To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, Jan. 16, 1877.
DEAR FRIEND,--A New Year's word from you should have had an answer
before now, but I have had little to tell you. Unless I tell you of
our remarkable snow season, snow upon snow, till it is one or two
feet deep; or of the woodpeckers that come and hammer upon our trees
as if they were driving a trade; or of our sunsets, which flood the
south mountain with splendor, and flush the sky above with purple and
vermilion, as if they said, "We are coming, we are coming to bring
light and warmth and beauty with us." You can hardly understand, in
your city confines, how lovely are these harbingers of spring. And see!
it is only two months off. And withal we are ploughing through the
winter in great [338] comfort and health. No parties here, to be sure;
no clubs, no oysters and champagne, but pleasant sitting around the
evening fire, with loud reading,--Warner's "Mummies and Moslems" just
now, very pleasantly written. . . . Have you seen Huidekoper's "Judaism
in Rome"? It has interested me very much. The Jews, as a people,
present the greatest of historic problems. A narrow strip of land,
that "scowl upon the face of the world,"--a small people, no learning,
no art, no military power; yet, by the very ideas proceeding from
it,-Christianity included,-has influenced the world more than Greece or
Rome. Huidekoper's book is very learned. I am glad to see such a book
from our ranks. We have done too little elaborate work in learning or
theology. Your Ministers' Institute promises well for that.
To his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.
ST. DAVID'S, March 26, 1877.
YOUR letter has come this afternoon, astonishing us with its date, and
leading us to wonder where your whereabouts are now. Such an 4,-nis
fatuus you have proved for the month past! With plans of goings and
comings, with engagements and disengagements, you have slipped by us
entirely, so that the kind of assurance I have had that you would come
and pass two or three weeks with us before going eastward has come
utterly to nought. You should have come; our chances of seeing one
another are narrowing every year. But we will not dwell gloomily upon
it. We may live three or four years longer,--people do; and I think
I am more afraid of a longer than of a shorter term. [339] The "pain
at heart," of which you speak at putting a wider space between us,
is what I, too, have felt; and your thoughts, taken literally, are
pleasant, while spiritualized, they are our only resource. Yes, the
heavenly spaces unite us, while the earthly separate. Oh! could we know
that we shall meet again when the earthly scene closes! But what we do
not know, we hope for, and I think the supports of that hope increase
with me. Development for every living creature, up to the highest it
can reach, is the law of its nature; and why, according to that law,
should not the poorest human creatures--the very troglodytes, the
cave-dwellers--rise, till all that is infolded in their being should
be brought forth? Where and how, is in the counsels and resources of
infinite power and goodness. Where and how creatures should begin to
exist would be as much mysterious to us as where and how they should go
on.
To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, April 22, 1877.
DEAR HOSPITALITY,--I minded much what you said about my coming down in
May, but I have been so discouraged about myself for six weeks past,
that I have not wanted to write to you;--besieged by rheumatism from
top to toe; in my ankle, so that I could not walk, only limp about; in
my left arm, so that I could not lift it to my head, and, of course, a
pretty uncomfortable housekeeper all that time. Nevertheless, I expect
May to bring me out again, and do think sometimes that I may take C.
with me, and run down for two or three days. . . . I am reading the
Martineau book, skippingly. . . . It seems that Miss M. was not an
atheist, [340] after all. She believed in a First Cause, only denying
that it is the God of theology,--which who does not deny?-denying,
indeed, with Herbert Spencer, that it is knowable. But if they say that
it is not knowable, how do they know but it is that which they deny?
Miss Martineau's passing out of this world in utter indifference as
to what would become of her, seems to me altogether unnatural, on her
ground or any other. Any good or glad hold on existence implies the
desire for its continuance. She had no hope nor wish for it, as well as
no belief in it.
As to belief in it, or hope of it, why should not the law of
development lead to such a feeling? The plant, having within it the
power to produce flower and fruit, does not naturally die till it
comes to that maturity. The horse or ox attains to its full strength
and speed before its life is ended. Why should it not be so with man?
His powers are not half, rather say not one-hundredth part, developed,
when he arrives at that point which is called death. Development is
impossible to him, unless he continues to exist, and to go onward. And
why should not the same argument apply to what may trouble some people
to think of,--that is, to the three hundred and fifty millions of
China, or even the troglodytes, the cave-dwellers? To our weakness and
ignorance, it may seem easier to sweep the planet clean every two or
three generations. But of the realms and resources of Infinite Power,
what can we know or judge?
Until this spring, my father's health had been exceptionally good,
notwithstanding his allusions to increasing infirmities. Indeed,
apart from his [341] brain trouble, he had always been so well that
any interruption to his physical vigor astonished and rather dismayed
him. His sleep was habitually good, and his waking was like that of
a child, frolicsome in the return to life. He was never merrier than
early in the morning, and his toilet was a very active one. He took
an air-bath for fifteen minutes, during which he briskly exercised
himself,--and this custom he thought of great importance in hardening
the body against cold. Then, after washing, dressing, and shaving,
breakfast must come at once,--delay was not conducive to peace in the
household; and immediately after breakfast he sat down to his desk
for one, two, or three hours, as the case might be. He was singularly
tolerant of little interruptions, although he did not like to have any
one in his room while he was writing, and when his morning's task was
done, especially if he were satisfied with it, he came out in excellent
spirits, and ready for outdoor exercise. He walked a great deal in New
York, but never without an errand. It was very seldom, either in town
or country, that he walked for the walk's sake; but at St. David's he
spent an hour or two every day at hard work either in the garden or at
the wood-pile, and made a daily visit in all weathers to the village
and the post-office.
After his early dinner he invariably took a nap; and after tea, went
again to his desk for an hour, and then came to the parlor for the
evening's [342] amusement, whether reading, or music, or talk, or a
game of whist, of which he was very fond; and in all these occupations
his animation was so unfailing, his interest so cordial, that family
and guests gladly followed his leadership.
But in this spring of 1877 the rheumatic attack of which he speaks was
the beginning of a state of languor which in July became low bilious
fever. He was not very ill; kept his bed only one day, and by the
autumn recovered sufficiently to walk out; but from that time he was an
invalid, and he never again left his home.
To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, May 4, 1877. DEAR FRIEND, AND FRIENDS,--I see that I
cannot do it. You ought to be glad, not that I cannot, and indeed
that would not be strictly true, but that I do not judge it best. I
really think that I myself should be afraid of a man, that is, of a
man-visitor, in his eighty-fourth year. But what decides me now is that
my rheumatism still holds on to me, and does not seem inclined to let
me go, or rather to let go of me. This weather, chilly and penetrating
to the bones and marrow, is a clencher. I do not walk, but only creep
about the house, and can't easily dress myself yet; all which shows
where I ought to be. What a curious thing it is! I had n't a bit of
rheumatism all winter till March came, and never had any before. Was
n't it the Amalekites that were smitten "hip and thigh"? Well, I am
an Amalekite, and no more expected to be knocked over so than they
did.[343] I have read with extraordinary pleasure Frank Peabody's
sermon on "Faith and Freedom." I saw it in the "Index." I don't know
when I have read anything so fine, from any of our young men. . . .
As to the limitations of free-will, even more marked than those of
heredity and association are those imposed by the law of our nature.
I am not free to think that two and two make five, or that a wicked
action is good and right. But am I not free to pursue the worst as well
as the best? But I am not fit to discuss anything.
To the Same.
Dec. 13, 1877.
YESTERDAY the mail brought me Furness's new book, "The Power of
Spirit," and I have already read half of it. It seems to be the
finishing up of what may be called his life-work, that is, the setting
forth of the character of the Master. The book is very interesting,
and not merely a repetition of what he has said before. To be sure, I
cannot go along with him when he maintains that the power of Christ's
spirit naturally produced those results which are called miracles.
You know what Stetson said,--that if that were true, Channing ought
to be able to cure a cut finger. But the earnestness, the eloquence,
the spirit of faith pervading the book are very charming. Look into
it, if you can get hold of it. The chapter on Faith in Christ is very
admirable, and that on Easter is a very curious and adroit piece of
criticism. I wish that Furness would not be so confident, considering
the grounds he goes upon, and that he would not write so darkly upon
the materialism of the age.
[344]To the Same.
ST. DAVID'S, Feb. 1, 1878.
How I should like to take such a professional bout as you have had! Now
I wish you could sit down by my side and tell me all about it. I think
preaching was always my greatest pleasure; and in my dreams now I think
I am oftenest going to preach. People try to sum up the good that life
is to them. I think it lies most in activity. Bartol, and that grand
soul, Clarke, discussed it much.
To the Same.
May 13, 1878.
DEAR FRIEND,-I am so much indebted to your good long letters, that I am
ashamed to take my pen to reply. . . .
Your Sanitary Commission Report came to hand two days ago, and I
began at once to read it, and finished it without stopping, greatly
interested in all the details, and greatly pleased with the spirit.
What a privilege to be allowed to take such a part in our great
struggle! I cannot write about it, nor anything else, as I want to. I
don't know why it is, but I have a strange reluctance to touch my pen.
I see that the death of Miss Catherine Beecher is announced. There
were fine things about her. What must she not have suffered, of late
years! But I am disposed to say of the release of every aged person,
"Euthanasia."
6th. I will finish this and get it off to you before Sunday. You have
a great deal to do before vacation. Let me enjoin it upon you to have
a vacation when the [345] time comes. Don't spend your strength and
life too fast. Live to educate those fine boys. Thank you for sending
us their picture. See what Furness does. That article on Immortality
is as good as anything he ever wrote. Did you read the paper on the
Radiometer in the last "Popular Science"? What a (not world merely)
but universe do we live in! I am not willing to go out of the world
without knowing all I can know of these wonders that fill alike the
heavens above and every inch of space beneath. What a glorious future
will it be, if we may spend uncounted years in the study of them! And,
notwithstanding the weight of matter-of-fact that seems to lie against
it, I think my hope of it increases. This blessed sense of what it is
to be,--this sweetness of existence,-why should it be given us to be
lost forever?
To the Same.
ST. DAVID'S, June 16, 1878.
. . . ONE point in your letter strikes very deep into my
experience,--that in which you speak of my "standing so long upon
the verge." To stand as I do, within easy reach of such stupendous
possibilities,--that of being translated to another sphere of
existence, or of being cut off from existence altogether and
forever,--does indeed fill me with awe, and make me wonder that I am
not depressed or overwhelmed by it. Habit is a stream which flows on
the same, no matter how the scenery changes. It seems as if routine
wore away the very sense of the words we use. We speak often of
immortality; the word slides easily over our lips; but do we consider
what it means? Do you ever ask yourself whether, after having lived a
hundred thousands or [346] millions of years, you could still desire to
go on for millions more?--whether a limited, conscious existence could
bear it?
I read the foregoing, and said, "I don't see any need of considering
matters so entirely out of our reach;" but the question is, can we help
it? Fearfully and wonderfully are we made, but in nothing, perhaps,
more than this,--that we are put upon considering questions concerning
God, immortality, the mystery of life, which are so entirely beyond our
reach to comprehend.
To the Same.
ST. DAVID'S, July 19, 1879.
DEAR FRIEND,--After our long silence, if it was the duty of the ghost
to speak first, I think it should have been me, who am twenty years
nearer to being one than you are; but it would be hardly becoming in
a ghost to be as funny as you are about Henry and the hot weather.
A change has come now, and the dear little fellow may put as many
questions as he will. It is certainly a very extraordinary season. I
remember nothing quite so remarkable.
Have you Professor Brown's "Life of Choate" by you? If you have, do
read what he says of Walter Scott, in vol. i., from p. 204 on. I often
turn to Scott's pages now, in preference to almost anything else, as I
should to the old masters in painting.
Good-by. Cold morning,--cold fingers,--cold everything, but my love for
you and yours.