To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, May 9, 1875.
MY DEAR FELLOW (of the Royal Society, I mean),--I have had it upon
my mind these two or three weeks past to write to you; and I really
believe that what most hindered me was that I had so many things to
say. And yet, I solemnly declare that I cannot remember now what they
were. They were things of evanescent meditation, phases of the Great
Questions; but for a week or two I have been saying, I will not weary
myself so much with them. So you have escaped this time. One thing,
however, I do recall, though not of those questions; and that is,
reading the Psalms through for my pillow-book. And it is with a kind
of astonishment that I have read them. Did you ever look into them
with the thought of comparing them with the old Hindoo and Persian or
Mohammedan or Greek utterances of devotion? How cold and formal these
are, compared with the earnestness, the entreaty, the tenderness of
David and Asaph,-the swallowing up of their whole souls into love,
trust, and thankfulness! What is this, whence came it, and what does
it mean? This phenomenon in Judaa, how are you to explain it, without
supposing a special inspiration breathed into the souls of men from
the source of all spiritual life and light? The Jewish nature was
not [331] more keen than the Greek, or perhaps the Arabians, yet all
their religious utterances are but apothegms in presence of the Jewish
vitality and experience. I do not deny their grandeur and beauty; but
the Bible brings me into another world of thought and feeling,--into a
new creation. And when we take into the account the Gospels, we seem to
be brought alike out of the old philosophy and the new,--out both from
the old formalism and the vast inane and unknown, which the science of
to-day conceives of, into new and living relations with the Infinite
Love and Goodness. In this, for my part, I rest.
To the Same.
ST. DAVID'S, Jury 24, 1875.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Thank you for one of your good, long, thoughtful
letters. My thoughts in these days run in other directions. I cannot
tell you what they are; no language can; at least, I never used any
that did. Almost all human experience has been described; but what
are the thoughts and feelings of a man who says with himself as he
walks along upon the familiar path, "A few more steps and I shall be
gone;--what and where shall I be then?" No mortal speech can tell.
Meditations come, you may imagine, at such a crisis in one's being,
too vast, too trying for utterance. Wearied and weighed down by them,
I sometimes say, "I will think no more about it; all my thinking will
alter nothing that is to be; what can I do but lay myself on the bosom
of that Infinite Goodness, in which, without doubting, I believe? What
would I have other than what God appoints?" [332] Yet, after all, I am
far from losing my interest in the world I am leaving. I am much struck
with what you say about the press,--the money interest involved, and
the direction which that interest is likely to give it. I wish there
were a distinct education for editorship, as there is for preaching, or
for the lawyer or physician. There is an article of Greg's in the last
"Contemporary Review," following out his "Rocks Ahead," that it has
distressed me to read. The great danger now is the rise of the lower
and laboring classes against capital and intelligence. And nothing
will save the world, but for the higher classes to rouse themselves to
do their duty,--in politics, in education, and in consideration and
care for the lower. Have you seen the pamphlet of Miss Octavia Hill,
of England? That is the spirit, and one kind of work that is wanted. O
women! instead of clamoring for your rights, come up to this!
This is the most beautiful summer that I remember. I am glad to hear of
your enjoying it, and of the bevy of young people around you. Such I
see every day in the street and the grounds, as if Sheffield were the
very paradise of the young and gay.
To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.
ST. DAVID'S, Dec. 30, 1875.
DEAR FRIEND,--. . . I am glad to have your opinion of Emerson's and
Whittier's verse Collections, and especially your good opinion of
Cranch's translation, `or I am much interested in him. . . .
My own reading runs very much in another direction, among those who
"reason of" the highest things. Especially I have been interested in
what those old [333] atheists, Lucretius and Omar Khayyam, say. Have
you seen the "Rubaiyat" of the latter? And, by the bye, have you an
English translation of Lucretius's "De Rerurn Natura"? It must be a
small volume, only six books; and if it is not too precious an edition,
I pray you to lend and send it to me by mail.
What atheism was to the minds of these two men amazes me. Lucretius was
an Epicurean in life, perhaps, as well as philosophy, but I want to
understand him better. I want to see whether he anywhere laments over
the desolation of his system. That a man of his power and genius should
have accepted it calmly and indifferently, is what I cannot understand.
As for Omar, he seems to turn it all into sport. "Don't think at all,"
is what he says; "drown all thought in wine." But he writes very
deftly, and I cannot but think that his resort is something like the
drunkard's,--to escape the great misery.
To Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, Jan. 11, 1876.
. . . IT is n't everybody that can turn within, and ask such questions
as you do. But though I laughed at the exaggeration, I admire the
tendency. I suppose nobody ever did much, or advanced far, without more
or less of it. But your appreciation of others beats your depreciation
of yourself. For me, I am so poor in fact and in my own opinion,
that,--what do you suppose I am going to say?--that I utterly reject
and cast away the kind things you say of me? No, I don't; that is, I
won't. I am determined to make the most of them. For, to be serious,
I have poured out my mind and [334] heart into my preaching. I have
written with tears in my eyes and thrills through my frame, and why
shall I say, it is nothing? Nay, though I have never been famed as a
preacher, I do believe that what I have preached has told upon the
hearts of my hearers as deeply, perhaps, as what is commonly called
eloquence. But when you speak of my work as "put beyond cavil and
beyond forgetfulness," I cover my face with my hands, with confusion.
But enough of personalities, except to say that I think you exaggerate
and fear too much the trials that old age, if it come, will bring upon
you. Not to say that your temperament is more cheerful and hopeful than
mine, you are embosomed in interests and friendships that will cling
about you as long as you live. I am comparatively alone. . . .
But after all, the burden of old age lies not in such questions as
these. It is a solemn crisis in our being, of which I cannot write now,
and probably never shall.
"Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore."
That is all I can do, except reasonably to enjoy all the good I
have and all the happiness I see. Of the latter, I count A.'s being
"better," and of the former, your friendship as among the most prized
and dear.
With utmost love to you all,