OXFORD.
No record of Josephine Butler’s life would be at all true or complete
which did not include some account of her husband. His strong and
gentle spirit greatly influenced and aided her in all her public work,
not only with whole-hearted sympathy, but with active co-operation
whenever he had leisure from his other duties. The following pages are
taken from her _Recollections of George Butler_.
In visiting some great picture gallery, and passing along amidst
portraits innumerable of great men—of kings, statesmen, discoverers,
authors or poets—I have sometimes been attracted above all by a
portrait without a name, or without the interest attaching to it of
any recorded great exploit, but which, nevertheless interests for its
own sake. Something looks forth from those eyes—something of purity,
of sincerity, of goodness—which draws the beholder to go back again
and again to that portrait, and which gives it a lasting place in the
memory long after many other likenesses of earth’s heroes are more or
less forgotten. It is somewhat in this way that I think of a memorial
or written likeness of George Butler, if it can but be presented with
a simplicity and fidelity worthy of its subject. His character—his
singlemindedness, purity, truth, and firmness of attachment to those
whom he loved—seem to me worthy to be recorded and to be had in
remembrance.
M. Fallot, in the _Revue du Christianisme Pratique_, sketches in
a few words the character of the revered teacher of his youth,
Christophe Dieterlin, whose mortal remains rest beneath the hallowed
soil of the Ban de la Roche, in the Vosges, surmounted by a rock of
mountain granite—a suitable monument for such a man. When his pupil
questioned him concerning prayer, he replied: “The Lord’s Prayer is
in general sufficient for me. When praying in these words, all my
personal preoccupations become mingled with and lost in the great
needs and desires of the whole human race.” “He was a Christian,” says
M. Fallot, ”_hors cadre_, refractory to all classification, living
outside all parties,” a child of Nature and a son of God. These words
might with truth be applied to the character of George Butler. It
would be difficult to assign him a definite place in any category of
persons or parties. He stands apart, _hors cadre_, in his gentleness
and simplicity, and in a certain sturdy and immovable independence of
character.
George Butler was born at Harrow on the 11th of June, 1819. He was
the eldest son of a family of ten—four brothers and six sisters.
Nothing very remarkable in the way of hard study or distinction can
be recorded of him during his school career. When questioned in
later life concerning any excellency he attained there, he would
answer, reflectively, that he was considered to be extremely good
at “shying” stones. He could hit or knock over certain high-up and
difficult chimney-pots with wonderful precision, to the envy of other
mischievous boys, and I suppose to the annoyance of the owners of
the chimney-pots. His father, the Dean of Peterborough, wrote to me
in 1852: “Your references to George’s early days make me feel quite
young again. He certainly was a nice-looking boy, and had a pretty head
of hair; at least I thought so, and the remembrance of those nursery
days is pleasant to me. But oh! those early experiments in the science
of projectiles upon the chimney-pots of the Harrovian neighbours—why
remind me of them, unless you are yourself possessed of the same spirit
of mischief?”
But school life was not all play for George Butler. He showed an
early aptitude for scholarship, gaining among several prizes that
for Greek Iambics. In the autumn of 1838 George went up to Trinity
College, Cambridge. During the year he spent at Cambridge the sense
of duty and of responsibility for the use of opportunities and gifts
which he possessed lay dormant within him. Those who loved him best
often thanked God, however, as he did himself in later life, that
he had escaped the contamination of certain influences which leave
a stain upon the soul, and sometimes tend to give a serious warp to
the judgment of a man in regard to moral questions. A remarkable
native purity of mind, and a loyal and reverent feeling towards women,
saved him from associations and actions which, had he ever yielded
to them, would have been a bitter memory to such a man as he was. In
the interval between leaving Cambridge and going to Oxford he spent
several months in the house of Mr. Augustus Short (afterwards Bishop of
Adelaide). It was while under his roof that he imbibed a true love of
work, and learned the enjoyment of overcoming difficulties, and of a
steady effort, without pause, towards a definite goal.
One of his life-long and most valued friends, the Rev. Cowley Powles,
writes: “It was, I think, in 1841 that Butler got the Hertford
Scholarship. I remember meeting him just after his success had been
announced. I was coming back from a ride, and he stopped me and said:
‘I have got the Hertford.’ The announcement was made in his quietest
voice, and with no elation of manner, though his countenance showed
how much he was pleased. Never was there a man with less _brag_ about
him.” In 1843 George Butler took his degree, having obtained a first
class. He kept up his connection very closely with Oxford for four
years, making use of the time for various studies, and taking pupils or
reading parties during the long vacations. In 1848 he was appointed to
a Tutorship at the University of Durham, which he retained for a little
more than two years. It was during the latter part of his residence
there that I first made his acquaintance.
The following, written after our engagement, shows his extreme honesty
of character, while it indicates in some faint degree his just and
unselfish view of what the marriage relation should be; namely, a
perfectly equal union, with absolute freedom on both sides for personal
initiative in thought and action and for individual development.
“I do not ask you to write oftener. I would have you follow the
dictates of your own heart in this; but be always certain that whatever
comes from you is thrice welcome. I write because I feel it to be
necessary to my happiness. I have lately written to you out of the
fulness of my heart, when my soul was deeply moved to strive after
a higher life. But often my letters will be about trifling matters,
so that you may be tempted to say, ‘Why write at all?’ Yet, after
all, life is largely made up of trifles. Moreover, I do not wish to
invest myself in borrowed plumes. I do not want you to find out later
that I am much like other people, perhaps even more commonplace than
most. I would rather your eyes were opened at once. I cannot reproach
myself with ever having assumed a character not my own to you or to
anyone. Such impostures are always too deeply purchased by the loss of
self-respect. But I fear that you may have formed too high an estimate
of my character—one to which I can never come up; and for your sake I
would wish to remove every veil and obstacle which might prevent your
seeing me just as I am. If I were only to write to you when my better
feelings were wrought upon, you might think me much better than I am,
so I will write to you on every subject and in every mood. Those lines
which I sent to you gave no exaggerated picture. I have often felt in
a very different spirit to that in which we should say ‘Our Father.’
The praying for particular blessings, which is enjoined by the words
of the Lord Jesus, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive,’ has appeared to me at
times as derogatory to the omniscient and all-provident character of
God. Can He, I have thought, alter the smallest of His dispensations
at the request of such a weak and insignificant being as I am? This
vain philosophy, the offspring of intellectual pride, has had more to
do with blighting my faith than wilful sin or the world’s breath!
But though I have ‘wandered out of the way in the wilderness,’ I do
not despair of taking possession of the promised land. You say you
can do so little for me. Will it be little, Josephine, if, urged by
your encouragement and example, I put off the works of darkness and
put on the armour of light? Blessings from the Giver of all blessings
fall upon you for the joy you have given to me, for the new life to
which you have called me! I should think it undue presumption in me
to suggest anything to you in regard to your life and duties. He who
has hitherto guided your steps will continue to do so. Believe me, I
value the expression of your confidence and affection above ‘pearls
and precious stones’; but I must not suffer myself to be dazzled, or
to fancy that I have within me that power of judging and acting aright
which would alone authorise me to point out to you any path in which
you ought to walk. I am more content to leave you to walk by yourself
in the path you shall choose; but I know that I do not leave you alone
and unsupported, for _His_ arm will guide, strengthen and protect you.
I only pray, then, that you may be more and more conformed to the image
of Him who set us a perfect example, and that He will dispose my heart
to love and admire most those things in you which are most admirable
and lovely.”
During the years 1848-49 the Dean of Peterborough frequently wrote
to his son expressing his desire to see him turning his mind towards
the ministry—hoping that he would decide on taking orders. The Dean
was sincerely convinced that there was nothing which ought to make
his son hesitate to take so serious a step, and that the duties of
a clergyman would have a beneficial effect on his character, tending
to his highest good and happiness. That, however, was far from being
his son’s view of the matter. While appreciating his father’s motives
in urging him in this direction, and replying in general terms with a
gentle courtesy, he seems to have felt convinced that it was impossible
for him to follow his advice in the matter. Finally he wrote: “I thank
you, my dear father, for your welcome letter. I think I have already
told you that I have no internal call to, nor inclination for, the
Church. On the contrary, I should feel I was guilty of a wrong action
if I embarked in any work or profession for neither the theoretical
nor the practical part of which I had any taste. And if this be true
of ordinary professions, is it not so in a tenfold degree in the case
of the Church? I feel at present no attraction towards the study of
dogmatical theology, or any branch of study in which a clergyman
should be versed; and I cannot get over the scruples I have against
such a step as you advise. I am at present engaged, usefully I hope,
in a place of Christian education, closely connected with a cathedral
church, with abundant opportunities of adding to my stock of knowledge
in various subjects, as well as of imparting to others what I know. I
do not see, at present, any necessity for planning any change in my
mode of life.”
How was it then, it may be asked, that he did actually elect to become
a clergyman some six years later? The answer is, he had gradually
become convinced that the work of his life was to be educational, and
the desire arose in his mind to be able to stand towards the younger
men or boys who should come under his care in the position of their
pastor as well as their teacher. He weighed the matter gravely for a
long time before becoming a clergyman; but after having taken the step,
he never repented of having done so. To the end of his life, however,
his character continued to be essentially that of a layman. In 1851 he
wrote:—
“You know that I don’t like parsons; but that is not to the point. If
I should ever take orders, I don’t mean to be a mere parson; for if
I were like some of them whom I know I should cease to be a _man_. I
shall never wear straight waistcoats, long coats and stiff collars! I
think all dressing up and official manner are an affectation; while
great strictness in outward observances interferes with the devotion
of the heart; and though it may indicate a pious spirit—and therefore
deserves our respect—it shows, as I think, a misconception of the
relation in which we stand to God, and of the duties we owe to man. It
seems to me, after all, that being a good clergyman is much the same
thing as being a good man. I have a longing to be of use, and I know of
no line in which I can be more useful than the educational, my whole
life having been turned more or less in this direction. It is a blessed
office that of a teacher. With all its troubles and heart-wearyings
and disappointments, yet it is full of delight to those who enter upon
it with their whole heart and soul, and in reliance upon our great
Teacher. I know of no occupation which more carries its present reward
with it.”
Our marriage took place on the 8th of January, 1852, at Dilston.
Shortly afterwards we settled at Oxford, which became our home for five
years. In reviewing the work done by George Butler in the course of his
educational career, one cannot but be struck by the fact that he was
somewhat in advance of his time. There are men theoretically in advance
of their times, who do good service by their advocacy of progressive
principles in writing or in speech. With him it was more a matter of
simple practice. He perceived that some study useful or necessary
for the future generations, and in itself worthy, had scarcely an
acknowledged place in the curriculum of the schools and universities,
or that some new ground necessary to be explored was still left
untrodden; and without saying much about it, without any thought of
being himself a pioneer in any direction, he modestly set himself
to the task of acting out his thoughts on the subject. His absolute
freedom from personal vanity withheld him from proclaiming that he
was about to enter on any new line, and at the same time enabled him
to bear with perfect calm, if not with indifference, the criticisms,
witty remarks and sometimes serious opposition which are seldom wanting
when a man or woman ventures quietly to encroach upon the established
order of things in any department of life. At Oxford he was the first
who brought into prominence the study of geography. His geographical
lectures there were quite an innovation, creating some amusement and a
good deal of wonder as to how he would succeed. It was a subject which
had hitherto been relegated in an elementary form to schools for boys
and girls, and was unrecognised, except by a very few persons, as the
grand and comprehensive scientific study which it is now acknowledged
to be.
At Oxford the subject was entirely new, at least to the older members
of the university, who, however, to their credit, came to the lectures,
and listened with teachable minds to truths novel to them concerning
the world they were living in. We drew large illustrative maps for the
walls of the lecture room. I recall a day when I was drawing in a rough
form an enlarged map of Europe, including the northern coast of Africa
and a part of Asia Minor. It happened that several fellows and tutors
of colleges called at that moment. I continued my work while they
chatted with him on the curiosity of his introduction in Oxford of so
elementary a study. The conversation then turned on letters we had just
received from Arthur Stanley and Theodore Walrond, who were visiting
Egypt. “Where is Cairo?” someone asked, turning to the map spread on
the table. I put the question to an accomplished college tutor. His eye
wandered hopelessly over the chart. He could not even place his hand
on Egypt! I was fain to pretend that I needed to study my performance
more closely, and bent down my head in order to conceal the irreverent
laughter which overcame me.
George Butler was one of the first, also, who introduced and encouraged
the study of Art in Oxford in a practical sense. In the winter of
1852-53 he obtained the permission of the Vice-Chancellor and Curators
to give a course of lectures on Art in the Taylor building. These
lectures were afterwards published by J. W. Parker, under the title
of _Principles of Imitative Art_. While promoting the study of Art in
Oxford, working with pupils, and examining in the schools, he undertook
to write a series of Art criticisms for the _Morning Chronicle_ and
afterwards for another paper, visiting for this purpose the galleries
and yearly exhibitions in London. This he did for a year or two.
“It was amusing,” he wrote to his mother, after his first visit in this
capacity to the Society of British Artists, “to see the ‘gentlemen
of the press’ (of whom I was one!) walking about dotting down
observations. I travelled up to town with Scott, the architect, who has
engaged me to attend a meeting of his workmen, and give them an address
on ‘Decorative Art and the Dignity of Labour.’ Josephine and I are both
engaged in copying some drawings by Turner in the Taylor Gallery.”
Indefatigable in his efforts to master any subject which attracted him,
he was also equally ready and anxious to impart to others any knowledge
he had thus gained. He found time among his other occupations to make a
very thorough study of some ancient Oscan inscriptions, with engravings
of their principal monuments, which he found in the Bodleian Library.
He became much interested in that portion of history—almost lost in the
mists of the past—which is illustrated by the marvellous records and
monuments of Oscan, Umbrian, and Etruscan life in the great museum at
Bologna. He worked at and completed, during one of the long vacations,
a series of enlarged copies in sepia of the small engravings and prints
of these monuments in the Bodleian. These enlargements were suitable
for wall illustrations, for a set of lectures which he afterwards
gave on the “Ancient Races of Italy.” It was very pleasant to us when
we visited Florence together, some years later, to see the originals
of some of the Cyclopean ruins of which we had together made large
drawings, those gigantic stones of all that remains of the ancient
Etruscan walls of Fiesole, up to the lovely heights of which we drove
one clear, bright winter’s day.
I have many other memories of our life at Oxford—some very sweet,
others grave. I recall with special pleasure our summer evening rides.
During the first two years we spent there my father kindly provided me
with a horse, a fine, well-bred chestnut. My husband and I explored
together all the rising grounds round Oxford. Behind our own little
garden there were tall trees where nightingales sang night and day for
a few weeks in spring. But it was in the Bagley Woods and in Abingdon
Park that those academic birds put forth all their powers. We sometimes
rode from five in the afternoon till the sun set and the dew fell, on
grassy paths between thick undergrowths of woods such as nightingales
love to haunt, and from which issued choruses of matchless song.
Our Italian studies were another source of enjoyment. Dante Rossetti
was then preparing matter for his book, _Dante and His Circle_, by
carefully translating into English the _Vita Nuova_ and lyrical poems
of Dante, together with other sonnets and poems written by some of his
predecessors, such as Cavalcante, Orlandi and Angiolieri of Siena.
Mr. Rossetti sent to us occasionally for criticism some of his
translations of the exquisite sonnets of Dante, the English of which he
was anxious to make as perfect as possible. We had visited Rossetti’s
studio at Chelsea, where he had shown us his portfolios of original
sketches for his great paintings, besides many unfinished drawings
and pathetic incidents expressed in artist’s shorthand—slight but
beautiful pencil designs. My husband’s critical faculty and classical
taste enabled him to return the sonnets submitted to his judgment with
occasional useful comments. There was little to find fault with in
them, however.
Aurelio Saffi was at this time in exile and living in Oxford. He had
been associated with Mazzini and Armellini in the Triumvirate which
ruled in Rome for a short period, and was parliamentary deputy for his
own native town of Forli. He was a cultivated and literary man, with a
thorough knowledge of the Italian poets. As an exile his material means
were at that time very slender. My husband sought his acquaintance, and
invited him to give a series of evening lectures on Dante in our own
drawing-room. These were attractive to some, and increased the personal
interest felt in Saffi in the university. Twenty-seven years later,
having returned to Italy from exile, Saffi was presiding at a great
congress in Genoa where we were. He alluded, with much feeling, to the
years he had spent in Oxford; and turning to my husband, who was near
him, he said: “It is twenty-seven years to-day that, an exile from
my native land, I had the happiness of being received in your house
at Oxford, and I have never forgotten, and shall never forget, the
hospitable and gracious reception given to me by you and your worthy
companion. The times are changed; a long interval has elapsed, and it
is to me a great joy to-day to greet you once more, and on my native
soil.”
But this pleasant life at Oxford had its shadow side. I had come from
a large family circle, and from free country life to a university
town—a society of celibates, with little or no leaven of family life;
for Oxford was not then what it is now under expanded conditions, with
its married fellows and tutors, its resident families, its ladies’
colleges, and its mixed, general social life. With the exception of
the families of a few heads of houses, who lived much secluded within
their college walls, there was little or no home life, and not much
freedom of intercourse between the academical portion of the community
and others. A one-sidedness of judgment is apt to be fostered by such
circumstances—an exaggeration of the purely masculine judgment on some
topics, and a conventual mode of looking at things.
In the frequent social gatherings in our drawing-room in the evenings
there was much talk, sometimes serious and weighty, sometimes light,
interesting, critical, witty and brilliant, ranging over many subjects.
It was then that I sat silent, the only woman in the company, and
listened, sometimes with a sore heart; for these men would speak of
things which I had already revolved deeply in my own mind, things of
which I was convinced, which I knew, though I had no dialectics at
command with which to defend their truth. A few remarks made on those
evenings stand out in my memory. They may seem slight and unimportant,
but they had a significance for me, linking themselves, as they did, to
long trains of thought which for some years past had been tending to
form my own convictions.
A book was published at that time by Mrs. Gaskell, and was much
discussed. This led to expressions of judgment which seemed to me
false—fatally false. A moral lapse in a woman was spoken of as an
immensely worse thing than in a man; there was no comparison to be
formed between them. A pure woman, it was reiterated, should be
absolutely ignorant of a certain class of evils in the world, albeit
those evils bore with murderous cruelty on other women. One young man
seriously declared that he would not allow his own mother to read such
a book as that under discussion—a book which seemed to me to have a
very wholesome tendency, though dealing with a painful subject. Silence
was thought to be the great duty of all on such subjects. On one
occasion, when I was distressed by a bitter case of wrong inflicted
on a very young girl, I ventured to speak to one of the wisest men—so
esteemed—in the university, in the hope that he would suggest some
means, not of helping her, but of bringing to a sense of his crime the
man who had wronged her. The sage, speaking kindly however, sternly
advocated silence and inaction. “It could only do harm to open up in
any way such a question as this. It was dangerous to arouse a sleeping
lion.” I left him in some amazement and discouragement, and for a long
time there echoed in my heart the terrible prophetic words of the
painter-poet Blake—rude and indelicate as he may have been judged
then—whose prophecy has only been averted by a great and painful
awakening—
The harlot’s curse, from street to street,
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.
Every instinct of womanhood within me was already in revolt against
certain accepted theories in society, and I suffered as only God and
the faithful companion of my life could ever know. Incidents occurred
which brought their contribution to the lessons then sinking into our
hearts. A young mother was in Newgate for the murder of her infant,
whose father, under cover of the death-like silence prescribed by
Oxford philosophers—a silence which is in fact a permanent endorsement
of injustice—had perjured himself to her, had forsaken and forgotten
her, and fallen back, with no accusing conscience, on his easy, social
life, and possibly his academic honours. I wished to go and speak to
her in prison of the God who saw the injustice done, and who cared
for her. My husband suggested that we should write to the chaplain of
Newgate, and ask him to send her to us when her sentence had expired.
We wanted a servant, and he thought that she might be able to fill
that place. She came to us. I think she was the first of the world of
unhappy women of a humble class whom he welcomed to his own home. She
was not the last.
A travelling circus came to the neighbourhood. A young woman who
performed as an acrobat somehow conveyed to us her longing desire to
leave the life in which she was plunged, the most innocent part of
which was probably her acrobatic performances. She had aspirations
very far beyond what is usually expected from a circus woman. She
wanted to serve God. She saw a light before her, she said, and she
must follow it. She went secretly to churches and chapels, and then
she fled—she did not know where—but was recaptured. It was a Sunday
evening in hot summer weather. I had been sitting for some time at my
open window to breathe more freely the sultry air, and it seemed to me
that I heard a wailing cry somewhere among the trees in the twilight
which was deepening into night. It was a woman’s cry—a woman aspiring
to heaven and dragged back to hell—and my heart was pierced with pain.
I longed to leap from the window, and flee with her to some place of
refuge. It passed. I cannot explain the nature of the impression, which
remains with me to this day; but beyond that twilight, and even in the
midst of the pitiful cry, there seemed to dawn a ray of light and to
sound a note not wholly of despair. The light was far off, yet coming
near, and the slight summer breeze in those tall trees had in them a
whisper of the future. But when the day dawned it seemed to show me
again more plainly than ever the great wall of prejudice, built up on a
foundation of lies, which surrounded a whole world of sorrows, griefs,
injustices and crimes which must not be spoken of—no, not even in
whispers—and which it seemed to me then that no human power could ever
reach or remedy. And I met again the highly-educated, masculine world
in our evening gatherings more than ever resolved to hold my peace—to
speak little with men, but much with God. No doubt the experience of
those years influenced in some degree my maturer judgment of what is
called “_educated_ public opinion.”
My motive in writing these recollections is to tell what _he_ was—my
husband—and to show how, besides all that he was in himself and all
the work he did, which was wholly and especially his own, he was of a
character to be able from the first to correct the judgment and soothe
the spirit of the companion of his life when “the waters had come in
even unto her soul.” I wish to show, also, that he was even more to
me in later life than a wise and noble supporter and helper in the
work which may have been called more especially my own. He had a part
in the creation of it, in the formation of the first impulses towards
it. Had that work been purely a product of the feminine mind, of a
solitary, wounded and revolted heart, it would certainly have lacked
some elements essential to its becoming in any way useful or fruitful.
But for him I should have been much more perplexed than I was. The idea
of justice to women, of equality between the sexes, and of equality of
responsibility of all human beings to the moral law, seems to have been
instinctive in him. He never needed convincing. He had his convictions
already from the first—straight, just and clear. I did not at that
time speak much, but whenever I spoke to him the clouds lifted. It
may seem a little strange to say so, but, if I recall it truly, what
helped me most of all at that time was, not so much any arguments he
may have used in favour of an equal standard, but the correctness
with which he measured the men and the judgments around him. I think
there was even a little element of disdain in his appreciation of the
one-sided judgments of some of his male friends. He used to say, “I
am sorry for So-and-So,” which sounded to me rather like saying, “I
am sorry for Solomon,” my ideas of the wisdom of learned men being,
perhaps, a little exaggerated. He would tell me that I ought to pity
them. “They know no better, poor fellows.” This was a new light for
me, I had thought of Oxford as the home of learning and of intellect.
I thought the good and gifted men we daily met must be in some degree
authorities on spiritual and moral questions. It had not occurred to me
to think of them as “poor fellows!” That blessed gift of common sense,
which he possessed in so large a degree, came to the rescue to restore
for me the balance of a mind too heavily weighted with sad thoughts of
life’s perplexing problems. And then in the evenings, when our friends
had gone, we read together the words of Life, and were able to bring
many earthly notions and theories to the test of what the Holy One and
the Just said and did. Compared with the accepted axioms of the day,
and indeed of centuries past, in regard to certain vital questions,
the sayings and actions of Jesus were, we confessed to one another,
revolutionary. George Butler was not afraid of revolution. In this
sense he desired it, and we prayed together that a holy revolution
might come about, and that the Kingdom of God might be established on
the earth. And I said to myself: “And it is a man who speaks to me
thus—an intelligent, a gifted man, a learned man too, few more learned
than he, and a man who ever speaks the truth from his heart.” So I was
comforted and instructed. It was then that I began to see his portrait
given, and I see it still more clearly now as I look back over his
whole past life, in the 15th Psalm: “Lord, who shall dwell in Thy
tabernacle? Or who shall rest upon Thy holy hill? Even he that leadeth
an uncorrupt life, and doeth the thing which is right, and speaketh the
truth from his heart. He that hath used no deceit in his tongue, nor
done evil to his neighbour, and hath not slandered his neighbour. He
that setteth not by himself, but is lowly in his own eyes, and maketh
much of them that fear the Lord. He that sweareth unto his neighbour,
and disappointeth him not, even though it were to his own hindrance.”
The winter floods which so often surrounded Oxford during the years of
which I am writing are probably remembered with a shudder by others
besides myself. The mills and locks, and other impediments to the free
flow of the waters of the Isis, were, I believe, long ago removed,
and the malarial effect of the stagnation of moisture around the
city ceased with its cause. But at that time Oxford in winter almost
resembled Venice, in its apparent isolation from the land, and in the
appearance of its towers and spires reflected in the mirror of the
floods. “It rained,” wrote George in January, 1856, “all yesterday,
and to-day it is cold and damp. Indeed, immediately after sunset
the atmosphere of Oxford resembles that of a well, though that is
scarcely so bad as the horrible smell of the meadows when the floods
are retiring. Then one is conscious of a miasma which only a strong
constitution can long resist.”
My health failed. I became weak and liable to attacks of chills and
fever. We drove out occasionally to the heights above Oxford, to
reach which we were obliged to pursue for some distance a road which
resembled a sort of high level or causeway (as in Holland) with water
on each side. Looking back from the higher ground, the view of the
academic city sitting upon the floods was very picturesque. Indeed,
the sound of “Great Tom” knelling the curfew from his tower had a very
musical and solemn effect as it came over the still waters, resembling
a little in pathos the sound of a human voice giving warning of the
approach of night; or, like Dante’s _Squilla di lontana_—
The distant bell
Which seems to weep the dying day;
but poetry and sentiment could not hold out against rheumatic pains and
repeated chills.
I spent several months of that year—1856—in Northumberland with our
children, my husband joining us after he had completed his engagements
as a public examiner in London. His letters, during the few weeks of
our separation, seemed to show a deepening of spiritual life—such as
is sometimes granted in the foreshadowing of the approach of some
special discipline or sorrow. He seems to have felt more deeply during
this summer that he must not reckon on the unbroken continuance of the
outward happiness which had been so richly granted to us.
To Mrs. Grey.
OXFORD, _June 6th, 1856_.
“ I am glad to feel that my treasures are in such good hands and
life-giving air. I hope their presence at Dilston will contribute to
the assurance that marriage is not a severance of family ties, but
that both Josephine and I revert with the fondest attachment to old
scenes and dearly loved friends at Dilston.”
To his wife.
_June, 1856._
“I am grieved to hear of your sufferings; but you write so cheerfully,
and express such a loving confidence in One who is able to heal all
our sicknesses, that I dare not repine. However sad at heart I may
sometimes feel about you, I will try to bring myself face to face with
those mighty promises which are held out to those who ‘rest in the
Lord and wait patiently for Him.’ And then I hope we shall still be
able to go hand in hand in our work on earth.”
To his wife.
_July 13th, 1856._
“I have been reading Tennyson’s ‘Maud,’ and correcting my review of it
for _Fraser’s Magazine_. Reading love stories which end in death or
separation makes me dwell the more thankfully on my own happiness. It
is no wonder that I am sanguine in all circumstances, and that I trust
the love and care of our Almighty Father, for has He not blessed me
far beyond my deserts in giving me such a share of human happiness as
falls to the lot of few? Yet He has given us our thorn in the flesh,
in your failing health, and our uncertain prospects. But these shall
never hinder our love; rather we will cling to that more closely as
the symbol and earnest of the heavenly love which displayed itself in
that wondrous act—on Calvary—which the wise men of this world may
deem of as they will, but which to us will ever be the most real of
all realities, and the sure token of our reconciliation with God.
“I think we are well fitted to help each other. No words can express
what you are to me. On the other hand, I may be able to cheer you in
moments of sadness and despondency, when the evils of this world press
heavily upon you, and your strength is not sufficient to enable you
to rise up and _do_ anything to relieve them, as you fain would do.
And by means of possessing greater physical strength, and considerable
power of getting through work, I may be enabled to help you in the
years to come, to carry out plans which may under His blessing do some
good, and make men speak of us with respect when we are laid in our
graves; and in the united work of bringing up our children, may God so
help us that we may be able to say, ‘Of those whom Thou gavest us have
we lost none.’”
While exercising much self-denial and reserve in making such extracts
as the above, I give these few as affording glimpses of his inner
mind and deep affection; for his character would be very inadequately
portrayed if so prominent a feature of it were concealed as that of
his love for his wife, and the constant blending of that love with all
his spiritual aspirations and endeavours. That love was part of his
being, becoming ever more deep and tender as the years went on. I have
spoken of the strength and tenacity of his friendships. These qualities
entered equally into his closest domestic relations. In the springtime
of life, men dream, speak, write and sing of love—of love’s gracious
birth and beautiful youth. But it is not in the springtime of life
that love’s deepest depths can be fathomed, its vastness measured, and
its endurance tested. There is a love which surmounts all trial and
discipline, all the petty vexations and worries, as well as the sorrows
and storms of life, and which flows on in an ever deepening current of
tenderness, enhanced by memories of the past and hopes of the future—of
the eternal life towards which it is tending. It was such a love as
this, that dwelt and deepened in him of whom I write to the latest
moment of his earthly life, to be perfected in the Divine presence.
On joining us at Dilston, an arrangement was made with the vicar of
the parish of Corbridge (in which Dilston was situated) that he should
take his duty, occupying his house for the autumn, during his absence
from home. Dissent prevailed largely in the neighbourhood. But during
the time that he acted as the clergyman of the parish the church was
well filled. Many Wesleyans came, who had not before entered its
doors, as well as several families of well-to-do and well-instructed
Presbyterian farmers—shrewd people, well able to maintain their ground
in a theological controversy. They were attracted, no doubt, partly
by the relationship of the temporary minister to my father, who was
so much beloved and esteemed throughout the county, and a constant
worshipper in the village church, and partly by the simple Christian
teaching for which they thirsted, and which they now found. There was
little real poverty. We visited the people sometimes together, and
their affections were strongly gained.
Our return to Oxford was not auspicious. The autumn fell damp and
cold. It was decided that I should go to London to consult Sir James
Clarke, on account of what seemed the development of a weakness of the
lungs. I recall the tender solicitude which my husband showed for me on
the journey, and also the kindness of the venerable physician. I was
scarcely able to rise to greet him when he entered the room. At the
close of our interview he merely said, “Poor thing, poor thing! You
must take her away from Oxford.” We proposed to return therefore at
once to make necessary preparations for the change, when he interposed,
“No, she must not return to the chilling influence of those floods, not
for a single day.”
This was no light trial. Our pleasant home must be broken up; all
the hopes and plans my husband had cherished abandoned; the house
he had taken and furnished at some expense as a Hall for unattached
students thrown on his hands. To carry it on alone, to be separated
for an indefinite time from each other, was scarcely possible. There
seemed for the present no alternative. He accepted calmly, though not
without keen regret, what was clearly inevitable. The difficulties of
our position were for a time increased by a serious reverse of fortune
experienced by my father, who had always been ready to aid on occasion
the different members of the family. There had occurred a complete
collapse of a bank in which he was a large shareholder. The loss he
sustained was great. The spirit in which he bore the trial raised him
still higher in the estimation of those who already so highly valued
and admired him. Trouble followed upon trouble for a time, and my
husband suffered all the more because of some inward self-reproach for
having failed to exercise sufficient providence and foresight in the
past. His greatest anxiety was for me; but that happily was gradually
lightened as time went on.
Through the kindness of his friend, Mr. Powles, my husband was called
to take temporarily the charge of a chapel at Blackheath, in the summer
of 1857, which gave him useful and congenial ministerial work while
continuing his literary pursuits. He had gone on in advance to arrange
for our removal to Blackheath.
To her husband.
St. Barnabas Day,
_June 11th, 1857_.
God bless you to-day and always, and make you a “Son of Consolation”
to many in the time to come, as you have been to me. Earthly success
is no longer our aim. What I desire above all for you is the
fulfilment of the promise: “They that are wise shall shine as the
light, and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for
ever and ever.” I had an encouraging conversation yesterday with——,
which fell in with the train of my thoughts regarding you and myself.
She said she had seen many cases in which individual chastening
had preceded a life of great usefulness, though the subject of the
chastening had thought at the time that his life was passing away,
wasted or only spent in learning the lesson of submission. She thought
that those to whom the discipline of life comes early rather than late
ought to thank God; for it makes them better able to minister to
others, and to walk humbly with their God. May that be the case with
us. The little boys remembered your birthday before they were out of
bed this morning, and have made an excursion to Nightingale Valley in
honour of it.