[1844.]
"THE shapings of our heavens are the modifications of our constitution," said Charles Lamb, in his reply to Southey's attack upon him in the Quarterly Review.
He who is infinite in love as well as wisdom has revealed to us the fact of a future life, and the fearfully important relation in which the present stands to it. The actual nature and conditions of that life He has hidden from us,—no chart of the ocean of eternity is given us,—no celestial guidebook or geography defines, localizes, and prepares us for the wonders of the spiritual world. Hence imagination has a wide field for its speculations, which, so long as they do not positively contradict the revelation of the Scriptures, cannot be disproved.
We naturally enough transfer to our idea of heaven whatever we love and reverence on earth. Thither the Catholic carries in his fancy the imposing rites and time-honored solemnities of his worship. There the Methodist sees his love-feasts and camp-meetings in the groves and by the still waters and green pastures of the blessed abodes. The Quaker, in the stillness of his self-communing, remembers that there was "silence in heaven."
The Churchman, listening to the solemn chant of weal music or the deep tones of the organ, thinks of the song of the elders and the golden harps of the New Jerusalem.
The heaven of the northern nations of Europe was a gross and sensual reflection of the earthly life of a barbarous and brutal people.
The Indians of North America had a vague notion of a sunset land, a beautiful paradise far in the west, mountains and forests filled with deer and buffalo, lakes and streams swarming with fishes,—the happy hunting-ground of souls. In a late letter from a devoted missionary among the Western Indians (Paul Blohm, a converted Jew) we have noticed a beautiful illustration of this belief. Near the Omaha mission-house, on a high luff, was a solitary Indian grave. "One evening," says the missionary, "having come home with some cattle which I had been seeking, I heard some one wailing; and, looking in the direction from whence I proceeded, I found it to be from the grave near our house. In a moment after a mourner rose up from a kneeling or lying posture, and, turning to the setting sun, stretched forth his arms in prayer and supplication with an intensity and earnestness as though he would detain the splendid luminary from running his course. With his body leaning forward and his arms stretched towards the sun, he presented a most striking figure of sorrow and petition. It was solemnly awful. He seemed to me to be one of the ancients come forth to teach me how to pray."
A venerable and worthy New England clergyman, on his death-bed, just before the close of his life, declared that he was only conscious of an awfully solemn and intense curiosity to know the great secret of death and eternity.
The excellent Dr. Nelson, of Missouri, was one who, while on earth, seemed to live another and higher life in the contemplation of infinite purity and happiness. A friend once related an incident concerning him which made a deep impression upon my mind. They had been travelling through a summer's forenoon in the prairie, and had lain down to rest beneath a solitary tree. The Doctor lay for a long time, silently looking upwards through the openings of the boughs into the still heavens, when he repeated the following lines, in a low tone, as if communing with himself in view of the wonders he described:—
"O the joys that are there mortal eye bath not seen!O the songs they sing there, with hosannas between!O the thrice-blessed song of the Lamb and of Moses!O brightness on brightness! the pearl gate uncloses!O white wings of angels! O fields white with roses!O white tents of peace, where the rapt soul reposesO the waters so still, and the pastures so green!"
The brief hints afforded us by the sacred writings concerning the better land are inspiring and beautiful. Eye hath not seen, nor the ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive of the good in store for the righteous. Heaven is described as a quiet habitation,—a rest remaining for the people of God. Tears shall be wiped away from all eyes; there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain. To how many death-beds have these words spoken peace! How many failing hearts have gathered strength from them to pass through the dark valley of shadows!
Yet we should not forget that "the kingdom of heaven is within;" that it is the state and affections of the soul, the answer of a good conscience, the sense of harmony with God, a condition of time as well as of eternity. What is really momentous and all-important with us is the present, by which the future is shaped and colored. A mere change of locality cannot alter the actual and intrinsic qualities of the soul. Guilt and remorse would make the golden streets of Paradise intolerable as the burning marl of the infernal abodes; while purity and innocence would transform hell itself into heaven.
First published as an introduction to an American edition of that author'sThe Patience of Hope.
THERE are men who, irrespective of the names by which they are called in the Babel confusion of sects, are endeared to the common heart of Christendom. Our doors open of their own accord to receive them. For in them we feel that in some faint degree, and with many limitations, the Divine is again manifested: something of the Infinite Love shines out of them; their very garments have healing and fragrance borrowed from the bloom of Paradise. So of books. There are volumes which perhaps contain many things, in the matter of doctrine and illustration, to which our reason does not assent, but which nevertheless seem permeated with a certain sweetness and savor of life. They have the Divine seal and imprimatur; they are fragrant with heart's-ease and asphodel; tonic with the leaves which are for the healing of the nations. The meditations of the devout monk of Kempen are the common heritage of Catholic and Protestant; our hearts burn within us as we walk with Augustine under Numidian fig-trees in the gardens of Verecundus; Feuelon from his bishop's palace and John Woolman from his tailor's shop speak to us in the same language. The unknown author of that book which Luther loved next to his Bible, the Theologia Germanica, is just as truly at home in this present age, and in the ultra Protestantism of New England, as in the heart of Catholic Europe, and in the fourteenth century. For such books know no limitations of time or place; they have the perpetual freshness and fitness of truth; they speak out of profound experience heart answers to heart as we read them; the spirit that is in man, and the inspiration that giveth understanding, bear witness to them. The bent and stress of their testimony are the same, whether written in this or a past century, by Catholic or Quaker: self-renunciation,— reconcilement to the Divine will through simple faith in the Divine goodness, and the love of it which must needs follow its recognition, the life of Christ made our own by self-denial and sacrifice, and the fellowship of His suffering for the good of others, the indwelling Spirit, leading into all truth, the Divine Word nigh us, even in our hearts. They have little to do with creeds, or schemes of doctrine, or the partial and inadequate plans of salvation invented by human speculation and ascribed to Him who, it is sufficient to know, is able to save unto the uttermost all who trust in Him. They insist upon simple faith and holiness of life, rather than rituals or modes of worship; they leave the merely formal, ceremonial, and temporal part of religion to take care of itself, and earnestly seek for the substantial, the necessary, and the permanent.
With these legacies of devout souls, it seems to me, the little volume herewith presented is not wholly unworthy of a place. It assumes the life and power of the gospel as a matter of actual experience; it bears unmistakable evidence of a realization, on the part of its author, of the truth, that Christianity is not simply historical and traditional, but present and permanent, with its roots in the infinite past and its branches in the infinite future, the eternal spring and growth of Divine love; not the dying echo of words uttered centuries ago, never to be repeated, but God's good tidings spoken afresh in every soul,—the perennial fountain and unstinted outflow of wisdom and goodness, forever old and forever new. It is a lofty plea for patience, trust, hope, and holy confidence, under the shadow, as well as in the light, of Christian experience, whether the cloud seems to rest on the tabernacle, or moves guidingly forward. It is perhaps too exclusively addressed to those who minister in the inner sanctuary, to be entirely intelligible to the vaster number who wait in the outer courts; it overlooks, perhaps, too much the solidarity and oneness of humanity;' but all who read it will feel its earnestness, and confess to the singular beauty of its style, the strong, steady march of its argument, and the wide and varied learning which illustrates it.
["The good are not so good as I once thought, nor the bad so evil, and in all there is more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God and holiness, than I once believed."—Baxter.]
To use the language of one of its reviewers in the Scottish press:—
"Beauty there is in the book; exquisite glimpses into the loveliness of nature here and there shine out from its lines,—a charm wanting which meditative writing always seems to have a defect; beautiful gleams, too, there are of the choicest things of art, and frequent allusions by the way to legend or picture of the religious past; so that, while you read, you wander by a clear brook of thought, coining far from the beautiful hills, and winding away from beneath the sunshine of gladness and beauty into the dense, mysterious forest of human existence, that loves to sing, amid the shadow of human darkness and anguish, its music of heavenborn consolation; bringing, too, its pure waters of cleansing and healing, yet evermore making its praise of holy affection and gladness; while it is still haunted by the spirits of prophet, saint, and poet, repeating snatches of their strains, and is led on, as by a spirit from above, to join the great river of God's truth. . . .
"This is a book for Christian men, for the quiet hour of holy solitude, when the heart longs and waits for access to the presence of the Master. The weary heart that thirsts amidst its conflicts and its toils for refreshing water will drink eagerly of these sweet and refreshing words. To thoughtful men and women, especially such as have learnt any of the patience of hope in the experiences of sorrow and trial, we commend this little volume most heartily and earnestly."
The Patience of Hopefell into my hands soon after its publication in Edinburgh, some two years ago. I was at once impressed by its extraordinary richness of language and imagery,—its deep and solemn tone of meditation in rare combination with an eminently practical tendency,— philosophy warm and glowing with love. It will, perhaps, be less the fault of the writer than of her readers, if they are not always able to eliminate from her highly poetical and imaginative language the subtle metaphysical verity or phase of religious experience which she seeks to express, or that they are compelled to pass over, without appropriation, many things which are nevertheless profoundly suggestive as vague possibilities of the highest life. All may not be able to find in some of her Scriptural citations the exact weight and significance so apparent to her own mind. She startles us, at times, by her novel applications of familiar texts, by meanings reflected upon them from her own spiritual intuitions, making the barren Baca of the letter a well. If the rendering be questionable, the beauty and quaint felicity of illustration and comparison are unmistakable; and we call to mind Augustine's saying, that two or more widely varying interpretations of Scripture may be alike true in themselves considered. "When one saith, Moses meant as I do,' and another saith, 'Nay, but as I do,' I ask, more reverently, 'Why not rather as both, if both be true?"
Some minds, for instance, will hesitate to assent to the use of certain Scriptural passages as evidence that He who is the Light of men, the Way and the Truth, in the mystery of His economy, designedly "delays, withdraws, and even hides Himself from those who love and follow Him." They will prefer to impute spiritual dearth and darkness to human weakness, to the selfishness which seeks a sign for itself, to evil imaginations indulged, to the taint and burden of some secret sin, or to some disease and exaggeration of the conscience, growing out of bodily infirmity, rather than to any purpose on the part of our Heavenly Father to perplex and mislead His children. The sun does not shine the less because one side of our planet is in darkness. To borrow the words of Augustine "Thou, Lord, forsakest nothing thou hast made. Thou alone art near to those even who remove far from thee. Let them turn and seek thee, for not as they have forsaken their Creator hast thou forsaken thy creation." It is only by holding fast the thought of Infinite Goodness, and interpreting doubtful Scripture and inward spiritual experience by the light of that central idea, that we can altogether escape the dreadful conclusion of Pascal, that revelation has been given us in dubious cipher, contradictory and mystical, in order that some, through miraculous aid, may understand it to their salvation, and others be mystified by it to their eternal loss.
I might mention other points of probable divergence between reader and writer, and indicate more particularly my own doubtful parse and hesitancy over some of these pages. But it is impossible for me to make one to whom I am so deeply indebted an offender for a word or a Scriptural rendering. On the grave and awful themes which she discusses, I have little to say in the way of controversy. I would listen, rather than criticise. The utterances of pious souls, in all ages, are to me often like fountains in a thirsty land, strengthening and refreshing, yet not without an after-taste of human frailty and inadequateness, a slight bitterness of disappointment and unsatisfied quest. Who has not felt at times that the letter killeth, that prophecies fail, and tongues cease to edify, and been ready to say, with the author of the Imitation of Christ: "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth. Let not Moses nor the prophets speak to me, but speak thou rather, who art the Inspirer and Enlightener of all. I am weary with reading and hearing many things; let all teachers hold their peace; let all creatures keep silence: speak thou alone to me."
The writer of The Patience of Hope had, previous to its publication, announced herself to a fit, if small, audience of earnest and thoughtful Christians, in a little volume entitled, A Present Heaven. She has recently published a collection of poems, of which so competent a judge as Dr. Brown, the author ofHorae SubsecivaeandRab and his Friends, thus speaks, in theNorth British Review:—
"Such of our readers—a fast increasing number—as have read and enjoyedThe Patience of Hope, listening to the gifted nature which, through such deep and subtile thought, and through affection and godliness still deeper and more quick, has charmed and soothed them, will not be surprised to learn that she is not only poetical, but, what is more, a poet, and one as true as George Herbert and Henry Vaughan, or our own Cowper; for, with all our admiration of the searching, fearless speculation, the wonderful power of speaking clearly upon dark and all but unspeakable subjects, the rich outcome of 'thoughts that wander through eternity,' which increases every time we take up that wonderful little book, we confess we were surprised at the kind and the amount of true poeticvisin these poems, from the same fine and strong hand. There is a personality and immediateness, a sort of sacredness and privacy, as if they were overheard rather than read, which gives to these remarkable productions a charm and a flavor all their own. With no effort, no consciousness of any end but that of uttering the inmost thoughts and desires of the heart, they flow out as clear, as living, as gladdening as the wayside well, coming from out the darkness of the central depths, filtered into purity by time and travel. The waters are copious, sometimes to overflowing; but they are always limpid and unforced, singing their own quiet tune, not saddening, though sometimes sad, and their darkness not that of obscurity, but of depth, like that of the deep sea.
"This is not a book to criticise or speak about, and we give no extracts from the longer, and in this case, we think, the better poems. In reading this Cardiphonia set to music, we have been often reminded, not only of Herbert and Vaughan, but of Keble,—a likeness of the spirit, not of the letter; for if there is any one poet who has given a bent to her mind, it is Wordsworth,—the greatest of all our century's poets, both in himself and in his power of making poets."
In the belief that whoever peruses the following pages will be sufficiently interested in their author to be induced to turn back and read over again, with renewed pleasure, extracts from her metrical writings, I copy from the volume so warmly commended a few brief pieces and extracts from the longer poems.
Here are three sonnets, each a sermon in itself:—
They who from mountain-peaks have gazed uponThe wide, illimitable heavens have said,That, still receding as they climbed, outspread,The blue vault deepens over them, and, oneBy one drawn further back, each starry sunShoots down a feebler splendor overheadSo, Saviour, as our mounting spirits, ledAlong Faith's living way to Thee, have wonA nearer access, up the difficult trackStill pressing, on that rarer atmosphere,When low beneath us flits the cloudy rack,We see Thee drawn within a widening sphereOf glory, from us further, further back,—Yet is it then because we are more near.
Top long have I, methought, with tearful eyePored o'er this tangled work of mine, and musedAbove each stitch awry and thread confused;Now will I think on what in years gone byI heard of them that weave rare tapestryAt royal looms, and hew they constant useTo work on the rough side, and still peruseThe pictured pattern set above them high;So will I set my copy high above,And gaze and gaze till on my spirit growsIts gracious impress; till some line of love,Transferred upon my canvas, faintly glows;Nor look too much on warp or woof, provideHe whom I work for sees their fairer side!
When I do think on thee, sweet Hope, and howThou followest on our steps, a coaxing childOft chidden hence, yet quickly reconciled,Still turning on us a glad, beaming brow,And red, ripe lips for kisses: even nowThou mindest me of him, the Ruler mild,Who led God's chosen people through the wild,And bore with wayward murmurers, meek as thouThat bringest waters from the Rock, with breadOf angels strewing Earth for us! like himThy force abates not, nor thine eye grows dim;But still with milk and honey-droppings fed,Thou leadest to the Promised Country fair,Though thou, like Moses, may'st not enter there
There is something very weird and striking in the following lines:—
Alone, at midnight as he knelt, his spirit was awareOf Somewhat falling in between the silence and the prayer;
A bell's dull clangor that hath sped so far, it faints and diesSo soon as it hath reached the ear whereto its errand lies;
And as he rose up from his knees, his spirit was awareOf Somewhat, forceful and unseen, that sought to hold him there;
As of a Form that stood behind, and on his shoulders prestBoth hands to stay his rising up, and Somewhat in his breast,
In accents clearer far than words, spake, "Pray yet longer, pray,For one that ever prayed for thee this night hath passed away;
"A soul, that climbing hour by hour the silver-shining stairThat leads to God's great treasure-house, grew covetous; and there
"Was stored no blessing and no boon, for thee she did not claim,(So lowly, yet importunate!) and ever with thy name
"She link'd—that none in earth or heaven might hinder it or stay—One Other Name, so strong, that thine hath never missed its way.
"This very night within my arms this gracious soul I bore Within theGate, where many a prayer of hers had gone before;
"And where she resteth, evermore one constant song they raise Of 'Holy, holy,' so that now I know not if she prays;
"But for the voice of praise in Heaven, a voice of Prayer hath goneFrom Earth; thy name upriseth now no more; pray on, pray on!"
The following may serve as a specimen of the writer's lighter, half- playful strain of moralizing:—
"And where, and among what pleasant places,Have ye been, that ye come againWith your laps so full of flowers, and your facesLike buds blown fresh after rain?"
"We have been," said the children, speakingIn their gladness, as the birds chime,All together,—"we have been seekingFor the Fairies of olden time;For we thought, they are only hidden,—They would never surely goFrom this green earth all unbidden,And the children that love them so.Though they come not around us leaping,As they did when they and the worldWere young, we shall find them sleepingWithin some broad leaf curled;For the lily its white doors closesBut only over the bee,And we looked through the summer roses,Leaf by leaf, so carefully.
But we thought, rolled up we shall find themAmong mosses old and dry;From gossamer threads that bind them,They will start like the butterfly,All winged: so we went forth seeking,Yet still they have kept unseen;Though we think our feet have been keepingThe track where they have been,For we saw where their dance went flyingO'er the pastures,—snowy white."
Their seats and their tables lying,O'erthrown in their sudden flight.And they, too, have had their losses,For we found the goblets whiteAnd red in the old spiked mosses,That they drank from over-night;And in the pale horn of the woodbineWas some wine left, clear and bright;"But we found," said the children, speakingMore quickly, "so many things,That we soon forgot we were seeking,—Forgot all the Fairy rings,Forgot all the stories oldenThat we hear round the fire at night,Of their gifts and their favors golden,—The sunshine was so bright;And the flowers,—we found so manyThat it almost made us grieveTo think there were some, sweet as any,That we were forced to leave;As we left, by the brook-side lying,The balls of drifted foam,And brought (after all our trying)These Guelder-roses home."
"Then, oh!" I heard one speakingBeside me soft and low,"I have been, like the blessed children, seeking,Still seeking, to and fro;Yet not, like them, for the Fairies,—They might pass unmourned awayFor me, that had looked on angels,—On angels that would not stay;No! not though in haste before themI spread all my heart's best cheer,And made love my banner o'er them,If it might but keep them here;They stayed but a while to rest them;Long, long before its close,From my feast, though I mourned and prest themThe radiant guests arose;And their flitting wings struck sadnessAnd silence; never moreHath my soul won back the gladness,That was its own before.No; I mourned not for the FairiesWhen I had seen hopes decay,That were sweet unto my spiritSo long; I said, 'If they,That through shade and sunny weatherHave twined about my heart,Should fade, we must go together,For we can never part!'But my care was not availing;I found their sweetness gone;I saw their bright tints paling;—They died; yet I lived on.
"Yet seeking, ever seeking,Like the children, I have wonA guerdon all undreamt of
When first my quest begun,And my thoughts come back like wanderers,Out-wearied, to my breast;What they sought for long they found not,Yet was the Unsought best.For I sought not out for crosses,I did not seek for pain;Yet I find the heart's sore lossesWere the spirit's surest gain."
InA Meditation, the writer ventures, not without awe and reverence, upon that dim, unsounded ocean of mystery, the life beyond:—
"But is there prayerWithin your quiet homes, and is there careFor those ye leave behind? I would addressMy spirit to this theme in humblenessNo tongue nor pen hath uttered or made knownThis mystery, and thus I do but guessAt clearer types through lowlier patterns shown;Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own?Ye may not quit your sweetness; in the VineMore firmly rooted than of old, your wineHath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grownTo fuller stature; though the shock was keenThat severed you from us, how oft belowHath sorest parting smitten but to showTrue hearts their hidden wealth that quickly growThe closer for that anguish,—friend to friendRevealed more clear,—and what is Death to rendThe ties of life and love, when He must fadeIn light of very Life, when He must bendTo love, that, loving, loveth to the end?
"I do not deem ye lookUpon us now, for be it that your eyesAre sealed or clear, a burden on them liesToo deep and blissful for their gaze to brookOur troubled strife; enough that once ye dweltWhere now we dwell, enough that once ye feltAs now we feel, to bid you recognizeOur claim of kindred cherished though unseen;And Love that is to you for eye and earHath ways unknown to us to bring you near,—To keep you near for all that comes between;As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer,As distant friends, that see not, and yet share(I speak of what I know) each other's care,So may your spirits blend with ours!Above Ye know not haply of our state, yetLove Acquaints you with our need, and through a wayMore sure than that of knowledge—so ye pray!
"And even thus we meet,And even thus we commune! spirits freedAnd spirits fettered mingle, nor have needTo seek a common atmosphere, the airIs meet for either in this olden, sweet,Primeval breathing of Man's spirit,—Prayer!"
I give, in conclusion, a portion of one of her most characteristic poems,The Reconciler:—
"Our dreams are reconciled,Since Thou didst come to turn them all to Truth;The World, the Heart, are dreamers in their youthOf visions beautiful, and strange and wild;And Thou, our Life's Interpreter, dost stillAt once make clear these visions and fulfil;
Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme,Each mythic tale sublimeOf strength to save, of sweetness to subdue,Each morning dream the few,Wisdom's first lovers told, if read in Thee comes true.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Thou, O FriendFrom heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own,Dost pierce the broken language of its moan—Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy!Each yearning deep and wide,Each claim, is justified;Our young illusions fail not, though they dieWithin the brightness of Thy Rising, kissedTo happy death, like early clouds that lieAbout the gates of Dawn,—a golden mistPaling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.
"The World that puts Thee by,That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train,That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry,'We will not have Thee over us to reign,'Itself Both testify through searchings vainOf Thee and of its need, and for the goodIt will not, of some base similitudeTakes up a taunting witness, till its mood,Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tearIts own illusions grown too thin and bareTo wrap it longer; for within the gateWhere all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate,A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies,And he who answers not its questions dies,—Still changing form and speech, but with the sameVexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shameUpon the nations that with eager cryHail each new solver of the mystery;Yet he, of these the best,Bold guesser, hath but prestMost nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong;True Champion, that hast wroughtOur help of old, and broughtMeat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.
"O Bearer of the keyThat shuts and opens with a sound so sweetIts turning in the wards is melody,All things we move among are incompleteAnd vain until we fashion them in Thee!We labor in the fire,Thick smoke is round about us; through the dinOf words that darken counsel clamors direRing from thought's beaten anvil, where withinTwo Giants toil, that even from their birthWith travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth,And wearied out her children with their keenUpbraidings of the other, till betweenThou tamest, saying, 'Wherefore do ye wrongEach other?—ye are Brethren.' Then these twainWill own their kindred, and in Thee retainTheir claims in peace, because Thy land is wideAs it is goodly! here they pasture free,This lion and this leopard, side by side,A little child doth lead them with a song;Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no moreDoth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore,For one did ask a Brother, one a King,So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring—Thou, King forevermore, forever Priest,Thou, Brother of our own from bonds releasedA Law of Liberty,A Service making free,A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.
"And not alone these wide,Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cryTheir meat from God, in Thee are satisfied;But all our instincts waking suddenlyWithin the soul, like infants from their sleepThat stretch their arms into the dark and weep,Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereftOf all its brood of singing hopes, and left'Mid leafless boughs, a cold, forsaken nestWith snow-flakes in it, folded in Thy breastDoth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creepsUnto Thy side for shelter, finding thereThe wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan, and weepsCalm, quiet tears, and on Thy forehead CareHath looked until its thorns, no longer bare,Put forth pale roses. Pain on Thee doth pressIts quivering cheek, and all the weariness,The want that keep their silence, till from TheeThey hear the gracious summons, none besideHath spoken to the world-worn, 'Come to me,'Tell forth their heavy secrets.
"Thou dost hideThese in Thy bosom, and not these alone,But all our heart's fond treasure that had grownA burden else: O Saviour, tears were weighedTo Thee in plenteous measure! none hath shownThat Thou didst smile! yet hast Thou surely madeAll joy of ours Thine own.
"Thou madest us for Thine;We seek amiss, we wander to and fro;Yet are we ever on the track Divine;The soul confesseth Thee, but sense is slowTo lean on aught but that which it may see;So hath it crowded up these Courts belowWith dark and broken images of Thee;Lead Thou us forth upon Thy Mount, and showThy goodly patterns, whence these things of oldBy Thee were fashioned; One though manifold.Glass Thou Thy perfect likeness in the soul,Show us Thy countenance, and we are whole!"
No one, I am quite certain, will regret that I have made these liberal quotations. Apart from their literary merit, they have a special interest for the readers of The Patience of Hope, as more fully illustrating the writer's personal experience and aspirations.
It has been suggested by a friend that it is barely possible that an objection may be urged against the following treatise, as against all books of a like character, that its tendency is to isolate the individual from his race, and to nourish an exclusive and purely selfish personal solicitude; that its piety is self-absorbent, and that it does not take sufficiently into account active duties and charities, and the love of the neighbor so strikingly illustrated by the Divine Master in His life and teachings. This objection, if valid, would be a fatal one. For, of a truth, there can be no meaner type of human selfishness than that afforded by him who, unmindful of the world of sin and suffering about him, occupies himself in the pitiful business of saving his own soul, in the very spirit of the miser, watching over his private hoard while his neighbors starve for lack of bread. But surely the benevolent unrest, the far-reaching sympathies and keen sensitiveness to the suffering of others, which so nobly distinguish our present age, can have nothing to fear from a plea for personal holiness, patience, hope, and resignation to the Divine will. "The more piety, the more compassion," says Isaac Taylor; and this is true, if we understand by piety, not self-concentred asceticism, but the pure religion and undefiled which visits the widow and the fatherless, and yet keeps itself unspotted from the world,—which deals justly, loves mercy, and yet walks humbly before God. Self- scrutiny in the light of truth can do no harm to any one, least of all to the reformer and philanthropist. The spiritual warrior, like the young candidate for knighthood, may be none the worse for his preparatory ordeal of watching all night by his armor.
Tauler in mediaeval times and Woolman in the last century are among the most earnest teachers of the inward life and spiritual nature of Christianity, yet both were distinguished for practical benevolence. They did not separate the two great commandments. Tauler strove with equal intensity of zeal to promote the temporal and the spiritual welfare of men. In the dark and evil time in which he lived, amidst the untold horrors of the "Black Plague," he illustrated by deeds of charity and mercy his doctrine of disinterested benevolence. Woolman's whole life was a nobler Imitation of Christ than that fervid rhapsody of monastic piety which bears the name.
How faithful, yet, withal, how full of kindness, were his rebukes of those who refused labor its just reward, and ground the faces of the poor? How deep and entire was his sympathy with overtasked and ill-paid laborers; with wet and illprovided sailors; with poor wretches blaspheming in the mines, because oppression had made them mad; with the dyers plying their unhealthful trade to minister to luxury and pride; with the tenant wearing out his life in the service of a hard landlord; and with the slave sighing over his unrequited toil! What a significance there was in his vision of the "dull, gloomy mass" which appeared before him, darkening half the heavens, and which he was told was "human beings in as great misery as they could be and live; and he was mixed with them, and henceforth he might not consider himself a distinct and separate being"! His saintliness was wholly unconscious; he seems never to have thought himself any nearer to the tender heart of God than the most miserable sinner to whom his compassion extended. As he did not live, so neither did he die to himself. His prayer upon his death-bed was for others rather than himself; its beautiful humility and simple trust were marred by no sensual imagery of crowns and harps and golden streets, and personal beatific exaltations; but tender and touching concern for suffering humanity, relieved only by the thought of the paternity of God, and of His love and omnipotence, alone found utterance in ever-memorable words.
In view of the troubled state of the country and the intense preoccupation of the public mind, I have had some hesitation in offering this volume to its publishers. But, on further reflection, it has seemed to me that it might supply a want felt by many among us; that, in the chaos of civil strife and the shadow of mourning which rests over the land, the contemplation of "things unseen which are eternal" might not be unwelcome; that, when the foundations of human confidence are shaken, and the trust in man proves vain, there might be glad listeners to a voice calling from the outward and the temporal to the inward and the spiritual; from the troubles and perplexities of time, to the eternal quietness which God giveth. I cannot but believe that, in the heat and glare through which we are passing, this book will not invite in vain to the calm, sweet shadows of holy meditation, grateful as the green wings of the bird to Thalaba in the desert; and thus afford something of consolation to the bereaved, and of strength to the weary. For surely never was the Patience of Hope more needed; never was the inner sanctuary of prayer more desirable; never was a steadfast faith in the Divine goodness more indispensable, nor lessons of self-sacrifice and renunciation, and that cheerful acceptance of known duty which shifts not its proper responsibility upon others, nor asks for "peace in its day" at the expense of purity and justice, more timely than now, when the solemn words of ancient prophecy are as applicable to our own country as to that of the degenerate Jew,—"Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backsliding reprove thee; know, therefore, it is an evil thing, and bitter, that thou bast forsaken the Lord, and that my fear is not in thee,"—when "His way is in the deep, in clouds, and in thick darkness," and the hand heavy upon us which shall "turn and overturn until he whose right it is shall reign,"—until, not without rending agony, the evil plant which our Heavenly Father hath not planted, whose roots have wound themselves about altar and hearth-stone, and whose branches, like the tree Al-Accoub in Moslem fable, bear the accursed fruit of oppression, rebellion, and all imaginable crime, shall be torn up and destroyed forever.
AMESBURY, 1st 6th mo., 1862.
The following letters were addressed to the Editor of the Friends' Review in Philadelphia, in reference to certain changes of principle and practice in the Society then beginning to be observable, but which have since more than justified the writer's fears and solicitude.
AMESBURY, 2d mo., 1870.
ESTEEMED FRIEND,—If I have been hitherto a silent, I have not been an indifferent, spectator of the movements now going on in our religious Society. Perhaps from lack of faith, I have been quite too solicitous concerning them, and too much afraid that in grasping after new things we may let go of old things too precious to be lost. Hence I have been pleased to see from time to time in thy paper very timely and fitting articles upon aHired MinistryandSilent Worship.
The present age is one of sensation and excitement, of extreme measures and opinions, of impatience of all slow results. The world about us moves with accelerated impulse, and we move with it: the rest we have enjoyed, whether true or false, is broken; the title-deeds of our opinions, the reason of our practices, are demanded. Our very right to exist as a distinct society is questioned. Our old literature—the precious journals and biographies of early and later Friends—is comparatively neglected for sensational and dogmatic publications. We bear complaints of a want of educated ministers; the utility of silent meetings is denied, and praying and preaching regarded as matters of will and option. There is a growing desire for experimenting upon the dogmas and expedients and practices of other sects. I speak only of admitted facts, and not for the purpose of censure or complaint. No one has less right than myself to indulge in heresy-hunting or impatience of minor differences of opinion. If my dear friends can bear with me, I shall not find it a hard task to bear with them.
But for myself I prefer the old ways. With the broadest possible tolerance for all honest seekers after truth! I love the Society of Friends. My life has been nearly spent in laboring with those of other sects in behalf of the suffering and enslaved; and I have never felt like quarrelling with Orthodox or Unitarians, who were willing to pull with me, side by side, at the rope of Reform. A very large proportion of my dearest personal friends are outside of our communion; and I have learned with John Woolman to find "no narrowness respecting sects and opinions." But after a kindly and candid survey of them all, I turn to my own Society, thankful to the Divine Providence which placed me where I am; and with an unshaken faith in the one distinctive doctrine of Quakerism— the Light within—the immanence of the Divine Spirit in Christianity. I cheerfully recognize and bear testimony to the good works and lives of those who widely differ in faith and practice; but I have seen no truer types of Christianity, no better men and women, than I have known and still know among those who not blindly, but intelligently, hold the doctrines and maintain the testimonies of our early Friends. I am not blind to the shortcomings of Friends. I know how much we have lost by narrowness and coldness and inactivity, the overestimate of external observances, the neglect of our own proper work while acting as conscience-keepers for others. We have not, as a society, been active enough in those simple duties which we owe to our suffering fellow- creatures, in that abundant labor of love and self-denial which is never out of place. Perhaps our divisions and dissensions might have been spared us if we had been less "at ease in Zion." It is in the decline of practical righteousness that men are most likely to contend with each other for dogma and ritual, for shadow and letter, instead of substance and spirit. Hence I rejoice in every sign of increased activity in doing good among us, in the precious opportunities afforded of working with the Divine Providence for the Freedmen and Indians; since the more we do, in the true spirit of the gospel, for others, the more we shall really do for ourselves. There is no danger of lack of work for those who, with an eye single to the guidance of Truth, look for a place in God's vineyard; the great work which the founders of our Society began is not yet done; the mission of Friends is not accomplished, and will not be until this world of ours, now full of sin and suffering, shall take up, in jubilant thanksgiving, the song of the Advent: "Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth and good-will to men!"
It is charged that our Society lacks freedom and adaptation to the age in which we live, that there is a repression of individuality and manliness among us. I am not prepared to deny it in certain respects. But, if we look at the matter closely, we shall see that the cause is not in the central truth of Quakerism, but in a failure to rightly comprehend it; in an attempt to fetter with forms and hedge about with dogmas that great law of Christian liberty, which I believe affords ample scope for the highest spiritual aspirations and the broadest philanthropy. If we did but realize it, we are "set in a large place."
"We may do all we will save wickedness."
"Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."
Quakerism, in the light of its great original truth, is "exceeding broad." As interpreted by Penn and Barclay it is the most liberal and catholic of faiths. If we are not free, generous, tolerant, if we are not up to or above the level of the age in good works, in culture and love of beauty, order and fitness, if we are not the ready recipients of the truths of science and philosophy,—in a word, if we are not full- grown men and Christians, the fault is not in Quakerism, but in ourselves. We shall gain nothing by aping the customs and trying to adjust ourselves to the creeds of other sects. By so doing we make at the best a very awkward combination, and just as far as it is successful, it is at the expense of much that is vital in our old faith. If, for instance, I could bring myself to believe a hired ministry and a written creed essential to my moral and spiritual well-being, I think I should prefer to sit down at once under such teachers as Bushnell and Beecher, the like of whom in Biblical knowledge, ecclesiastical learning, and intellectual power, we are not likely to manufacture by half a century of theological manipulation in a Quaker "school of the prophets." If I must go into the market and buy my preaching, I should naturally seek the best article on sale, without regard to the label attached to it.
I am not insensible of the need of spiritual renovation in our Society. I feel and confess my own deficiencies as an individual member. And I bear a willing testimony to the zeal and devotion of some dear friends, who, lamenting the low condition and worldliness too apparent among us, seek to awaken a stronger religious life by the partial adoption of the practices, forms, and creeds of more demonstrative sects. The great apparent activity of these sects seems to them to contrast very strongly with our quietness and reticence; and they do not always pause to inquire whether the result of this activity is a truer type of practical Christianity than is found in our select gatherings. I think I understand these brethren; to some extent I have sympathized with them. But it seems clear to me, that a remedy for the alleged evil lies not in going back to the "beggarly elements" from which our worthy ancestors called the people of their generation; not in will-worship; not in setting the letter above the spirit; not in substituting type and symbol, and oriental figure and hyperbole for the simple truths they were intended to represent; not in schools of theology; not in much speaking and noise and vehemence, nor in vain attempts to make the "plain language" of Quakerism utter the Shibboleth of man-made creeds: but in heeding more closely the Inward Guide and Teacher; in faith in Christ not merely in His historical manifestation of the Divine Love to humanity, but in His living presence in the hearts open to receive Him; in love for Him manifested in denial of self, in charity and love to our neighbor; and in a deeper realization of the truth of the apostle's declaration: "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world."
In conclusion, let me say that I have given this expression of my opinions with some degree of hesitation, being very sensible that I have neither the right nor the qualification to speak for a society whose doctrines and testimonies commend themselves to my heart and head, whose history is rich with the precious legacy of holy lives, and of whose usefulness as a moral and spiritual Force in the world I am fully assured.
Having received several letters from dear friends in various sections suggested by a recent communication in thy paper, and not having time or health to answer them in detail, will thou permit me in this way to acknowledge them, and to say to the writers that I am deeply sensible of the Christian love and personal good-will to myself, which, whether in commendation or dissent, they manifest? I think I may say in truth that my letter was written in no sectarian or party spirit, but simply to express a solicitude, which, whether groundless or not, was nevertheless real. I am, from principle, disinclined to doctrinal disputations and so-called religious controversies, which only tend to separate and disunite. We have had too many divisions already. I intended no censure of dear brethren whose zeal and devotion command my sympathy, notwithstanding I may not be able to see with them in all respects. The domain of individual conscience is to me very sacred; and it seems the part of Christian charity to make a large allowance for varying experiences; mental characteristics, and temperaments, as well as for that youthful enthusiasm which, if sometimes misdirected, has often been instrumental in infusing a fresher life into the body of religious profession. It is too much to expect that we can maintain an entire uniformity in the expression of truths in which we substantially agree; and we should be careful that a rightful concern for "the form of sound words" does not become what William Penn calls "verbal orthodoxy." We must consider that the same accepted truth looks somewhat differently from different points of vision. Knowing our own weaknesses and limitations, we must bear in mind that human creeds, speculations, expositions, and interpretations of the Divine plan are but the faint and feeble glimpses of finite creatures into the infinite mysteries of God.
"They are but broken lights of Thee,And Thou, O Lord, art more than they."
Differing, as we do, more or less as to means and methods, if we indeed have the "mind of Christ," we shall rejoice in whatever of good is really accomplished, although by somewhat different instrumentalities than those which we feel ourselves free to make use of, remembering that our Lord rebuked the narrowness and partisanship of His disciples by assuring them that they that were not against Him were for Him.
It would, nevertheless, give me great satisfaction to know, as thy kindly expressed editorial comments seem to intimate, that I have somewhat overestimated the tendencies of things in our Society. I have no pride of opinion which would prevent me from confessing with thankfulness my error of judgment. In any event, it can, I think, do no harm to repeat my deep conviction that we may all labor, in the ability given us, for our own moral and spiritual well-being, and that of our fellow-creatures, without laying aside the principles and practice of our religious Society. I believe so much of liberty is our right as well as our privilege, and that we need not really overstep our bounds for the performance of any duty which may be required of us. When truly called to contemplate broader fields of labor, we shall find the walls about us, like the horizon seen from higher levels, expanding indeed, but nowhere broken.
I believe that the world needs the Society of Friends as a testimony and a standard. I know that this is the opinion of some of the best and most thoughtful members of other Christian sects. I know that any serious departure from the original foundation of our Society would give pain to many who, outside of our communion, deeply realize the importance of our testimonies. They fail to read clearly the signs of the times who do not see that the hour is coming when, under the searching eye of philosophy and the terrible analysis of science, the letter and the outward evidence will not altogether avail us; when the surest dependence must be upon the Light of Christ within, disclosing the law and the prophets in our own souls, and confirming the truth of outward Scripture by inward experience; when smooth stones from the brook of present revelation shall' prove mightier than the weapons of Saul; when the doctrine of the Holy Spirit, as proclaimed by George Fox and lived by John Woolman, shall be recognized as the only efficient solvent of doubts raised by an age of restless inquiry. In this belief my letter was written. I am sorry it did not fall to the lot of a more fitting hand; and can only hope that no consideration of lack of qualification on the part of its writer may lessen the value of whatever testimony to truth shall be found in it.
AMESBURY, 3d mo., 1870.
P. S. I may mention that I have been somewhat encouraged by a perusal of the Proceedings of the late First-day School Conference in Philadelphia, where, with some things which I am compelled to pause over, and regret, I find much with which I cordially unite, and which seems to indicate a providential opening for good. I confess to a lively and tender sympathy with my younger brethren and sisters who, in the name of Him who "went about doing good," go forth into the highways and byways to gather up the lost, feed the hungry, instruct the ignorant, and point the sinsick and suffering to the hopes and consolations of Christian faith, even if, at times, their zeal goes beyond "reasonable service," and although the importance of a particular instrumentality may be exaggerated, and love lose sight of its needful companion humility, and he that putteth on his armor boast like him who layeth it off. Any movement, however irregular, which indicates life, is better than the quiet of death. In the overruling providence of God, the troubling may prepare the way for healing. Some of us may have erred on one hand and some on the other, and this shaking of the balance may adjust it.