don't believe a full heart can help running over.
To a young Friend, April 21, 1870.
I was right sorry to lose your Saturday's call. It was a happy day to me, but I can conceive of no enjoyment of any sort that would put me out of sympathy with the trials of friends:
"Old and young are bringing troubles,
Great and small, for me to hear;
I have often blessed by sorrows
That drew other's grief so near."
I thought I was saying a very ordinary thing when I spoke of thanking God for His long years of discipline, but very likely life did not look to me at your age as it does now. I was rather startled the other day, to find it written in German, in my own hand, "I can not say the will is there," referring to a hymn which says, "Der Will ist da, die Kraft ist klein, Doch wird dir nicht zuwider seyn." I suppose there was some great struggle going on when this foolish heart said that, just as if God did not invariably do for us the very best that can be done. [5] You speak of having your love to Jesus intensified by interviews with me. It can hardly be otherwise, when those meet together who love Him, and it is a rule that works both ways; acts and reacts. I should be thankful if no human being could ever meet me, even in a chance way, and not go away clasping Him the closer, and if I could meet no one who did not so stir and move me. It is my constant prayer. I have such insatiable longings to know and love Him better that I go about hungering and thirsting for the fellowship of those who feel so too; when I meet them I call them my "benedictions." Next best to being with Christ Himself, I love to be with those who have His spirit and are yearning for more of His likeness. You speak of putting "deep and dark chasms between" yourself and Christ. He lets us do this that we may learn our nothingness, our weakness, and turn, disgusted, from ourselves to Him. May I venture to assure you that the "chasms" occur less and less frequently as one presses on, till finally they turn into "mountains of light." Get and keep a will for God, and everything that will is ready for will come. This is about a tenth part of what I might say.
To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, April 25, 1870.
I wish I could describe to you my last interview with Mrs. B. She had altered so in two weeks in which I had not seen her, that I should not have known her. She spoke with difficulty, but by getting close to her mouth I could hear all she said. She went back to the first time she met me, told me her heart then knitted itself to mine, and how she had loved me ever since, etc., etc. I then asked her if she had any parting counsel to give me: "No, not a word."…. Some one came in and wet her lips, gave her a sprig of citronatis, and passed out. I crushed it and let her smell the bruised leaves, saying, "You are just like these crushed leaves." She smiled, and replied, "Well, I haven't had one pain too many, not one. But the agony has been dreadful. I won't talk about that; I just want to see your sunny face." I asked if she was rejoicing in the hope of meeting lost friends and the saints in heaven. She said, with an expressive look, "Oh, no, I haven't got so far as that. I have only got as far as Christ." "For all that," I said, "you'll see my father and mother there." "Why, so I shall," with another bright smile. But her lips were growing white with pain, and I came away.
Did I tell you it was our silver wedding-day on the 16th? We had a very happy day, and if I could see you I should like to tell you all about it. But it is too long a story to tell in writing. I don't see but I've had everything this life can give, and have a curious feeling as if I had got to a stopping-place. I heard yesterday that two of M.'s teachers had said they looked at her with perfect awe on account of her goodness. I really never knew her to do anything wrong.
To a young Friend New York, May 1, 1870.
I could write forever on the subject of Christian charity, but I must say that in the case you refer to, I think you accuse yourself unduly. We are not to part company with our common sense because we want to clasp hands with the Love that thinketh no evil, and we can not help seeing that there are few, if any, on earth without beams in their eyes and foibles and sins in their lives. The fact that your friend repented and confessed his sin, entitled him to your forgiving love, but not to the ignoring of the fact that he was guilty…. Temptations come sometimes in swarms, like bees, and running away does no good, and fighting only exasperates them. The only help must come from Him who understands and can control the whole swarm.