comfortably circumstanced. I also have abundant cause for thankfulness.
The loss of fortune was graciously delayed in my instance until all
my children having been educated, and two of them supplied with
comfortable residences (Robert, my second son, recently by the
perfectly spontaneous kindness of Lord Brougham), so that the effect
of my loss of fortune has been greatly to augment Mrs. W.'s and my own
happiness. What can be more delightful than to be the daily witness of
our children having a large measure of conjugal happiness, the best
of this world's goods, while at the same time they are discharging
conscientiously and zealously the important duties of the pastoral
office. It gave me real pleasure that your son had given up the
situation at the Treasury for the Church. I have heard such an account
of him from my sons, as gives me reason to form sanguine hopes that he
will be a blessing to his fellow creatures."
The next extract refers to the painting of the well-known picture of
Wilberforce now in the National Portrait Gallery.
_Sir Thomas Lawrence to Mr. Wilberforce._
"You make a too flattering apology for sending me but your name in your
own handwriting. I hardly know what other word in our language could
boast of equal interest, and you may be assured, my dear sir, that by
those the nearest to me it will be equally prized when the person to
whom it is written can no longer produce it as evidence of his too
fortunate career."
The date of the following lines of Cowper and also of Hayley is not
given. They are marked "Verses sent to me by Cowper and Hayley."
_To William Wilberforce, Esqre._
SONNET.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious called
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthralled
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part--hast gained the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the good on earth, and all the Blest above!
WILLIAM COWPER.
_To William Wilberforce, Esqre, on the preceding Sonnet._
When Virtue saw with brave disdain
Lucre's infuriate sons profane
Her Wilberforce's worth;
As she beheld with generous ire,
His image fashioned for the fire
Of diabolic mirth:
"Firm friend of suffering slaves!" she cried,
"These frantic outrages deride,
While I protect thy name!
Soon shall one dear selected hand
Richly o'erpay at my command,
Indignity with Fame:
"Since thou hast won, in Nature's cause,
My fondest love, my prime applause,
Thy Honour is my care;
Now shall my favourite Bard be thine:
My Cowper, guard of glory's shine!
Shall grave thy merits there."
WILLIAM HAYLEY.
[Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, AT HULL.]
_HOME LETTERS_
HOME LETTERS.
The family letters which follow are some of a religious character,
while others turn on more general topics.
Four letters written by Wilberforce to his daughter Elizabeth, aged
fifteen at the date the correspondence begins, show the care with which
he instilled into her mind all that he considered of most moment; also
how he exercised "the privilege of a friend," for such he considered
himself to his daughter, and "told her frankly all her faults."
_Mr. Wilberforce to his daughter Elizabeth.
"November 30, 1816._
"This is but a short letter to my dear Elizabeth. When I do address my
dear girl, I ought to consider how I can best testify my friendship:
for friendship let there be between us; never can you have a friend
more warmly attached to you or more interested in your welldoing and
happiness than myself. But if we are to be friends, you must allow
me the privilege of a friend, a privilege by far the most valuable of
all its excellencies. So thought your dear Uncle Stephen,[42] when
in the very extreme bitterness of his grief, which was as great as
that of any one I ever witnessed, though he is now able to control
his feelings before company, he said to me while enlarging on the
various particulars of my dear sister's extraordinary character, 'O,
she was a friend to my soul! She told me frankly all my faults,' an
office in which, I am obliged to confess, he charged me with having
been deficient. This has arisen, however, solely from my scarcely
ever having seen him alone, when only I could converse with him
confidentially. But if I am to exercise this best prerogative, this
most sacred and indispensable duty of friendship, it will be necessary
for my dear Elizabeth to prepare her mind and temper for receiving it
properly, and for deriving from it all the benefits it is capable of
imparting. Shall I be honest, and I must be so or be silent; were I
otherwise, the very sheet which I am writing would rise up in judgment
against me at the last day; if then, I am frank and honest, I must
declare to you, that it is on this quarter that it will be necessary
for my dear girl to guard herself with the utmost watchfulness, and,
still more, to _prepare herself_ with conscientious care. This is what
St. Paul terms "exercising herself to maintain a conscience void of
offence towards God and towards man": what the Book of Proverbs styles,
"keeping the heart _with all diligence_:" for unless we have accustomed
ourselves to _self-suspicion_, if I may use such a phrase, we never
benefit as we might from the friendly reproofs of a real friend. We may
receive his remarks with civility, and even give him credit for his
kind intentions, but we shall be almost sure to let it appear to any
acute observer at least, that we rather tolerate his frankness out of
principle, or put up with it in consideration of the friendly motives
by which it has been prompted, than that we listen to it with a sincere
desire of profiting from it, still less that we welcome it as one of
the most valuable services in design, even when not in fact, that could
be rendered to us. The grand preparation that is needed is, Humility:
that sense of our own infirmities and our own weakness, which is felt
by every true, at least by every flourishing Christian. We read in the
Scripture that 'our hearts are deceitful above all things:' by which
is meant, that we are all prone to flatter ourselves, to form too high
an estimate of our own good qualities, and too low an idea of our bad
ones. Now it is the first office of the Holy Spirit to teach us to
know ourselves, and immediately to _suspect_ ourselves as the first
effect of that knowledge. Now be honest with yourself, my very dear
child. Have you been accustomed to distrust the judgment you have been
in the habit of forming of your own character, as you would have done
if it had been formed and stated to you by any one whom you knew to be
a notorious liar? Yet this is really the way in which we ought to feel;
I know how difficult it is in practice from my own experience; and
because it is so difficult, it is here that we need the special aid of
the Holy Spirit, and should earnestly pray for His blessed influence to
teach us to know ourselves. Be earnest, then, in prayer, my very dear
Elizabeth, and frequent in self-examination on this very point. I have
often detected my own self-partiality and self-deceit by observing how
differently the same fault, be it small or great, appears to me when
committed by myself, and when committed by others, how much more ready
I am with apologies for it, or with extenuations for its guilt. If a
servant has done anything wrong, or omitted some act of duty, I observe
_how_ it appears to me, and if I have done much the same fault, or been
guilty of the same omission, how much less does it impress itself on
me, how much sooner do I forget it. I assure you, I speak sincerely
when I tell you I find this the case with myself: now observe
whether you do; and if so, then it will be a subject for humiliation
before God, and a motive for earnest prayer. Let my dearest Lizzie be
particularly watchful to improve the present season; for as you have
heard me say, Christ--as is stated in Rev. iii.--'stands at the door
and knocks,' that is, He uses particular events and circumstances of
our lives, for impressing us with the importance of spiritual things,
and if the event and the circumstances pass over without producing
their proper effect, there is always a positive bad consequence. So
much grace is, as it were expended on us in vain. The heart becomes
harder and less favourably disposed on another occasion. And though
we must not limit the grace and power of God, yet it is a great point
to know what the Scripture (2 Cor. vi.) terms "our appointed time,
our day of salvation." I am sure you find your heart softened and
affected more than usual just now. O try, my beloved girl, to render
this permanently, let me say eternally, useful to you. I understand
you are reading Doddridge's 'Rise and Progress.' You cannot read a
better book. I hope it was one of the means of turning my heart to God.
Certainly, there are few books which have been so extensively useful.
Pray over some of the prayers at the conclusion of the chapters; as,
for instance, if I remember right, that at the end of the chapter,
'After a state of spiritual decay.' But I have not the book at hand,
and cannot quote it from memory. Don't read this till you have half an
hour's leisure."
Of the privilege of friendship alluded to in this letter, Wilberforce
also writes later to his daughter Elizabeth: "You will never find
telling Robert" (afterwards Archdeacon Wilberforce), "of any fault
offend him, if you do it when you are _tête à tête_, and when he sees
from your manner and from the circumstances that you can only have his
happiness at heart, I mean that this friendly regard can alone prompt
you to such a proof of real attachment."
_Mr. Wilberforce to his daughter Elizabeth._
"HASTINGS,
"_January 17, 1817._
"MY DEAREST LIZZY,--Your letter to-day gives me pleasure. We heard
from Marianne (Thornton) of her having paid you a visit. Her friendly
attachment to Barbara[43] and you, I account as one of the special
blessings of Providence; and there are many particulars, though not
all, in which I should be very glad to have her the object of your
imitation. I am half asleep from not having had a good night, and find
myself occasionally writing one word instead of another--a slip which
I sometimes witness in my dear Lizzy's case; I know not whether it
be from the same cause, I hope not. For my last night's wakefulness
arose in part from my thinking on some subjects of deep interest from
which, though I made several efforts, I could not altogether withdraw
my thoughts. My mind obeyed me indeed while I continued wide awake,
but when dropping half asleep, it started aside from the serious and
composing train of ideas to which I had forced it up, and like a
swerving horse, it chose to go its own way rather than mine. It is a
delightful consideration, my dearest child, that there is a gracious
and tender Saviour who, in our sleeping as well as waking hours, is
watching over us for good, if we are of the number of those who look to
Him habitually for consolation and peace, and such I trust will be more
and more the case of my dear Elizabeth."
The next letter is in a more lively strain and explains to Elizabeth
the system of Bishop Berkeley.
_Mr. Wilberforce to his daughter Elizabeth._
"HIGHWOOD HILL,
"_July 13, 1830_.
"MY DEAR LIZZY,--If many intentions to write could be admitted as
making up one letter, you would have to thank me for being so good a
correspondent. But I fear that this is a mode of calculation that
will only come into use, when the system of good Bishop Berkeley has
become established. I cannot explain what this is so well as Robert
could, but its distinctive principle is that there are no such things
as substances. You may suppose that you have had the pleasure of
re-visiting a very dear friend, called Miss Palmer, and you probably
would assure me, if I asked you whether they still continued at the
Hall any such vulgar practice as that of eating, that the turkies and
fowls were as good and as freely bestowed as when I used to partake of
them in earlier years. All mere delusion. All imagination. All ideal.
There is no Elizabeth (she only _appeared_ to occupy an ideal place
in an ideal carriage, when she travelled down to Mosely and Elmdon),
there is no Miss Palmer, nor are the fowls and turkies a whit more
substantial than the supposed eaters of them, I really am serious--such
is the system of one of the ablest and best of men (he was spoken
of by Pope as 'Having every virtue under heaven'); he held that the
Almighty formed us so as to have impressions produced on us as if these
were realities, but that this was all. I little intended when I took
up my pen to give you such a Lecture in Metaphysics. I am sure I have
had a Lecture, a practical one, on the duty of bearing interruptions
with good humour. This morning (it is now 4 p.m. and dinner taking on
the table) I took up my pen at 10 o'clock, and my first thoughts were
naturally drawn to you. Scarcely had I finished my first sentence when
in came Knowles (as queer he is as ever) and announced Lord Teignmouth.
Up I went to him in the drawing-room, and as cordial a shake of the
hand he received from me as one friend can give to another. But I
own I began to wish I could be in two places at once. I had secured
as I thought, several hours of quiet, and my eyes happened to be
better than for sometime past, and I was therefore hoping to pay away
a great part of my epistolary arrears, when in comes my friend, and
remains with me between three and four hours, refusing to stay dinner,
but not departing till after the post had gone out. However, such
incidents are salutary, they accustom us to bear with cheerfulness
the little vexatious interruptions which people sometimes bear with
less equanimity than more serious grievances. Here enter Uncle
Stephen----But with some pressing I have got him to agree to stay till
to-morrow morning, so I may finish my letter. I must first tell you
what I think a remarkably well-expressed description of Lady Raffles,
contained in a letter from the Duchesse de Broglie, to whom I gave Lady
R. a letter of introduction--'C'est une personne qui inspire un profond
interêt. Elle a tant de dignité et de douceur.' The epithets appear
to me very happy. And now, my dear Lizzy, I must conclude my very
disjointed letter, written _à plusiers reprises_ as the French phrase
it."
Elizabeth would seem to have written to her father as to her
solitariness of spirit in so confidential a strain that his sympathy
had been thoroughly awakened. In his answer he excuses himself for
not having been more of a companion to her on the ground that he had
been so long engaged in public business, and also that as he had been
almost an old bachelor before he married, he had got out of the habit
of tender attention to young women of education and delicacy; but
he assures her she will always find in him unfeigned tenderness of
spirit for all her feelings, and all her infirmities. His remedies for
"solitariness of spirit" are most practical.
_Mr. Wilberforce to his daughter Elizabeth._
"HIGHWOOD HILL,
"_July 26, 1830_.
"MY VERY DEAR LIZZY,--Though, owing to my having been betrayed into
forgetfulness of the flight of time while sitting under the shade of
the lime tree it is now so late that I shall not be able to write to
you so fully as I wished and intended, I must not be so unjust to
myself or so unkind to you as I certainly should be if I were not
to reply to your last interesting letter as soon as possible. And
yet, my dear girl, it could be only from nervous sensibility that you
could doubt of my putting the right construction on your opening your
heart to me without disguise. I wish you could have seen the whole
interior of mine when I had read through it: I am not ashamed to say
that I melted into tears of affectionate sympathy. Your letter really
contained nothing but what tended to call forth feelings of esteem
and regard for you. My dear Lizzy, I will return your openness by a
similar display of it. I will confess to you that I have not seldom
blamed myself for not endeavouring more to cheer your solitary hours,
when you have had no friend of your own sex to whom you could open your
heart, and I will try to amend of this fault. My not walking with you
more frequently has, however, been often caused by the circumstance you
mention, that at the very hour at which I can get out, just when the
post has departed, you are yourself employed in a way of which I always
think with pleasure, and which I doubt not will bring down a blessing
on your head. But there is another cause which may have some effect
in rendering me less tenderly attentive than young women of education
and delicacy like persons to be, and must in some measure find them,
before they can open their hearts to them with unreserved freedom. I
allude to my having been so long and so constantly engaged in public
business and having been almost an old bachelor before I married. Let
my dear child, however, be assured that she will always experience from
me an unfeigned tenderness of spirit and a kind consideration for all
her feelings and even, shall I say it, all her infirmities. Meanwhile
let me advise you, my dear child, whenever you do feel anything of that
solitariness of spirit of which you speak, to endeavour to find an
antidote for it in prayer. There is often much of bodily nervousness
in it. I am ashamed to acknowledge that I am sometimes conscious of
it myself. Another method which I would recommend to you for getting
the better of it, is to engage in some active exertion, teaching
some child, instructing some servant, comforting some poor sufferer
from poverty and sickness. I deeply feel the Bishop and Mrs. Ryder's
kindness to you, but it is of a piece with all their conduct towards me
and mine. God bless them, I say from the heart."
In 1814, Mr. Wilberforce at the age of fifty-five, begins his
correspondence with his son Samuel, aged nine. The father is already
seeking for a proof of the grand change of conversion in his child.
_Mr. Wilberforce to his son Samuel.
"September 13, 1814._
"I was shocked to hear that you are nine years old; I thought it was
eight. You must take great pains to prove to me that you are nine not
in years only, but in head and heart and mind. Above all, my dearest
Samuel, I am anxious to see decisive marks of your having begun to
undergo the _great change_. I come again and again to look to see if it
really be begun, just as a gardener walks up again and again to examine
his fruit trees and see if his peaches are set; if they are swelling
and becoming larger, finally if they are becoming ripe and rosy. I
would willingly walk barefoot from this place to Sandgate to see a
clear proof of the _grand change_ being begun in my dear Samuel at the
end of my journey."[44]
_"March 25, 1817._
"I do hope, my dear Samuel, like his great namesake at a still earlier
period of life, is beginning to turn in earnest to his God. Oh,
remember prayer is the great means of spiritual improvement, and guard
as you would against a wild beast which was lying in a bush by which
you were to pass, ready to spring upon you--guard in like manner,
I say, against wandering thoughts when you are at prayer either by
yourself or in the family.[45] Nothing grieves the Spirit more than
our willingly suffering our thoughts to wander and fix themselves on
any object which happens at the time to interest us."
"_June 5, 1817._
"MY DEAR SAMUEL,--Loving you as dearly as I do, it might seem strange
to some thoughtless people that I am glad to hear you are unhappy. But
as it is about your soul, and as I know that a short unhappiness of
this kind often leads to lasting happiness and peace and joy, I cannot
but rejoice. I trust, my dear boy, it is the Spirit of God knocking at
the door of your heart, as the Scripture expresses it, and making you
feel uneasy, that you may be driven to find pardon and the sanctifying
influences of the Holy Spirit, and so be made one of Christ's flock and
be taken care of in this world and be delivered from hell, and be taken
when you die, whether sooner or later, to everlasting happiness in
heaven. My dearest boy, whenever you feel in this way, I beseech you,
get alone and fall on your knees, and pray as earnestly as you can to
God for Christ's sake to forgive you and to sanctify you, and in short
to make you to be born again, as our Saviour expressed it to Nicodemus."
"_July 19th._
"I will procure and send you Goldsmith's 'Grecian History,' if you will
read it attentively, though it is by no means so good a history as
Mitford's; it is little better than an epitome. Let me tell you I was
pleased with your skeleton of Mr. Langston's sermon, and I should be
glad of such another bag of bones. My dear boy, whenever you feel any
meltings of mind, any sorrow for sin, or any concern about your soul,
do not, I beg of you, stifle it or turn away your thoughts to another
subject, but get alone and pray to God to hear and bless you, to take
away the stony heart and substitute a heart of flesh in its place."
"_August 15th, 1817._
"The great rule practically for pleasing our Saviour in all the little
events of the day is to be thinking of Him occasionally and trying to
please Him, by not merely not doing evil, but by doing good; not merely
negatively trying not to be unkind, not to be disobedient, not to give
pain, but trying positively, to _be kind_, to be obedient, to give
pleasure."
"_November 1, 1817._
"MY VERY DEAR SAMUEL,--Though some company who are to dine with me are
already in the drawing-room, I must leave them to themselves for two
minutes while I express the very great pleasure I have received from
Mr. Marsh's account of both my dear boys. Being a political economist,
I cannot but admit the beneficial effects which always flow from the
division of labour, and must therefore rather commend than blame the
instance of it which is afforded by your writing the letter while Bob
is building the house. It is quite a drop of balm into my heart when I
hear of my dear boys going on well."
"_May 2, 1818._
"Could you both but look into my heart and there see the tender and
warm love I feel for you! How my heart bleeds at the idea of your being
drawn into the paths of sin and bringing the grey hairs of your poor
old father with sorrow to the grave--a most unlikely issue I do really
hope; and, on the other hand, could you witness the glow of affection
which is kindled by the prospect of your becoming the consolation of my
declining years, you would want no more powerful motives to Christian
obedience."
"_April 25, 1818._
"Our West Indian warfare is begun, and our opponents are commencing
in the way of some (I won't add an epithet) classes of enemies by the
poisoned arrows of calumny and falsehood. But how thankful should we be
to live in a country in which the law protects us from personal injury!"
"_June 26, 1818._
"My dear children little think how often we parents are ruminating
about them when we are absent from them, perhaps in very bustling
scenes like that from which I come. Mr. Babington is a candidate
for the county of Leicester, and I really trust he will succeed; the
two other candidates are Lord Robert Manners, the Duke of Rutland's
brother, and Mr. Phillips, a country gentleman of large property. My
dear Samuel, keep going on well. Prayer and self-denial, as you used to
be taught when a very little boy, are the grand things."
"_February 13, 1819._
"I am very glad that you like your new situation. One of the grand
secrets to be remembered, in order to enable us to pass through life
with comfort, is not to expect too much from any new place or plan, or
from the accomplishment of any new purpose."
"_March 12, 1819._
"On the whole, Mr. Hodson's report of you is a gratifying one. But
there is one ground for doubts and fears, and I hope my beloved child
will endeavour to brighten that quarter of my prospect. I fear you
do not apply to your business with energy. This, remember, was your
fault at Mr. Marsh's, and you alleged, not without plausibility, that
this arose in a great degree from your wanting spirits, in consequence
of your having no play-fellows for your hours of recreation, no
schoolmates for your season of business. A horse never goes so
cheerfully alone as when animated by the presence of a companion, and a
boy profits from the same quickening principle. But my dearest Samuel
has not now this danger to plead at Mr. Hodson's, and I hope he will
now bear in mind that this indisposition to work strenuously[46] is one
of his besetting sins."[47]
"_May 22, 1819._