LETTER XXXIV.
Mrs. Douglas to the Rev. Mr. Oliphant.
My very dear good Friend,
If my pen had kept pace with my heart, my congratulations would have reached you long ere this; but you know me too well to doubt their truth; and it would be equally injurious to your confidence, and my sincerity, were I to expend the short time I allow myself for writing, in apologies which are unnecessary.
Accept my heart-felt rejoicings on your preferment, which I consider as providential to myself. Your task was concluded. You had safely piloted my beloved child through his collegiate course; and would have missed your wonted employment, while no other sufficiently marked to occupy your whole time, seemed to detain you henceforward at Glenalta, I dreaded to hear that you must leave me; but wherever duty called you would have followed her voice, and could I have asked you to stay if conscience disapproved the lengthened sojourn? Now you belong to us. All the energies of your admirable nature will be employed where your old friends may still benefit by them. You will continue to be our teacher and friend. You will become our pastor, and be reverenced and beloved by the poor, whose blessings you have so often felt in grateful showers on your head. I have settled in my own mind that you will not possess a comfortable home without inviting your worthy sister and her only child, to share it with you; and if such be your intention, you must permit me to assist in furnishing your dwelling for a lady’s reception. Much as we have been in the habit of looking up to you, I am not sure that we should defer to your taste in such a matter.
I write by this post to Dublin, from whence you will receive my “bread and salt,” as the Russians call this species of offering to a new establishment. Oh, my dear friend, how deep is my gratitude to the Almighty giver of good, for the mercies I continually experience! It would have been a great alloy to the happiness of knowing how comfortably you are placed beyond the reach of those sordid cares which depress the spirit, had you owed the independence now conferred, to a stranger. I must have felt some pleasure under any circumstances at your being enabled to continue that character to which your pupils once assigned the appellation of the “good Benefico (the good giant),” but your little volatile friend Fanny, said to me a few days ago, and reflected my own feelings as she spoke, “Mamma, there are but two people in the world besides you to whom I cannot grudge the delight of making dear Mr. Oliphant a man of easy fortune; and those two are my uncle and Mr. Otway.” But this theme, all inspiring as it is, must not make me forgetful of your request.
You earnestly desire to be made acquainted as minutely as possible with the progress of my dearly loved brother’s mind towards that heavenly rest, without the possession of which, the approach of that mysterious change which awaits all created beings, must be awful beyond description. You know that I was fortunate in seizing upon the character of my brother’s mind at an early period of our acquaintance. One of the first outlines that I took, discovered to me his strong aversion to control, even in conversation. I perceived that having been long accustomed to exert an unrestrained free will in the regulation of his own occupations as well as amusements, and having also seen so much of design in the ordinary intercourse of the world as to make him suspicious of every formal attack upon his opinions, he met with a sort of predetermined opposition the slightest attempt to alter his views, upon any subject of interest. With this clue, I pursued my way, turning aside from, rather than courting, any opportunity of conversing upon topics respecting which I burned to know his thoughts. The usual style of our conversation was of that mixed nature which gave me an early insight into a mind replete with various powers. Its predominating tone was that of playfulness, and a common observer might have been borne out in calling General Douglas a humourist; but though possessed of all the requisites to inspire mirth, as well as taste its influence, I could see a dark cloud gathering underneath a smile, and catch a half breathed sigh, that wafted to my heart’s core the sounds, “All, all is vanity—delusion all,” when gaiety seemed to dance around his heart. What would I not have given at such moments to have seized a hand, and with affectionate energy pressed admission to the sacred repository of gloomy contemplation; but the time was not come. A premature remark, however tenderly whispered, would have alarmed a retiring and delicate, as well as proud mind, unaccustomed to see itself exposed to view. I therefore waited till opportunity should naturally invite communication; and such presented itself ere long after my brother’s arrival amongst us at Glenalta.
You may remember the time when you and Frederick were reading Butler’s Analogy as part of the College course. My dear boy was fond of talking over with me each chapter as he proceeded, and I determined to read that inestimable work anew, for the purpose of refreshing my memory, in conversation with him. One day, employed in this manner, I was sitting alone in my dressing-room, when my brother tapped at the door, saying that you wanted me for a few minutes in the study, and asked whether he might remain till my return, as he also wished to speak with me. On my return, I found him eagerly devouring the chapter on a future state; and so absorbed was he, that at first he did not perceive my entrance into the room. When he did, he started, and said, “Caroline, I have to apologize for taking up your book to see what you were reading, and I find something that has struck me: but I make a discovery that you are fond of these dark themes. Why have you never broached these subjects with me?” “Because,” said I, “that they are both dark and deep, and lie hidden between us and our Creator. The controversies of men are seldom beneficial, and more frequently excite the passions than satisfy the pride of human presumption.” “Do you mean, then, to say,” replied our dear inquirer, “that religion is incapable of proof?” “So far from it,” answered I, “that every object in nature bears proof to demonstration of the great leading tenets of religion; but I mean to say, such is the perverseness of our hearts, that we repel, when offered by another, those arguments which we should be proud to originate ourselves, and refuse conviction, unless our vanity be gratified by taking some credit to itself, at least in the selection of those reasons which operate a change of opinion. For this cause we suffer books to teach, though we deny a friend the delight of converting us from the evil of our ways, and why? Alas! in human weakness we have the answer. The choice of a book is a free act; the continuing to read it is a free act. The advocacy of its doctrines, if they be arrayed with power, talent, and genius, reflects honour on our discrimination, and, to a certain degree, identifies us with the author, who perhaps has vanished from the arena of our paltry rivalry, having been called to his account; or, should he still be alive, is removed from the immediate field of competition. I know these humiliating facts experimentally, for I have doubted, and I have been perverse.”
From this moment, every reserve on my brother’s part was at an end. He looked steadfastly in my face, with an expression which seemed to ask, is this indeed the truth, and not said to inveigle me into confidence? His own penetration assured him that I practised no deception. He took my hand, and spoke to the following effect:
“You are the very being to whom my whole soul shall be unfolded. Much is locked up within my breast that ‘ferments for want of air.’ You are right; you have in a few words drawn my picture; and so truly, that I now confess I should not have acknowledged this moment the fidelity of your portrait, had you boasted the superiority over me, of one who had not been drawn aside yourself from the path to which you have returned. But though your having once doubted, is a bond between us, like that of a common language in a foreign land; there is much room yet for discrepancy; and the nature of our stumbling blocks may be so extremely different that we may lose, rather than gain accession of sympathy by attempting to travel together in a course where so many intricate bye-paths present themselves to distract attention and divide our choice. Every thinking mind which has felt what it was to be perplexed, has been conscious of gradation in the difficulties that embarrassed its progress: some were but apparent, and vanished on the approach of knowledge; others, more stubborn, required more time and pains to conquer, but yielded at length to the force of reason, while there are some obstacles to Faith so harassing, that no efforts of the understanding are of any avail in breaking down the barriers which they present to sincere uncompromising belief:
‘Man never reasons but from what he knows,’