She saw the germs of good in what others regarded as only evil. She expected valuable results to come from what the world looked on only as eccentricities; [{147}] and she incessantly devoted herself to the task of guarding those whom the world condemned, and guiding them to those higher results of which she often thought that even their faults were prophetic.
Before I quit this sketch of Lady Byron as I knew her, I will give one more of her letters. My return from that visit in Europe was met by the sudden death of the son mentioned in the foregoing account. At the time of this sorrow, Lady Byron was too unwell to write to me. The letter given alludes to this event, and speaks also of two coloured persons of remarkable talent, in whose career in England she had taken a deep interest. One of them is the ‘friend’ she speaks of.
‘LONDON, Feb. 6, 1859.
DEAR MRS. STOWE,—I seem to feel our friend as a bridge, over which our broken outward communication can be renewed without effort. Why broken? The words I would have uttered at one time were like drops of blood from my heart. Now I sympathise with the calmness you have gained, and can speak of your loss as I do of my own. Loss and restoration are more and more linked in my mind, but “to the present live.” As long as they are in God’s world they are in ours. I ask no other consolation.
‘Mrs. W---’s recovery has astonished me, and her husband’s prospects give me great satisfaction. They have achieved a benefit to their coloured people. She had a mission which her burning soul has worked out, almost in defiance of death. But who is “called” without being “crucified,” man or woman? I know of none.
‘I fear that H. Martineau was too sanguine in her persuasion that the slave power had received a serious check from the ruin of so many of your Mammon-worshippers. With the return of commercial facilities, that article of commerce will again find purchasers enough to raise its value. Not that way is the iniquity to be overthrown. A deeper moral earthquake is needed. [{148}] We English had ours in India; and though the cases are far from being alike, yet a consciousness of what we ought to have been and ought to be toward the natives could not have been awakened by less than the reddened waters of the Ganges. So I fear you will have to look on a day of judgment worse than has been painted.
‘As to all the frauds and impositions which have been disclosed by the failures, what a want of the sense of personal responsibility they show. It seems to be thought that “association” will “cover a multitude of sins;” as if “and Co.” could enter heaven. A firm may be described as a partnership for lowering the standard of morals. Even ecclesiastical bodies are not free from the “and Co.;” very different from “the goodly fellowship of the apostles.”
‘The better class of young gentlemen in England are seized with a mediaeval mania, to which Ruskin has contributed much. The chief reason for regretting it is that taste is made to supersede benevolence. The money that would save thousands from perishing or suffering must be applied to raise the Gothic edifice where their last prayer may be uttered. Charity may be dead, while Art has glorified her. This is worse than Catholicism, which cultivates heart and eye together. The first cathedral was Truth, at the beginning of the fourth century, just as Christianity was exchanging a heavenly for an earthly crown. True religion may have to cast away the symbol for the spirit before “the kingdom” can come.
‘While I am speculating to little purpose, perhaps you are doing—what? Might not a biography from your pen bring forth again some great, half-obscured soul to act on the world? Even Sir Philip Sidney ought to be superseded by a still nobler type.
‘This must go immediately, to be in time for the bearer, of whose meeting with you I shall think as the friend of both. May it be happy!
‘Your affectionate
‘A. I. N. B.’
One letter more from Lady Byron I give,—the last I received from her:—
LONDON, May 3, 1859.
DEAR FRIEND,—I have found, particularly as to yourself, that, if I did not answer from the first impulse, all had evaporated. Your letter came by ‘The Niagara,’ which brought Fanny Kemble to learn the loss of her best friend, the Miss F---- whom you saw at my house.
‘Her death, after an illness in which she was to the last a minister of good to others, is a soul-loss to me also; and your remarks are most appropriate to my feelings. I have been taught, however, to accept survivorship; even to feel it, in some cases, Heaven’s best blessing.
‘I have an intense interest in your new novel. [{149}] More power in these few numbers than in any of your former writings, relating, at least, to my own mind. It would amuse you to hear my granddaughter and myself attempting to foresee the future of the love-story; being, for the moment, quite persuaded that James is at sea, and the minister about to ruin himself. We think that Mary will labour to be in love with the self-devoted man, under her mother’s influence, and from that hyper-conscientiousness so common with good girls; but we don’t wish her to succeed. Then what is to become of her older lover? Time will show.
‘The lady you desired to introduce to me will be welcomed as of you. She has been misled with respect to my having any house in Yorkshire (New Leeds). I am in London now to be of a little use to A----; not ostensibly, for I can neither go out, nor give parties: but I am the confidential friend to whom she likes to bring her social gatherings, as she can see something of the world with others. Age and infirmity seem to be overlooked in what she calls the harmony between us,—not perfect agreement of opinion (which I should regret, with almost fifty years of difference), but the spirit-union: can you say what it is?
‘I am interrupted by a note from Mrs. K----. She says that she cannot write of our lost friend yet, though she is less sad than she will be. Mrs. F---- may like to hear of her arrival, should you be in communication with our friend. She is the type of youth in age.
‘I often converse with Miss S----, a judicious friend of the W----s, about what is likely to await them. She would not succeed here as well as where she was a novelty. The character of our climate this year has been injurious to the respiratory organs; but I hope still to serve them.
‘I have just missed Dale Owen, with whom I wished to have conversed on spiritualism. [{150}] Harris is lecturing here on religion. I do not hear him praised.
‘People are looking for helps to believe, everywhere but in life,—in music, in architecture, in antiquity, in ceremony; and upon all these is written, “Thou shalt not believe.” At least, if this be faith, happier the unbeliever. I am willing to see through that materialism; but, if I am to rest there, I would rend the veil.
‘June 1.
‘The day of the packet’s sailing. I shall hope to be visited by you here. The best flowers sent me have been placed in your little vases, giving life to the remembrance of you, though not, like them, to pass away.
‘Ever yours,
‘A. I. NOEL BYRON.’
Shortly after, I was in England again, and had one more opportunity of resuming our personal intercourse. The first time that I called on Lady Byron, I saw her in one of those periods of utter physical exhaustion to which she was subject on account of the constant pressure of cares beyond her strength. All who knew her will testify, that, in a state of health which would lead most persons to become helpless absorbents of service from others, she was assuming burdens, and making outlays of her vital powers in acts of love and service, with a generosity that often reduced her to utter exhaustion. But none who knew or loved her ever misinterpreted the coldness of those seasons of exhaustion. We knew that it was not the spirit that was chilled, but only the frail mortal tabernacle. When I called on her at this time, she could not see me at first; and when, at last, she came, it was evident that she was in a state of utter prostration. Her hands were like ice; her face was deadly pale; and she conversed with a restraint and difficulty which showed what exertion it was for her to keep up at all. I left as soon as possible, with an appointment for another interview. That interview was my last on earth with her, and is still beautiful in memory. It was a long, still summer afternoon, spent alone with her in a garden, where we walked together. She was enjoying one of those bright intervals of freedom from pain and languor, in which her spirits always rose so buoyant and youthful; and her eye brightened, and her step became elastic.
One last little incident is cherished as most expressive of her. When it became time for me to leave, she took me in her carriage to the station. As we were almost there, I missed my gloves, and said, ‘I must have left them; but there is not time to go back.’
With one of those quick, impulsive motions which were so natural to her in doing a kindness, she drew off her own and said, ‘Take mine if they will serve you.’
I hesitated a moment; and then the thought, that I might never see her again, came over me, and I said, ‘Oh, yes! thanks.’ That was the last earthly word of love between us. But, thank God, those who love worthily never meet for the last time: there is always a future.