FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 Princeton Theological Seminary Library 
 
 http://archive.org/details/autobioOOfryc 
 
/ 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRA 
 
 'a- 
 
 OCT 27 1931 
 
 i&LSEtt^ 
 
 AND 
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 of t/^y 
 CatoUNe rv 
 
 n 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "THE LISTENER," 
 "CHRIST OUR LAW," &c. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 J. W. MOORE, 
 
 193 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
 1849. 
 
Isaac Ashmead, Printer. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Editor considers it due to the memory of 
 the subject of the memoir, which is placed at the 
 commencement of the present volume, to state, that 
 it was written by his beloved wife at different 
 periods, as memoranda of the most important part 
 of her life ; intended to be continued from time to 
 time, until they should be ultimately remodelled 
 into a connected narrative. 
 
 She did not live to fulfil this intention; and it 
 must therefore be remembered, that these imperfect 
 records were never designed to be published in 
 their present form ; but well knowing her anxious 
 wish to proclaim the Saviour's love to one who 
 had despised and rejected him, and her conviction 
 that by such an avowal, his grace would be magni- 
 fied, the editor deems himself entrusted with a 
 sacred duty, which he cannot better perform, than 
 by giving the narrative, scanty and imperfect as it 
 
J v PREFACE. 
 
 is, in her own words. He presents it, therefore, 
 without comment, and unaccompanied with any 
 particulars of her history subsequent to the period 
 at which her own memoir closes. 
 
 After the change which had taken place in her 
 religious sentiments, the subject of this memoir was 
 severely disciplined in the school of adversity, and 
 no doubt her sorrows were instrumental in estab- 
 lishing her faith, exalting her Christian profession, 
 and fitting her for the special service of that Mas- 
 ter, whose love was the constraining principle of 
 her life. Of this devotedness her published works 
 furnish abundant testimony ; and those letters of 
 the present collection, which were written within 
 a few days of her death, will give evidence of the 
 power and permanence of that faith which sustained 
 her through a long period of trial, made the ap- 
 proach of death joyous, and prepared her for the 
 heaven which she so ardently anticipated. No one 
 who witnessed the closing hours of her life could 
 refrain from adopting the prophet's exclamation, 
 " Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my 
 last end be like his !" 
 
 Many of the letters now published are interest- 
 ing, as containing valuable reflections on topics of 
 the deepest interest to the Church of Christ at the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 * V 
 
 present period ; and the others are replete with the 
 sentiments and opinions of one " who walked with 
 God." 
 
 The Editor dismisses these collections, ardently 
 hoping that the perusal of them may be accom- 
 panied with the Divine blessing, and that while 
 they conduce to the edification, comfort and en- 
 couragement of many, they may be subservient to 
 the praise of Him, who, in accomplishing the mys- 
 terious designs of His grace and providence, not 
 unfrequently condescends to employ the humblest 
 instrumentality of human agency. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 CHAPTER L— Birth and Childhood, - - 13 
 
 II. — Early Youth, - - - - 39 
 
 III. — Early Womanhood, - - - 46 
 
 IV. — Conversion, 60 
 
 LETTERS, 82 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
Since it has pleased God to give publicity to a 
 name obscure, to an extent that may hereafter 
 excite the public curiosity respecting her that bore 
 it ; and since it may please Him also to get himself 
 honour by the manifestation of His goodness and 
 mercy, in the record of her life — feeling that it will 
 be impossible for any one else, to state truly that 
 which alone is worth recording, — the history of her 
 mental and spiritual existence, — she is induced to 
 put down at her leisure these notices of herself; 
 rendered the more necessary by the fact, that she 
 has never kept a diary, or any kind of memoranda, 
 of even the most important occurrences of her life. 
 Should that time ever come, which in the plenitude 
 of her happiness it becomes her to anticipate, when 
 with powers and faculties remaining, the interests 
 and affections of this world will have terminated, 
 it is her present thought to collate these materials, 
 and such of her letters as can be collected, into a 
 regular memoir. Of this, God knoweth. 1839. 
 
MEMOIRS, &c 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BIRTH AXD CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Caroline Fry was born at Tunbridge Wells on the 
 31st of December, 1787, being one of ten children, 
 and seven daughters. 
 
 Of her who makes these records, the remotest 
 recollections are of a most happy and too indulgent 
 home, where, without the elegances or the restraints 
 of polite, or even social life, every comfort was in 
 profuse abundance, and all pleased themselves after 
 their own manner. 
 
 Being the youngest but one of a family whose 
 births extended through more than twenty years, she 
 remembers but few of her brothers and sisters as 
 children, and the prescriptive right by which the 
 youngest child of a large family is spoiled, was ex- 
 tended in her favour to the two youngest, the hu- 
 moured pets of a most loving father. He never 
 walked out but they were one at each side of him — 
 they accompanied him during great part of the day 
 to his farm, or his houses, the building of which w'as 
 2 
 
J4 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 his great pursuit, and pleasure. He called them his 
 ladies, chose their dress, taught them to read the news- 
 papers, talk of politics, and play at whist with him 
 every evening, and above all, under surety of his 
 protection, to set at defiance all other authority and 
 control. I have been told that on his death-bed he 
 spoke painfully of having spoiled his two youngest 
 children, then about twelve and fourteen years of 
 age. Pie did not foresee what adversity and the in- 
 terposition of divine grace would do to mend his 
 work; so that, however their difficulties were in- 
 creased, and their sins accumulated by this early in- 
 dulgence, they grew up to be neither the least be- 
 loved, the least useful, nor the least prosperous of 
 his children. 
 
 And yet the fear of this indulgent father's dis- 
 approbation, was the only restraint Caroline re- 
 members to have felt. His absence from home for 
 a whole day, which never occurred but at a general 
 election, a special jury case, or some other such 
 event, was a signal for the outbreaks of insurbordi- 
 nation, and the doing of all sorts of prohibited 
 things: — her other parent being a quiet, careful, do- 
 mestic woman, an object more of affection than 
 deference, at least to these little people, who held 
 themselves out of her jurisdiction. 
 
 More influential even than this partial fondness, 
 was the father's abiding impression, whencesoever 
 derived, that his children were, or were to be, or 
 ought to be, above the position of life in which they 
 were born— his sons were not to be brought up to 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. J 5 
 
 trade — his daughters might not marry men in trade 
 — his little girls might not associate or play with any 
 children of equal condition with themselves. To this 
 inborn, inbred opinion of their own importance, pro- 
 ductive of some good results no doubt, must be at- 
 tributed no small part of the difficulties and misfor- 
 tunes of their family after their father's death, and 
 the little success that attended most of them notwith- 
 standing the more than ordinary talents distributed 
 to them by Providence, and in a moral and human 
 sense, their actual deserving. The grace of God, 
 and the calling of his Holy Spirit, determined, we 
 cannot doubt, the destiny of the eldest son, the Rev. 
 John Fry, Rector of Desford, sufficiently well known 
 as the author of many works of talent, piety, and 
 learning. 
 
 On Caroline the only effect of this parental am- 
 bition, was probably that which it had upon her edu- 
 cation, and early associations, rather than upon her 
 ultimate destination. She inclines to think that even 
 education rather left her what she was, than made 
 her anything. Her recollection of her own charac- 
 ter, temper, feeling, is from the first so very like to 
 what it was at last, it would appear to her that na- 
 ture has been too strong for any influences acting 
 from without — at least till a divine power interposed 
 to alter its own workmanship, and that but slowly 
 and partially to the last, rather to modify than to 
 change. Back to eight or ten years of age. she can 
 well remember that intense, unreasonable, almost 
 maddening anguish, which through all the changes 
 
|0 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 of her changeful life has known no suspension, and 
 up to this day no diminution, produced upon her by 
 a sense of unkindness, or injustice, or discourage- 
 ment, often imaginary, always exaggerated. Nobody 
 knew then, or ever has known, or ever can know, 
 the mental agony of these moments, followed by fits 
 of depression, self-reproach, and despondency hereto- 
 fore scarcely endurable, but now, blessed be God, 
 commixed with that prostration of spirit, and utter 
 self-abandonment, which is not all misery, since in it 
 is realized the full value of redeeming love, and the 
 sweet sympathy of a once-suffering Redeemer. He 
 knows, what she never herself has known, how 
 much of this passion is sin, and how much is only 
 misery. The bitter and resentful words to which, if 
 the occasion serves, it will give vent, are sin of course, 
 and the pain thus given to others, is often the bitter- 
 est and most abiding woe ; but this is rather the 
 casualty, than the character of these passionate fits : 
 — unless something from without unhappily strikes 
 upon the wound in the moment of irritation, the 
 originating cause of which may be no party to the 
 suffering, it is endured in secrecy and silence. 
 
 Reverting to her childhood, she remembers to have 
 often passed whole days and nights in tears;* and 
 when pressed by her parents for the cause, unable or 
 ashamed to give the true one, has complained of pain 
 
 * At all times of her life these violent and prolonged fits of 
 crying have occasionally occurred. Were they not the safety- 
 valves of an over-actuated brain? 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. ] 7 
 
 and sickness which she did not feel, and suffered 
 them to administer remedies as for a bodily ailment. 
 She has often questioned since, whether those tender 
 parents did not judge more accurately than appeared, 
 of these fits of aggravated feeling; for she well re- 
 members that the remedial measures taken to restore 
 her, were a piece of cold meat at breakfast, a glass 
 of strong ale at dinner, or a cup of coffee in the even- 
 ing. Whatever there may have been since, when 
 knowledge of the extravagance, and experience of the 
 mischiefs of these morbid sensibilities might have 
 afforded some defence against them, there was no 
 sin in them at that early age, and the memory of 
 what she suffered has throughout life produced in 
 her the greatest tenderness and forbearance towards 
 the tempers and feelings of children, and a disposition 
 to treat them more as maladies than faults.* To the 
 truth of this, though ignorant of the cause, many can 
 
 * Tt is distinctly in her recollection that on one occasion, 
 wanting- to make known to her mother the depression of her 
 mind, and not having courage to speak of it, being- then a pro- 
 fessed rhymer, she wrote to her in the following terms, — of the 
 last word she did not know the meaning, and remembers being 
 told it afterwards. She was probably about nine years old : — ■ 
 
 I am not very well, 
 
 And no mortal can tell 
 
 What is my pain, 
 
 When I am profane, 
 — no specimen of early genius, but certainly one of premature 
 mental suffering, without external cause — for to misfortune or 
 bodily pain she was a stranger, and almo?t so to the slightest 
 contradiction. 
 
 2* 
 
JQ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 I 
 
 testify who may hereafter read these pages, some 
 perhaps who have either suffered or benefited by in- 
 dulgence, according as it was good or evil in its 
 effects upon those committed to her care. For her- 
 self, through those long and many years in which 
 she lived a stranger in the stranger's home, her 
 thoughts untold, her feelings all unshared, it may be, 
 there were some who understood her better than she 
 understood herself; and can tell in what manner this 
 feeling manifested itself, and w 7 ill call it by its right 
 name. They need not spare to do so, for she would 
 if she knew. All she can recal with certainty, is the 
 intensity of her sufferings, and the strangeness and 
 unfitness, to say the least, of the conduct it occasion- 
 ally produced, of which more will be told hereafter.* 
 In these her last, best days, when all is viewed by 
 the clear light of heaven, all transacted under the eye 
 of the Omniscient, all shared, all treated of, all pray- 
 ed over in close communion with the blessed Saviour, 
 the only amelioration of the pain is found in that 
 sweet sympathy. 
 
 But that which through all her life she longed for, 
 as an impossible solace, that some one could dwell 
 w 7 ithin her, and see what she herself could never 
 understand, — that solace, that impossibility, has been 
 attained. Jesus, before whom these irrational tears 
 
 * Sleep — even the peaceful slumbeis of her most happy days, 
 is often no defence against this suffering — under the influence 
 of a dream of some act of unkindness or injustice done her, she 
 often wakes in an agony of tears. 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 19 
 
 are shed, Jesus, with whom these morbid sensibilities 
 are shared — He does know — He knows how much is 
 sin, how much is misery — how much to be repented 
 of, and how much only to be borne ; and He can sym- 
 pathize alike with all, for He and He only pities sin, 
 as much as He pities sorrow, and speaks peace to 
 the contrite, as well as to the afflicted. Under the 
 deep sense of sin, and helplessness, and self-abhor- 
 rence, that now accompanies every return of this 
 mental anguish, and adds to its poignancy, she need 
 not tell him, and He need not tell her, the source and 
 nature and culpability of her feelings. She can say 
 to him — and O thou blessed one ! how often hast thou 
 heard it! — "Lord! thou knowest," and he can answer 
 " My grace is sufficient for thee." It is sufficient ; 
 sufficient for Jonah in the great deep, whither his 
 own wilfulness had brought him ; and for Daniel in 
 the den to which his enemies consigned him, and for 
 her who in hours of such deep and untold anguish, 
 as made her cry aloud to God for release from the 
 body of this death, knows and feels and proves He is 
 sufficient — and puts it here, where properly it does 
 not belong, lest she should never reach that part 
 of her soul's history, in which it should be found: — 
 183S. 
 
 To return to her childhood ; the same restless im- 
 patience of what she did not like, even when person- 
 ally unaffected by it; the same eagerness in the pur- 
 suits of the moment, and speedy indifference to the 
 objects so eagerly pursued ; the same extreme en- 
 joyment of simple and trifling things, even existence 
 
20 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 itself without adventitious pleasures, when there was 
 no actual cloud upon it, the same disproportioned 
 pain from trifles, also, brief as it was excessive — the 
 same very peculiar contrariety of character, that kept 
 perpetual dissonance between the intellect and feel- 
 ings, — in common language, between the head and 
 heart, the judgment that seldom erred, and the feel- 
 ings by which it was always overpowered — the same 
 excessive desire to please, and aptness to displease 
 by precipitancy and want of tact — the same innate 
 consciousness of talent, and painful timidity in the 
 exercise and exhibition of it — all this, through all 
 her life, she can trace back to her remotest 
 memory of herself; much indeed that education 
 might have corrected and did not, but left to 
 grow like the wild rose of the wilderness, in strange 
 and rude luxuriance, all redolent alike of thorns and 
 flowers, to feel and know, and painfully regret through 
 all her days, she was not, and could not be, what her 
 natural endowments seemed designed to make her. 
 Now she knows that herein God was right, though 
 man was wrong; for it resulted that the conscious- 
 ness of talent was at all times more a source of hu- 
 miliation than of pride. When she might have felt 
 elevated above her fellows, she felt only degraded 
 below herself; and where is the sinner so safe as in 
 the dust? True these are late conclusions, that did 
 not cast their consolatory influence through the years 
 gone by, but they are conclusions, and she has come 
 to say with Paul, " I glory in my infirmities, since 
 when I am weak, then am I strong;" — it is best to 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 21 
 
 be nothing, that Christ may be all in all. How little 
 is it known to the aspirants of mankind, that such a 
 feeling, when it can be realized, is bliss, with which 
 the triumphant successes of the creature have nothing 
 to compare. 
 
 Caroline had not to complain of a neglected edu- 
 cation, as far as education is comprehended in mere 
 instruction. School was not to be thought of; she 
 never slept from under the same roof with her father 
 during his life-time, nor as she believes ever was ten 
 miles from home but once, when he took her and her 
 younger sister, on a visit to their brother, then recent- 
 ly married and settled in London. The instruction 
 of the younger girls was therefore committed to the 
 elder, who had been educated at what were then 
 thought good schools ; the aspirings of the family ex- 
 tended both to knowledge and accomplishments, and 
 though the opportunities were small, the most was 
 made of them; and at a time when girls in that sta- 
 tion of life learned very little, and were thought best 
 employed in domestic duties, and the operation of 
 the needle, in this family every thing was at least at- 
 tempted, and books, drawing, and music were the oc- 
 cupations of the younger people — the return of the 
 eldest brother from Oxford at each vacation afford- 
 ing a great stimulus to this literary taste, by acces- 
 sion of books and other information which could 
 scarcely otherwise have reached them, in their ex- 
 clusion from the reading world. Many studies were 
 thus introduced, which common as they are now, 
 were not so then — such as Botany, Chemistry, As- 
 
22 AN AUTOBIOGRAPY. 
 
 tronomy, &c, and the young people being all con- 
 siderably gifted by nature, were prodigies of learn- 
 ing in the estimation of their equals. Often as the 
 recollections of this irregular school-room and its 
 high pretensions, have since provoked a smile, 
 Caroline knows she was indebted to it for a great 
 deal of solid, early acquit ed knowledge, which the 
 most expensive school at that period would not have 
 afforded; while some of its deficiencies have never 
 ceased to be inconveniently felt. 
 
 She has no recollection of pain or difficulty, or un- 
 willingness in learning — but a distinct one of plea- 
 sure in buying a sixpenny book, (the History of a 
 Mouse) the first she remembers to have possessed, 
 when she could have been but a very few years old. 
 It is not to be supposed, that her partial and loving 
 parents should underrate or disregard the first de- 
 velopment of talent, little as they did to cultivate 
 and direct it. At eight years old, little Caroline was 
 an established poet laureate in the family, who was 
 to write a copy of verses on every birth-day, saints- 
 day, fast-day or thanksgiving-day, and every victory 
 by sea, or land, sufficiently numerous in those war- 
 like days; in the inspiring hope of receiving presents 
 of money or pretty things, from whoever had the good 
 fortune to receive the dedications of her muse. It is 
 doubtful whether any of these, at least profitable pro- 
 ductions, extending as they did from eight to four- 
 teen years of age, are still in existence; — if they are, 
 it must be in the hands of her sisters. She has the 
 
BIKTH AND CHILDHOOD. 23 
 
 impression that they were not so good as a great 
 many children write at that age. 
 
 However, they were not thought slightly of then, 
 and that destiny so vainly afterwards resisted, was 
 the first ambition of her life — to be an author, 
 especially to be a poet ; for general as was her taste 
 for reading, and eager as her interest in all kinds of 
 knowledge, poetry was undoubtedly the predominant 
 taste. Some trifling circumstances, distinct, as if of 
 yesterday, upon her memory, may evince how strong 
 and inborn this literary ambition was. Well is the 
 feeling remembered, with which, sitting upon her 
 father's knee, she heard a conversation between him 
 and her mother, originated by his declaration, that 
 he would have his two youngest girls taught Latin. 
 It was an extravagant proposition certainly, consider- 
 ing the actual station of the parties, and the rarity of 
 the accomplishment at that period, but proportioned 
 to her intense desire for learning was her silent re- 
 sentment against her mother for the opposition that 
 defeated this intent. Her childish impression of the 
 necessity of knowing other languages, in order to be- 
 come an author in her own, was a source of contin- 
 ual discouragement and depression to her, for she 
 guessed not how easy it w 7 ould be to attain them for 
 herself. She remembers saying to some one of her 
 family, on it being suggested that she might be a 
 Milton, her then favourite author; — that she could 
 never expect poetical fame, because she would never 
 have the means of knowing any language but her 
 own; a saying that often recurred to her in after-life, 
 
24 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 when the study of languages became her favourite 
 pursuit, after poetry had been pretty nearly relinquish- 
 ed. Illustrative of this learned ambition, the only 
 ambition perhaps that she was ever susceptible of, 
 she recals another of her childish feelings. Her 
 father's house was opposite the Parade, or Pantiles, 
 as they were called at Tunbridge Wells, the resort 
 at that time of the greatest and noblest of the land, 
 whom, as children do, the little girls were in the 
 habit of looking at, and watching from the windows 
 most particularly those who happened to have chil- 
 dren of their own age, — indeed, as their father's ob- 
 jection to his children associating with others, did 
 not extend to those above them, the two little girls, 
 being pretty well dressed, and well-mannered chil- 
 dren, often went to play or walk with the young 
 ladies whom they contrived to become acquainted 
 with as children do. Among the great things and 
 gay things thus constantly before their eyes, was the 
 handsome equipage of the Duke of Northumberland, 
 whose carriage and four brought every day under 
 the windows two little girls, some few years older 
 than Caroline, then about ten or eleven ; who became, 
 as was so natural, the objects of her curiosity and 
 envy ; but the envy took a single direction, it never 
 occurred to her to want the titles, or the equipage, 
 or the dress of these little girls, but she remembers 
 now the painful moody sadness, with which she sat 
 and looked at them, and thought how many things 
 they could learn, how many masters they could have; 
 — it may seem an overdrawn statement, but it is dis- 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 25 
 
 tinct to her as if of yesterday ; a bitter repining at 
 her lot, which no one can remember but. herself, 
 because no one ever knew it — had the feeling been 
 less strong, the impression would not have remain- 
 ed. From this and other recollections, it has al- 
 ways appeared to her a great disadvantage to 
 young people of the middle ranks, to be brought 
 up in a public watering-place, where they are in 
 juxtaposition and more near comparison with their 
 superiors in wealth and station, than is likely to oc- 
 cur elsewhere — the stirrings of rivalrv and ambition 
 so excited, are not always of so harmless a nature 
 in the issue, as little Caroline Fry's longings to- 
 wards the house of Percy. 
 
 Among the means of instruction within herreach 
 indiscriminate reading was the most important. 
 The house, for the period, was not very ill supplied 
 with school-books, and childish literature — such as 
 it was when Mrs. Trimmer was a high authority, 
 and Mrs. H. More, and Mrs. Hamilton, &c, were 
 beginning to write. But the great supply was in 
 the two circulating libraries, usually pertaining to 
 a watering-place, to both of which her father was 
 a subscriber ; and, whence she was allowed to 
 fetch what she pleased, without the smallest gui- 
 dance or restraint, or so much as advice upon 
 what she had better read or not read. As no other 
 person read much in the house, the library cata- 
 logues were little C's peculiar treasure and sole 
 counsellor ; and, since she had nothing else to 
 choose them by, the books had to be chosen by 
 3 
 
26 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 their names only. And now let not the incautious 
 mother, or the adventurous daughter, take courage, 
 and assume that the result of unrestricted reading 
 may not be so bad as people think, and the trash 
 of a circulating library not so certainly destruc- 
 tive of moral and intellectual taste. What parent- 
 al prudence did not, a beneficent Providence did 
 — partly by the effect of their example, and partly 
 by the natural character of her own mind. Little 
 Caroline never saw any body read pernicious books 
 — she never heard of pernicious books — or heard 
 anything about what they contained. She never 
 saw a novel in her father's house, and never spoke 
 with any one who had read them. The exact mo- 
 rality of her father's house was such, that she 
 does not remember to have ever heard a free ex- 
 pression, or an indelicate allusion, or a profane or 
 immoral word in jest or earnest. The very name 
 of vices and follies, was strange to her ear — and 
 all the knowledge of the living world, its passions 
 and pursuits, was no more than she learned from 
 those parts of the newspapers which her father de- 
 sired to hear, and which were generally read aloud 
 — consisting chiefly of the parliamentary debates, 
 the court circular, robberies, accidents, and most 
 especially theatrical reports, which in a newspaper 
 are innocent enough. If the common talk of young 
 ladies about love and marriage, &c, went on, as 
 it must be supposed it did, among her grown-up or 
 growing up sisters : it never transpired in the 
 family circle, or within hearing of the little ones. 
 
BIRTH AXD CHILDHOOD. 
 
 27 
 
 How much, in the absence of all other moral in- 
 struction and restraint, Caroline owed to this ig- 
 norance and simplicity concerning evil, will ap- 
 pear as her tale progresses ; but the first effect was 
 that she had neither curiosity nor understanding 
 for any sort of reading that might have been in- 
 jurious. With all her passion for poetry, she never 
 read any but Milton, Cowper, Virgil, Pope, Young, 
 Dryden, and Thompson — she does not think even 
 she had any taste for Shakspeare before she was 
 fourteen — and of those authors, it was the graver, 
 not the lighter pieces she enjoyed ; — Milton's Para- 
 dise Lost, and Pope's Homer's Iliad, being cer- 
 tainly the earliest, and most habitual diet of her 
 poetical appetite — as Young's Night Thoughts and 
 Cowper's Task, w 7 ere a little later, and she recol- 
 lects w 7 hat she cannot well account for, and what 
 is certainly not the case now, and very unusual 
 to a child, she had a decided preference for epic 
 poetry, and for blank verse. As far as she re- 
 members, her prose reading was quite as good. 
 The heroes of Lacedemon, were the idols of her 
 imagination, second only to Achilles and Agamem- 
 non — Plutarch's Lives were her exhaustless feast 
 — the pious heroism of Gustavus Adolphus — the 
 adventurous spirit of Charles of Sweden — the 
 courtly Francis, and the sagacious Charles — what- 
 ever w T as great, or noble, or bold, or proud, was 
 the food of her reflective, as well as inquisitive, 
 faculties — divided only with her love of whatever 
 was philosophical ; — she believes, that before she 
 
28 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 was fourteen, she had read, and enjoyed, and re- 
 flected upon all the standard classical works, in 
 translations of course, and a great many books 
 upon natural philosophy and science, such as were 
 then most in circulation. We say reflected upon, 
 because all reading was to her, through all her life, 
 only so much material for thinking and feeling. 
 She never took delight in mere facts, nor turned 
 over pages for mere information — nor could well 
 retain these when she had got them ; whence it 
 probably resulted, that with all her knowledge, she 
 never was an accurate scholar, her memory had 
 no verbal stores, she had nobody's thoughts in her 
 head but her own, could never quote from any 
 other writer, or bring what she had read' to bear 
 upon her arguments. It is commonly said in youth 
 that it is of no use to read more than you can re- 
 member. This is not true. The use of reading 
 is to form the mind, to enlighten the understand- 
 ing, to direct the opinions, and provide the mate- 
 rials for thinking and for judging. It is the mental 
 aliment, which it is no more indispensable to re- 
 member in detail, than the things we eat and 
 drink, and grow up upon bodily. No doubt, the 
 addition of a strong, verbal, and eventual memory, 
 with the higher intellectual powers, is a very great 
 advantage in writing and conversation, of which 
 Caroline has always felt the want. 
 
 In nothing has C.'s ultimate character been so 
 true to the first impulses of nature, as in her plea- 
 sures. There is every appearance that the first- 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 29 
 
 born will be the survivor. Little C. never liked the 
 dull, the artificial play-thing, nor the game of play, 
 unless it were one of skill and exercise, such as 
 throwing the ball, and skipping the rope, &c. Her 
 earliest remembered pleasure, was the first-blown 
 flower of the spring, or the new-born lamb in her 
 father's meadow ; she knows distinctly, — and ne- 
 ver returns to her native place without a vivid re- 
 currence of the impression, — where she used to go 
 with her nurse, to see if the wild snow-drop was 
 budding, to gather the first primroses, to hunt the 
 sweet violets from among the nettles where they 
 were yearly to be found. The long romantic walk, 
 the nutting, and the blackberrying, were the great 
 occurrences; the hay-field, the barn-floor, the sheep- 
 cote, the many hours of the day she spent with her 
 father upon the farm, listening to the detail of the 
 bailiff, watching the plough, and the various ope- 
 rations of the field, are recollections of such ex- 
 quisite pleasure, as never fail to return upon her 
 memory and her feelings, whenever she sees any- 
 thing of farming operations; she doubts if she ever 
 sees a cart, or so much as hears a wagoner's whip, 
 without the stirring of some vague reminiscences 
 of bygone pleasure — pleasure as regards the farm, 
 w 7 hich never happened, in all the varieties of her 
 subsequent life, to be renewed ; yet she longs for 
 it, even now that the garden feeds the still prevail- 
 ing passion, but never bears a snow-drop so white, 
 nor a violet so sweet, nor a primrose so smooth, 
 and round, and pure, as those that grew for her 
 3* 
 
30 A N AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 without her care. If any one who loves her should 
 like a proof of this, perhaps they will find them 
 growing still in the same place, upon the farm of 
 Hangershall, hard by the clear rivulet that divides 
 Kent from Sussex, under shelter of the high rocks. 
 This, amid the beautiful scenery of Tunbridge 
 Wells, it will be judged, was no bad training for a 
 poet; and whatever she may, or may not owe to 
 it, in the culture of the imagination, she no doubt 
 owes to it her escape from one of the dire penalties 
 of authorship and reading — the miseries of dys- 
 pepsia, and hypochondriasis. Born of very hand- 
 some and healthful parents, and leading through all 
 her first years the most healthful life possible, her 
 constitution outbore the long intermediate pressure ; 
 and she is, when this is written, a remarkable in- 
 stance of bodily activity and animal spirits, not 
 worn and injured by mental toil and suffering — 
 long and weary as they were. 
 
 It has been remarked that example and igno- 
 rance of evil were the principal moral restraints. 
 Intellect itself, if not perverted, is so; and the ha- 
 bit of reflection is so. But all that comes of these 
 is the morality of this world — the morality of self- 
 interest and self-respect. 
 
 Caroline never learned to fear sin, as sin, — least 
 of all as measured against the law of God. Her 
 first notions of right and wrong were such as she 
 gathered from her reading; a purely heathen code, 
 in which heroism and high-mindedness stood as the 
 first of virtues, weakness and pusillanimity as the 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 3 J 
 
 worst of vices. To be faultless, to be perfect, was 
 her early and long-continued desire and determi- 
 nation, and much of the suffering of the first part of 
 her life, arose from her conscious ill-success in the 
 government of herself. No one ever told her 
 where she might have help, or why she could not 
 be perfect. The only thing, of which she never 
 thought, for which she never asked, never felt, 
 never cared, was religion. True, it was never 
 brought under her observation ; but that was true 
 of many other things about which her curiosity 
 and consideration were insatiable. The religion of 
 her father's house will seem almost a caricature in 
 these bestirring days; but it was common enough 
 in the high church then. Caroline does not remem- 
 ber an individual in the family ever omitting to go 
 to church twice on the Sunday, except from illness ; 
 it would have been thought absolutely wicked ; 
 neither does she remember any instance of the 
 Sabbath being profaned by week-day occupations 
 and pleasures; certainly she never heard in jest 
 or earnest the Holy Name profaned, or His word 
 and power disputed, or irreverently treated. But 
 except on Sunday, the Bible never left its shelf, and 
 religion was not any body's business in the week. 
 During the Sunday, religious books, if they may 
 be so called, came forth out of their hiding-places, 
 and all others disappeared. The children learned 
 and repeated the collects, and the church cate- 
 chism, the only lesson which to Caroline appeared 
 a hardship, and with good reason, for no one ever 
 
32 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 told her what it meant, and how she was interested 
 in it. The catechism is a most beautiful compen- 
 dium of the Christian faith, such as the most ad- 
 vanced Christian studies with satisfaction, and 
 finds no better mode of expressing his own belief. 
 But I have always been of opinion that it is unfit 
 for children, and not meant for children ; it is, ge- 
 nerally speaking, not true of children into whose 
 mouth it is put, as a confession of faith, of which 
 they understand and believe not a syllable. On 
 my own judgment I would never teach it to any, 
 till they came of age to answer for themselves; 
 and I would remark on this, that it is our church's 
 direction to the baptismal sponsors, that the child 
 be taught the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and the 
 Ten Commandments. Is not this because it is all 
 of the catechism that was considered proper for 
 childhood ? This I think, of the best instructed 
 child; to one not instructed, it was a mass of un- 
 meaning words that she learned with difficulty and 
 disgust, and cared as little as she knew, what was 
 meant by it. No nurse nor mother ever talked to 
 her of Jesus' love, nor told her stories of his suffer- 
 ings; nor ever warned her of God's displeasure. 
 Her infant mind was never stored with sacred 
 words — nor her memory exercised with holy writ. 
 When she listens now to the exercises of the In- 
 fant or the Sunday-school, deeply can she estimate, 
 while they cannot, the value of the instructions 
 thus received, in preparation for the day of grace. 
 Her reading of the Scripture was confined to a 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 33 
 
 chapter read every Sunday evening by each of 
 the four younger children to their parents and the 
 family assembled ; but as they always chose what 
 they would read, it seldom varied beyond the sto- 
 ries of the Old Testament. David and Goliah, 
 Joseph and his brethren, Daniel in the lion's den, 
 &c. &c. — never applied, never remarked upon by 
 any one; this was followed by one of Blair's, or 
 other similar lectures, read aloud by some one of 
 the elders, and then religion was dismissed till the 
 next Sabbath. The only unseen world that occu- 
 pied little Caroline's attention was that of the clas- 
 sic poets. In this she was interested enough, and 
 had all names and attributes of heathen deities to 
 adorn her childish verse, and delighted in nothing 
 more than a visit to Olympus or to Hades, with 
 her favourite poets. It was a little after her child- 
 hood, perhaps at about twelve or fourteen years of 
 age, when her brother, returning from Oxford, 
 tried to introduce rather more serious reading; 
 Bishop Porteus' Lectures, then just delivered, and 
 Mrs. H. More's Works, then become fashionable ; 
 but the former was declared by her parents to be 
 methodistical, and for the latter, Caroline at least 
 had an avowed distaste, except the Sacred Dra- 
 mas, which she got by heart. It is a remarkable 
 circumstance, strongly imprinted on her memory, 
 that the first desire she conceived for the pleasures 
 of fashionable life, was in reading Mrs. H. More's 
 strictures against them. To their alleged sin and 
 
34 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 danger, she was indifferent ; to their zest she was 
 then first awakened. 
 
 Living so much excluded from society, at a pe- 
 riod when evangelical religion was little stirring in 
 the church, (to have entered a dissenting chapel 
 would have been esteemed by her father a mortal 
 sin,) it is not surprising that vital religion should 
 never have come under Caroline's observation; still 
 it seems remarkable, that to a mind so reflective and 
 inquiring, the things of another world should not 
 have become a subject at least of curiosity. It was 
 during this period, as she thinks, that Young's 
 Night Thoughts became her supreme delight. Hav- 
 ing possessed herself of an old copy, she was in 
 the habit of rising very early, and retiring into a 
 little copse-wood not far from the house, where, 
 seated upon a stile, the nightingales singing over 
 her head, and the beautiful grey snake slumbering 
 amid the wild flowers at her feet, she passed deli- 
 cious hours in committing to memory that roman- 
 tic and deep-feeling poetry — than which few things 
 could be more unwholesome for such a mind as 
 hers, predisposed to exaggeration in the good and 
 ill of all things, and prepared to take the poetry of 
 life, of time and of eternity, in the stead of its reali- 
 ties. To the continual study of it at that important 
 age, she has been used to attribute mnch influence 
 on her early character ; if it did not create, it cer- 
 tainly encouraged a contempt for the usages of the 
 world, and a tone of independent mental existence, 
 a lowered opinion of human nature, and quickened 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 35 
 
 sensibility to its follies, viewed as follies, not as sins; 
 weighed by reason and philosophy, not by the Word 
 of God. A melancholy presage of that life of which 
 she knew nothing, its injuries, its unkindness, and its 
 injustice, amounting to a desire to escape from it 
 by a death, of which she knew far less, is an im- 
 pression well remembered in her childhood, pro- 
 duced by the influence of poetry in general, but of 
 this poem most particularly, upon the morbid sen- 
 sibilities of her nature. Fresh with the breezes of 
 the morning, little Caroline was used to return to 
 the family breakfast-table, moody and whimsical 
 and abstracted, but full of the delights of nature and 
 of poetry, in which nobody crossed her humour, 
 or questioned the disposal of her time ; this, with 
 the exception of about four hours a day, called 
 school-hours, was left to her entire disposal, at an 
 age when most children do every thing by rule and 
 dictation. From what has been stated, it cannot 
 be said that she was a good-tempered child ; vio- 
 lent and wilful she thinks she must have been, or 
 would have been, had she been contradicted and 
 restrained, but this she rarely was by anybody, and 
 when left to herself she w f as to the greatest degree 
 a good-natured child, and as such, a favourite with 
 her elder sisters. If anybody wanted a thing, Car- 
 ry would fetch it, — if any little service w r as to be 
 done, Carry would do it — if any secret to be trans- 
 acted, Carry could be trusted — anybody might use 
 Carry's books or papers, or thread or pencils, she 
 would never be angry ; there was nothing that she 
 
36 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 would not do to assist or oblige any one, for she 
 was as quick with her fingers as with her brain: 
 " Let Carry try," is a sentence well remembered, 
 when any little difficulty occurred among the sis- 
 ters. She cannot well remember, that any indivi- 
 dual of her large family, living as they did invariably 
 together, ever treated her unkindly, or otherwise 
 than with the greatest indulgence and affection. A 
 happier childhood, perhaps, has seldom been past. 
 Out of hearing, almost, of the world's cares, except 
 the divisions of Whig and Tory, Opposition and 
 Ministerial, Pitt and Fox, about which her father 
 troubled himself by his fireside, and talked among 
 his children, with as much interest as if he had 
 been a placeman, with all the stirring interests of 
 the long war, the taxes, the invasion, &c. <fec. — 
 provided abundantly for anything she ever heard 
 or saw, or thought of, with the comforts of life, free 
 in the exercise of her tastes and powers, in the ab- 
 sence of all temptation to misuse them — leading in 
 the simplicity of country hours and habits, the 
 most healthful existence possible — occupied in all 
 natural pleasures and rational pursuits, there seems 
 not the shadow of a cloud upon the first division of 
 her history, but that which she probably brought 
 with her into the world, and must take with her 
 out of it — the morbid sensibilities of her own na- 
 ture — the capacity to suffer without a proportion- 
 ate cause — the heart's indwelling and inburied 
 torment. 
 
 She closes at fourteen the first division of these 
 
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 37 
 
 memoranda, because she was about that age when 
 her father died; the first great change in her 
 changeful life; for though many years elapsed be- 
 fore there was any alteration in the external mode 
 of life, it was the source and cause of much with- 
 in herself, and ultimately of all relating to her. It 
 must not be omitted, that before this period, little 
 Caroline had actually attained the inborn desire of 
 her heart, — to be an author. The fond father, 
 whose pride and pleasure in her talents were very 
 great, had pleased himself with printing and pub- 
 lishing, at the Tunbridge Wells Library, a few hun- 
 dred copies of a History of England in verse, which 
 little Caroline had composed for the use of her own 
 school-room. They sold immediately, and were 
 much thought of as the production of so young a 
 person; the printers, and no doubt the author, 
 much desired a second edition, but the prudent pa- 
 rent, who perhaps never seriously looked forward 
 to his little girl's literary character, was dissuaded 
 from permitting it, as likely to spoil her with pub- 
 lic approbation. If he anticipated, as she surely 
 believes he did not, that his children would depend 
 on their own talents for the means of existence, 
 this was a great mistake. If lie thought to leave 
 them in the comfortable obscurity of domestic life, 
 perhaps it was judicious. At all events it was the 
 commencement of the prolonged course of op- 
 position which circumstances seemed to make to 
 the dictates of nature, by which her early pro- 
 pensities and powers were baffled and suppressed ; 
 4 
 
38 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 — in mere human language, we should say, by 
 which her destiny was crossed. Is it not rather 
 good to say, by which a merciful God kept in re- 
 serve for his own use, powers which might else 
 have been expended in opposition to his truth. 
 Had Caroline Fry been an author earlier, what 
 would she have written ? Blessed be God, and to 
 Him alone the praise, that she never has written 
 anything of which the memory is painful to her 
 best and holiest moments. 
 
 If any manuscript record of this period remain, 
 it must be with Caroline's own family ; she knew 
 no one else. Most likely there are not any in ex- 
 istence — she believes they were not worth pre- 
 serving, even as the productions of a child. 
 
 In reading the memoirs of other female writers, 
 it has often come into her mind to think what the 
 result would have been to her, had her powers 
 been stimulated, as most others have been, by early 
 opportunities and associations. . . Greater she 
 would perhaps have been, but far less happy, there 
 is little doubt. 
 
EARLY YOUTH. 39 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 Caroline was about fifteen when her father died. 
 Everything for a time went on the same — the same 
 house, the same habits, the same establishment, but 
 all was materially changed to Caroline. She 
 passed from a child to a woman. The only con- 
 trol or influence she had ever known was with- 
 drawn ; nobody any more attempted to guide or 
 to control her; the form of education was relin- 
 quished : her young sister and companion being 
 sent from home, Caroline became the companion 
 of the older ones; and was solely committed to 
 her own discretion and responsibility, treated in 
 every respect as a grown-up girl. For the first 
 year or two, as might be expected, the little poet 
 became more moody and whimsical than ever. 
 She passed the greater part of the day alone in her 
 chamber scribbling at an old escrutoire of which 
 she had got possession, or sitting for hours together 
 at a high window-place with her feet upon a table, 
 looking at the moon, and making verses ; but her 
 
40 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 compositions at this time were shown to nobody; 
 her father who liked them was no more, and none 
 else cared to encourage her propensity. She wrote 
 none the less, but kept them to herself. She chose 
 to walk out alone at dusk, or sit on the common with 
 her book. The most dangerous susceptibilities of her 
 nature, its most romantic and exaggerated feeling 
 as well as its selfish and self-indulgent propensities, 
 were in danger of being thus fostered and encour- 
 aged to an unlimited degree ; but nature came in 
 to its own rescue — the growing feeling of woman- 
 hood, and the whimsies of the child, spoiled the 
 poet, and went nigh to defeat the designs of nature 
 and change the destiny entirely. May we not 
 rather say, Almighty power and mercy interposed, 
 to effect its own distant ends. Is it not as if God 
 had said, " Go your way into the world, try its 
 pleasures, exhaust its interests, enjoy its vanities 
 and smiles, spend there your youth and health, 
 and spirits, but this talent is mine, it must not be 
 with you. I take it and keep it, that when here- 
 after I require it, it may be found unused and un- 
 degraded by a baser service ?" Blessed be his 
 name, it was so. He took from her senseless and 
 nnguided hand the dangerous w 7 eapon with which 
 she might have injured and wounded many, and 
 perhaps have slain herself, and kept it bright and 
 unspotted from the world, till the day when he 
 gave it back to be used under the guidance of his 
 Spirit and his word. She left it, and neglected it, 
 and forgot it ; from about sixteen years of age or 
 
EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 41 
 
 a little sooner, she left her books and her poetry, 
 neglected her talents and forgot the inborn desire 
 of her heart, to occupy herself with the common- 
 est interests of common life. It is a curious chasm 
 and a curious fact, that this pleasure, this pride, 
 this ambition and determination of her childhood, 
 was as much gone as if it never had existed, and 
 returned only by compulsion of her fortunes, to the 
 involuntary resumption and exercise of her mental 
 powers. While she looks back with shame and 
 wonder on those vain and wasted years, let her 
 ever give glory to the Divine purpose therein, for 
 without them, she had never known the secrets of 
 the kingdom of the prince of this world, whose 
 machinations it has since been her business to ex- 
 pose and combat. It was in keeping with the 
 whole current of circumstances, by which she was 
 fitted for God's purposes, and unfitted for her own, 
 rendered more capable of being useful to the 
 world in her writings, and more incapable of suc- 
 ceeding in it to her own temporal advantage and 
 distinction. 
 
 The death of the father had in a measure broken 
 up the extreme seclusion of the family. The young 
 ladies made a few more acquaintances : one was to 
 be married ; other young men w 7 ere introduced, 
 and came to the house, or joined in their walks; 
 the merry, chattering, bright-eyed child was very 
 distinguishable at the bottom of the long family 
 supper-table. The kind elder sisters, unlike it 
 must be confessed to many sisters of large families 
 4 # 
 
42 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 I have seen, had no disposition to extinguish her, 
 and she who by birthright had been the admitted 
 genius, was now to be by consent, its wit, its life, 
 its plaything, its spoiled child from first to last. 
 Caroline's natural mirth and gaiety, and disposition 
 to raillery, if not to satire, was now given way to, 
 and excited to the utmost possible extent, for the 
 amusement of her mother and sisters, or anybody 
 that happened to come in the way ; in the retro- 
 spect it seems to her that she was wild with enjoy- 
 ment andexcess of animal spirits, and happy beyond 
 all expression in the love of those around her, and 
 the every-day amusements of domestic country life. 
 The walks, the woods, the garden, they had not lost 
 their zest, whatever became of the books and of the 
 poetry. Her solitary rambles had become inconve- 
 nient; subjecting her, asshebegan to look more a wo- 
 man, to some annoyance in a public watering-place. 
 They were given up, as were all her solitary 
 amusements ; and with that strong, but capricious 
 attachment which characterized her in after life, 
 she attached her self to two of her sisters in par- 
 ticular, the next older than herself, and became 
 their constant companion. 
 
 Of the period between fourteen and seventeen, 
 Caroline remembers nothing but happiness, free- 
 dom, mirth, hilarity, good humour with every one, 
 and delight in every thing. She loved her sisters, 
 she fell in with their occupations and pursuits, 
 walking, drawing, gardening, work, the latter most 
 particularly filled up her busy days ; and she thinks 
 
EARLY YOUTH. 43 
 
 she read very little. In the capacity of woman, 
 the care of her own wardrobe fell into her own 
 hands; and as was the custom of the family, she 
 had to make all her own clothes, even her own 
 dresses, for no such thing as a dressmaker or a 
 sempstress had ever been heard of in the house. 
 The vivacious eagerness that made Caroline out- 
 strip others in their learning, bore equally upon 
 every thing, and whatever was to be done, she 
 must do most and best ; even to the platting of a 
 straw bonnet, — she must do two in the year when 
 others were content with one ; and she liked all, 
 she liked every thing, but most she liked the long, 
 fatiguing days, when the sisters used to repair to 
 some distant corn-fields to gather straw for their 
 platting, furnished with a dinner of cold meat, and 
 seated all day on the sod or barn-floor ; and if she 
 no longer made poetry, she felt it in the deepest 
 recesses of her soul. She had learned to like the 
 ball-room, the half-romping excitement of the En- 
 glish country dance, which was all she knew of 
 dancing, for the same reason and no other, that 
 she liked playing at ball or skipping a rope, and 
 talking and laughing, it w r as yet no more to her, 
 but nothing gave half the delight in these days, 
 which the corn-fields at harvest time afforded, a 
 delight as vivid in her memory as if she had felt 
 it yesterday. She may not perfectly recal, but she 
 thinks this period was free from those returns of 
 violent affection and depression, of wmich she has 
 previously said so much. No one crossed her plea- 
 
44 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 sure, no one contradicted or found fault with her, 
 no one was unkind or unjust to her; perhaps her 
 feelings as well as her intellect, had a slumbering 
 time, to gather strength, for harm as well as good, 
 for good as well as harm.* When Caroline was 
 nearly seventeen, this happy family for the first 
 time prepared to separate. With the view of pro- 
 viding for themselves, if it should become necessa- 
 ry, it was advised that those who were young 
 enough should go to a first-rate London school. 
 The year and quarter that Caroline remained at 
 
 , left no impression but what is painful. There 
 
 were good masters, and Caroline was well taught 
 in music, drawing, &c, but time ends all things; 
 the anxiously-counted days and weeks escaped, 
 and Caroline returned to her happy home, some- 
 where about eighteen years of age, with some in- 
 creased knowledge of the world, and a stirring 
 desire to be better acquainted with it. 
 
 We have said, that she returned to her own 
 happy home, but much was changed, nothing so 
 changed as she was; things went on as usual, yet 
 all seemed changed and changing, herself the most 
 of all. Perhaps the young blood no longer flowed 
 so healthfully in the veins. She remembers no 
 more exuberance of spirits — no more gaiety of 
 heart. She remembers no more harvest-fields, or 
 
 * If this is a fact — it might appear physiologically to con- 
 nect those morbid sensibilities with the actual exercise of the 
 mental powers — suspended by their disuse. 
 
EARLY YOUTH. 45 
 
 gardens, or country rambles. She had seen Lon- 
 don, she had heard of London life. She had mix- 
 ed with girls of other habits, and of other tastes; 
 the yearnings of vanity and ambition were in her 
 heart; she wanted to see life, to be — to do — though 
 she knew not what. She remembers walking after 
 dark, up and down a paved court in front of her 
 mother's house, whence she could see the carri- 
 ages set down at the door of the assembly-room ; 
 and wishing she might partake of the gaiety, the 
 dress, the splendid equipage, and the expected plea- 
 sure. She remembers walking on the high Lon- 
 don-road, and as the travelling carriages went by, 
 wishing she too might go — somewhere, anywhere. 
 The house, the country, had gone after the poetry 
 and the books — all had lost their charm. Altered, 
 indeed, is now to be our story — the artless, the 
 healthful, the peaceful youth was ended. She was 
 to have her way — and more than twenty years 
 were to be given her to try that world she longed 
 for, before she found again a happy peaceful home. 
 Most wonderful art thou, O God, in all thy ways; 
 most good, most wise, most merciful ! 
 
4f5 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EARLY WOMANHOOD. 
 
 Caroline was to have her way. " Ephraim is 
 wedded to idols, let him alone." It is a sad, sad 
 chapter we have now to write. Before we enter 
 upon it, something should be said of the state of 
 her mind, in respect to religion, during the last- 
 named period of her life. From the time of her 
 father's death, during her school-days, and the 
 short time she remained at home afterwards, Caro- 
 line used to go frequently, for the sake of going 
 somewhere, and doing something, and at the insti- 
 gation of an elder sister, already a decided child 
 of God, to various places to hear the gospel preach- 
 ed, far more interesting of course to her intellect 
 and feeling, than the ten minutes' essay to which 
 she had been accustomed. She does not very well 
 remember whom she heard, except an impression 
 that Mr. Foster, of Long Acre, gave her the most 
 satisfaction, of the few she heard in London, when 
 taken out on a Sunday by her sister from school. 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 47 
 
 At Tunbridge Wells, it was in Lady Huntingdon's 
 chapel she heard the gospel. She liked to hear a 
 good sermon better than a bad one; and the better 
 it was, the better she liked it; for the same reason 
 that she liked a good poem better than a bad one; 
 and she acquired from them a full and correct 
 knowledge of the evangelical doctrines of the gos- 
 pel, and the variations under which they were ex- 
 hibited by different preachers ; she may be said 
 thenceforward to have understood the gospel as 
 far as it could be learned of man, without the help 
 of the Spirit or the Word. She never read — she 
 cannot remember whether she ever prayed, or 
 whether she ever felt or cared about religion. It 
 is scarcely to be supposed there was not some per- 
 sonal interest excited at the time in the divine 
 truths set before her, but she cannot recal it; they 
 took no effect at the time, and were soon after- 
 wards revolting to her. 
 
 Caroline was eighteen years of age, when the 
 yearning desire of her heart to mix with the world, 
 and taste the pleasures of a London life was gratified 
 by a proposal from a near relation then practising as 
 a solicitor in London, and residing with his wife and 
 family in Bloomsbury, that she should live with them. 
 Seldom has the young heart's satisfaction been more 
 full; not one regret for the home she was leaving, or 
 the sisters whom alone she loved in all the world, 
 was mixed with her delight. To be the compan- 
 ion of . . . and assist her household and maternal 
 cares, was the ostensible object of her removal to 
 
48 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Bloomsbury ; the real intention could be no other 
 than her advantage, — to introduce her to society, 
 and afford her an opportunity of making such a 
 settlement as he anticipated. The society was of 
 that class in which there is perhaps the greatest 
 degree of enjoyment ; the refinements of polite life, 
 without the restraints of rank; gaiety without dis- 
 sipation ; enough to keep up the taste for amuse- 
 ment, but not enough to sate it. The mode of 
 living was the same: a small genteel establish- 
 ment, everything elegant, but nothing luxurious or 
 extravagant; no sense of or appearance of wealth; 
 economy without stint — hospitality without dis- 
 play. This was what Caroline saw and shared — 
 her simplicity and ignorance veiled the rest. She 
 was grateful and contented. She loved . . . which 
 was natural; most people loved him and he was 
 always kind; she admired him, so did the society 
 in which he lived ; his manners were polished, and 
 his wit was brilliant. It would seem as if her 
 mental powers had actually been extinct during 
 these years, in which her intellect was prostrated 
 to folly, ignorance, and misjudgment; was con- 
 tented with its humiliation, and had no misgiving 
 of the degradation In her father's house she had 
 never heard a profane or licentious expression ; 
 nothing came amiss here to point a jest, provided 
 it was not coarse or low. Caroline does not re- 
 member to have been shocked. In her father's 
 house, nobody ever thought of absenting them- 
 selves from Church, or profaning the Sabbath-day; 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 49 
 
 here, though the latter was no otherwise done than 
 by driving in the Park and paying visits, the for- 
 mer seemed scarcely to come into anybody's head; 
 no mention was ever made of going to church; a 
 few times a year it might happen, the master of 
 the house being absent, that Caroline and her 
 friend, wanting something to do, took into their 
 heads the extraordinary fancy of going to some 
 church on the Sunday morning, for no purpose 
 and intent certainly, but to pass the time. It was 
 in one such freak, Caroline heard for the only 
 time, that eminent man of God, Mr. Cecil, then, 
 probably, in his prime, at St. John's; and absolute 
 offence and disgust are all her remembrances of 
 it. Whether this neglect was then fashionable or 
 not, Caroline does not know, but it w T as so to a 
 much greater extent than it is now. That the 
 habits and influence of a whole life should have 
 left on Caroline's mind no desire for external ob- 
 servances, not the least compunction in the total 
 neglect of them, does seem extraordinary, and is 
 an impressive lesson. She had been taken to 
 church in her childhood, because it was the cus- 
 tom, and because it was right; to her, at least, no 
 other motive had been supplied ; she ceased to go, 
 without a thought about the matter, as soon as she 
 found herself where it was not the custom. It was 
 no doubt at this time, although she cannot recal 
 anything about it, that Caroline ceased to perform 
 the ceremony of prayer in her chamber night and 
 morning, (she has no reason to believe that she 
 5 
 
50 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 had ever really prayed ;) from that time never 
 more to bend her knee in private, or her heart 
 anywhere before the God of heaven, until of his 
 sovereign grace and mercy she was born anew. 
 Things could not rest there, and they did not; she 
 was no thoughtless, careless being, to remain in- 
 different: — but of this hereafter. There was one 
 dogma received without disputation in this new 
 abode of the sometime poet, the precocious book- 
 worm — the letter-devoted child ; namely, that it 
 was not genteel for ladies to know anything, ex- 
 cept to dress and dance, and behave themselves in 
 company ; and manage their families, and ply 
 their needles out of it. Never, certainly, was 
 doctrine more practically exhibited, than this; for 
 there was not, during the first year of Caroline's 
 residence there, a single book in the house, except 
 a stray volume of Cowper's Poems, for reading 
 on Sunday, when the needle-w T ork was suspended. 
 Of course the credulous disciple took care never 
 to remember that she had read so much beyond 
 her years at one time : this had been long relin- 
 quished ; she was a willing, well-convinced believer 
 in this new code of politeness. Whether anything 
 occurred, to shake the decision against books in 
 general, w r e cannot say; but, all at once, an ele- 
 gant book-case made its appearance in the back 
 drawing-room, for the reception of a lot of hand- 
 somely-bound books, bought at a sale, without the 
 smallest respect to what they might be about. It 
 did not signify, it was Caroline's business to keep 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 5 J 
 
 them properly arranged, according to their re- 
 spective heights and sizes; and no further notice 
 was taken of them. In fact, Caroline strongly felt 
 the obligation she considered herself under, for 
 her residence in * * *'s house ; she was led to be- 
 lieve that she w r as totally dependent, and that 
 every thing she received was his. She w r as very 
 grateful and very happy, even in the enjoyment of 
 much that she had not been used to in her early 
 home; and she must have been deprived of more 
 in the declining circumstances of her family : in 
 short, bhe was told and thought she was wholly 
 dependent. Her great desire was to be useful, in 
 return to * * *'s family ; there were five or six 
 young children, and the mother delicate. Caro- 
 line's whole time, therefore, was occupied with the 
 sublime arts of millinery and dress-making, or 
 dress-trimming ; for it was mostly the ornamental 
 parts that fell to her share; it maybe inferred, 
 that in the suspension of every other exercise of 
 her talents, this was a real pleasure to her — and 
 she thinks it was. The same faculty that draws a 
 flower, makes a cap, and puts a ready-made 
 flower elegantly into it ; the same taste that is 
 brought to bear in the composition of a poem, will 
 please itself in the arrangement of a dress, and 
 Caroline's talents were brought to bear ; with the 
 pleasure of pleasing, extremely great to her at all 
 times, and pleasure no doubt in the exercise of her 
 skill, she had also the necessity of her own vanity 
 to be supplied — though to do her justice, it was 
 
52 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 little enough ; she never cared for dress, but dress- 
 ed she must be, as became her position ; and the 
 bargain usually was, that if Caroline would make 
 and ornament * * * *'s ball-dress, she should have 
 one like it for herself. This, with making a fac 
 simile of every beautiful and newly finished cap 
 that was caught sight of at a party, or even in a 
 shop window, and cutting out for the sempstress 
 all the children's clothes, and making all her own, 
 w 7 here every thing was to be of fashionable and 
 economical admixture, was no sinecure; and from 
 an early hour in the morning, to a late hour at 
 night, when not engaged with company abroad or 
 at home, Caroline laboured unremittingly in her 
 vocation, and would have thought half an hour 
 abstracted for a book, a real dereliction of her 
 duties. There was an exception, however, and 
 most curiously it served to supply what in her 
 previous reading had been totally excluded ; and 
 made her widely acquainted with a class of litera- 
 ture of which she might else have remained igno- 
 rant ; the indiscriminate trash of the circulating 
 library, and which at that time, circumstances 
 gave the opportunity of perusing. 
 
 Was Caroline injured by it? I think she was 
 not; perhaps for the destiny for which Almighty 
 love and mercy was preparing her, she was con- 
 siderably benefited. The only case in which 
 novel-reading can be harmless, is, where the mind 
 has been previously solidified by much reading and 
 reflection, so as to be capable of no impression 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 
 
 53 
 
 from them beyond the surface, which may then 
 receive a polish from works of taste and fancy, 
 without the mind being vitiated or enervated by 
 them. That the mind of a young female should 
 receive no injury of another sort, to taint its deli- 
 cacy and purity of thought and feeling, requires a 
 case of great peculiarity, such as never may be 
 presumed upon at nineteen ; a childlike insensi- 
 bility. Yet so it was, and Caroline gathered in 
 this manner an insight into humanity, into life and 
 manners, such as no previous opportunity had 
 afforded her the means of observing, without any 
 injury to her mind and morals, in its measure 
 counteracting the absolute seclusion in which she 
 had grown up, and amalgamating, very harmlessly 
 and beneficially, with the very grave and solid 
 reading of her early years. Thus out of every 
 evil, Almighty power wrought something towards 
 his purposes of good. For any purposes but those 
 of his great mercy, never was unhappy child more 
 ill-placed or ill-conditioned, or so ill-suited to her 
 position. Her natural capabilities, suppressed and 
 forgotten by herself, her natural defects brought 
 into distressing observation to others, and con- 
 scious embarrassment to herself. If any one of 
 her society then, should read these memoirs, (it is 
 not likely, for she was youngest among them,) 
 they may remember the country girl, who blushed 
 whenever she was spoken to, and blundered when- 
 ever she spoke; who never opened her lips in pre- 
 sence of , for fear of being laughed at or 
 
54 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 reproved, who snuffed out the candles, and stirred 
 the coals over the bar for the very fear of doing 
 it; who laughed when she was flattered, and was 
 rude when she was courted, whose very modesty 
 made her stupid, and her artlessness ill-mannered; 
 all suppressed in her that was natural, all impossi- 
 ble to her that was artificial, trying to be every 
 thing but what she was, incapable of every thing 
 she was desired to be, she grew daily more timid 
 and consequently more reserved, more abashed 
 and consequently more awkward. What Caro- 
 line was at this time, or passed for mentally, we 
 wish there was one left to tell, for it is her mind's 
 history we alone desire to write, yet tell we can- 
 not. If any one who knew her at that time, and 
 lived even familiarly in company with her, took 
 her to have any talent, understanding, or mental 
 power and cultivation of any kind whatever, they 
 knew her better than she knew herself; but we 
 should be surprised to hear of it; she supposes she 
 talked the nonsense she enacted for those three 
 w 7 hole years of vanity and waste. The society 
 she moved in was much of the kind which pre- 
 vailed in that neighbourhood, but the rapid move- 
 ment of her subsequent life has worn out every 
 impression of the greater number of them, names, 
 persons, characters and all, very few having 
 crossed her later paths, or been anything to her, 
 then or since, but the companions of her hours of 
 amusement; she cared nothing about them, and 
 has known nothing about them since. If they 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD, 
 
 have heard of her, they must have thought it 
 strange material for a blue-stocking and a metho- 
 dist. But His ways are not as our ways, nor His 
 thoughts as our thoughts. One person there was 
 however, in the society of this period, who claims 
 a particular mention, both for his own reputation, 
 and the influence his society may have had upon 
 the subject of this memoir. His acquaintance 
 proved another ray of literature in the dark ages 
 of this her unliterary life, which, like the novel- 
 reading, served its purpose, for it made her fa- 
 miliar with the transactions of the stage and its 
 purveyors. Mr. C. was at this time above severity 
 years of age, and for the fineness of his person, 
 the dignity and elegance of his manner, might 
 have been monarch of the realm. It is possible 
 that distance may have exaggerated the early 
 impression, but it seemed to her she has never 
 seen any one, whose whole person and manner 
 were so courtly and high-bred, his tall upright 
 person, his snow-white hair, and fine, benevolent, 
 and yet impatient and irritable countenance, his 
 easy and yet important air, of condescending con- 
 sequence, his hat on one side of his fine and care- 
 fully-dressed head, the one hand in his bosom, and 
 the other in a sort of consequential swing at his side, 
 is an impression still fresh, made permanent no 
 doubt, by the absolute and unmixed pleasure the 
 sight of it produced. Caroline had known him first 
 at Tunbridge Wells, where her childish poetry used 
 to be submitted to his admiration by her father; 
 
56 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 but that was at a distance, now he was the fami- 
 liar of . . . . 's house, where, living great part of 
 the year at an hotel in London, he found it very 
 convenient to dine every day that he happened to 
 have no engagement, where he was courted, hu- 
 moured, almost idolized, and every thing that 
 could be done to please him, was felt to be repaid 
 by the mirth which his never-failing wit inspired. 
 Wit that spared nothing human or divine, friends, 
 life, morality, religion, nothing barred the jest; 
 and they who laughed most heartily at the last 
 joke, had reason to believe themselves the subject 
 of the next, as soon as their backs were turned ; 
 excess of compliment in their presence was some- 
 times scarcely less a satire, though the high polish 
 of the manner hid the fact. As was most natural, 
 Caroline attached herself entirely to this fasci- 
 nating old man. The first scholar — the first lite- 
 rary man — the first courtly man she had ever had 
 any intimacy with, and who, to all appearance, 
 loved and admired her. Whether so or not, he 
 loaded her with flattery and caresses, poured ever 
 in her ear the praises of her person, repeated all 
 he heard from others of her beauty, and frequent- 
 ly remonstrated with her upon the insouciance 
 with which she received the attentions of persons 
 whom he wished her to attract ; and it was finally 
 decided by all about her that she had no heart, 
 since nobody made any impression on it. It was 
 a remarkable providence, in connection with her 
 subsequent life, that she did not marry then, when 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 57 
 
 she would as soon have accepted one as another, 
 if externally agreeable and desirable.* If the in- 
 sidious flattery of this dangerous old man, whom 
 she admired, revered and loved, failed as it did, 
 to make any impression on her delicacy, artless- 
 ness, and purity of thought and feeling, there was 
 that in which the influence of his corrupt com- 
 panionship did not fail : she was too innocent for 
 his immorality, she was just ready for his irreli- 
 gion. Never perhaps at the early age of nineteen 
 and twenty, in a heart of such simplicity and in- 
 corruptness, and real ignorance of evil, was the 
 enmity of the fallen nature so developed. We 
 wish to call attention to it, and if we have been 
 writing what seems useless detail, we have done 
 so on purpose to give the full value to this particu- 
 lar point. It is written that the natural heart is 
 "enmity" against God. Who believes this as a 
 universal truth? When vice has indurated the 
 heart, when habit has vitiated and the world cor- 
 rupted it, it may be so, but what virtuous, happy, 
 young and unspoiled nature, ever thought of hatred 
 towards the God that made us? Fearlessness, 
 
 * There is surely one lesson deducible from this ; a virtu- 
 ous and moral childhood was sufficient to secure the youth- 
 ful mind from subsequent moral corruption — the formalities 
 of religious propriety were no defence against the insinua- 
 tions of infidelity and ungodliness — and why! the one was 
 a reality, and the other a fiction — the habits were virtuous — 
 they were not religious. The pure, clear mind of youth is 
 rarely impressed with what is false and fictitious in itself. 
 
58 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 indifference, forgetfulness is natural, but not, sure- 
 ly not, "enmity." Pt rhaps there aie very few- 
 believers, looking back upon their days of gay and 
 joyous godlessness, that can at all verify the Scrip- 
 ture statement in themselves; how should they 
 have hated the Being they never thought about 
 and cared for, who never crossed their path with 
 present ill, nor marred their pleasures with fear of 
 retribution? But here, in the bosom of a simple 
 girl, brought up in all the virtuous regularity and 
 real religious observance of a secluded country 
 life — a stranger to all that is morally evil, to a 
 degree, that would not be credited if it were fully 
 explained ; with a mind solidly instructed, and 
 unused to any manner of evil influence by books 
 or company, hitherto a stranger to sorrows, 
 wrongs, and fears, that tend to harden the ungra- 
 cious heart — in this unvitiated, unworldly bosom, 
 was manifested at that early age, clear and strong 
 to her memory as if it was of yesterday, a living, 
 active hatred to the very name of God. She per- 
 suaded herself there was no God, and thought she 
 believed her own heart's lie; but if she did, why 
 did sh^ hate him? — why did she feel such reno- 
 vated delight when his name was the subject of 
 the profane old poet's wit? "No God" was pro- 
 bably with her, as it probably is with every other 
 infidel — the determination of the heart, and not of 
 the judgment. Thus while she thought herself 
 above all religious doubts, she seized delightedly 
 on every manifestation of infidelity in those around 
 her, and laughed with the very utmost zest of gra- 
 
EARLY WOMANHOOD. 59 
 
 tified aversion, at every profanation of the holy 
 name. There was no such thing as religious dis- 
 cussion in society there, nobody talked about the 
 Gospel but those that believed it; and no so-called 
 religious people were met with in ordinary society. 
 All mention of religion therefore was casual and 
 jocular; ridicule and not argument; nobody rea- 
 soned against the faith of Christ, every body des- 
 pised it, the most knew nothing about it. Its pro- 
 fessors were too little known or heard of generally, 
 in such society, to be the objects of malignity. 
 No, it was the master, not the servants then, on 
 whom we spent our malice. Caroline recals one 
 instance only, — it was just then that Mrs. H. More 
 published her Ccelebs. It never reached this book- 
 less mansion, but it was talked of every where and 
 almost every body read it. It was a very unlikely 
 book to commend religion to any worldly mind ; 
 and the general decision was not altogether unjust, 
 that no such man should be or would be endured 
 in polite society; the existence of a world in which 
 he could be acceptable, was wholly unknown to 
 the circle in which Caroline was then placed. 
 
 The three years of vanity and folly and mental 
 degradation had expired — the altered habits of her 
 life had told on the body — habitual sickliness had 
 taken place of the fresh bloom of health — the total 
 want of air and exercise, inseparable from a Lon- 
 don life, had unnerved the limbs and paled the 
 cheeks, and damped the spirits — while nervous 
 sensitiveness and irritability had increased in due 
 proportion. 
 
60 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CONVERSION. 
 
 Life is very uncertain, and intellect precarious. 
 She who writes the beginning may never write 
 the end. There is an event in every Christian's 
 life more important to ourselves, and more redo- 
 lent with the glory of God, than all events beside — 
 " the new birth unto righteousness." Extraordi- 
 nary as the manner of it was to her, and in its 
 minute particulars known only to herself, ought 
 she to postpone such a brief record of the circum- 
 stances as will secure to the sovereignty of divine 
 grace, the praise and glory of this undeserved in- 
 terposition of redeeming love ? She will here 
 narrate in brief, what may be amplified hereafter, 
 should the writer live to complete her purpose. 
 
 It will be seen, if these pages are ever filled — if 
 not, it might never have been known, that at 
 twenty to twenty-five years of age, Caroline was 
 an atheist in heart — and only not quite one in 
 understanding: she wished that there should be 
 no God; but because she was not quite satisfied 
 that there was none, she hated the very utterance 
 of his name, except when it was made a jest of. 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 61 
 
 In what company that occurred may appear here- 
 after. She was no longer ignorant, thoughtless, 
 uninformed upon religion. She had read books, 
 heard preachers, known saints — several of her 
 own family were already under the influence of 
 divine grace — she knew and hated all, and most 
 intensely Him of whom is all. Years had passed 
 since she deigned to bend the knee in prayer. 
 His word she never read except upon compulsion 
 — being required to do so with her pupils — the 
 most disliked of all her daily tasks. She never 
 went to church but for decency or necessity, and 
 made it a rule and a deliberate effort not to listen 
 or to join in the service; a systematic wickedness 
 of which to this day she reaps the fruits, in the 
 insurmountable difficulty she finds in keeping her 
 attention to the service ; now that with all her soul 
 she loves it. The natural heart is said to be en- 
 mity against God — no doubt it is so always — but 
 there may be few cases in which the fact was so 
 palpable and demonstrable — so known to the heart 
 itself, so actually in conscious operation, within 
 herself; for it is not probable that any one ever 
 heard it from her lips. Though talkative in trifles, 
 she was exceedingly reserved as to her actual 
 thoughts, and still more as to her feelings, and she 
 had no bosom friend or kindred soul to tell them 
 to. She never did tell them. To the few who 
 would speak to her upon religion, she listened with 
 silent amenity, or studied philosophical indiffer- 
 ence: they had a right to their opinions — she 
 6 
 
(J2 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 would not have disturbed them on any account, 
 since they liked to think so, there was no harm 
 in doing it. So well did she understand their 
 feelings and opinions, and so indulgently consider 
 them, that one time sleeping in the same room 
 with a sick sister, whose mind was morbidly, 
 but most spiritually and truly affected with re- 
 ligious melancholy, that sweet sister would some- 
 times, in her sleepless nights, ask Caroline if she 
 might repeat some hymns to her, and Caroline 
 would kindly answer, "Do, my dear;" and when 
 in return, Amelia asked Caroline to repeat 
 hymns to her, she answered that she did not 
 know any, but she would make some against 
 another night, and she actually did make some, 
 that not only satisfied her sister, but continue 
 to this time as acceptable to believers as her 
 more recent verses. It is a curious fact, that 
 one of these hymns — beginning "For what shall 
 I praise Thee, v * of which, when she wrote it, 
 she did not believe a word, and had no intention 
 but to suit the feelings of her sister, — was ten or 
 
 * For what shall I praise Thee, my God and my king ; 
 For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring 1 
 Shall I praise Thee for plenty, for health and for ease, 
 For the spring of delight, and the sunshine of peace ] 
 
 Shall I praise Thee for flowers that bloom'd on my breast ; 
 For joys in perspective, or pleasures possess'd? 
 For the spirits that heightened my days of delight, 
 And the slumber that sat on my pillow at night! 
 
CONVERSION. 63 
 
 twelve years afterwards shown her in manuscript 
 as a great treasure, by a pious young lady who 
 did not know whence it came, and hesitated to be- 
 lieve her assertion that she had written it herself. 
 This was an awful state, but it resulted, in the won- 
 drous power of Him who makes even of evil the 
 ministers of his good, that when faith was given, 
 knowledge had not to be waited for; difference of 
 doctrine and modifications of belief, and all scrip- 
 tural or unscriptural arguments in support of each 
 were perfectly familiar to her — like one acquaint- 
 ed with the localities of a country, its languages 
 and habits — when it was given her to enter by the 
 gate, the way was plain before her. Indeed she 
 had even so far considered the various views of 
 Christianity, as to have concluded that, if there was 
 anything in it at all, the Calvinists had the better 
 of the controversy; a conclusion to which she was 
 
 For all this should I praise Thee, and only for this, 
 I should leave half unsung, thy donation of bliss: 
 I praise Thee for sorrow, for sickness, for care ; 
 For the thorns I have gather'd, the anguish T bear. 
 
 For my nights of anxiety, watching and tears; 
 A present of pain ; a perspective of fears ; 
 I praise Thee, I bless Thee, my King and my God, 
 For the good and the evil, Thy hand has bestow'd. 
 
 The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown, 
 They left me no fruit, they are withered and gone; 
 The thorn it is poignant, but precious to me, 
 As the message of mercy, that led me to Thee. 
 
(J4 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 most decidedly brought by the reading of Dr. Tom- 
 line's famous work, "The Refutation of Calvinism," 
 one of the latest theological works she read be- 
 fore her conversion.* How was a mind to be 
 reached thus trenched and fortified? Opinion had 
 no weight with her ; authorities had no influence. 
 She had no dislike to hear the truth preached, or 
 to the conversation of those who believed it, or to 
 their persons. She would as soon have thought 
 of disliking the Copernican system or its advocates, 
 or any other scientific controversy. Her eldest 
 brother was at this time a distinguished minister 
 ^nd writer in the Church of Christ — a man of ac- 
 knowledged talent and learning. Caroline had 
 heard him preach, and read his w r orks, and held 
 him in very high esteem and much affection ; but 
 his religious opinions had not the smallest influ- 
 ence. He considered Caroline as the most hope- 
 less of his family, several of whom were beginning 
 to be spiritually affected. He is said to have re- 
 marked about this time : " There is the pride of in- 
 tellect, that will never come down I" — humanly 
 speaking, what was to reach it? It was always 
 the judge, and not the pupil, of whatever authori- 
 ties might be brought before it. Jt has been said 
 
 * Calvinism would have been little proud of its proselyte — 
 for whatever she had studied beside, she had not studied the 
 Scriptures to discover who was right; but as an impartial 
 and disinterested judg-e, exercised her own intellect and 
 reason upon human statements. 
 
CONVERSION'. 
 
 05 
 
 she did not dislike to hear the truth, but there was 
 that which she did dislike, which she hated, the 
 Word that taught it. Neither the poetical beauties, 
 nor the historic interest of the Bible could give it 
 any charm. She could not endure it, she would 
 not read it, and when read before her, she de- 
 liberately determined not to listen. O, blessed and 
 immutable Word ! now the joy of her heart, the 
 comfort of her life, the exhaustless feast of her in- 
 tellect and feelings ! Why was it that she could 
 amuse herself with the same truths from the lips 
 of man, and take no offence, and feel no hatred; 
 but could not bear it there ? Surely because it 
 has a potency which is not any where beside — 
 " a savour of life unto life, or death unto death," 
 which with all her philosophy and scepticism, she 
 dared not meet. 
 
 It is always worthy of remark, that the Om- 
 niscient God works with, and not against, the 
 natural disposition of the mind. This independent 
 intellect was to be left unassailed, in the strong- 
 holds of its pride, and Caroline w^as to be reached, 
 where only she was vulnerable, through her affec- 
 tions. At this momentous period Caroline was 
 residing in the family of the Rev. T. M. — ., where 
 everything was against the probability of her re- 
 ceiving religious impressions, except the restless, 
 unsatisfied, unhappy state of her own mind, dis- 
 pleased with every thing around her and within 
 her ; weary and disgusted with the present, and 
 gloomy and hopeless of the future, without a single 
 6* 
 
QQ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 sorrow but the absence of all joy, kindly entreat- 
 ed, humoured, flattered and indulged by every 
 one; her dependent situation notwithstanding, she 
 was humorsome, rude, discontented and ungrate- 
 ful. What wonder that she was so to those kind 
 friendly creatures, who to the latest years of her 
 intercourse or knowledge of them, continued to 
 admire and love her, this conduct notwithstanding, 
 — what wonder, when her heart was locked and 
 seared against the love of Him, who at this very 
 moment stood at the door and knocked, and was 
 not asked to enter ! 
 
 It has been said she never read — she never 
 prayed — she never listened — wishing to be very 
 exact in this particular, she will not omit, however, 
 to mention what might be the first stirring of the 
 Holy Spirit within her. She recollects a few 
 nights when having laid down as usual without 
 any attempt at prayer, in the intense feeling of her 
 depression, as about to close her eyes, she mental- 
 ly uttered something to this effect ; — "God, if thou 
 art a God, I do not love thee, I do not want thee, 
 I do not believe in any happiness in thee; but, I 
 am miserable as I am, give me what I do not seek, 
 do not like, do not want — if thou canst make me 
 happy; I am tired of this world, if there is any- 
 thing better, give it me !" This, or nearly to this 
 effect, felt between sleeping and waking, not upon 
 her knees, but upon her bed, was all of prayer 
 that preceded her conversion. Is it possible, that 
 the Most Merciful, heart-searching God, could 
 
CONVERSION. 67 
 
 have said of her at this moment, " Behold she pray- 
 eth V She cannot tell. He heard an Ahab once : 
 but Ahab wanted what he asked, she did not; she 
 was determined not to have it. She cannot tell, 
 but this was the moment when the messenger of 
 peace appeared. In the destitution of her affec- 
 tions at this moment, Caroline fixed them with ve- 
 hement partiality on the daughter of a clergyman 
 in the adjoining parish. As all her feelings were 
 passions, and passion is not very discriminating, 
 she finds it hard to judge now, whether this new 
 object of her enthusiasm was all she took her for ; 
 subsequent events have inclined her to doubt it ; 
 but she was a lovely creature, of great beauty, 
 highly cultivated mind, and most endearing man- 
 ners; a perfect contrast to Caroline in character, 
 but alike in age, and though then living in her 
 father's house, contemplating the necessity of enter- 
 ing upon the same course of existence, being the 
 eldest of a large and unprovided family — a great 
 favourite too — far more deserving than poor 
 Caroline, for she was kind and grateful to the 
 
 members of the family in which C resided. 
 
 And here again she would bear testimony to the 
 generous kindness of those friends, mortified as 
 they plainly were, by the preference, or rather the 
 exclusive affection these young ladies exhibited for 
 each other. Nothing else was cared for, nothing 
 else was enjoyed ; the three miles that separated 
 them, gave occasion for daily correspondence, 
 and daily impatience of all that intervened. The 
 
Qg AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 devotion to each other was, or seemed to be, 
 equal ; and there was a further equality not very 
 common in these attachments between females — 
 which ever was the superior on the whole, it is 
 certain that each one looked upon the other as 
 something superior to herself, an object as much 
 of admiration as of love ; so at least it is remember- 
 ed that Fanny always said, and Caroline always 
 felt. If she be living, she may remember other- 
 wise. Their mode of carrying on this romantic 
 fondness was different enough. Caroline, as usual, 
 run headlong into it, said all she thought, did 
 all she wished, and committed herself in a thou- 
 sand ways, in order to pursue and gratify her im- 
 petuous affection. Her friend was calm, polite, 
 self-possessed, conciliatory ; she knew the world 
 better, and cared for it more ; she never said, or 
 did, or looked anything that was not proper ; for 
 time, or place, or circumstance ; in short, Fanny 
 was always doing right, and poor Caroline was al- 
 ways doing wrong — upon the matter of their 
 mutual love. 
 
 Was Fanny religious 1 All who read this, will 
 eagerly ask it. — No ! let God have his glory, and 
 the Holy Spirit the sole credit of his work. After 
 the deep-felt experience of five-and-twenty years, 
 and the thoughtful reconsideration of all that past, it 
 is written without hesitation, Fanny was not then 
 spiritually enlightened, though apparently religious; 
 but Caroline thought she was, and that mistake was 
 made the instrument of her conversion. Fanny 
 
CONVERSION. g9 
 
 had had an early disappointment, probably a blight 
 of her affections, certainly of her worldly expecta- 
 tions. Her beauty and education had failed to 
 procure for her, up to that time, what both she 
 and her parents had expected from their charm; 
 and what is not uncommon at five-and-twenty, the 
 day seemed wearing away, and destiny taking its 
 colour from the past rather than from the future. 
 In short, the beautiful, fascinating, clever girl, had 
 been in love, had been forsaken, and was in de- 
 spair — of faith, or truth, or love, for ever after — 
 her father was very poor and getting old, disap- 
 pointed expectation lay behind, and anticipated 
 dependence lay before. The world and Fanny 
 " had long been jarring, and could not part on bet- 
 ter terms than now;" consequently she denounced 
 it, she wished to leave it, she talked much of its 
 vanity, she was or thought she was of a consump- 
 tive habit, and not likely to live many years; she 
 talked much of death, and much of eternity, and 
 much of God ; I do not remember that she ever 
 spake of Christ, of atoning merits or redeeming 
 love. I believe she knew them not, she talked of 
 the world's emptiness, levity and injustice. I do 
 not remember she ever spake of her own sins. I 
 believe her religion was purely sentimental. With 
 Caroline it passed for more, she believed all, even 
 to the consumptive symptoms and premature de- 
 parture, many times shed tears alone at thought of 
 losing her only treasure ; but these forebodings 
 were, however, not realized. Caroline had not 
 
70 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 been in love, and had not been forsaken, and had 
 received no injuries from the world, but she was 
 out of humour with it too. She too was five-and- 
 twenty, and thought the past was all, and she and 
 the world worn out. The character brought with 
 her into the world had now returned upon her, and 
 under the auspices of her new friend, when they 
 stole at midnight from their separate rooms to pass 
 the night together; again — for the first time since 
 she sat on the stile at seven o'clock in the morning, 
 in "the Folly," at Tunbridge Wells;— she re- 
 sumed the reading and enjoyment of Young's 
 Night Thoughts — drinking deep of its melancholy, 
 its pathos and its poetry without its religion,* as she 
 had done at first. In the midst of their sympathy 
 about the present evil world, by which was meant 
 its sorrows, not its sins, one difference between the 
 friends now made itself to be felt. Fanny expected 
 something more, Caroline did not, and this plainly 
 gave an advantage to her friend: both had, or 
 thought they had, lost one world, — Fanny only 
 had, or thought she had, the promise of another. 
 Not a word of this difference, however, ever pass- 
 ed between them, for Caroline never spoke of her 
 unbelief, nor confessed the total absence of reli- 
 gious feeling in her bosom. Religion w 7 as never 
 
 * Recollection of the two periods of her life, in which this 
 book was her favourite, has" given an abiding impression, that 
 it is not, with all its piety and beauty, very wholesome read- 
 ing. 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 71 
 
 once the subject of their conversation, as far as she 
 remembers. But Fanny read the Bible, Fanny 
 said her prayers, Fanny was exact in all her reli- 
 gious duties. This was nothing to poor Caroline; 
 but Fanny was also very stoical, very patient, very 
 meek, very submissive to her destiny, and deter- 
 mined to fulfil its duties, however distasteful ; a 
 very phiiosopher in practice as well as in theory.* 
 Caroline noted this with shame and bitterness of 
 soul, when having passed the night in sympathy of 
 thoughts, feeling, judgment, liking, disliking, wish- 
 ing and determining, without a difference, they 
 appeared in the family circle, the one wilful, excit- 
 able, hasty and unsatisfied, the other all calmness, 
 propriety and civility. On this difference she pour- 
 ed out her heart to her friend, continually be- 
 wailing her impetuosity and want of self-control, 
 compared with the composure and philosophy ma- 
 nifested by Fanny, on all occasions. 
 
 Oh! what it was that turned upon that small 
 spring! I should feel the want of words to tell it, 
 but that words however multiplied can add nothing 
 to the bare and simple facts. Most Merciful, most 
 Inscrutable, it was thy doing ! How can it do 
 otherwise than surpass my telling. Let the story 
 tell itself. 
 
 * When Fanny soon afterwards became a governess, I be- 
 lieve she did fulfil the duties and meet the difficulties and 
 dtsagremens in a most unexceptionable manner, and retained 
 her first situation till she married. 
 
72 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Friendship had looked through the cover of si- 
 lence that slightly concealed Caroline's infidelity. 
 Wanting courage, I suppose, to enter upon the 
 hitherto avoided subject when they were together, 
 Fanny took the opportunity of a short absence to 
 write Caroline a letter. She deeply grieves that 
 she has by some means destroyed or lost that letter, 
 for it was the sole and single instrument of Heaven 
 for the conversion of her soul. She kept it many 
 years, and often read it, each time as her know- 
 ledge grew, with more astonishment at the won- 
 der-working power of God — for there was not in 
 it one word of gospel truth. The design of Fanny 
 in writing was to tell her friend that religion was 
 the source of all the advantage over her which 
 Caroline had so often noticed, and so often en- 
 vied — all that she called philosophy. The whole 
 amount of the letter, dilated upon well and feeling- 
 ly no doubt, was this, to the best of her recollec- 
 tion, — that religion was the only remedy for the 
 ills of life, and alone furnished principle for the ful- 
 filment of its duties; that she had religion and Ca- 
 roline had none; therefore it was, as Caroline so 
 often observed with pain, that Fanny was better 
 and happier than herself, under similar feelings 
 and circumstances of life. Caroline believes that 
 it contained thus much of truth and nothing more, 
 pressed home with kindly remonstrance and per- 
 suasion, abetted with arguments and proofs; she 
 is sure it contained no mention of Jesus' name, of 
 justifying righteousness or sanctifying grace; or 
 
CONVERSION. 73 
 
 any thing that believers call the gospel of salva- 
 tion. But the statement was true, she had no reli- 
 gion — it was religion that was wanting in her — 
 she who wrote it little knew how true it was; she 
 knew neither the extent of the irreligion, nor the 
 greatness of the need ; nor the value of the remedy 
 she proposed. The truth, the bare, bald truth, that 
 religion was the one thing needful that she had not, 
 struck conviction to her soul; it was the sword of 
 the Spirit, piercing to the very bones and marrow 
 of her existence. 
 
 But not without resistance. The first emotion 
 on perusal of the letter was a paroxysm of grief 
 and indignation ; grief that the idol of her affec- 
 tions should condemn her, and indignation that she 
 should presume to teach her; the next was a de- 
 termined resolution that Fanny should not influ- 
 ence or persuade her. She would resent the im- 
 pertinence ; she would quarrel with her ; she would 
 break up the friendship altogether. What business 
 of her's was it whether Caroline had any religion 
 or not? With which brave but impotent intent she 
 wrote a long and bitter reply that night, to be 
 forwarded next day. The next day, however, 
 brought no opportunity of sending to the parson- 
 age at C . The letter remained, and on the 
 
 return of evening w r as re-opened. The resentment, 
 as usual, had spent itself in tears and bitter words, 
 and left only pain and mortification to herself; the 
 expressions of that resentment were still in her 
 own keeping; she put the letter in the fire, and 
 7 
 
74 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 began to write again. Now she would be kind, 
 reasonable, indifferent, philosophical, superior to 
 all such pretensions. She is not sure whether this 
 second letter was ever finished, certainly it was 
 never sent; and the third evening came: 
 
 " But O what endless ages roll 
 In those brief moments o'er the soul." 
 
 Before the third night arrived, the struggle was 
 over, the battle had been fought and won, the 
 strong man armed was vanquished, the banner of 
 Jesus waved peacefully over the subdued and pros- 
 trate spirit of the infidel despiser of his word, the 
 conscious hater of his most precious name ! Has 
 there been one moment since that night in which 
 she has not loved it? "Lord, thou knowest." 
 There have been many in which she has disgraced 
 it. Caroline does not know that ever she has dis- 
 owned it. She is sure there has been no time at 
 which that name has not been all her hope and 
 stay and confidence, for time and for eternity. 
 What other could she have in a case like this? 
 "Lord, save me, or I perish," has been, and is, 
 from first to last, the sum of her religion, dated 
 from that most wondrous night ! the first in which 
 she knelt before the cross ; in which she prayed ; 
 in which she slept in Jesus; and died, and rose 
 again to live in Him for ever. Amen and amen. 
 
 She can give but little account of the actual 
 conflict. The battle was not her's, but God's, of 
 
CONVERSION. 
 
 75 
 
 which she seemed little more than a spectator, 
 wishing victory to the opposer of the Spirit. She 
 can recal the shame, the vexation, the wounded 
 pride with which she first became conscious that 
 there was a conflict ; that her heart was moved ; 
 and comforted herself that nobody knew it, that 
 nobody could know or ever should know, what 
 was passing in her mind. Even her friend should 
 never know that she had been for a moment 
 shaken ; the shame of that moment's weakness 
 should never be revealed. More than this she 
 cannot retrace, the work was done without hand, 
 without time, without a process; and like him of 
 old, she found herself in her chamber " clothed 
 and in her right mind," clothed with " the garment 
 of salvation," and assured of sin forgiven, with as 
 little perception of the means as he, the less pos- 
 sessed than she had been, of the infuriate spirit. 
 
 Whether that evening or the next, she does not 
 remember, her friend's letter was answered with 
 a full confession and submission to the charge it 
 contained, and the truths it urged : but Caroline 
 has not the smallest recollection of the manner of 
 it, or how much it disclosed of her altered mind. 
 She understood too little of the revulsion to ex- 
 plain it probably. To others around her, circum- 
 stances prevented detection of the change, which 
 she had not then the courage to make known; 
 and which she could not have expected to be be- 
 lieved or understood, by persons whose religion 
 had not the faintest colouring of evangelical truth 
 
76 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 or knowledge; whose whole creed was, the "Lord, 
 I thank thee," of pharisaic confidence. The un- 
 wholesome atmosphere to which, doubtless, was 
 attributable, the physical depression she had pre- 
 viously suffered, as the winter advanced, brought 
 on alarming symptoms of pulmonary disease ; she 
 kept her chamber, and after many w^eeks of the 
 most tender, the most feeling, the most unbounded 
 attention from that generous family, so much fear 
 was excited for her life, that her friends were sent 
 for, and she was removed by slow journeys to her 
 distant home. All that appeared therefore of the 
 change, and became a subject of remark in the 
 family, — as, her love for the Bible, and her atten- 
 tion to religious reading, was of course attributed 
 to sickness, and the contemplation of approaching 
 death. What was in her mind, meanwhile 1 Most 
 naturally it was to believe that her conversion 
 was the preparation for her soul's departure. She 
 believed that she should die, and was w ? ell pleased 
 to do so, for she knew that she was saved; there 
 was no place for any feeling in her bosom but 
 wonder, gratitude, and joy, that the brand had 
 been plucked from the fire, at the very moment 
 when that fire was to become eternity. There 
 needed time to disclose to her, how unmeet she 
 was for the companion of her Father's house, to 
 which she had been called and chosen, and by 
 how long a process the dross of such a heart, had 
 to be burned out, by the sanctifying influences of 
 the Spirit. Freed from the guilt of sin, she had 
 
CONVERSION. 77 
 
 yet no knowledge of its power. Her state of 
 mind during that illness, may best be compared to 
 his to whom it was said, "This day shalt thou be 
 with me in paradise :" she saw nothing between 
 her and the Lord who bought her, and the inheri- 
 tance that he had divided with her. It was a pre- 
 sumptuous expectation, but it w T as the natural 
 result of inexperience in the truth ; it was justly 
 grounded, and had her illness terminated as was 
 expected, it would not have been disappointed. 
 She would have been with Jesus; she says it and 
 signs it now, that time and deep knowledge of in- 
 dwelling sin, have modified without changing her 
 views of the method of divine grace, the doctrines 
 of the gospel — respecting, that is, the progressive 
 sanctification of the justified believer, the work of 
 the Spirit in the elect of God ; she says it in the 
 face of years of subsequent vanity, earthliness and 
 inconsistency; in the face of accumulated sins of 
 which the burthen is far more intolerable, at times, 
 than those that preceded her conversion ; she says 
 it in the face of many, who reading these memo- 
 randa, may affirm that they knew her after this 
 period, with few signs enough of conversion upon 
 her; had she died then, her hope would not have 
 been made ashamed, she was justified in Christ 
 without the deeds of the law ; she signs it now, 
 and if the opportunity be afforded, should she ever 
 live out her three-score years and ten, she believes 
 that she will resign it on her death-bed, to the 
 glory of the power of the free grace of God in 
 
78 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Jesus Christ; and the comfort of all who know 
 themselves to be the subject of it. But He, whose 
 precious gem she had become, had no intention to 
 take it from the fire with all its base admixture of 
 earthliness and corruption, infixed and indurated 
 in a manner the most difficult to eradicate — by 
 habit, by character, by circumstances, and by wil- 
 ful opposition to the word, so long indulged. 
 
 It is not the intention here to pursue the ran- 
 somed spirit's history. It will be found, if God 
 spare her to write it, in the regular progress of 
 the memoir. There may be letters extant in 
 which, being written at the time, the state of her 
 heart is better exhibited than it can be at this dis- 
 tance. Her brother was naturally the first, to 
 whom she specially declared what God had done 
 for her; and with whom from that time forward, 
 she was likely^ to hold the most confidential spirit- 
 ual correspondence. His high and decided views 
 of doctrinal truth, were likely to meet with all 
 sympathy in the first fervour of the new-born soul 
 whose history was a confirmation of all that he 
 believed and taught. Perhaps he preserved her 
 letters ; if so, they will be the best witnesses to the 
 truth of the present statement. Private letters are 
 of all documents the most veritable of that which 
 they disclose of the character of the writer. While 
 every other testimony is but the portrait, which 
 may or may not be like ; they are the cast ex- 
 actly moulded on the living form. If there be 
 such letters, they should be here inserted. 
 
CONVERSION. 79 
 
 Having no religious friends, it is improbable her 
 feelings should be disclosed to any by letter but 
 
 her brother, and those sisters, M , L , 
 
 A , who were already members with her in 
 
 the body of Christ ; but separated, as she thinks, 
 at that time, from her. Hard, sterile, and unpro- 
 ductive was the soil on which the precious seed 
 had thus been sown ; the perfecting of Jehovah's 
 work will be scarcely less wonderful when we 
 come to tell it, than its beginning. Caroline never 
 changed her faith, or revoked the profession of it ; 
 she never changed her purpose, she never let go 
 the death-grasp she had taken on the cross of 
 Christ; there was no season when that once ab- 
 horred name was not music in her ears, and balm 
 upon her lips; but she was a graceless, senseless, 
 and unruly child to her heavenly Father, as she 
 had been to all others ; and many, many were the 
 years before she or any one else could find the 
 fruits of holiness, on that wild olive-branch, en- 
 grafted as it was in the pure stem. It bears them 
 scarcely still; we will hereafter tell it all. Suffice 
 it now, to say, that the most immediate result of 
 Caroline's change of heart, was, the happiness to 
 which it had at once restored her; at peace with 
 God, she made up her quarrel with all things. 
 The zest of life returned; she no longer quarrelled 
 with her destiny, or felt distaste of all her pursuits, 
 or grew weary of her existence without any 
 reason. The void was filled, she never after 
 wanted something to do, or something to love, or 
 
gO AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 something to look forward to ; the less there was 
 of earth, the more there was of heaven, in her 
 vision ; whenever man failed her, Christ took her 
 up. She had no more stagnant waters, long as 
 her voyage was through troubled ones; she was, 
 with all the leaven of the older nature that remain- 
 ed, essentially a new creature to herself. 
 
 And Fanny — what more of her? We will tell 
 all hereafter; unconscious instrument of all that 
 God was doing, she disbelieved the work she had 
 performed. Removal separated the friends, but 
 for very many years did not divide their hearts ; 
 they were still dearest of all things to each other, 
 but we must tell it here, for it proves the work of 
 God. As the vital principle developed itself in 
 Caroline, Fanny took offence at it. When Caro- 
 line wrote her a distinct statement of the change 
 her own letter had been the means of effecting, 
 Fanny laughed at it. She did not believe in con- 
 version, in regeneration of the Spirit, or anything 
 of the sort. She even said, her father held such 
 doctrines, but she did not know how she had es- 
 caped the infection of his fanaticism ; whenever 
 the subject was resumed in their letters, it was an 
 occasion of difference and dissatisfaction. They 
 never met again, till an event occurred which 
 proved that Fanny's heart was as diverse from 
 her friend's for this world as it was for the next; 
 that her denunciations of this life had been as little 
 real as her early anticipations of another; the 
 world might have her back if it w r ould give the 
 
CONVERSION. 81 
 
 price. Fanny contracted a marriage, in a world- 
 ly point of view advantageous, but the sympathy 
 that had seemed to bind the friends together was 
 now dissolved; and every feeling they had in com- 
 mon proved to be, on Fanny's part, and by her 
 own acknowledgment, as merely sentimental as 
 Caroline believes her religion was. Caroline wit- 
 nessed the transaction, and parted with her friend 
 for ever, with a heart wrung with pain ; several 
 years longer, the form of friendship was kept up 
 by letter, but the life was gone, the death-blow 
 was struck. Once only again Caroline saw what 
 had been the idol of her affections; it was not the 
 thing that she had loved, or that she ever could 
 love. Caroline herself was changed, and perhaps 
 was as distasteful to her friend. Fanny, the intel- 
 lectual, studious, poetic, religious girl, was .... 
 if we survive her, we will tell what she was, and 
 who she is ; if not, she will read this, and she 
 knows. A very short time after Caroline had 
 visited her for the first time, and the last time, in 
 her married home, a few unpleasant letters having 
 been exchanged on the subject of religion, too 
 vehement most likely on the ©ne side, too scoffing 
 and contemptuous on the other, the discussion 
 reached its extremity; and Caroline, with that too 
 hasty warmth, that has left so many things to re- 
 gret that cannot be undone, desired that their cor- 
 respondence should cease. It ceased, and they 
 are strangers. 
 
 May eternal mercy grant to Fanny, the bless- 
 ing she transmitted, and yet despised. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 I.— TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 
 
 Hastings, May 19, 1825. 
 
 My dear Brother, 
 I answer your letter something quicker than 
 else I might, to tell you that a few days before I 
 
 received it, I heard that Mr. , of Edinburgh, 
 
 wanted just such a curate as you describe, to 
 
 succeed Mr. ; I shall subjoin the address, 
 
 and your friend can apply if he pleases. I am 
 just returned to my solitary home, and my goods 
 being yet in their packages, I cannot even get at 
 your letter to reply to it. What I imperfectly 
 remember of its contents, is something about my 
 own enigmas and something about the world's. 
 And I remember thinking while I read it, how 
 different an aspect every thing must be seen in 
 from the hallowed stillness of your secluded dwell- 
 ing, from that in which it presents itself to me. 
 And I longed to sit down with you in that tall 
 8 
 
gQ LETTERS. 
 
 arm-chair, and Munchausen-like, tell of the won- 
 ders I had seen. But how, at this distance, am I 
 to sketch for you the features of that world of 
 which you inquire — the religious world. Who- 
 ever used that expression first, did not suspect that 
 he described the thing it stands for, more exactly 
 than if he had written volumes. The last term is 
 that our Lord has chosen to designate his ene- 
 mies ; the first is that which distinguishes his 
 friends; the both together is that strange admix- 
 ture which is the distinguishing character of the 
 present day. I suppose you will not understand 
 me now, any better than when I said, — It is time 
 to cease from man. Well then, can you not ima- 
 gine how a person going always behind the scenes 
 to see how the thing is got up, and to see the 
 dramatis persona? disrobe themselves, &c. &c, 
 might grow very weary of scenic representations? 
 But this is myself again, and I am going to tell 
 you of the world — few people can see so much of 
 it really as I do — because I hold no settled rank 
 in it, and move in no determinate sphere. One 
 day the splendid carriage dashes up to fetch me, 
 with two footmen to bang down the steps, lest one 
 should not make noise enough: the next day I 
 trudge off in the mud with my bookseller's appren- 
 tice to carry my bundles; sometimes I am every- 
 body, and sometimes I am nobody, and I am 
 equally amused with all ; for all is life, and all is 
 nature, and all lets me into secrets that those who 
 walk a more settled and determined course but 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 87 
 
 little wot of; and I note everything, and listen to 
 everything, and lav it all up for future cogitation. 
 And many a smile I have in private, aye, and 
 many a sigh too, at the charlatanage of the de- 
 luding world. In respect to its present state, I 
 should say nay to what you say, as it regards the 
 taste of the public for religious truth. I should 
 certify on no light grounds, that the defection lies 
 elsewhere; there is appetite for the whole counsel 
 of God, but they w 7 ho are left in charge, have 
 found in their wisdom that the food is not whole- 
 some, and they dare — I speak strongly, for I have 
 felt it strongly — even to tears; I have felt it under 
 their pulpits — they dare deny it to the flock they 
 have been sent to feed. Comes there a man in 
 town or country, or on week-day or Sunday, who 
 in simplicity delivers the whole of his message, 
 and you will see how they throng his aisles, how 
 they will steal forth like Nicodemus by night, to 
 take of the desired but forbidden draught, — afraid 
 to be blamed by their ghostly confessors if they 
 are detected. Look at their faces while they lis- 
 ten to the unusual strain, and you will soon see if 
 it be not welcome. Ask them when they go 
 away, how they like it? They will speak of it as 
 children of a birth-day treat — which to be sure if 
 they had it often might disagree with them — so 
 they are taught, so they believe: but they can 
 relish it well enough. I do not speak of one class, 
 or of two classes; I believe this to be the general 
 aspect of things. I can set my eye on one pew, 
 
88 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 and say these people are of such a congregation 
 — and on another, and say these belong to such a 
 chapel— and why are they all come here? And 
 many are the times I have whispered in the ear 
 of those who sit satisfied, nay, absurdly devoted to 
 some favourite preacher of a garbled truth, that 
 there is more behind, and have been surprised to 
 find how well they knew it, how much they could 
 like to have it — but it is not good for them ! The 
 servant has grown wiser than his master; the 
 messenger can amend his message — God can no 
 more be trusted with the salvation of his people — 
 Man knows a better way, and expediency is like to 
 become ihe Anti-christ of our land. You question 
 my term " magnificent preaching" — " Why not as 
 well without the pomp?" you say. Our powers 
 are of God; and if he have given the graceful 
 mien — the deep-toned voice, and the overwhelm- 
 ing impulse of exalted feeling, and the resistless 
 burst of eloquence, which in Athens held the lives 
 of men, and in Rome the fate of nations, at its 
 pleasure, to be the companions of his grace and 
 truth, imparted to the minister of his Gospel, shall 
 we say that they are useless? I wot not: though 
 I would not over-value them. The great Lion of 
 
 the day is ; a man of most amazing powers 
 
 of oratory: a person of taste, who did not like re- 
 ligion at all, might listen to him with rapture, for 
 the thing is perfect in its kind. The Christian who 
 cared not for eloquence at all, might listen with 
 equal satisfaction — for he delivers his message 
 
LETTERS. gg 
 
 fully, boldly, aye, and simply too, with all his 
 oratory; for the wisdom of man is not mixed up 
 with it. Then there is Irving, new to me, though 
 passed the meridian of popularity. If ever you 
 could conceive John Knox — if ever you pictured 
 to yourself a blood-hot covenanter, preaching 
 three hours together on the field of battle, with a 
 highland blade in his girdle, and a bugle at his 
 back, as willing to slay as he was to save; as will- 
 ing to die, as he was to preach ; fancy all this, and 
 you have the man. But you cannot fancy it till 
 you have seen Irving — I never could, but now I 
 see it all. It was to me such a realization of ima- 
 gination's dreams, that when I heard him first I 
 could scarcely refrain from exclamation, so much 
 did it seize on my poetic fancy. Common sense 
 tells one, that to a chapel full of Holborn shop- 
 keepers this is not the thing — and right feeling tells 
 one, that this sort of excitation, under a sermon, is 
 not to be allowed — and so I went no more: but 
 knowing what it is, I would have gone from Lon- . 
 don to Edinburgh to have heard it once. At one 
 of the great meetings, where he got up to make a 
 speech, no longer restrained by the feeling that the 
 gratification was out of place, I did really jump 
 off my seat and clap my hands for joy — but one 
 need be a poet to understand all this. Dear old 
 Mr. Wilkinson still holds his post; the still small 
 voice of truth sounding as it were from out some 
 holy recess, where the tumult, and the cavil, and 
 
 the disputation, are unheard or unregarded. You 
 
 8* 
 
90 LETTERS. 
 
 read his name in no printed lists — you see him in 
 no strange pulpit — you hear of him in no company 
 — but go to his church, and there you find him, 
 the same words ever in his mouth — the words are 
 few, and the ideas few, and there is little variety 
 in either. He controverts no man's doctrines, he 
 takes note of no popular wrongs or rights, he is 
 like one who neither sees, nor hears, nor knows 
 what is around him, he comes blindfold from his 
 closet to his pulpit, to tell in one,- what he has 
 learned in the other — the most secret, the most 
 mysterious, the most precious purposes of God to 
 his own elected people: a tale with which none 
 else can have to do, and which none else can un- 
 derstand. *•#.#* The man with whom, were I 
 resident in London, I should probably settle down 
 as my regular minister, is Mr. Hovvells, of Long 
 Acre, a Welchman; not because he is better than 
 some others I have named, but because some 
 preaching is good to one cast of mind, and some 
 to another; and amid the much I have heard since 
 I have been now in town, I am inclined to think I 
 should be, on the long run, most benefited by 
 his. Howells has not a large congregation, but 
 a very peculiar one — T should say he puts his 
 lingers into other men's gardens, and carries off 
 the fruit as it ripens — not in crowds, but here 
 and there one. Popular he cannot be, because 
 he is above the reach of the untutored mind, and 
 above the taste of the vulgar mind. I never saw 
 a congregation in which the proportion of men 
 
LETTERS. gj 
 
 was so large, which it is easy to account for. He 
 takes the learned of our religious world, but not till 
 the whole counsel of God has become acceptable 
 to them ; for there is no equivocation with him. 
 These are the luminaries of London. Others 
 there are, the favourites of a corner, the Popes of 
 a set — some true to what they know, but knowing 
 little — some knowing all, but proudly withholding 
 it on their own authority. * * * I spent a week 
 
 at where holds the cure of 20,000 souls. 
 
 The religious few who for years have been ex- 
 pecting anxiously his coming, are all forsaking his 
 church, while the worldly sit under him at ease. 
 When questioned as to his faithfulness, he replies, 
 that in two years he will preach otherwise, but 
 the people are not ready for it ! What an awful 
 responsibility! So much for preachers — but what 
 are the hearers doing, you will ask — Who would 
 not live in these days, to see two thousand saints 
 at a time in Freemason's Hall, and all so occupied 
 that they can sit patiently seven hours a day ! 
 Could the Christians of the days of Paul rise from 
 their graves to see, how would they recognise 
 their despised race amid the tramping of horses, 
 and locking of chariot-w 7 heels, and thronging of 
 fine-dressed ladies, fain to leave their beds some 
 hours earlier than they are w r ont, in the hope to 
 get a seat. Placed in these scenes for the first 
 time, many and curious w r ere the thoughts that 
 came across me. I thought of the caverns in 
 which these despised hid themselves — of the sheep- 
 
92 LETTERS. 
 
 skins that were their covering, and the berries 
 that were their food. And I said, How strange, 
 how wonderful are the ways of the Almighty! 
 To me the thing was new ; I had never seen a 
 crowd of that description, since the days I saw 
 them at the opera or in the ball-room, and whether 
 it was the recalled association, or whether the 
 animating bustle had merely withdrawn my mind 
 from the purport of the thing, I actually started 
 when the language of religion first reached me 
 from the platform. There was not much good 
 speaking, little tone of piety, but most fulsome 
 praises of each other. I remained discomforted 
 and went away dissatisfied. This was not, how- 
 ever, the case the second time. It was for the 
 Jews — the children of the school were present. I 
 cannot tell you all I felt or all I thought while I 
 looked at them. The helpless offspring of God's 
 chosen people, sitting there as supplicants to the 
 bounty of that gay Gentile crowd. Here all the 
 poety of my feelings was awakened, many good 
 things were spoken, and I was very much delight- 
 ed. Next came the Hibernian — see what a de- 
 voted saint lam become ! There I went too, and 
 I was pleased again, for I love the Irish to my 
 heart, and the first feeling of incongruity was en- 
 tirely over now. I had gotten into the full spirit 
 of the thing. An old lady, deep in these matters, 
 who sat beside me, said a thing that struck me. 
 She was complaining of Irving's impolitic speech 
 — I said, " It seems to me he is the only man 
 
LETTERS. 93 
 
 amongst them who has stood for God, and for his 
 truth." She replied angrily, " What is the use of 
 that? They come to speak for the interests of 
 the Society." I said no more, but I laid up the 
 speech to think upon. What he had said really 
 was a magnificent warning to the children of God, 
 when the children *of men come in to join them- 
 selves to their counsels — as fine a charge as ever 
 I heard; placing a child of God on such a proud 
 pre-eminence, that the great ones of earth seemed 
 to dwindle into nothing as he spoke. The Lords 
 and Right Honourables looked a little uneasy. 
 
 The last I went to was the Naval and Military 
 — interesting from its peculiarity. Here more of 
 the language of scripture was used than in the 
 others ; more mention was made of the Gospel of 
 Christ, and more use of its words and doctrines — 
 and the speeches came not from the church, but 
 for the most part from the soldier or the sailor. 
 So much for my devotions through the first week 
 in May. What have I brought home with me 
 from it all? It is fine, it is striking, it is interest- 
 ing, and more so than I thought before I went. 
 The purpose is good, the means seems to be legiti- 
 mate, and the end must surely be what heaven 
 designs by this strange change of circumstances. 
 Well then, let it go on, and I would aid it heartily. 
 But I have brought away this — religion is not the 
 popular oratory — religion is not the crowded hall 
 — religion is not the printed list. The children of 
 God have need indeed to be warned, and if it 
 
94 LETTERS. 
 
 pleases God, those words of Irving's shall go with 
 me to be remembered whithersoever I am bound. 
 And so much, my dear brother, for the sketch of 
 London. Now of ourselves. You must pay double 
 postage, but never mind, you may not get another 
 letter for a twelvemonth. I have not read your 
 Church History, but have it ready to read. I only 
 reached home two days since. I know not what 
 
 to say to V ; I hear strange things about him. 
 
 I have no objection to subscribe to his work; but 
 must see it before I recommend it to others. It 
 was not true that I was worn with labour, but I 
 was worn with bustle, too much eagerness, too 
 much excitement. I must be quieter. Little do 
 you dusty commentators know how we poets live 
 and feel. I have just now found your letter. Why 
 yes — we are tired of disputing about predestina- 
 tion — and as to the Second Advent, we think it is 
 no business of ours ! We had rather talk of Sierra 
 Leone, and the Catholic Bill, and East India Sugar. 
 Aye, truly, I shall enjoy your Job, but I have no 
 light upon it, except that a friend of mine says that 
 Job could not be happy in the end, if he had the 
 same wife ! * * * I do not despair to see Desford 
 again some time. Love to all the party. I wish 
 I had met John in town. After a most tremen- 
 dous conflict, such as you would wonder to hear 
 about, I trust that the dawn is again breaking upon 
 me. Some time I may tell it all, but not now. 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Caroline. 
 
LETTER3. 95 
 
 II.— TO MRS. * * *. 
 
 November 6, 1825. 
 
 Dear Thing,* 
 
 I am always pleased to see your little notes, but 
 this is a bad account you give of yourself: still I 
 think that beautiful sea will do you more good 
 than advice here. I believe I ought to have ac- 
 knowledged your remittance, but I did not come 
 home that day till late, and calculated a letter 
 would not arrive in * # * till you were gone. I 
 have been thinking to send a note thither for the 
 chance of a parcel. 
 
 Now you bid me write by post. I suppose you 
 must be obeyed, otherwise I am in that sort of 
 mood in which I seldom allow myself to write; 
 lest I should get into a tone of sadness, too nearly 
 approaching to discontent, to become a child of 
 God. These are feelings I attribute greatly to 
 indisposition ; and the indisposition greatly to the 
 weather; of this one is guiltless, and there is no 
 remedy but patience. It is, however, difficult, 
 when one has cause of sadness, to distinguish one 
 thing from another, and to be sure whether one is 
 ill, or miserable, or wicked ; and when once the 
 
 * This Lady, a few years younger than the writer, was 
 her most beloved friend, with whom for twenty years she 
 was on terms of the closest intimacy. 
 
gg LETTERS. 
 
 scale is bearing downwards, both sorrow and sin 
 are ready to throw in their rnake-weights of sad- 
 ness. I have been very well till the last week, 
 however, and trust it may please God I shall soon 
 be so again. The incapacity for employment is 
 what I suffer most from on these occasions. I 
 thank you, dear, for the inclosure, and for its ma- 
 chinery. It does its duty well, and is very useful 
 to me. I am in all such matters now very com- 
 fortable, and for accommodation desire nothing 
 better. I shall be very glad when you come back, 
 for though I shall not very often see you, I shall 
 be at liberty to think perhaps you will come, and 
 that is something. It has been said, He that mul- 
 tiplieth riches increaseth sorrow, and as friends 
 are part and portion of this world's good, I believe 
 the more we have, and the more we love them, the 
 readier access has disappointment to our hearts. 
 But we must not be ungrateful; we must pick the 
 beautiful flowers He scatters on our way, and not 
 be impatient that now and then from too much 
 eagerness we prick our fingers. I do sometimes 
 wish my heart were as hard as a millstone, but I 
 think it is a wicked feeling, and never encourage 
 it. Among many things that teaze me now, is my 
 publication ; I want to give it up because it is too 
 much for my health, and have always intended to 
 do so at Christmas. But my publisher is outrage- 
 ous, he positively will not stop. I know not what 
 to do for the best : but I trust that God will guide 
 me. I wish only to do His will, could I know but 
 
LETTERS. QJ 
 
 what it is. If the work were His, I should be ill- 
 disposed to stop it, but I do feel unequal to its 
 task ; and surely if He takes away my strength, he 
 means me not to continue the undertaking. Let 
 me have another little note from you some day, 
 dear, to tell me that you are better. I am think- 
 ing of going to at the end of the month ; but 
 
 am not certain : and only for a week or ten days. 
 God bless you, dear, do not leave off loving me 
 because it teazes you sometimes: it is not wasted 
 on me, at least without return. 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
 Ill— TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 
 
 * * * 1825. 
 
 My Dear Brother, 
 If I were to date my letter from the comet, I 
 suppose you know me too well to be surprised. I 
 never write to you in a common way, because it is 
 of no use, and everything with me now is questioned 
 upon the cui bono, if it asks for time. But when I 
 take a new peep into this old world, I feel impel- 
 led to send you news of it. So here I am — 
 stumbled on a visit to * * * whose name cannot 
 be strange to you. * * * How I came here, mat- 
 9 
 
98 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 ters not much. I have been with them five or six 
 weeks, and am soon to return home. * # * These 
 people are most deeply interesting; just in that 
 state in which one looks fearfully towards heaven 
 to ask what it intends for them. All respect for 
 established things gone; the bridle of prejudice 
 broken — the deep truth of metaphysical scrutiny 
 read to the bottom ; the feelings exhausted by over 
 action ; and the conscience withal goaded into an 
 almost morbid sensibility, ashamed of the past, and 
 bewildered forthe present, and vaguely anxious for 
 the future. It seems to me that they know not 
 what they mean, nor what they believe — some- 
 times I tremble for them as upon the point of 
 making their peace with the world under whose 
 lash they are writhing, by giving in to its habits 
 and practices, and hiding their principles in their 
 own bosoms. At other times the genuine seed of 
 gospel truth seems to be so surely in their bosom, 
 that I think they will settle into humble, subdued, 
 and devoted Christians. I cannot get at them. 
 At one time I hear them pronounce the Calvinistic 
 doctrines to be dangerous, and always tending to 
 carelessness of life — alas ! they may have seen 
 cause to think so — at another time they betray by 
 some casual expressions, that its deepest secrets 
 are in fact the strong-hold of their faith. If we 
 hear a strong doctrinal sermon, and I say I like it, 
 they say they do not; but I can perceive that they 
 do ! The most interesting person I have seen is 
 * * Of him I should say, that if ever I have seen 
 
LETTERS. 99 
 
 a humbled, subdued, heart-broken, deeply-taught 
 christian, it is he. I was but once in his company, 
 but there was something that responded to my 
 own feelings in all he said and in all he looked, 
 that I scarcely can explain or account for ; and 
 once I heard him preach, and felt the same. Of 
 hirn I should not hesitate to say, he is come out of 
 the fire purified. Of # * * I know not what to 
 say: he is such a superior being, in intellect, in ac- 
 quired knowledge, in goodness, in conscientious- 
 ness, in humility, in everything that is beautiful. 
 I want to say the same thing of him ; but then if I 
 talk with him, he seems or affects to know nothing. 
 I spoke of the sinfulness of sin : he said he did not 
 know what it meant. I spoke of the love of 
 God in redemption, — he did not know what that 
 meant, — and yet I verily believe that he does 
 know. 
 
 But how shall I tell you the beauty of this place. 
 The trees such as you never looked upon ; the gar- 
 den with every thing in it, from the rarest foreign 
 plant that money can purchase, to the commonest 
 wild flower of the hedge, all botanically arranged ; 
 and yet so tastefully, and inartificially, you would 
 almost believe they came there of themselves ; then 
 the library, with all the books in the world, just to 
 make one sad, that life is too short to read them. 
 I pass the interior of the mansion, because I care 
 for none of these things. I love the comforts and 
 and actual enjoyments of life perhaps too well, but 
 its splendours I have no taste for, though, entrenous, 
 
100 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 I have a little taste for the productions of the 
 French man-cook. This, however, I at least shall 
 learn here, if I knew it not before, which I believe 
 I did, — that the abundance of this world's goods, 
 adds little to the happiness of its possessors; and 
 that I, a homeless, houseless, pennyless creature, 
 am a happier being than * * * * with twenty 
 thousand a year at her disposal. And one of her 
 miseries is, that with all her means she cannot get 
 her children educated ; and about this I must have 
 a word with you. Do you know any gentleman 
 you can really recommend to the joint office of 
 curate and tutor : he should have a wife, be a 
 gentleman, and a scholar, and have some of the 
 qualities of Job beside. The situation would be 
 very lucrative, but very difficult; a good house 
 would be provided him, the pupil would be sent 
 into the house to him, at a high rate, and he would 
 have the opportunity of taking three or four more. 
 # # # you know is rector, but wants help. The 
 pupil is a most desirable one in himself; I never 
 saw a more pleasing boy ; but, owing to a bad con- 
 stitution, the enormous value set upon him, and 
 the delicacy with which he has been reared, and 
 the really good judgment and penetrating intellect 
 of the father, and the womanly feelings of the mother, 
 it is almost impossible for any one to give satis- 
 faction. But with all this, there is such essential 
 kindness, benevolence, and liberality, that it is 
 quite sad that there should be nobody with sense 
 enough, and Christian forbearance enough, to over- 
 come a few peculiarities and difficulties, and 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 101 
 
 gratefully and faithfully to perform the duties 
 required, for which they care not what they pay. 
 The boy now costs them about £400 a year, at 
 
 Mr. 's ; and they are wretched about the 
 
 distance, and the treatment. I verily believe that 
 if the living were at this moment vacated they 
 would give it you, or anybody else who would 
 preach the truth, and educate their boy. They 
 asked me if you would take the curacy, and hold 
 it with your living, residing here. I said, No, I 
 do not think he would. Do not speak of this out 
 of doors, but if you have any one to recommend, 
 write to me directly, and as I shall leave here on 
 Monday next, direct to me the following week at 
 * # # where I am going to see Lydia ; and after 
 next week, to my domicile at Hastings. I am 
 once more very near changing my residence to 
 London; it depends on the turn of a die, which I 
 leave in the hands of Providence to throw. I have 
 no choice in it but to do His will. My heart is 
 light upon the weightiest matters when once I can 
 be sure of my motive ; that is seldom, but this time 
 I think I am sure; the advantages are so nicely 
 poised, the results so impossible to perceive, that 
 there is not a hair's weight to turn the scale, but 
 what seems to affect my spiritual welfare, always 
 deteriorating in my present residence. In this in- 
 clination I may err ; therefore simply and heartily 
 I leave it for the decision of heaven. How, I 
 have no room to explain ; but if I change, you will 
 hear of it after Christmas ; it will be to live some- 
 9* 
 
102 LETTERS. 
 
 where in London. Love to dear Martha, and all 
 the family, whom some time I hope to see again. 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 C. Fry. 
 
 IV.— TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 
 
 London, 1826. 
 
 My Dear Brother, 
 I have much less communication with you than 
 I wish, but I am so overwhelmed I know not how 
 to help it. Many times a day things occur of which 
 I say to myself, " I should like to tell John this;" 
 but I am busy and they pass. Your domestic suf- 
 ferings too, have perhaps lessened your immediate 
 interest in passing things; and I have felt it would 
 be ill-timed to tell you anything of myself or of the 
 world. Do not think I have taken no part in your 
 family interests. I was thinking of writing to you 
 about the girls in particular, but the sound reached 
 me of schemes in hand, and I thought I had per- 
 haps better mind my business, and wait till I was 
 consulted. Now I know all from Lydia, and do 
 trust that providence has devised the scheme, and 
 will perfect it to good. For myself, I am going 
 to say nothing, because I have too much to say. 
 If ever I see you again, I may say it all. Should 
 I ever have courage to tell the whole of my spirit- 
 
LETTERS. IQ3 
 
 ual story, I believe it will be a picture such as has 
 been rarely drawn. Suffice it now to say, God is 
 all truth, all love, all wonder, overwhelming won- 
 der. Years now have gone wearily over, since 
 one bright beam has been upon my bosom ; the 
 hold I have maintained has been upon a twig that 
 seemed withering in my hand, every moment ready 
 to break and leave me to destruction. I have look- 
 ed about, but there was none to help ; I have wait- 
 ed, and it is come back ; and my bosom is too nar- 
 row to hold the happiness that has come into it. 
 And this is all now ; I will tell you more hereafter. 
 I am requested to send you the enclosed. Have 
 you heard that we are all in an uproar about the 
 second Advent? If so, you must be curious to 
 hear more; they started it at the Jewish anniver- 
 sary; but at the Continental Society it was a con- 
 certed thing; they embodied it in their motions, 
 and identified it with their society. As you will 
 have all the Sermons and Reports, I need not tell 
 you the nature of them ; but we are all wild about 
 it; and there will be a battle as fierce, if not as fa- 
 tal, as Armageddon itself. With all my heart I 
 wish your sober head had been amongst them, for 
 though I love the subject, I fear the party. There 
 is # # * # a m ost exalted and devoted creature ; his 
 bosom bursting with love to God and man; but the 
 veriest lunatic out of Bedlam. Then my poor 
 friend * # * whose past excesses and present defec- 
 tions, his indiscretion, and versatility, bring mis- 
 chief upon every cause he meddles with, though 
 
104 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 he never means but right; and then * * # the most 
 splendid and wildest genius enthusiasm ever light- 
 ed, all boldness, truth, and zeal, but rash, confident, 
 unchastened by experience, and hurried on by po- 
 pularity. And last, though in honour he should be 
 first, there is the Presbyter — my only hope is in 
 his massy brain ; but, alas, men go mad with too 
 much brain, as often as with too little. And so 
 they are off, the sails are swelled with talent and 
 popularity, but I fear there is no ballast in their 
 hold. I wish I may be wrong. They are deter- 
 mined to proclaim the immediate coming of the 
 Lord in glory, to the world in general, nolens vo- 
 lens ; and to the Jews in particular, their immediate 
 restoration. They are extremely happy to pro- 
 duce your interpretation of Greek and Hebrew, 
 and I imagine you will find an increase of notice 
 of your work; but in the interpretation of passing 
 events they outrun you far. I scarcely yet know 
 what to think of them. I fear the beautiful subject 
 they advocate will be identified with a party, and 
 wrecked by their violence. # * *'s piety and sense 
 is all my hope. And after all, if it is indeed the 
 Lord who has awakened them to announce His 
 coming steps, we have nothing to fear for them or 
 for their cause. My penetrating eye was perhaps 
 too busy, when, through a splendid array of talent 
 on the platform, the heart-rejoicing truths they 
 poured upon our ears, I read the characters of the 
 men I knew, and said doubtingly, " Is this any- 
 thing?" I wait with anxious expectation to see 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 105 
 
 what it is. A party will soon be in array against 
 them ; and nothing else will be talked of this year. 
 Irving's book is very beautiful; how just his inter- 
 pretation, time must reveal. For my part these 
 things have been so long the familiar belief of my 
 mind, that I heard * * *'s sermon without finding 
 out that it was not like other sermons, till 1 heard 
 next day how much ofTence it gave, and how 
 strange it was. I should like to hear your opinion 
 of these spirits. There is no one in our world 
 now, who stands so high in general estimation as 
 * * *, he has lived down all critics, and outstood all 
 censure. You have no idea of the value our church- 
 men have for him, and the warmth with which he 
 is looked for, and received everywhere. I am a 
 little proud of my discernment in having liked him 
 from the first. Ask Lydia about him. Among 
 other apparitions, there has been a very lovely one 
 in the form of a Swiss Malan : I heard him preach 
 in French, a sermon such as English ears hear not 
 too often. What amused me, was to mark the sa- 
 tisfaction with which some persons swallowed in 
 French, a dose of Calvinism, that in English would 
 have sent them out of the Church. Excepting 
 from old Wilkinson, I never heard so exclusive a 
 sermon, and not often from him. It was plain, his 
 mind beheld no unbeliever while he preached. In 
 truth, it was a heavenly morsel to those he meant 
 it for, and their language has words of tender- 
 ness and love, we know not where to look for in 
 our own. 
 
10G 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 The inclosed has been written a long time, and 
 waiting the chance of a frank. As it is exactly 
 what you ask for, perhaps I had better forward it, 
 and let you pay double postage, which I cannot 
 now avoid. It is a sketch of the party, such as 
 may help you to mould your dealings with them. 
 I have nothing to do with the breakfast, nor indeed 
 did I know, till afterward, that the Prophets were 
 
 assembled here; is the very focus of all their 
 
 machinations. I had a mind to tell you to be 
 primed and loaded, in behalf of these enfans per- 
 dus, who are like to have no Millennium at present; 
 if I am rightly informed of the fire that is to be 
 opened upon them. The * * * will charge furious- 
 ly, out of spite to Irving, who has drubbed them 
 out of the pale of common sense. But I do believe 
 that the feeling of the Christian community, — I 
 mean of those who commune with their God in se- 
 cret, think of these things, and say nothing, — is 
 with you; and I cannot help saying to you, Come 
 forth and help them. Do not let every blunder- 
 headed pamphleteer, brow-beat and abuse them, 
 without a knock in return. You will see my judg- 
 ment of the party ; of the cause you will form your 
 own. At any rate, you need not fear that the 
 world will at present sleep upon the question. They 
 have immense talent and popularity on their side. 
 I look upon * * * * to have unlimited powers of 
 mind, deep religious experience, with all the cha- 
 racters of a broken and contrite heart, loved of 
 God and accepted. But of man he cannot be — 
 
LETTERS. 207 
 
 wild, strange, eccentric, imprudent — perhaps more 
 literally mad, than I would admit to an enemy of 
 religion, or of himself. I will receive Job with 
 great pleasure. I do hope sometime to have a ho- 
 liday with you, but for this summer I am disposed 
 of, there being a strong inducement for reasons I 
 cannot explain, to pay a visit to the Abbess of 
 C House, which will take me to Clifton in Au- 
 gust. I beg you to be informed that six numbers of 
 my magazine are ordered monthly for his Majes- 
 ty's Library. This is by favour of the new bishop, 
 Dr. Sumner. I have not time to add more, but 
 shall be happy to communicate with you upon all 
 these matters. I did not know you were to stay at 
 Desford. I have heard your plans imperfectly. 
 All is right, and nothing signifies; it is gone as a 
 tale that is told. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 Caroline. 
 
 V. TO MRS. * * * 
 
 July 25, 1827. 
 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 You will not, I am sure, await my answer, to 
 
 be certain that a request which comes from you 
 
 will not be refused. If it will please you so to 
 
 oblige your friend, it cannot but please me to do 
 
]08 LETTERS. 
 
 so small a matter for you. I think, however, it 
 must wait my return. I can do it while I am with 
 you perhaps, but now I am so little stationary, I 
 scarcely know where I shall be. I spend the great- 
 er part of my time in the open air, and am then 
 too much fatigued to do anything. I feel quite 
 sure, were I to let you send the books, &c, it 
 would be unavailing — evening being the only time 
 I am at leisure, and that will not do for painting. 
 It shall be done to the best of my capabilities, on 
 my return. I thank you, dear, I am as much bet- 
 ter as possible in health, and as light of heart as 
 one can be who carries her greatest care about 
 w r ith her. It is beyond the reach of earth's medi- 
 cament, but still not without a remedy. My mind 
 is in the position of the Psalmist, when he says, " I 
 wait upon the Lord." If in the issue I be refused, 
 I know that my will must alternately lose itself in 
 his. As it is, I am never happy, nor can be made 
 so by anything; for the joys of heaven itself are 
 overclouded; but except when my health fails, I 
 can be cheerful and active, and take of the good 
 that Providence daily and abundantly bestows, I 
 hope with a grateful, if not a gladdened heart. I 
 write to you now from Southampton, but return to 
 Stansted on Monday; I have been here ten days 
 enjoying my greatest pleasure in its kind, tossing 
 on the wide waters. Yesterday I went round the 
 Isle of Wight, a scene the most exquisite I have 
 ever enjoyed — the steam-vessel keeps close on the 
 shore, and by the rapidity of its motions, presents 
 
LETTERS. 109 
 
 a new picture every moment. This sort of amuse- 
 ment never fails to brighten my cheeks and elevate 
 my spirits. I am not sure about my future move- 
 ments, but I shall be at Stansted a fortnight. If 
 you do not get any answer to the advertisement by 
 the middle of the month, I think it would be well 
 to repeat it. I saw some advertisements lately 
 which I thought would do, and I wrote to Mrs. f # * 
 to inquire about them : because, being on the spot, 
 I thought it would be less trouble to her than to 
 you; but I have yet heard nothing. I like all that 
 you tell me of yourself, dear: I like that you should 
 tell it me. While the interest of every thing else 
 is waning fast, so fast that I sometimes wonder 
 what is to occupy the other half of my three-score 
 years and ten, this is a subject of which the interest 
 deepens every moment. These bright returnings 
 are worth the darkness that precedes them, were 
 it not for the sin that belongs to it ; but I am per- 
 suaded that it comes of our own fault, of our wil- 
 ful preference of something else to him. He sees 
 it, and leaves us to make trial of our own devices. 
 " He is wedded to his idols, let him alone." What 
 we are when let alone, you have amply proved, 
 and so have I, too well, I trust, to try our schemes 
 again. But certainly you need not fear that He 
 will take your rejoicing from you. It was God, in 
 some sense, who cast Jonah into the deep : but the 
 separation began not with him ; it was Jonah's do- 
 ing, not his, that ever he came there. That second 
 chapter is a beautiful picture of the darkness and 
 10 
 
H0 LETTERS. 
 
 lifelessness in which we have sometimes found our- 
 selves. I say we, for in this we seem to have been 
 alike. But I think we are alike in our present feel- 
 ings — but that my rejoicing is silenced by circum- 
 stances extraneous to my own salvation; spiritually 
 I have been at no time so happy as I am now, and 
 from much the same feeling as you speak of. We 
 shall talk of it together. God bless you. I am 
 quite tired, and have written myself sad. 
 
 Very affectionately yours. 
 
 VI.— TO MRS. * • * 
 
 Milton Street, Dec. 8, 1827. 
 My dear Friend, 
 I was so pleased to find a letter from you on my 
 return : it seemed long since I had heard about you. 
 Meeting, I grieve to say, appears distant, as you 
 are ere this off to Brighton, and next week I am 
 off to Bristol ; I cannot consequently accept your 
 kind invite for Christmas, unless I should return 
 anything of time before my pupils want me: I 
 shall stay at least three weeks: I sympathize, be 
 assured, in all you feel, and wish I could be with 
 you. St. Paul says, "affliction though good is still 
 grievous ;" and I suppose he knew. Be not there- 
 fore as one is apt to be, depressed because of your 
 depression ; I mean by reproaching yourself with 
 
LETTERS. HI 
 
 it. I believe the Christian's appointment is not to 
 be happy — always — but to be peacefully content 
 to be otherwise when it pleases God. What frets 
 me most is, that you look thin and ill ; I wish I 
 could nurse you. For myself, I am brave. I have 
 had ten days of absolute enjoyment at * * * a 
 scene novel enough. To sit down, Lady * # * 
 and myself, every day with four and twenty men, 
 all staying in the house ; men distinguished too for 
 various kinds of talent, and for no common degree 
 of pious devotedness to God and his truth. I cer- 
 tainly felt considerable fatigue from the effort of 
 listening and understanding the deep matters in 
 question ; but this is not so bad as the excitement 
 of playing an active part oneself to amuse the 
 stupid ! It was the excitement only of deep think- 
 ing. I would not wish its continuance, however ; 
 the whole party began to knock up ; they dispersed 
 yesteday, and I came home to-day, with a head 
 full and a heart full of good and holy things, that 
 ought to last me for some season. I really have 
 never seen a fairer display of christian principle 
 and feeling — and that unity of heart which in such 
 disjointed company, nothing but christian love 
 could give ; I must tell you about it when we meet. 
 I think upon the whole my heart is lighter than it's 
 wont. The quiet respectability of my house con- 
 tinues to be very valuable. I believe I shall go to 
 * * * for a day with Mrs. * * * and will take to 
 your house Mrs. G's book ; if not, will leave it for 
 you here with Mrs. G . I have had a sitting 
 
112 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 to Sir Thomas Lawrence, and am to have another 
 this week : so we are in a fair way to finish ; so 
 much for self; but I would rather talk of you, 
 dear thing; you write in so much sadness, I long 
 to come and cheer you. But it must be, dear, that 
 we learn these lessons. He whom we follow, little 
 as it might seem He needed it, even He was made 
 perfect by suffering. How should we be perfected 
 without it 1 Your cup is in many respects so full 
 of this world's good there is more to dread for 
 you from too much prosperity, than from these 
 intervening hours of sadness ; it is necessary, doubt 
 not, that your heart should feel desolate amid sur- 
 rounding abundance, while others have fulness 
 amid surrounding desolation. It is the same be- 
 neficent and careful hand that mixes a bitterness 
 with the draught of prosperity, and sweetness in 
 the cup of destitution, and both to the same end. 
 It matters little which we drink, for all will soon 
 be over. I feel persuaded that the fashion of this 
 world is about to pass away, and all that we need 
 care for is to be ready; or, if not, the three-score 
 and ten are telling out. Write to me at Bristol, if 
 you like, for I am always glad to hear of you. I 
 
 shall be at Mr. John H 's till about the second 
 
 week in January. Give my love to * * *, and 
 kind regards to Mr. # * * Good bye, dear thing. 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
LITTERS. 123 
 
 VII.— TO .MRS. * * * 
 
 September 29, 182S. 
 
 My Dearest Thing, 
 My heart reproaches me for not writing to you ; 
 and though the time approaches when I trust to 
 see you, I think I must try to compound a letter. 
 The more so that I hear you have been again in 
 trouble, dear, with dangerous illness in your family, 
 the ingredient of bitterness, which it seems the 
 will of Providence to mix in your else full cup of 
 prosperity. I am grieved, but little surprised to 
 hear of poor* * *'s increased illness; I thought 
 her very ill ; for though strangers are apt to say, 
 and even Doctors are apt to say, that certain feel- 
 ings are all nervous, and might be resisted, I never 
 believe them in cases such as hers. I hope she is 
 recovering, as I have heard, and that you, little, 
 kind, busy darling, are freed from your anxiety 
 and not injured by your nursing. Write and tell 
 me so, if there is time — but I believe there is not 
 — I think to leave here the beginning of next week, 
 and to reach home before the end of it. This is 
 a sorry subject with me ; I grieve and am ashamed 
 to say how painful it is to me to think of coming 
 home. There is sin I fear, as well as painfulness 
 in the feeling ; for I ought not to hate the home 
 that heaven has assigned me ; I did not always do 
 so ; the time has been when I was entirely satis- 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 fled with it, and thought I would not change it for 
 another's home if I could ; and professed before 
 God that I desired nothing but to be able to keep 
 it. I wish that this feeling might return ; for it 
 must be wrong that I now dread always the time 
 of my returning, sicken at heart, whenever I think 
 of it; 1 catch at anything that promises to put it 
 off. I believe it was this made me give ear to a 
 journey to Edinburgh previous to my return ; but 
 some increase of indisposition blighting the spirit 
 of adventure, and some facility of returning to 
 town in company has decided me otherwise, and I 
 shall come home next week. I have had a most 
 prosperous journey ; every thing since I left Bris- 
 tol has turned out well, every facility of circum- 
 stance for health and enjoyment has been afforded 
 me, and there have been no reverses ; I have seen 
 a great deal to interest me by the way, especially 
 in Ireland, where I was detained by pleasure, not 
 by illness ; and in this delightful seclusion, with 
 my most precious and beloved friends after years 
 of separation, I am as happy as I can be, who for 
 years have ceased to know what it is to feel en- 
 tirely happy. The worst part of my summer his- 
 tory, is, that with " all advantages and means to 
 boot," I am not better. From the time of leaving 
 Bristol, I travelled to a certain point of betterness; 
 for forty hours I think I was w T ell — that was at 
 Holyhead ; since which I have travelled back to 
 where I set out : my hysterical feelings have 
 terribly increased ; my walking powers are not 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 115 
 
 amended : and I have nothing in prospect for my 
 return, but the same confinement, joylessness, and 
 uselessness, that preceded my departure. I have 
 again had medical advice, and received a multi- 
 tude of directions for things possible a*nd impossi- 
 ble, of which the former half, I suppose, will lose 
 their charm, for want of performance of the latter; 
 but I shall try. I believe, however, that the bet- 
 ter charm will be, by heaven's grace, to make up 
 my mind to accept as unseen good, what seems 
 evil ; to submit to idleness as a proof that God has 
 nothing for me to do ; and to joylessness as an 
 evidence that enjoyment would do me harm. It 
 seems that this would be greater wisdom than to 
 contend against feelings which have resisted the 
 most favourable circumstances. My Doctor's 
 most imperative prescription is, that I shall do no- 
 thing mentally, or bodily, that can be left undone. 
 What would you do with such a prescription as 
 this, dear little activity? Not observe it, I believe, 
 for all your faith and perseverance in medical di- 
 rections. I am very reluctant to leave this spot ; 
 but for one reason, I should like to stay here a 
 twelvemonth. I feel the want of my own church ; 
 the cold and comfortless Sundays that bring no 
 sermons, and scarcely any services to cheer and 
 gladden the heart. The country is beautiful, but 
 not so beautiful as Ireland. The county Wicklow 
 exceeds all I have seen in Wales or England for 
 picturesque beauty. I was better there, but never 
 well except upon the sea. Dear Thing, be at 
 
HQ LETTERS. 
 
 home when I return, and keep a warm corner in 
 your heart to welcome me, for I shall need some 
 pleasure amid the abundant sadness I shall feel, 
 and there will be none greater than to see you 
 again. Do not write unless you can do so before 
 Sunday; do not forget to love me, and to let 
 me be, 
 
 Very affectionately yours. 
 
 VIIL— TO MRS. * • ♦. 
 
 Monday, October, 1828. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 I was very happy to find your letter on my ar- 
 rival on Saturday ; I should have told you so be- 
 fore, but I had no senses that night, and yesterday 
 only got up to go to evening church. Here I am 
 however, as well as I may expect, considering that 
 I was in bed all the day previous to my journey, 
 and so unwell on the road as to be obliged to stay 
 two nights at Oxford. But I scarcely yet know 
 where or how I am. Come and see me as quickly 
 as you are able ; no fear of finding me out, and my 
 heart will rejoice to see you. Poor dear ! Do 
 not reproach yourself for sadness and ingratitude; 
 what you feel is merely the result of physical ex- 
 
LETTERS. U7 
 
 haustion, the after-misery of too much anxiety and 
 exertion. Treat it as such, and not as moral, far 
 less spiritual defection. Humour yourself and rest 
 yourself, and believe that God knows you are but 
 dust, and judges of you according to your feeble- 
 ness. No, dear, I do not think you fickle, but it is 
 a hard matter, when we know ourselves, to believe 
 that anybody can love us long; and as day by day 
 we find out that we are nothing, of all the great 
 things we have thought ourselves, there is an in- 
 voluntary apprehension that others will find it out 
 too, and cease to care for us. Happily there is no 
 fear of this from Him whose love is best, for He 
 knew all at first. I write in haste ; God bless you, 
 dear. My kindest love to * * # . Come soon. 
 Very affectionately, yours. 
 
 IX.— TO MRS. * * *. 
 
 January 31, 1829. 
 
 Dearest little precious, 
 To have your note to answer this evening, is a 
 blessing to my idleness; for idle, miserably idle are 
 my hours day by day. My cares with you, dear, 
 did me no harm, they only for a season diverted 
 my mind from the weight that oppresses it, and 
 made me seem the better that I am not; as I 
 always discover when the temporary excitement 
 
118 LETTERS. 
 
 subsides. And so I am neither worse nor better 
 than before I shared your painful tasks. You tell 
 stories, — I may know or I may not know, for 
 friendship's eye is keen, and conscience is treach- 
 erous ; the nature of the sins that weigh upon your 
 heart, and those which blacken my own, may or 
 may not be of the same nature; for I have never 
 shocked any eye but that of Heaven with the ex- 
 hibition of them. But of this I am quite certain, if 
 sympathy can be secured by the measure of sin, 
 of sorrow and of self-reproach, I can sympathize 
 with yours, for I defy them, yes, I do defy them to 
 exceed my own, whatever difference of character 
 they may bear. But we know that we are par- 
 doned both. The memory of these sins with God 
 is blotted out: thence is our joy: — with us it must 
 go to our graves, thence is our sorrow; and so far 
 from believing in an experience, all of sorrow or 
 all of joy, I believe the exquisiteness of the one 
 will, in every mind, be proportioned to the agony 
 of the other. And be our assurance what it may, 
 and it cannot be too much, there will be these re- 
 turns of bitter self-reproach. Satan knows his 
 opportunity too well to miss it. Whenever the 
 spirits are depressed by outward circumstances, 
 the nerves shattered by disease, or the enjoyment 
 of spiritual things overclouded; he comes in to 
 disturb what he cannot destroy; he brings to mind 
 the former things which he but knows too well. 
 Too well he knows the secret things of the heart 
 where once he reigned, and he lays them bare be- 
 
LETTERS. U9 
 
 fore us whenever opportunity serves, in hopes to 
 drive us from our hold on Christ. Thus he is 
 emphatically called in Scripture " the accuser of 
 the brethren," and he has more witness to bring 
 against them than any other, because he was a 
 partner in all their crimes. And because he may 
 no more accuse us before God, he accuses us to 
 ourselves, that we may judge ourselves when God 
 will no more judge us. This is your case at the 
 present moment, and it is often, very often mine. 
 Thank God ! experience has taught me to recog- 
 nize the countenance, and the language of that 
 accuser: though still he comes to tell again his 
 oft-detected lie, — " Too wicked, too wicked to be 
 safe I" Bid him get behind thee, dear, whenever 
 he tells thee so ; and appeal to Jesus, for he hates 
 that name, and flies the very sounding of it. As 
 to your thoughts of chastisement for past sin, I do 
 not think we may look for it with emotions of fear. 
 I think the chastisements of God upon his people 
 are prospective; retrospective never. Do you see 
 what I mean, dear; if I had yesterday a cankered 
 wound in my hand, the careful surgeon may come 
 to-day and cut it off. Not because it was diseased 
 yesterday, but that it may not be so to-morrow : if 
 he saw it cured, he would not cut it off. Exactly 
 in this point of view, I look upon the chastisements 
 the believer has to anticipate. No punishment but 
 that which is remedial; if the sin which last year 
 broke out into action of offence before God, be this 
 year existing unabated in my bosom, ready to 
 
120 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 break out again, then chastisement must come; the 
 bitter remedy must be applied ; the painful cure 
 performed, because by any means, or all means, I 
 must be made holy. This is all my idea of pun- 
 ishment for forgiven sin. The sin of yesterday 
 will not be punished, unless it be to prevent the sin 
 of to-morrow. Our Father will spare it if he can ; 
 there is no wrath in his bosom for the past: and if 
 my view be right, I see in it no ground of depres- 
 sion, but rather of rejoicing, of encouragement. 
 If we hate the sin more than its consequences, 
 which I believe we do, we shall rather hope than 
 fear, to see those consequences doing execution 
 upon the sin. It is very different from punishment, 
 resentful, retrospective punishment. Never think 
 of that. What is past of sin is forgotten ; what re- 
 mains of it in the bosom is remembered to be 
 eradicated. Oh ! you dear little creature, you 
 think your heart is worse than any other ; and well 
 you may, for it is the only one you ever saw. But 
 I could show you one to match it, if indeed it be 
 not worse, which I suspect it is. But of the 
 heights of joy, and of the depths of anguish, I 
 could almost say of hell itself, you can tell me 
 nothing that I do not know; and I am sure that 
 one state is as safe, though I say not as desirable, 
 as the other, and it is in the latter state that faith 
 is strongest: if it abide at all in the former case, 
 it participates so much the nature of sight. Whose 
 faith think you was strongest, the disciples' on the 
 Mount, or Jonah's in the deep 1 I conclude the 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 121 
 
 latter. Be comforted then, and if you be sunk as 
 far from light as he, do as he did, and it will soon 
 be day. But now, dear, if I have written you 
 comfort, I pray you w-rite me some — for I am as 
 sad as you, as low, as joyless, though not exactly 
 now in the same frame perhaps; and nobody com- 
 forts, nobody counsels me — well, I must wait too. 
 I am glad for the recovery of your party; as for 
 the prints, they have been in my way ever since; 
 but I could not remember to send them. Nor 
 shall I now 7 , unless you ask for them when you 
 come; yet have I kept them carefully. When 
 shall you come? not soon? Do not come on 
 Thursday, for I shall be out all day — 
 Your's, affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
 X.— TO MRS. * * *. 
 
 March 19, 1329. 
 
 Mv dearest Thing, 
 Your sadness is so much on my mind, and your 
 dear little mournful face, I cannot help waiting to 
 you. Yet what to say? Only to repeat the still- 
 repeated tale; for ever true, and still to be believed, 
 when all without us and within seems to belie it. 
 This is the case with me, and it may be with you. 
 I cannot see that God is good, I cannot feel it, but 
 11 
 
122 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 still I can believe it. I have not joy, I have not 
 comfort, — how then can I give it to you? But I 
 have faith, and with that, dear, I would try to en- 
 courage you. Your position is full of painful cir- 
 cumstances, and well I know what is the sickness 
 of baffled hope, and seemingly unanswered prayer. 
 All I can say to you is, to remind you of the 
 strong faith, the vivid joy, so lately granted you; 
 when your mountain seemed to stand so strong 
 that nothing could move it. I knew better, be- 
 cause I had tried all this before you: and I knew 
 that trial and much casting down must follow. 
 When the disciples were on the Mount, they 
 would have built tabernacles to remain there; but 
 only for a moment were they on that height, to 
 prepare them for the depths of temptation and 
 affliction they had to pass through. So Paul, 
 when he had been in the third heaven, and be- 
 cause he had been there, found it needful that he 
 should be humiliated and afflicted to prevent spi- 
 ritual pride. Your case is similar. You had so 
 bright an enjoyment of God, so full a taste of the 
 freedom which his entire salvation gives, to ena- 
 ble and prepare you for all the trials of your faith, 
 and all the depressions on your spirit that have 
 come upon you since, and may be still to come; 
 and you will not mistrust in darkness Him you 
 have beheld in light. It were but a little matter 
 to trust him and love him then. The excellence 
 and reality of your faith will prove itself by loving 
 and trusting him now; by believing that all is good 
 
LETTERS. J23 
 
 when all seems evil ; by hoping when there seems 
 no ground of hope; by giving praises in the midst 
 of sorrow. This, dear, is the best I can say to 
 you: because, to say that you have not cause for 
 fear and cause for sorrow, is not to speak truth ; 
 and though I may truly say I yet hope to see your 
 fears removed, it is a more Christian tone of con- 
 solation, to say that God will support and bless 
 you in the midst of trouble, than that he will avert 
 it, — the which he has certainly not promised, 
 though frequently he does it in answer to our 
 prayers. And may he so to yours, dear, or rather 
 to ours, for I pray for you daily. I wish you 
 would soon write and tell me how you go on. 
 And particularly do not let Satan harass you with 
 thoughts of self-reproach, as if, if you had done 
 other than you did, or had been other than you 
 were, things would have come out otherwise. 
 That is a favourite lie of his, to harass the grieved 
 spirit. That it is one, be sure. The salvation of 
 any one soul, cannot depend on any human agen- 
 cy ; what God means to do, he puts it perhaps 
 upon some honoured agent to perform, but not in 
 a way to be hindered by their unworthiness, or 
 defeated by their unfaithfulness. To think this, is 
 to take salvation out of God's hands into our own, 
 and does him much dishonour. * ****** 
 Good bye, dear. It is a great effort to write even 
 this scrap, for my spirits are so bad, my mind so 
 gloomy, I think it best to abstain from writing 
 
1 24 LETTERS. 
 
 to my friends, lest I give unfit expression to my 
 feelings. 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
 XL— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 Nov. 28, 1829. 
 
 My dearest Thing, 
 
 I was wishing much for the postman to bring 
 me one of the well-known notes that always come 
 in so welcome. There is no perceptible reason 
 why I should not come to you next week, if I am 
 in the least degree worth your having. This only 
 I am inclined to doubt. I have not been so well 
 the last week, and my spirits have been low be- 
 yond what I can account for by any known cause. 
 I was so much better in this respect, the only thing 
 really painful in my illness, that I cared little com- 
 paratively for the rest ; but this week I am quite 
 down again, with little relish or desire for any- 
 thing; and scarcely able to control my tears. 
 Under this circumstance, I should say to anybody's 
 ask but yours, I will come if I am better, but To 
 you I still say, I will come if you like me. I be- 
 lieve, however, that the close weather may be the 
 cause of my being so unwell, which the lapse of a 
 week may make a change in. How I want to see 
 
LETTERS- 125 
 
 you I cannot say. I feel great hope that your 
 anxiety for Mr. * * * is gradually subsiding, and 
 will be removed. For poor * * * 's case I feel 
 anxious, but not despairing. You, dear thing, are 
 in the hands of Him who loves you, and has set 
 his seal upon you to secure you for his own : harm 
 cannot come to you, though sorrow may, and even 
 in the midst of it you will be as Paul, " sorrowing, 
 yet always rejoicing." I want to gossip with you 
 sadly, to cheer and to be cheered. If I know not 
 how my writings can comfort you, dear, as little 
 do you know how it comforts me to hear of it ; for 
 in the great sadness of my spirit at times, I have 
 the feeling of being useless to everybody and 
 worthless for anything; everything I have done 
 seems wasted and amiss, with a hopeless discou- 
 ragement ever to do more. To believe, if I can 
 believe it, that one hour of anybody's sadness has 
 been lightened by my means, is a real medicine to 
 my own. Under some such feeling, after receiving 
 some such commendations, I penned the few lines 
 I have enclosed; no, not penned, this is the first 
 penning, but jumbled in my head. They come to 
 you, because they mean what they say — they ask 
 a prayer; and perhaps where people mean what 
 they say, as you do, about my writings, they may 
 win one; so here they come: at least they will di- 
 vert your mind for ten minutes. I have received 
 a letter from Mrs. H. M to-day, with an ac- 
 count of my poor friend's death, which did not 
 take place till last week, and a message from her 
 11* 
 
126 LETTERS. 
 
 death-bed ; it was most happy. God be thanked I 
 do not mourn her death, she was too miserable for 
 friendship to wish to keep her. But a thousand 
 recollections of by-gone days, life's broken pro- 
 mises and abortive hopes, have come to me in the 
 reading of this letter, and perhaps not raised my 
 spirits. In sadness or in joy, still, 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
 The thanks be to another — look you there 
 Upon the midnight's solitary star; — 
 It is not hers; the light she sheds on you, 
 She borrow'd it — she soon may want it too. 
 
 But oh ! if ever on a night of yours, 
 The poet's lay has scatter'd moonlight hours — 
 Shed one bright beam upon a doubtful road, 
 Or ting'd with silver streaks one parting cloud : 
 
 If ever, by the glimmering of her light, 
 You 'scaped the snare intended for your feet ; 
 Or from the altar of her hopes have won 
 A spark of fire to re- illume your own : 
 
 Then think upon her when her light grows dim, 
 When falls upon her disk no sunshine stream ; 
 Think when she wanders, from observance gone, 
 Perhaps in darkness, and perhaps alone. 
 
 It may be that in all her hours of wane, 
 None pays to her the sunbeam back again ; 
 Nor any star begirts with grateful light 
 The clouds that hang upon her bosom's night. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 127 
 
 Go then to God — and if before the throne, 
 There comes the thought of ought that she has done 
 Leave there the thanks, and leave the praises there - 
 But Oh ! remember, that she needs the prayer ! 
 
 XII. TO MRS. * * * 
 
 Nov. 1S29. 
 My dearest Friexd, 
 It is never any trouble to me to get your notes, 
 no matter what brings them. I enclose you the 
 letter you desire. They will see by it my opinion 
 of the miracles, and also of the party that have 
 promulgated them; and if what I think might be 
 of importance to any, I wish it were proclaimed 
 from the house-tops. Ves : I too have heard Mr. 
 * * * since his ocular demonstrations, and I heard 
 him say that the regeneration of the soul by the 
 Holy Spirit, does not make a man the temple of 
 the Holy Ghost, but these miraculous gifts do: that, 
 not to believe them icithout proof, is not to believe 
 in God ! Would you take the authority of such a 
 bedlamite as this, even for what he says that he 
 has seen? I would not. Dr. Chalmers did say that 
 of Irving, but it was three years ago — antecedent 
 to any of these flights that he has taken. I am 
 grieved exceedingly that Mrs. * * # has followed 
 this party: but I am not exactly surprised. It is 
 
128 LETTERS. 
 
 to be observed, that all the adherents of Mr. Ir- 
 ving have believed these miracles, and not one in- 
 dividual that I have met with beside. I certainly 
 do counsel you, for yourself, not to trouble your- 
 self about them; but if it does occur, as in spite 
 of ourselves it sometimes will, that we must speak 
 for others' sake, then it is needful our protest 
 against them be plain, firm, and decided. I am 
 resolved for my own part how to act. I will keep 
 out of their way as much as I can: when I can- 
 not do this, I will refuse to discuss their doctrines; 
 but whenever compelled to speak, there shall be 
 no mistake as to what I think about it. Of course 
 you know, or will know, that * * * and the girls 
 are going, — actually going, to Scotland, for the 
 avowed purpose of seeing these wonder-workers. 
 Mr. • * * has a right to please himself in the ob- 
 jects of his travel, to be sure; and that is no busi- 
 ness of mine — but girls, young girls ! Alas! dear, 
 there are more kinds of revolutions in the world 
 than one; and if we live long, we shall see more 
 things overturned than the thrones of the Bourbons. 
 'I am just returned from a dinner party, where I 
 was obliged, a contre caeur, you may believe, to 
 take part against a disciple of prophecy; because, 
 with no very deep knowledge, as I fear, of Christ 
 crucified, he chose to propound, that every man 
 who resists these views of the Advent, wilfully de-» 
 nies the word of God ; in short, that they are es- 
 sential and indispensable. Now is not this enough 
 to make one, if it might be, deny one's creed ? 
 
LETTERS. 1 29 
 
 Thank you, dear, I know you wish me happy, but 
 I am too miserable to say words about it. My 
 head has been very bad during the cold weather, 
 but is better again this week. Write often. 
 
 Very affectionately yours. 
 
 XIII. TO MRS. * * * 
 
 February 15, 1830. 
 You are such a sensitive little darling I really do 
 not know how to deal with you, much as I am ac- 
 customed to hasty people. Oblige me, dear, at 
 least by reading my note again when you are cool; 
 you will surely perceive that you mistook every- 
 thing in it: that it was not intended or calculated 
 to lower you in your own opinion, or sadden your 
 heart. You will see that I said your note had not 
 caused my silence. And when I spoke of your un- 
 sanctified words, thoughts, &c, I had no idea of 
 making a charge against you, but to assent to that 
 of which I thought you complained; which I 
 thought you knew; which I thought every Chris- 
 tian knew ; which if I had said of myself, I should 
 have expected you to assent to; and which I 
 should not have contradicted ha3 I heard it said of 
 any saint alive. I did not, my precious little thing, 
 mean to say that your character was more unsanc- 
 tified than my own. I declare before God I do not 
 
230 LETTERS. 
 
 think so. You have many advantages over me, in 
 natural disposition, and the greatest advantage I 
 have over you is in experience ; I see your faults 
 because I have committed them ; I know the 
 fallacy of your words, because I used to say them ; 
 I perceive your mistake because I have suffer- 
 ed from the same; and I warn you of dangers, 
 because I fell into them myself unwarned. Far 
 be it from me to tell you, you are belter than you 
 think. I believe you are worse than ever you 
 knew or can know. But I meant to tell you, and 
 I thought what I had said would have that effect, 
 that you were not to be cast down by the dis- 
 covery of faults that every saint must discover at 
 every step of his progress heavenward. My dear 
 thing, do you repeat every Sabbath on your knees 
 before God, that there is " no health in you," and 
 yet feel surprised and pained on the Monday to 
 discover that you have faults, or to hear that others 
 have perceived them ? The time will be, and per- 
 haps not long first, that you will never feel asham- 
 ed or sad, but when you are commended. I would 
 not for any thing have said what I did, if I had 
 thought it would sadden you ; even what I re- 
 marked of your manner, I should not have said, 
 had I not understood you to complain of it; and 
 though true, I wished you not to distress yourself 
 about it, as if it were an evil really in your heart. 
 I must have been very awkward to hurt when I 
 meant to heal ; but, dear thing, you must not 
 attach too much importance to what people write 
 
LETTERS. J 31 
 
 in moments of such intense suffering as I am 
 
 - 
 
 under; it affects our expressions, and often makes 
 bitter what should be kind, and is really meant to 
 be so. You think too well of me a great deal, 
 which is an evil in our friendship, because you 
 expect better from me than is in me ; and attach 
 importance to opinions that are not worth a straw, 
 and when we differ you are fretted, as if I were 
 not just as likely to be wrong as you. I will tell 
 you something Mr. Howells said yesterday. 
 Preaching on the words of St. Paul, " Of whom I 
 am the chief," he remarked, that Paul does not 
 say he had been, but that he actually was, at that 
 time, the chief of sinners : although he was per- 
 haps, the greatest character, next to Christ him- 
 self, who ever lived on earth. He added too, that 
 he believed the words should be taken literally as 
 true, that not only did Paul think himself to be, 
 but that he actually was, the chief of sinners. 
 Now dearest, be comforted ; Think as ill of your- 
 self as you like; but do not be surprised, do not be 
 cast down by the discovery. Read my note again, 
 and see how different it is from what you thought. 
 I love you very dearly, I am quite as much hurt 
 as you can be when you say we do not understand 
 or suit each other. I do not believe it. Your 
 kindness and affection have been of great value to 
 me in my great sorrow, and will be so still ; no- 
 body has contributed more to my comfort than 
 you have done since I knew you. If I said you 
 cannot help me, I meant at this exact moment ; 
 
]32 LETTERS. 
 
 because I must stay at home; and your occupa- 
 tions necessarily keep you from me. You are my 
 own little precious, and though these may seem 
 terms of which I am prodigal, I never will use one 
 of them unless I mean what I say. With regard 
 to pain you have given, dear, you did not mean it; 
 I was never angry, though I was pained ; — you 
 did me no wrong. I have written with difficulty, 
 but I could not forbear. My head-ache is intense; 
 I can hardly describe the state it was in last night 
 from the excitement of going to church in the 
 morning: where, by the by, I found out how much 
 that which is good may be exceeded by that which 
 is best. You know I have been pleased, and yet 
 in hearing Mr. Howells again I wonder how I 
 could be, so much is he superior to everything 
 else ! Now as you construe everything to your 
 own disadvantage, you will remember that I said 
 you would not like him. I meant no depreciation 
 of you or him in saying so ; I feel very curious to 
 know how it would be; but I think his irregularity 
 would put your mind into utter confusion before 
 you had time to compass his meaning; some of his 
 astounding propositions would so overset you at 
 the commencement, you would not sufficiently re- 
 cover yourself to enjoy the rest; — this is what I 
 meant. 
 
 I meant you to have this by the first post to-mor- 
 row 7 , but I have had so many visitors ; and now I 
 am so tired I cannot write more, and my dinner 
 is come in. Dear little Thing, you can do me 
 
LETTERS. j 33 
 
 good even now — you can pray for me — and I be- 
 lieve that is a greater good than most that we 
 can ever do for each other. 
 
 Very affectionately yours. 
 
 XIV.— TO MRS. * * * 
 Hampstead, Monday, April 26, 1830. 
 
 My Dear Thixg, 
 How much the few added miles has really sepa- 
 rated us, I feel every day. It was not, however, 
 an uncounted cost. You, as my dearest and 
 kindest friend, I considered the greatest loss : but 
 I must of course feel the loss of my London socie- 
 ty generally : and do so very much. But if the 
 sacrifice is only what I calculated upon, the gain 
 is much more; for I am better beyond my expec- 
 tations. The exhilaration I feel in wandering 
 about this beautiful heath, is more than I have felt 
 since our summer excursion ; and even my home 
 feelings are much improved. I have felt even an 
 inclination some days to resume my pen and en- 
 lighten the world again ; and have really had the 
 long unknown sensation of wishing I had some- 
 thing to do: a very different sensation, I assure 
 you, from that I have so long suffered, of wishing 
 I had power to do something. So far, therefore, 
 I am satisfied and grateful for the change. I 
 12 
 
1 34 LETTERS. 
 
 have no pupils yet; but I dare say they will come; 
 when it pleases God to send them. I cannot be 
 anxious upon a matter which has been managed 
 without my foreseeing how it was to be, for these 
 twenty years past; during which I have never had 
 anything, nor ever wanted anything. I have 
 never known how any year's expenses were to be 
 provided, but they have been. This is ground 
 enough for reliance. But not to claim too much 
 for my trust in God, I must acknowledge the effi- 
 cacy of one great care to absorb all lesser ones. 
 ###*##*# Enough of self. I should not 
 have suffered your former letter to have remained 
 unanswered, dearest, had I known how to reply to 
 your expressions of sadness. This I did not, hav- 
 ing no clue to the cause, not even enough to judge 
 whether the trial were some external cross, or 
 some internal struggle with your soul's worst 
 enemy. In this uncertainty, I feared that if I at- 
 tempted to speak, I might say exactly the wrong 
 thing, and wound where I desired to comfort. 
 Your situation necessarily exposes you to many 
 external difficulties, but He that is for you is 
 greater than all that is against you ; be mild, firm, 
 and faithful, and you will pass safely through 
 every storm. To external conflicts, your own 
 character eminently exposes you ; but here too 
 you have no cause to feel: the battle must be 
 fought, but the victory is sure; you began it not in 
 your own strength, and therefore cannot lose it by 
 your own weakness. Go on in the strength of the 
 
LETTERS. 235 
 
 Lord, and fear no evil in the issue; nor any thing 
 in the way but sin ; the contact, the approach, 
 the semblance of sin: fear that increasingly, as 
 you would save yourself from those returns of 
 misery which are its genuine consequence. But I 
 am talking at random, and may well leave off. I 
 have promised to see the * * * if I am at * * * 
 while they are there ; then I shall make you go 
 with me, and show you to them, for I think they 
 would like you, and you would like them ; though 
 under all circumstances, formal visiting would 
 hardly perhaps be available. God bless you, dear; 
 it does grieve me not to see you, but I know it 
 cannot be otherwise : write soon. 
 
 Very affectionately yeurs, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
 XV.— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 Monday Evning, 1889. 
 
 My Dearest Frle.vd, 
 I was very sorry to miss your visit in town ; as 
 for writing, I deferred it till my return home. 
 Thank you now for your various communications, 
 all kind like yourself. The cap is very pretty, and 
 I am infinitely obliged? but have you not cheated 
 yourself in the outlay ? If not, I certainly cannot 
 complain of the expenditure, and am be-capped 
 
136 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 for some time. I am less surprised than grieved 
 that you are ill ; for I thought you seemed so ; 
 send me a better report, and do not be down- 
 hearted, dearest; lights and shadows are perpetu- 
 ally passing over this transitory scene. Things 
 look cheerless sometimes, we scarce know why; 
 and then the sun breaks out on them again ; and 
 all seems well, though nothing is really changed. 
 Thus it must be for a season, but all will pass, and 
 endless serenity is beyond. Yes, dear, I did en- 
 joy, for novelty's sake, my little stay in London, 
 and the convenience it afforded me of doing busi- 
 ness and seeing folks. Perhaps I enjoyed the as- 
 sociations of its sights and sounds with by-gone, 
 but unforgotten misery. And certainly I enjoyed 
 the comparison of its turmoil with my quiet home, 
 its insipid society and empty converse, with the 
 vivid, deep realities that form my delights apart 
 from it. It is well to look upon the world some- 
 times, to learn how blessed we are to have escap- 
 ed its barrenness. What bliss do men forego ! 
 What trash do they take up with instead ! This is 
 the conclusion one comes to everywhere, be it 
 town or country. Let the Christian go where he 
 will, his greatest happiness is that which he takes 
 with him : and if this is true of all, how doubly 
 true of me, whose temporal as well as spiritual 
 happiness is independent of place or circumstance, 
 — is that which the world did not give and cannot 
 add to. I am very glad to be at home again. 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
LETTERS. 237 
 
 XVI— TO MISS * * * 
 
 Hampstead, June, 1830. 
 My dear Girl, 
 
 * * * * I have heard this story before, but things 
 are so diluted in the retail of society, I am glad to 
 have it from the manufactory, I was going to say; 
 but that is to prejudge the case. I have also been 
 often asked before what I say to it. I generally 
 answer that " I say nothing at present, but that I 
 do not believe it." I will not put you off with so 
 brief an answer; I am not likely to let a thing of 
 this sort, perhaps of any sort, pass by me unconsi- 
 dered, though I do often refuse to discuss them 
 with my young friends ; thinking it best for them 
 to hold their tongues, whatever it may be for me. 
 
 I have a very decided opinion upon this subject, 
 which I can have no objection to give when seri- 
 ously asked, reserving to myself the right to change 
 it, if ever I see occasion. According to Mr. Ers- 
 kine himself, two things are to be considered in 
 estimating the truth of any report, viz., the charac- 
 ter of the narrator, and the credibility of the nar- 
 ration. I confess that to me, the former conside- 
 ration weighs all against the reception of this story. 
 The party with whom it originates, and among 
 it is at present confined, is certainly not marked 
 with any character of sobriety. They are pious 
 and talented, but they are not sober-minded ; they 
 love novelty better than their daily bread. The sim- 
 12* 
 
J 38 LETTERS. 
 
 plicity of divine truth, and the equal dealings of 
 divine providence, are not to their taste; they have 
 mystified the plainest doctrines of the gospel; they 
 have made war upon every thing common and re- 
 ceived ; they have quarrelled with their mother- 
 tongue, because it can be understood. Having ' 
 thrown the whole church into confusion, they have 
 called their own uproar, a "sign of the times?" 
 and denied salvation to all who will not run with 
 them to like excess of riot. Such a party is ex- 
 actly the quarter from which one might expect 
 such a story, and the last from which one would 
 receive it. Then the character of these miracles, 
 so much in unison with their own excited feelings; 
 their expectation of the Redeemer's coming; their 
 love of His appearing; the readiness with which 
 enthusiastic minds always expect what they desire, 
 and imaginative ones fancy what they expect; 
 every thing identifies the offspring with its parent- 
 age, the wonder-workers with their wonders. Pi- 
 ous people are not always wise, and clever people, 
 by reason of their temperament, are peculiarly 
 liable to extravagances where their feelings are 
 interested. So far from considering the people as 
 credible witnesses, I own that any thing coming 
 from them at this moment, would wear to me a 
 suspected character: Then the probability of the 
 narration ! You know that I expect as fully as 
 they do, the events of " the last day ;" but the more 
 I believe of this, the more I am upon my guard 
 against the "Lo here! or [,o there!" with which 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 139 
 
 the levity of men anticipates the majestic walk of 
 Deity. I know that God can do what he will, and 
 will do what he has promised; but I am accustom- 
 ed to adjust my faith to the promise, not the pro- 
 mise to my faith, as is the fashion now with some. 
 Though it is true the Scripture nowhere says that 
 miracles shall cease, I am equally sure, it nowhere 
 says that they shall not. We can only judge there- 
 fore of what God meant to do, by what he has 
 done, and it is certain they have ceased for many 
 centuries. Whether God recalled these gifts for 
 some good purpose of his own, or whether man 
 forfeited them by unbelief, I do not know, — for the 
 same reason; the Scripture lias not declared it. 
 If the former, I doubt not God will fully manifest 
 his purpose, to restore them when His time is come; 
 and I can wait till he does so. If the latter, I must 
 have some evidence that the faith of James Mac- 
 donald, and Mary Campbell, is more than the faith 
 of Luther and Latimer, of saints and martyrs, of 
 men of God both dead and living, who, with equal 
 zeal and sounder minds, have followed Christ, but 
 worked no miracles, before I believe that increase 
 of faith has brought back the gifts. 
 
 There is one who says, " If I testify of myself 
 my testimony is not true ;" but these people not 
 only testify of their own gifts, but give the credit 
 of them to their own faith, which they represent 
 to be more than all the faith that has been in ex- 
 ercise for sixteen or seventeen centuries. Perhaps 
 vou will sav. " But hern are farts, how can von 
 
1 40 LETTERS. 
 
 account for the delusion, without supposing wilful 
 imposture in the witnesses?" This I cannot, nei- 
 ther can I explain how Papal Rome performed her 
 well-attested wonders, nor how Joanna Southcote's 
 absurdities deluded 40,000 people; nor howFrince 
 Hohenlohe made the lame to walk. All must stand 
 together till these new miracles have some better 
 ground to stand on, than the honest credulity of 
 those who think they have witnessed them. Re- 
 specting the recoveries, I am not prepared to say 
 how far the senses may be the dupes of the ima- 
 gination. I have seen enough of this, to believe 
 much more; and without a miracle, we see every 
 day, the " speculations and anticipations of physi- 
 cians," baffled by the recovery of the patient, from 
 a seeming death-bed; and that often by no means 
 but strong mental excitement. As for the tongues, 
 I can imagine nothing easier for man or woman, 
 than to utter what neither themselves nor any one 
 else can understand. And the Chinese characters! 
 I have been told there are 8000 in the language ; 
 she must be an unlucky wight indeed, who could 
 not hit upon something like some of them; parti- 
 cularly if she is familiar with the outside of a chest 
 of tea. I must really wait the interpretation of 
 their tongues, and the use to be made of them, be- 
 fore I treat this part as any thing but a gross ab- 
 surdity, calculated to discredit all the rest. To 
 tell the truth, if the Spirit would constrain some of 
 these people to hold their tongues, rather than to 
 talk, I should be much more disposed to admit a 
 
LETTERS |41 
 
 miracle : the gift of silence would be an extraor- 
 dinary blessing to the Church at this time. Mr. 
 E * * # 's letter is not the writing of a sensible man. 
 His talent and piety we all know; and it is sad in- 
 deed, that men who have been distinguished in the 
 Church, should occupy themselves with turning 
 the heads of silly women, by over-excitement of 
 their pious feelings. Respecting the young clergy- 
 man you speak of as having propounded these 
 things from the pulpit, I truly wish he had been 
 older. * * * * Till you are forty, dear child — 
 which I believe will be some days yet — I entreat 
 you to have nothing to do with these things. Be- 
 lieve that the Lord is at hand ! Love his appear- 
 ing; watch and pray that you enter not into temp- 
 tation ; whether he come at the second watch, or 
 the third, be you ready; be sure that you have 
 oil in your lamp, and then wait in quietness, till 
 the footsteps of our Lord himself arouse you; but 
 if any one say to you, "Lo here ! Lo there !" go 
 not after them. 
 
 Caroline Fry. 
 
142 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 XVII.— TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 Paris, Hotel cTAngleterre. 
 
 Juin 11, 1831. 
 
 My dear Martha, 
 
 My letter has no chance of a welcome, unless it 
 comes from Paris, therefore I have not written be- 
 fore ; and therefore I make haste to write now ; 
 for we have been long on the road, and do not 
 intend to stay here long. The road, indeed, had 
 as much interest for me as the capital: all was 
 new, all was changed from the moment we set 
 foot in France. I was pleased at Havre, and at 
 Rouen delighted ; but with nothing more than with 
 a delightful passage of ninety miles up the Seine, 
 from one place to the other, amidst the most en- 
 chanting scenery. However, my brother will lis- 
 ten to nothing short of Paris, and I suppose him in 
 so much hurry to hear of that, that I must not 
 pause to tell you by the way, that I am quite w 7 ell, 
 quite happy, too happy almost for this passing 
 world. But it is God who has given me all, and 
 what he gives, is blessed, is safe, and may be taken 
 fearlessly. Well, then, of Paris — what of Paris? 
 I think, as a whole, it does not equal my expecta- 
 tions ; it does not equal London ; if things so unlike 
 may be compared at all. But there are things in 
 it which exceed my expectation. As contrasted 
 with London, you miss the air of wealth, of studied 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 143 
 
 luxury, niceness, and abundance ; the splendid 
 equipages, the magnificent shops, and the crowds 
 of well-dressed people. My first impression of the 
 streets was of meanness, neglect, and inconve- 
 nience. But then where in London do you find 
 the picturesque ; here it is everywhere. And the 
 public buildings — these exceed my expectation — 
 so many, so magnificent, so tasteful. But above 
 all things, and most above my imagination, is Pere 
 la Chaise. Perhaps I never saw anything that so 
 satisfied me. I thought it would be beautiful, but 
 artificial: this it is not; it is a forest of tombs; it 
 is impossible to give you any idea of what it is ; 
 art has done all it can, and nature has outdone it. 
 Wealth has adorned its sepulchre, and glory re- 
 corded its deeds; but the aspect of all is death: — 
 the air is still as the grave, wild, ruinous, and ro- 
 mantic. I never have seen anything so impres- 
 sive. Of much that I have seen with pleasure, 
 and shall hereafter be glad that I have seen, per- 
 haps this alone I shall think of hereafter with a 
 longing wish to return to it. After all its boast- 
 ings, Paris derives its chief interest to me, from 
 the events with which every part of it is identified ; 
 the important past, the overhanging future; every 
 street, every palace is historic ground, so closely 
 associated with all that one has thought, felt, or 
 read, for thirty years past. I never can disunite 
 the spot from the deeds that have been done in it: 
 and thence feel intense interest everywhere. As 
 to all that people find attractive in this vain capi- 
 
144 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 tal, I see nothing in it ; I feel not a wish to stay, 
 nor a wish to return to it again : though I shall 
 always be glad to have seen it. The maniere de 
 vivre is pleasing only for its novelty. It is very 
 amusing to dine a few times at a table d'hote, and 
 taste the savoury varieties of a coffee-house din- 
 ner; but it is adverse to the habits, tastes, and 
 feelings of our English nature: it is all show, all 
 outside, all frivolity and nonsense. And the peo- 
 ple — they are so ugly, so unnoble, and withal have 
 such ill-shapen heads, I am already tired of the 
 sight of them. There is not the slightest appear- 
 ance of evil working at present; but it is impossi- 
 ble to traverse the courts and galleries of these 
 magnificent palaces, without asking one-self what 
 murderous deeds are to be done there next. To 
 those who think that Bonaparte " is not and yet 
 is," there is something very striking in his unfin- 
 ished works; the monuments of his greatness 
 standing as he left them; half-built, the scaffolding 
 still round them, as if they waited his returning. 
 The most exquisite building, to my taste, is St. 
 Genevieve, now called the Pantheon, desecrated 
 by tombs of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the so-called 
 great. We have been to St. Cloud to-day, which 
 is really delightful. I suppose nobody will be so 
 foolish as to compare the gardens of the Luxem- 
 bourg and Tuilleries with the Regent's and Hyde 
 Park ; but there is an effect in the artificial alleys 
 and close shaven trees, and formal avenues, which 
 I did not calculate upon : far enough from the 
 
LETTERS. J45 
 
 cheerful beauty of our plantations, there is still a 
 touch of sublimity in them — dark, gloomy, unna- 
 tural, they seem the work of other ages, and of 
 other beings : consequently excite more interest 
 than I anticipated. This is a poor sketch, written 
 in haste, and at random : but we are out all day, 
 and tired enough by night. Accept this fare, and 
 excuse this unworthy epistle. It is the most I can 
 do. Perhaps it is more interesting to you than if 
 I had filled it, as I might, with thanks and acknow- 
 ledgments for all your kindness, and pleasant re- 
 miniscences of Desford festivities. My beloved 
 husband cannot forget it, and will not forego the 
 wish and hope to visit it again : it has made so 
 great an impression. 
 
 Kindest love to my brother, and whoever of the 
 party are still about you. You must enjoy, I 
 think, a season of tranquillity, after the distraction 
 we imposed upon you. Excuse all else. 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 13 
 
1 4Q LETTERS. 
 
 XVIII.— TO MRS. * * *. 
 
 Keavil, 1832. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 I think I promised you a letter, and I think you 
 wish for one ; if in this last I err, it is a pardona- 
 ble offence, since it only assumes that you think of 
 me absent, and desire to know what I am doing. 
 Indeed, dear, I am doing nothing but enjoying my- 
 self, and giving thanks, — wondering thanks, to 
 Him who fills my cup so full, and gives me so 
 much capability of tasting its sweetness. Thus 
 far all has been prosperous with us, and all de- 
 lightful; though we have not yet reached the point 
 of attraction, the Scottish Highlands. But how 
 much there is to delight one everywhere, when 
 one is in the mind to be delighted: when no clouds 
 without or mists within, obscure the charms of 
 nature's prodigality of beauty. I was immoderate- 
 ly happy at Cambridge, where 1 had not antici- 
 pated much pleasure ; with Scarborough, I was, 
 as I expected, greatly pleased : we took a lodging 
 there for five days, and greatly enjoyed the inter- 
 val of repose. Our voyage thence to Edinburgh 
 was most favourable; with the exception of two 
 hours, I remained all night upon deck. But Edin- 
 burgh — I suppose you have seen it — if not, I shall 
 not describe it, partly because I cannot, and part- 
 ly because all descriptions are tiresome. Be it 
 
LETTERS. 1 47 
 
 enough, that I lost my senses at the first sight of 
 it, and have not quite recovered them. We so- 
 journed here six days, and now are staying with 
 my beloved friends in Fifeshire. Dear things, it 
 is a melancholy pleasure to see them ; and if one 
 had not cause enough and sense enough of grati- 
 tude before, we well might learn it here ; in com- 
 paring our health, and vigour, and cheerful capa- 
 city for enjoyment, with the blighted helplessness 
 of these sweet loves, who, deprived of much that 
 was most dear, have not power to enjoy what is 
 left. 
 
 Tobermory, Aug. 2. 
 O dear ! I never had time to finish this letter, 
 and I found that if I had, I could not tell you when 
 we should be in England, so I have carried it in 
 my pocket till it is nearly worn out ; still I am 
 anxious to acquit me of my promise. We have 
 had no letters since we left home, having ordered 
 them to Glasgow, where we shall not be till next 
 Saturday. It is impossible to tell you all we have 
 done and seen since I wrote the above. Our jour- 
 ney has been most successful throughout; it has 
 been without accident or impediment. You know 
 Loch Katrine and the Trosachs, and perhaps you 
 know the yet greater beauties of Loch Lomond. 
 We spent last Sunday in Inverary, the most en- 
 chanting of places. We were at Staffa and Iona 
 yesterday, and to-morrow really start on our way 
 homeward; we think to spend the next Sunday at 
 
14S 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Glasgow : and if we do, I will try to hear your 
 favourite Dr. Wardlaw; indeed we have been so 
 fortunate as to hear a good sermon everywhere, 
 except at Cambridge, the school of divinity. On 
 Monday or Wednesday, nothing occurring to pre- 
 vent it, we intend to embark for Liverpool. There 
 I hope we shall not be detained at all, but proceed 
 to Bangor. * # # # 
 
 I do not know what will become of us beyond 
 Bangor, we shall probably be tired of moving, and 
 stay at some place in Wales till our time is out. 
 I do not feel any expectation of meeting with you ; 
 but am wishing that at least you should know 
 where we are. To accomplish which, we have 
 made two attempts to buy a pennyworth of pens, 
 the purchase has supplied a stick ; with which I 
 finish. The Laird of the place has just been, I do 
 not know why, to ask us to dinner; and at six in 
 the morning we start for Oban. All these little 
 towns are so pretty, I know not which is best — ac- 
 commodations generally good, and conveyances 
 procured with facility : supposing you can ride in 
 a cart and walk over a mountain. The weather, 
 except a little too cold sometimes, has been de- 
 lightful, we have not had an hour's hinderance 
 from it. * # # 1 must make free to say, no High- 
 land lass can better get up a mountain than your 
 humble servant. Indeed the air is so exhilarating, 
 you gain strength at every mile, instead of losing 
 it. Farewell, in haste. If you are in Wales, let 
 me hear of it at Liverpool, or at Bangor, should 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 149 
 
 this letter reach you in time to do so. Tell the 
 world of our well-being ; this is my first and only 
 letter since I started. 
 
 Ever affectionately, 
 
 C. Wilson. 
 
 XIX— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 January, 1833. 
 
 Dearest Friend, 
 It is quite time for another " how d'ye do ;" but 
 I have heard that you are well again, else I should 
 have inquired before. Lady * * * says you will 
 not come and see anybody : so to see you I must 
 not hope. It has not appeared practicable for us 
 to come to you before going to Bristol, otherwise 
 I was not unmindful of your kind wishes on that 
 head. Now it seems as if we should go on the 
 Saturday of next week, or on the Monday of the 
 week following ; and we think to return within a 
 fortnight ; if you have anything to send or to say, 
 make it ready. We shall of course see Mrs. * * *, 
 if she is at home. I dare say you will hear some 
 
 report of our well-being from the S s, who 
 
 have just left our near neighbourhood. Tell me 
 
 of her health, if you know, when you write, for 
 
 I feel really interested about it ; her's is such a 
 
 13* 
 
] 50 LETTERS. 
 
 dreadful complaint ; I can only wonder how so 
 much pain is endured as it is. I do not bear 
 bodily pain myself, which makes me feel more for 
 others. What a mercy to have none to bear ; that 
 is the burthen of my song ; but I do not mean to 
 be talking of myself, I must refer to your note to 
 talk of you. Dear thing, I understand it all. More 
 consciences are stained with "flagrant sin," than 
 we know of: and doubtless what you say is true ; 
 the stain remains within, when it is blotted from 
 the book of heaven, still the sad memory is a cure 
 for worse things than itself, most bitter as it is. 
 It is a perpetual antidote to pride, an ever-ready 
 reproof to discontent : a good help to penitence 
 and self-renunciation ; and above all, it is that 
 which, in its very bitterness, makes the heart to 
 run over, in its fulness of gratitude for redeeming 
 love, and preferential grace. Mr. Howells said, 
 if he were to define salvation in few words, he 
 would say it was "deliverance from ourselves." 
 Now it is when we see ourselves in that abomi- 
 nable, detestable light, in which the memory of 
 gross transgression places us, that we perceive 
 the full value of this deliverance — this salvation. 
 When could David have felt it as he did when 
 Nathan said to him, " The Lord also has put away 
 thy sin." It is true there was a " nevertheless" — 
 — which followed — as I believe there generally is 
 on sin indulged — a "nevertheless" of temporal 
 evil, incident upon it. But how is it lightened still 
 by that first sentence, " The Lord has put away 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 151 
 
 thy sin." This has been written a day or two, 
 and never got finished ; never mind. I do not 
 think we shall go before Monday. Will you be 
 so kind as to give me again the receipt for making 
 Scotch woodcock, for some of my former cooks 
 took it off with them. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours. 
 
 XX.— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 January, 1833. 
 
 Dearest Dear, 
 I should not have treated you with such neglect- 
 ful silence, but our Hampstead visit being put off 
 and still uncertain, on account of our friend's 
 health there, I knew not how to answer you : and 
 still I do not know, but hope to do so on my hus- 
 band's coming home. I only know now that we 
 always like to come to you, and that we have 
 some reasons for going out next week, — but this 
 hereafter. I am so glad you are better. No, in- 
 deed, dearest, I shall not tell you that having 
 Christ, and being therefore rich in hope, you can 
 want nothing more. I know that when sure, quite 
 sure of the pardon of sin, we do want more — we 
 want to be rid of it. Such is the beautiful design 
 of God. We are safe in being justified; but we 
 are not happy, but in proportion as we are sancti- 
 
1 52 LETTERS. 
 
 fied ; the former satisfies our fears, but our de- 
 sires are restless for the latter. As the former is 
 the first act of divine love, it is naturally the first 
 thing a believer seeks to be assured of; and when 
 he has assured himself of pardon and justification 
 in Christ, he very often fancies for a time that he 
 has the whole of salvation, and is sanctified. But 
 this does not last ; he finds out as you do, that he 
 wants more ; he wants holiness and cannot be 
 happy without it. But then what a comfort that 
 the one is secure as the other, although a slower 
 process ; that the same blood which bought our 
 justification, and bestows it at once, bought our 
 sanctification, — the other half of one and the same 
 salvation, — and must bestow it ultimately. This 
 is a thought full of gladness when the sense of 
 pardoned sin still wearies and torments the con- 
 science. For that other source of bitterness, who 
 can feel for you as I can 1 Who has suffered 
 from it intenser anguish 1 I am bold enough to 
 believe no one. I remember a poem in some late 
 number of somebody's magazine, written under a 
 temptation like that you speak of, of intensest 
 anguish, by reason of unanswered prayer : and 
 well it recals to me the agony of the time at which 
 I wrote it. Yes, dear, I can feel fully for you; 
 but, after the issue of all my own sorrows, can I 
 despair for you? I know what Satan whispers 
 at such moments ; — either there is no God that 
 answers prayer, or that he breaks his promise, or 
 that we are not of his children, to whom he made 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 153 
 
 them. But Satan was a liar from the beginning. 
 He used to tell me all this at times, and bid me 
 give up the rejected suit. But I used to plead 
 these lies before God, as a reason why he should 
 vindicate his own truth and glory in disproving 
 them ; and I still went on, though sometimes I 
 could do no more than pray that I might not give 
 up praying. I do not tell you not to grieve; for 
 I should have thought ill of one who could have 
 told me so : but I do tell you not to despond. I re- 
 proach myself now with having done so. — I won- 
 der how it was I did not always believe that God 
 would hear me ; that I did not always know He 
 would grant the prayer at last ; and sometimes I 
 think if I had prayed with more confidence and 
 assurance, I should perhaps have been heard soon- 
 er, for that is an important word, "Whatsoever ye 
 ask, believing. I wish we were nearer, that I 
 might break your loneliness as you used to break 
 mine. How little that word has to do with num- 
 bers. How lonely I have been, when every hour 
 of every day was passed in company — compared 
 with now, that the greatest part of all my waking 
 time is passed literally alone : though still at times 
 I wish it otherwise. 
 
 Our going to Hampshire is'still postponed, and 
 our going to Bristol not likely to be possible be- 
 fore this month is out : and my husband does not 
 seem to think we can fix to come to you just now. 
 Ever affectionately yours. 
 
154 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 XXI. TO MRS. * * * 
 
 April, 1833. 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 I am only reconciled lo seeing so little of you, 
 by the fact that I see as much of you as of any- 
 body. Your information disappointed me, inas- 
 much as I was in the act of asking you to name a 
 day that you could spend with me. I now regret 
 that I so long delayed it ; for which the only 
 reason was the prolonged coldness. Though I 
 knew you might think it worth while to come and 
 see me in any weather, I could not like to ask it of 
 your party till summer-like evenings should make 
 the distance of little consequence, so I waited on, 
 and now it is too late; we are going to town till 
 Tuesday ; and then you will be gone, — you do not 
 say how long. Let me know the first of your re- 
 turn, and promise to come before we go from 
 home, which, if we can let our house, will be at 
 Midsummer ; whether for the Rhine, or Scotland, 
 or elsewhere. #*#*#### The book I return 
 with thanks and commendations, it is very good. 
 As I was going to observe just now, it will give 
 
 the H s much pleasure to see you, and show 
 
 Mr. anything in Bristol he may wish, except 
 
 the manufactory, which is burned down, and which 
 was remarkably well worth seeing. I am sorry 
 you are ill, dear, but change always does you 
 good ; I am a little fretful not to see you. I am 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 155 
 
 rather bustled at last in preparing my book, which 
 I shall hope to present to you before you go ; if 
 they do not disappoint me. May it be blessed of 
 God to the good of somebod}', which is my first 
 wish about it : for I cannot but recollect that I am 
 now receiving much, everyway, and rendering 
 very little, except in gratitude and praise. So I 
 pray that God's blessing may be continued on my 
 works. Thank you, dear, Mr. Wilson has had a 
 cold, but is recovered, and I am quite w T ell ; I am 
 still susceptible, as I used to be, of cold, taking it 
 very often ; but with my general health and spirits, 
 it never signifies as it used to do, and is soon over. 
 One's ailments are trifles w T hen one is quite happy, 
 they seem nothing when I remember how every 
 little addition of illness used to overbear me. 
 
 I suppose poor Emma will feel a good deal 
 
 the loss of her child ; it is her first sorrow, which 
 usually falls heavy. It may please God to bless it 
 to the restoration of her reason : there is nothing 
 like a painful reality to dissipate delusions. Fare- 
 well, dearest, the peace of God be with you on the. 
 way. Let me know of your return. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours. 
 
156 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 XXII.— TO MR. H. * * * 
 
 Blackheath Park, Feb. 30, 1835. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 It gave me the most real pleasure to get a letter 
 from you : hearsay reports are never satisfactory, 
 and I have thought about you much oftener than 
 I have been able to get intelligence. It was very 
 thoughtful of you to write yourself. That you are 
 already better, gives the fairest promise for the 
 future. " Study to be quiet ;" — that must be your 
 text — and " Hope unto the end." Hope and quiet- 
 ness are a compound of wonderful efficacy in the 
 cure of diseases, bodily as well as mental. But 
 we are such silly children, or as Howels used to 
 say, such " fractious brats," that, when we cannot 
 walk, we do not choose to be carried, and mightily 
 fatigue ourselves with kicking. Sickness seems 
 to be the one bitter among your many sweets; the 
 extent to which you have suffered it amongst you 
 is really remarkable; but I am sure you accept it 
 as good, and I cannot help thinking of every one, 
 that the more suffering they have had, the less 
 there is to come, assured that it is strictly mea- 
 sured to the necessity, — of course I speak of the 
 children of God; He who is so prodigal of all good 
 things, is parsimonious of inflictions where He 
 loves. We call our trials much and long, but that 
 is in earthly language ; — terms will have a very 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 157 
 
 different meaning by and bye; I suppose we shall 
 sometimes wonder at the ideas of length and 
 greatness we have attached to such mere instants 
 of duration endless. I can believe no small part 
 of your trial consists in your separation from your 
 dear babes: but they are kept for you. Poor 
 
 's is an affliction indeed. All God's people 
 
 must surfer a good deal before they can be fully 
 able to administer to the need of others. Thank 
 you for all your kind thoughts about us, we are 
 all well — always well. It has pleased God to give 
 us the sweet and the bitter separately, while others 
 have it mixed, so now the land overflows with 
 milk and honey ; and what is not always the case, 
 I have so much of peace w 7 ithin, together with 
 prosperity without, that if it were not for a certain 
 earthly remembrance called sin, I might sometimes 
 fancy I am gone to heaven; as it is, I can only 
 hope that heaven has come to me, with some 
 bright glimpses of its eternal promises. I have 
 been very busy getting a new work to the press, 
 and other matters ; I meant it for something to be 
 read in families, but my books do not always turn 
 out what they-are meant to be : and if people pre- 
 fer to read it in their beds, which is very likely, I 
 cannot help it ; you will hear more of it about the 
 1st of May. I must write, whether the world will 
 read or not, for mere want of something to do. 
 * * * How sad a close of poor living's sometime 
 brilliant promise! When we think of him as he once 
 appeared, " a giant prepared to run his course," 
 14 
 
158 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 now extinguished in his own darkness, dead in his 
 mischief, a blot removed from the Church of Christ 
 below, we hope made white in heaven, but unable 
 to efface the evil impress of his footsteps here, 
 surely it is a lesson ; a warning not to venture on 
 unbeaten paths, to walk humbly, simply, safely, in 
 the vulgar track, as these spiritual aspirants deem 
 it. The first steps in error seem so trifling, so 
 little dangerous, — only for the sake of inquiry — 
 only for pure love of truth, perhaps for love of 
 talk, oftener than anything for love of novelty. 
 May not this awful exhibition of the issue, be a 
 message from heaven to give notice of that snare, 
 the favourite artifice of Satan in this restless age. 
 I look upon it that poor Irving was as much the 
 victim of his own ambition as ever was hero dead 
 on the field of battle. " Let them that think they 
 stand, take heed lest they fall." I should like to 
 hear from you again; our united kindest love to 
 
 Mrs. 
 
 Ever yours sincerely, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. |29 
 
 XXIII.— TO MR. H * * * 
 
 Blackheath, Feb. 1, 1838. 
 My dear Sir, 
 I hear often that you want a long letter, though 
 I am at a loss to guess what you want it to be 
 about. When I received the pamphlet you were 
 so kind as to send me, I thought it might be a chal- 
 lenge to a controversy, and read it in expectation 
 of finding whereof to doubt and so whereof to 
 write; but as it merely goes to prove that where- 
 of I have never doubted, I can only express my 
 full approbation of the same. If, as I believe, bap- 
 tism is the rite of admission to the external church, 
 as circumcision was, I cannot entertain the small- 
 est doubt that it should be administered to infants. 
 If it were, as I believe it is not, a rite of admission 
 to the invisible fold of Christ. I should consider 
 the subject farther. But then what am I to write 
 about? Of you and yours I should like it to be; 
 but then I know nothing at all about you. I never 
 see, scarcely bear of you, and so much are we 
 apart, we have scarcely a word in common to 
 make talk about; and thus there is but one thing 
 left to talk of, my own individual self, a subject I 
 never liked. Once I thought it intrusive to talk of 
 my own sorrows, and now I think it will be sick- 
 ening to talk of my own joys. Mistaken perhaps 
 in both cases; since it is all one storv of Divine 
 
160 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 love and faithfulness. But you at least have learnt 
 this story through; you know what it is to be kept 
 through storms and sadness, and in the worst of 
 times to be enabled to hold fast your faith, and to 
 be raised from shipwreck. And you know that in 
 the brightest days, amidst flowers and sunshine, 
 and all surrounding joys, there is one joy that so 
 much exceeds all other, one good so far more pre- 
 cious than all the rest; the very light of earth 
 seems but as darkness by the side of it; in short, 
 I need not tell you, that what in adversity was all, 
 in prosperity is all still ; yet this is pretty well the 
 whole I have just now to say. Year after year 
 goes on, and no shadow comes across my path — 
 no sickness within my doors, or care within my 
 bosom ; while the vision of eternity is like an ho- 
 rizon that grows clearer and brighter as the calm 
 increases; I know it cannot be always thus: and 
 whenever a change comes, it will not take me by 
 surprise; but while it does not come, let God have 
 the praise of his M?imeasured, immeasurable good- 
 ness to the most unworthy. We are looking for- 
 ward, though not yet quite with certainty, to a 
 change of residence; for one, if it be granted us, 
 which will add yet more to my already full cup of 
 pleasure ; such a sweet house upon the heath, now 
 building, to be ready about Midsummer, a very 
 PoeVs spot : which, by the blessing of God upon 
 my works, I shall myself be able to furnish and 
 complete; then if you do not come and see us, 
 you are people of no taste at all. But I wish you 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 1G1 
 
 would not wait for it, but come soon and see what 
 it is to be; it is so few years since you furnished, 
 perhaps you can give us some hints for conveni- 
 ence, and economy, and so on. I should like to 
 know how you like your house and neighbourhood, 
 with all the etceteras of place. It might be as 
 well, by-the-bye, against you want another letter, 
 to remind you, that in these days of exchange and 
 barter, the surest way to procure a commodity is 
 to give an equivalent, — letter for letter; long for 
 long ; and short for short. With kind love to your 
 happy group, Mrs. H. in particular, 
 
 I am, my dear Sir, ever yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XXIV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 BlacJcheath, April 1, 1836. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I was much pleased to hear from you, though 
 you are very bold, methinks, to brave my scorn: 
 Not like Hastings ! — monstrous ! That is, you do 
 not. like the influenza, and the rain, and the cold. 
 I should not wonder if a little sunshine make you 
 change your mind. Until the last week, we have 
 had incessant wet, with a thermometer scarcely 
 above the freezing-point — enough to extinguish all 
 difference of place. But I am afraid the secret of 
 14* 
 
IfJ;> LETTER*. 
 
 your dissatisfaction is in your health ; I have 
 known many who cannot be well at Hastings ; 
 whereupon I intend to forgive you. and very dis- 
 interestedly advise you to come home. By the 
 way, were you ever anywhere that you did not 
 wish to come home? If not, Hastings is acquit- 
 ted. I, who love to be abroad, find the desire for 
 home returns en every cessation of pleasurable 
 excitement : by which I judge that though pleasure 
 wanders, happiness stays at home; for when we 
 are most happy, we least desire incitement to plea- 
 surable feelings. What these last are to be made 
 of, nobody can decide for another; you want a 
 little more couleur de rose to mix up yours ; my 
 farthest remembered pleasure was the earliest 
 primrose or the first blown snow-drop ; and by the 
 returning strength of these first tastes, I think I 
 must be near upon my second childhood. I have 
 delayed my letter some days, because I wanted to 
 tell you we are beginning to move. * * What 
 children we are ; six months ago, I thought I was 
 too happy to want any thing; two months later I 
 took to wanting that house, and have been teazed 
 and troubled about it ever since; so wise it is to 
 let our hearts go after the things that do not sig- 
 nify! Rain, rain, no hope for Hastings; but, how- 
 ever dirty you find it, I can assure you, though I 
 
 have not been there, you will find dirty also. 
 
 Hail, and snow, and storm : this is our portion as 
 well as yours, without the waves for compensa- 
 tion. I ought to write yon n budget of news, but 
 
we do not gossip in these parts, and know nothing 
 about any body. The only thing I am sure of, is 
 that I shall be glad to see you back. I am afraid 
 your poor child will scarcely have foond her flow- 
 ers. IXo doubt, you are going on upon a rather 
 I should not. as yc u know, have been 
 acted upon as you were, for the very thing that 
 moved you disgusted me ; but I think it very likely 
 that change and interruption would have dune the 
 ehild more harm than can result from continuance 
 for another year: which, if you think so. will re- 
 concile you to many disagreeables. " ~ 
 
 Come, here is more news than I thought of, pro- 
 vided you did not know it all before. Have you 
 not found it very difficult to write one letter to a 
 person, though very easy to write a dozen : just as 
 persons who meet seldom kr. >w to make 
 
 talk, while those who live together are always 
 talking. On this account, society would be better 
 if we saw fewer people, and saw them oftener — 
 
 would it not ! I can only inform Mrs. S . that 
 
 her house has not disappeared : the green palisades 
 went down and came up again yesterday. I can- 
 not guess when you will get this letter, because it 
 is too full for postage: but observe, that I finish it 
 
 this 1st day of April, and am. my dear Lady , 
 
 Ever affectionately yours. 
 
 Caroline Wilson, 
 
2Q4 LETTERS. 
 
 XXIV.— TO MISS * * * 
 
 My dear young Friend,* 
 
 # # # * * 
 
 ***** The impression you have received, 
 and the resolution you have come to, are, I trust, 
 of God ; and if they are, He will confirm and bless 
 them to your abundant happiness now, and to your 
 everlasting joy. The disposition to religion I ob- 
 serve in all of you, is very pleasing to me. Still 
 more pleased shall I be to know, it has become the 
 " one thing" for which you live, (and it alone is 
 worthy) on which you set your heart, and from 
 which you seek your happiness. For, believe me, 
 dear, what by experience you cannot perhaps have 
 learned; the differences between the godly and 
 the ungodly; the believing and the unbelieving; 
 the regenerate, and the unregenerate, are not 
 shades, but contrasts ; not parallel or intersecting, 
 but continually diverging paths. To enter and to 
 tread the narrow, but joyous way of life, needs 
 only such a determination as you express; but it 
 does need it. May yours, dear girl, be true and 
 permanent; and do believe, that if ever, on that 
 
 * The letters, of which the following are extracts, were 
 written to a young lady of considerable talent, and of an im- 
 aginative character — but displaying, with great anxiety, to 
 learn the way of truth and peace, some morbid feelings on 
 the subject of religion, and erroneous views of the duties it 
 enjoined. 
 
LETTERS. 165 
 
 subject, I can afford you light or help, or comfort, 
 it will not be put to the account of idle gossip or 
 scribbling. 
 
 March 17, 1838. 
 
 * * * If angels in heaven rejoice over every 
 soul recovered, can it be that there should not be 
 joy in the heart of one — unworthy, and of herself 
 incapable, when allowed to perceive that she has 
 been in any measure the medium of renovating 
 grace. If my young friend remembers how dear to 
 Jesus must be the souls of his redeemed: and how 
 dear to me should be all that is dear to Him ; it will 
 not require more words to convince her, that her's 
 was a welcome letter. I can confidently commit 
 her to Him, who will not leave to unfruhfulness 
 his own engrafted bud, or let its fair promise fail. 
 Every station has its peculiar duties; every indi- 
 vidual his peculiar gifts; there is not one so lowly 
 or so ill-endowed, she cannot do something for the 
 love and service of her Redeemer God ; nor one 
 so high and gifted, that she may be excused for 
 thinking anything her own, that she should with- 
 hold it from Him. And why is that imperious 
 yoke so easy, that burthen of obligation so light, 
 so blessed? because it comes of love, and is 
 achieved by love; Jesus claims it, as the requi- 
 tal of his love to us, and receives it as the offering 
 of our love to Him. But there is more in it than 
 
166 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 this: if there was not, that which you contemplate 
 as difficult, would be impossible alike, to you and 
 me. 
 
 In that blessed Redeemer's service, not one 
 thing is required, that is not first bestowed; not a 
 service for which strength is not given, nor a 
 grace that has not been promised. We serve a 
 Master, who gives us all for nought: and we re- 
 pay him only with his own. Whatever God 
 requires of you, ask of Him; and for knowledge 
 of what He requires, ask Him; and for the will to 
 do it, ask Him ; and fur the love that sweetens all 
 we do. The teaching of His Spirit and His word, 
 will be more to my young friend, than any thing 
 / could tell her, who know only what they have 
 taught me. The distance between us, that she 
 thinks so great, is only this. I have had time to 
 prove and know, and what she has called upon 
 simply to believe, — the sufficiency, the all-suf- 
 ficiency of Christ for time and for eternity. I 
 would exhort her to lose no time in trying Him, 
 to waste no years in bargaining for the cost, or 
 in tampering with her blessedness, by unwhole- 
 some compromise, and wearisome indecision . . . 
 I am glad to think how short is the time in which 
 she has 'done nothing.'' If the gift of one heart 
 be more acceptable to Jesus than another, it must 
 be that which is given to Him, before it is seared 
 and indurated in the service of this ungodly world ; 
 and if there is one child of God more blessed than 
 another, it is that one, who has not to look back 
 
LETTEfiS. 167 
 
 on wasted years and mis-spent feelings, or for- 
 ward to the conflict, with earth-bound affections, 
 and lung-indulged sins. . . . May our Heavenly 
 Father, who has so early set His name upon her, 
 bless her abundantly with the hallowed influences 
 of his Spirit, that she bring forth fruit a hundred- 
 fold, to His great glory, and the happiness of those 
 around her. I shall "thank my God on every 
 remembrance'' of her, and I desire to be con- 
 sidered her affectionate friend. &c. 
 
 I would have you, while you thank God for the 
 measure of grace, that made you distressed on 
 that occasion, bear in mind what is said in scrip- 
 ture, of those whose heart condemns them in what 
 they do. The evil of all these worldly amuse- 
 ments and compliances, is difficult to tell, but 
 easy enough to feel As a voluntary act, it is 
 taking part with the adversary of your soul, 
 against Him who you say is u for you." If He 
 is for for you, my dear young friend, protecting 
 you from evil without, and struggling with you 
 against the evil within, is it not ungenerous, 
 unthankful, to throw your own weight into the 
 opposing scale ? To go, where the thoughts of 
 Him must leave you. where your love for Him 
 must be chilled, where your mind is unfitted for 
 prayer at night, and disabled from devotional ser- 
 vices the next dav; and the imagination filled, for 
 
168 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 days and weeks, with unholy images, with which 
 the thought of Him cannot, must not be inter- 
 mingled ! We deal not thus with earthly loves, 
 and I trust and believe the time will come, when 
 you will refuse these things, not because you may 
 not, but because you cannot thus tamper, with the 
 grace and mercy of one, who did not tamper, who 
 did not calculate how small a sacrifice would do, 
 or how little obedience would be accepted of the 
 Father, when He gave Himself up for you. Yet, 
 this is the way we all set out, when we begin or 
 mean to begin, to give ourselves to Him. It is 
 "May I not just do this?" "Am I obliged to do 
 that V " What ! give up all ?" " Let me first bury 
 my father," &c. 
 
 O my friend, it is pitiful work, which you will 
 one day weep over, with mingled love and shame, 
 that your Lord should so long have borne with 
 and forgiven it. But He does bear with and for- 
 give it all, and if His forbearing pity will not 
 shame you out of it, I know that the terror of His 
 commandment will not, and therefore I am not 
 afraid to tell you, that the way to overcome the 
 world, and resist the temptation of the flesh, is to 
 increase your faith, to increase your love to Him 
 whom that world has crucified, and for whose 
 sake that world must be crucified to you, and you 
 to it. Do not make resolutions, and weigh out 
 words and actions as Papists count their beads, 
 and fret your spirit to know when you have done 
 enough. This is the service of the natural heart, 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 1G9 
 
 adverse in all things to the mind of God, — the 
 heart that loves sin, while God loves holiness; 
 and is for ever busied in the adjustment of adverse 
 interests. Try rather to love what he loves, to will 
 what he w T ills, to choose what he chooses ; and de- 
 light in what he approves. This is the subjection 
 of a child. To this end pray much for the increase 
 of your faith ; and avoid only such things as unfit 
 you for earnest heart-felt prayer. Think much of 
 the sacrifice, the life and death of Christ, and give 
 up only those pursuits, that preoccupy and indis- 
 pose your mind to such reflections. Read much 
 — of the Bible most; but of other religious books 
 also; and abstain from such occupations as make 
 this impracticable or distasteful. Above all things, 
 try, pray, labour to increase your love ; for love is 
 the fulfilling of the law. If you ask me how? why, 
 we know how earthly love is begotten and en- 
 couraged. Not by determining to love, but by 
 thinking, speaking, hearing, of the One beloved ; 
 of w T hat He is ; of what he has done ; of what He 
 offers or promises to do for us or to be to us ; — of 
 the qualities that deserve our love, and the benefits 
 that have earned it of us : Such love will settle 
 many difficulties in point of conduct, by closing 
 our ears against all who would depreciate the 
 object of our affections and our hearts; against 
 all that would be likely to weaken or divert these 
 from Him. 
 
 Try then in this manner to increase your love. 
 May He, who only can, give you grace and power 
 15 
 
170 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 to make the attempt honestly, and all the rest will 
 follow. Make the tree good, and the fruit will be 
 good. Beseech Him to take your heart, and then 
 you will freely give him up the sinful cares and 
 pleasures of this poor passing world. With Chris- 
 tian interest in your welfare, &c. 
 
 Your trouble about prayer is common to all 
 Christians. A mournful evidence of our fallen, 
 perverted, helpless, senseless nature — a ground of 
 deepest self-abasement and self-abhorrence, not of 
 discouragement, or despondency, or distrust of 
 Him who is touched with the feeling of our infir- 
 mities, and does for us all we cannot do for our- 
 selves — who maketh intercession for us 
 
 Christians, I apprehend, the most advanced, are 
 not without the same difficulties, as to what they 
 ought to do, or rather ought to think and feel un- 
 der certain circumstances; and whether what they 
 actually do feel is right or wrong; and they can 
 do no better than you did — throw themselves on 
 the grace and sympathy of One w 7 ho knows all; 
 how much is sin, and how much is infirmity, how 
 much is to be forgiven ; and how much is only an 
 added claim to paternal pity and support. Fare- 
 well now, and may the God of peace and love be 
 ever with you, and deal with you according to his 
 great goodness. How great it is, if ever we 
 know, will be the most amazing of all disclosures ! 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 171 
 
 In Him, and for His sake, consider that you have 
 a friend, of whom you may ask anything she may 
 be able to impart. 
 
 These feelings are not peculiar to yourself, 
 though perhaps peculiar to individuals of your cha- 
 racter and temperament. Remember at such mo- 
 ments who it is, that is at your elbow; and in 
 whose strength you, even you, may overcome his 
 suggestions; and be the stronger for having known 
 what it is to "endure temptation." You recollect 
 who it was that said, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" 
 Give the same answer, and his power is gone. 
 Don't fancy you are the only child of light that 
 passes through hours of darkness. A perpetuity 
 of joy and peace, is the hard-won victory, (if ever 
 it be attained on earth) of many hard-fought fields 
 and vanquished enemies, aye, and many wounds 
 received, and battles lost — efforts foiled, and ex- 
 pectations shamed; you cannot have them yet; 
 but accept with gratitude and confidence every 
 interval of such accorded you. God knows when 
 to send the rain, and when the sunshine; you must 
 have both in spring-time, if you would have fruits 
 in Autumn. "Remember that we are but dust!" 
 is the prayer I say the oftenest ; I know moments 
 when it is my best comfort to believe, that some- 
 body I know not is offering prayers on my behalf. 
 You are afraid you may have given offence. I 
 
172 LETTERS. 
 
 wish you to believe that this cannot happen, and 
 therefore need never be calculated upon. It is a 
 very common thing, my child, for persons of a ner- 
 vous and sensitive temperament, to fancy that peo- 
 ple do not like them, — that they misjudge them — 
 are unkind to them ; when nothing of the sort 
 really occurs. I have suffered so much from this 
 through my whole life, (being only relieved from 
 it in a measure now, by not so much caring whe- 
 ther folks like me or not, possessed as I am — for 
 this world and the next — of happiness, that man- 
 kind can neither give nor take away,) that I can 
 assure you, that nine times out of ten, these are 
 mere fancies; and for the tenth, it does not become 
 a miserable sinner, to be over tenacious, since 
 nobody can think so ill of us as we deserve, make 
 what mistakes they may upon particular points. 
 If they knew as much of us as we know of our- 
 selves, would they bear with us at all? We may 
 believe generally that a wish to please will be suc- 
 cessful ; but it is absolutely indispensable to our 
 own peace of mind, to be satisfied with the con- 
 scious intention, without a too watchful anxiety 
 about the results. The former may be the growth 
 of love to our fellow-creatures, and should be cul- 
 tivated as such ; the latter, I apprehend, is more 
 nearly allied to self-love, a source both of sin and 
 suffering. It has been so to me, and therefore I 
 tell it you. Do you know a beautiful work of 
 Fenelon's, entitled " Lettres Spirituelles"? there 
 are excellent remarks in it, on this and other simi- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 17; 
 
 lar subjects, that would be useful to you. In the 
 meantime, my dear child, put your intercourse 
 with me beyond all such questions. It had no 
 other origin, but the expectation that my expe- 
 rience might help your inexperience; and my bet- 
 ter knowledge of the human heart, might help you 
 to understand and direct your own. Farewell 
 now, may God direct, bless, and sanctify you, 
 always. 
 
 I believe you are wrong in thinking, that you 
 dwell too much on the promises. The promises 
 of the Gospel are not to find us consistent Chris- 
 tians, but to make us such. In all examples of our 
 Lord's teaching, the promises come first. They 
 did so in Eden; they did so in his own Sermon on 
 the Mount. Peace was the announcement of his 
 birth, Peace was the last behest of his departure. 
 At the time that you dwelt exclusively on the pro- 
 mises, suited as they were exactly to the then con- 
 dition of your soul, I apprehend that you acted 
 under the Spirit's guidance. That same Spirit 
 may now tell you, it is time to act, as well as feed 
 upon these precious truths ; do not distrust His 
 teaching. 
 
 I don't know if I ever asked you, what sort 
 of reading you indulge in? Your metaphysico- 
 15* 
 
j 74 LETTERS. 
 
 poetical head might happen to like what would be 
 exceedingly bad for you. I know by experience 
 that the poetical may not ked on poetry, nor the 
 metaphysical on metaphysics. The existence of 
 evil in the presence of Omniscient goodness, is a 
 subject that has puzzled all heads, but those that 
 were too wise to knock themselves against it. 
 You must absolutely not think about it, nor read 
 about it, or about anything of the sort. Repeat 
 the Psalmist's words, " I am not high-minded, I do 
 not occupy myself with things too hard for me." 
 Fare you well now, my dear child ; be fearless and 
 commit yourself to God ; wait the manifestation of 
 his purposes, resting yourself in hope ; you do not, 
 you cannot, know yet how good he is. Shall we 
 ever know 1 
 
 Let me persuade you, at this season, not to write 
 or read, as far as you can help it, — not even to 
 think, overmuch; and not to use long and forced 
 exercises of devotion, all equally detrimental in 
 your present state of health. As many flowers as 
 you like, whether lilies of the field", or lilies of the 
 garden, or any other of God's works; which, next 
 to his word, are most wholesome study, nay, to 
 some minds, at some seasons, they are more so. 
 
 Now I hope I shall not offend a sensitive young 
 lady such as you are ; by calling you what in this 
 instance I cannot but think you show yourself to 
 be; a foolish and unreasonable child. You are 
 twenty-two, or thereabouts ; the Sun of righteous- 
 ness has barely risen upon you, begirt with mists 
 
LETTERS. 175 
 
 of ignorance, inexperience, disquietude, to say the 
 least ; and you talk of having " nothing to do but" 
 to do that, my child, which, if you number three 
 limes two and twenty years, you will not have 
 done; but instead of sitting down in despair at 
 your own failure as now, you will be amazed and 
 thankful for any measure of success. Come now, 
 listen, and I will tell you how it is with you; for it 
 is a plainer case than you ever made out to me be- 
 fore. You are trying to heal yourself; you are 
 impatient of the great Physician's slowness; and 
 instead of waiting upon his sure, impalpable, and 
 often imperceptible medicaments, you charge him 
 with failure or refusal, and betake yourself to nos- 
 trums of your own. Shall I tell you what you are 
 like? Why, for all the world, like to certain 
 country people, who being taken in ague or 
 typhus, — no brief disease, as they might know, if 
 they were wiser, — on the first return of the hot fit 
 or the cold fit, decide that the quinine or the bark 
 are useless; and betake themselves to the " wise 
 woman," for a charm to be rid of all at once. 
 Yes, dear, and there is a conjurer always ready 
 to take the Great Physician's cases out of his 
 hands; and profess to do by miracle, what He, 
 with power supreme, hardly does in a whole life- 
 time; a long struggle against the inborn disease of 
 a body dying, and a soul once dead in trespasses 
 and sins. I know not who — unless the aforesaid 
 conjurer set you upon attempting the keeping of 
 Lent after the manner you have hinted ; the entire 
 
170 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 cause I doubt not of your subsequent depression ; 
 and enough to cause it in a less nervous and irrita- 
 ble temperament than yours. I don't believe that 
 u n belief either past or present has had anything to 
 do with this, in the way of origination; but believe 
 me, it is not of the good Physician's prescription, 
 — this that you have been taking. He never bade 
 you to sit up late and rise early, and exhaust your 
 body, and stimulate your brain, by extraordinary 
 exercises of prayer and meditation. It was short, 
 the prayer He dictated — " after this manner pray 
 you." It was simple, the remedy He proposed: 
 " As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, 
 so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whoso- 
 ever believeth on Him should not perish, but have 
 everlasting life." You want quietness and simpli- 
 city and child-like confidence and expectation. 
 You require to let yourself alone, to renounce 
 yourself and forget yourself, while you fix your 
 eye on Christ, the author and finisher alike. You'll 
 win no race, by counting your own steps, and 
 watching the stones you stumble over; men win 
 by looking at the goal. Dear child, you are born 
 in iniquity, conceived in sin, the whole head is 
 sick, the whole heart is faint, there is no good thing 
 in you. You know* nothing, you deserve nothing, 
 you are worth nothing. Are you content ? Then 
 throw yourself into your Father's arms, and leave 
 your cure with Him, and trust his promises, and 
 wait his time. Moses kept sheep for Jethro, for 
 forty years after he was appointed the deliverer of 
 
LETTERS. 177 
 
 his people. Joseph lay seven years, guiltless, in 
 Pharaoh's prison, before he sat next him upon his 
 throne. Abraham had only a burying-place in the 
 land of promise. Did God not keep his word with 
 all three? And so He will with you, in His time, 
 not in yours. He must both mix and administer 
 the drugs, and if they be slow and bitter, you must 
 lie still, and quiet yourself as a weaned child. You 
 think too much about your symptoms, I mean spi- 
 ritually, which must always make a hypochondriac, 
 physically or spiritually. . . . And you forget 
 that it is not for the ore to tell the refiner, when 
 the dross is burned out of it. ... I will pray for 
 you, but I will not ask what you bid me, I will not 
 ask that the new-born babe in Christ may start at 
 once into a perfect manhood, and be forthwith put 
 into possession of its inheritance. I will ask, that 
 it be nursed with tenderness, and humored, and 
 corrected, and controlled ; fed with milk, quieted in 
 its tears, borne with in its petulance, and protected 
 in its helplessness, until it gain strength to fight 
 (like a true soldier of Jesus Christ, clad in the 
 whole armour of God) its own way, through hosts 
 of vanquished enemies, to the throne, where the 
 Captain of our salvation has fought his way before 
 us. I close in haste, and have said what I meant 
 imperfectly. Remember, that " in returning and 
 rest, shall be your safety ; in quietness and confi- 
 dence shall be your strength." 
 
17S 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Such reading as this work of Luther's is very 
 good for you. Convictions deep as yours; such 
 perceptions of the profundity of nature's darkness, 
 are only to be reached by the strongest lights, the 
 deepest truths, the highest, fullest privileges of the 
 gospel. It is only by the truth of its doctrines, 
 that any soul can be saved, but every soul has not 
 the like consciousness of their necessity. Many a 
 one has been saved by the electing love, and jus- 
 tifying righteousness of Christ, without experimen- 
 tal evidence, that they could not be saved in any 
 other manner; such as others have had, who feel 
 that they must receive these truths or die. For 
 you, dear child, who are, I conceive, among the 
 latter, it is most necessary that you should have a 
 clear, distinct perception, of the perfectness as 
 well as pricelessness of Christ's work : so that you 
 may have done with yourself altogether, and be 
 absorbed in Him. . . . Coldness would be no cold- 
 ness, if we could feel the absent warmth ; darkness 
 no darkness, if we could see through it. Wait it 
 away ; trust it away ; believe it away : that is, 
 wait, trust, abide in faith, till it is gone. Sit in 
 darkness submissively, patiently, hopefully, till 
 you see light. You know the promise, " Who is 
 among you that fearelli the Lord, that obeyeth 
 the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness 
 and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the 
 Lord, and stay him upon his God." If you can- 
 not see, if you cannot feel, this is the time for trust. 
 And of one thing you may be sure — as long as 
 
LETTERS. 17Q 
 
 you receive any single message from God : as 
 long, that is, as you find in Holy Writ any word 
 that suits you, that meets your case, or calls to 
 you by any name, or appeals to you under any 
 character, to which you can answer as your own 
 — God has not done with you, has not forsaken 
 you, though His face may be hidden for many 
 moments, and His comforting presence with- 
 drawn. . . . But now we are upon this subject, 
 believe this, dear child, she you speak of is not 
 too proud to value human testimony : she is too 
 humble, I think she is, to be exalted by it ; for she 
 is one who carries by her temperament, so great 
 a weight of sin, the utmost inflation of the b.eath 
 of praise, could not more than suffice to keep her 
 head above water; besides, to borrow a less grave 
 figure from your last, people who remind us of our 
 "talents," are little else than duns, calling for ever 
 for payment of our debts. And as to the use 
 made of them, the good we have done with them, 
 alas ! my child, there is one at least, who can bless 
 God, and does with all her heart, for every the 
 least mention of it that reaches her ears ; — she 
 needs it all to keep her heart up, and enable her 
 to do any thing. Christians who rest all their 
 hope of commendation at the last, upon that sweet 
 gentle word, "Let her alone, she has done what 
 she could," are not likely to grow high-minded. 
 Once established in the truth, that all our powers 
 are debts, not riches, and we can no longer be in 
 
180 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 danger of undue exaltation, by either the posses- 
 sion or the use of them. 
 
 The book is gone to press, and will or may 
 come forth in March. It is called " Christ our 
 Law," and will suit a little lady very well, I dare 
 say : taking her prepossessions into the account. 
 I wish the Giver of all grace may give her so 
 much, as to take all the comfort of its doctrines to 
 herself: then they will indeed be enough, and she 
 may take them, — of that I have no doubt; all may 
 take them who can love them, choose them, de- 
 light in them, submit to them, for that is nature's 
 difficulty after all. It is not the exaltation, but 
 the abasement, of the creature, that is really re- 
 sisted in the gospel-scheme. There is no hum- 
 bling like that of consenting to be nothing, desiring 
 to be nothing, liking to be nothing, that Christ may 
 be -all in all; but then we expect by union with 
 Him, to become everything in Him ! Pure as he 
 is pure, holy as he is holy, happy as he is happy. 
 
 My new work, (Christ our Law) is just out. If 
 you read it with attention you may discover, that 
 the case in which you suppose yourself, is an im- 
 possible case; the position in which you contem- 
 plate yourself, an impossible position, which no 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 181 
 
 one ever did or can in this world occupy. God 
 has laid no "perfect rule down before you," by 
 which your salvation is to be won or lost. He 
 has not "denied" you "the liberty of choosing" 
 life rather than death. What you call the neces- 
 sity of your nature to desire, is, in fact, what no 
 one naturally does desire, and if you do, it is not 
 of nature but of grace, a strong evidence, that He 
 has "chosen you." The fact is, my child, you 
 neither are nor can be lost, by virtue of your de- 
 scent, and therefore cannot be called upon to con- 
 sent thereto. If you are lost at all, it is because 
 you deserve it, by actual not original sin, and be- 
 cause you refuse to accept the only remedy pro- 
 vided for either, the sure and priceless remedy for 
 both .... You destroy your peace, and your 
 soul's health, by metaphysics. " Read my book," 
 as Abernethy used to say to his patients, and try 
 to become as a little child, that you may enter into 
 rest ; there is no other way. Seriously, you speak 
 nothing, but the truth when you say, that your 
 " mind is overrun with fallacies, you see nothing 
 rightly." The Spirit of God will be your better 
 teacher, but he uses means, and I need not affect 
 modesty in saying that " my book" may throw 
 some light upon your mind, being written with the 
 express intent of disentangling the thread of divine 
 truth for the benefit of the simple. 
 
 1G 
 
182 LETTERS. 
 
 Who, and what is your habitual ministry? 
 Don't neglect any opportunity of hearing the gos- 
 pel preached. It is God's specially appointed 
 way, both to convert and to sustain, to heal and 
 to mature, and I don't know anybody to whom it 
 would be so likely to be essentially beneficial, as 
 yourself .... Be sure I shall not blame you for 
 excessive reading. It is exaclly what I advise for 
 your character of mind. Nothing is so bad for 
 you as dwelling exclusively upon some one — or 
 some few — trains of thought and feeling. 
 
 I differ from Miss S's opinion (with regard to 
 the distribution of Tracts) wholly, as it regards 
 the poor, though but partially as it regards well- 
 educated youth. The last may be induced to take 
 up more solid reading — the first cannot. The 
 mental pow 7 ers of the latter are in our hands to be 
 strengthened or weakened by the aliment we sup- 
 ply; those of the former are not so. We must 
 give them what they understand, or they will take 
 in nothing. Tracts for the poor, are not on the 
 same ground as novels for the rich, but as story- 
 books for children, which nobody in their senses 
 would think of prohibiting. . . . God never enjoins 
 any more than he imposes; an hour's, nay a mo- 
 ment's bodily suffering, unless to a further benefi- 
 cial end, any more than a physician gives a 
 draught, because it is nauseous, or prescribes an 
 indulgence because it is agreeable. .What he does 
 not for us, we may not do for ourselves. For 
 admitting that our Heavenly Father may some- 
 
LETTERS. 2 S3 
 
 times send pain and privation, merely as a punish- 
 ment, without a further end ; (which yet as to his 
 children may be questioned,) it is wholly out of our 
 province to imitate him there ; no man is at liberty 
 to punish himself, or do penance for past sin. 
 With regard to fasting, there are scriptural rea- 
 sons, why it should not be spoken against; but 
 practically I cannot give an opinion with regard 
 to it, as I never fast, simply for this reason, spoken 
 out of a heart, honest I believe in its own desire 
 after the increase of spiritual affections, the subju- 
 gation of its sins, and the entire conformity of its 
 whole being to the mind and will of God ; — I never 
 fast, because I never find the occasion when my 
 soul could be benefited by doing so ; when my de- 
 votions would not be more hindered than helped 
 by it, and my mind more dulled than cleared by 
 abstaining from customary food ; and I consider 
 that fasting is intended as a means to an end, and 
 should never be used as an end itself. Where in- 
 deed it is found to be a furthering and help to the 
 growth of the divine life in the soul ; where it 
 leaves the mind more able and more disposed to 
 spiritual exercises, and detaches the heart from 
 earth and self: to lift it up to God in prayer, 
 praise, and high and holy intercourse with Him — 
 in that case fasting is a righteous act to a most 
 righteous end — to any extent, not injurious to the 
 body's health; fur this I believe to be never de- 
 signed or permitted of God. 
 
184 LETTERS. 
 
 I consider that all persons careful for the truth 
 of God, should bestow their support on the evan- 
 gelical societies, and withdraw it from those 
 Societies which are suspected of Tractarian influ- 
 ence, for they will be true to their principles, if we 
 be not to ours. — As to submission to clerical au- 
 thority, against your judgment, I say " Not for a 
 moment." Call no man master upon earth in the 
 concernments of the soul ; whether of your own 
 or others. Then as to your deeper, nearer, and 
 more vital interest, my dear child, the evidences 
 of the new life within you, — which you say are all 
 you have, — are all you want, — is not one in parti- 
 cular God's own evidence ; — that I mean, which 
 he has specifically chosen, " Because ye love the 
 brethren?' 
 
 I remember, early in our correspondence, ad- 
 vising you not to read metaphysical books, or to 
 discuss metaphysical doctrines, and now I press on 
 you more earnestly than ever that advice. I 
 would have you put the subject of your difficulty 
 quite away, as beyond your reach and quite unfit 
 for the peculiar character of your mind, rather 
 than try to satisfy yourself upon it. " If any man 
 would be wise, let him become a fool that he may 
 be wise," — is a precept good for all ; but where 
 there is a natural disposition to cavil and object, it 
 is peculiarly indispensable to the study of divine 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 185 
 
 truth. Believe, submit, obey, without questioning, 
 is, I am perfectly certain, your safety and your 
 peace; the simple acquiescence of a little child, in 
 an authority it may not doubt, on subjects that it 
 cannot comprehend. It is likely that time will re- 
 move your painful doubts, if not, submission will 
 take out the sting; they are not so unusual as you 
 suppose, but have been aggravated in your case 
 by the circumstance that you have lived too much 
 alone, mentally at least, and thought too much by 
 yourself and of yourself; I don't mean in the sense 
 of self-love, but of self occupation and seclusion. 
 Now, I do advise you, to do, think, feel, and seem, 
 as much like other people as you can : in religion 
 especially, try rather to be common-place than 
 curious; take the plain letter and abide therein, 
 and God, I do not doubt, will give you light and 
 peace. It is not necessary to understand God; it 
 is necessary to believe Him and adore ! . . . Mean- 
 time, without the said key, be not too sure which 
 of us two understands your mind the best, or is 
 least disposed to blame you for that which has 
 sorely tried it. I think I do understand you; I 
 only want von to learn to understand yourself. 
 
 Now to your kind inquiries, I have only to an- 
 swer, Quite well ; a grateful word it should be to 
 all who can so say. I am sorry that you speak of 
 ''troubles:" — yet who has them not? and who 
 10* 
 
18G 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 should desire not to have them? Assuredly not 
 pilgrims and strangers, who seek a better country, 
 but are terribly disposed to sit down and rest 
 themselves, on any pleasant spot they come to by 
 the way, till some rude impulse comes from be- 
 hind, to drive them forward — Is it not so? It has 
 been necessary or rather right, that we 
 
 This was a sore message from the All-wise dis- 
 poser, when it reached me first. Yet so beau- 
 tifully does our Father win his wayward chil- 
 dren to the way he means them to take, that in a 
 little while we have become more than reconciled 
 to the change. May it be so with you, dear 
 child, the stern realities of life will make you per- 
 haps less a poet; but it is possible that they will 
 make you also by so much the happier. Wise, 
 most wise, loving, always loving, amid the chang- 
 ing phases of providence, is He who rules over 
 all. My child, you need not be afraid, "He will 
 do, as he has done," but He does not require that 
 you do not grieve. Where is the benefit of ad- 
 versity, if it be not felt 1 What are the gains of 
 chastisement that is not grievous? Remember 
 all, feel all, and yet consent to all; you are, I be- 
 lieve, about five or six and twenty; that is a long 
 time; a large portion of three-score and ten, to 
 live at ease in luxury and love, supposing that it 
 ends there. But it will not do so; a few days of 
 storm, a few long wintry nights, losses, pains, se- 
 parations, and there will be time left still for half 
 
LETTERS i fry 
 
 a life of domestic peace and love, when He who 
 takes, thinks fit to give again. Take hope as 
 well as gratitude in aid of submission for your 
 support, under the really great trial that is upon 
 you now, which those who know more of life 
 than you do, will not be likely to under-rate on 
 your behalf. 
 
 " Any thing," you say, " may be borne for a 
 time," and nothing is borne for more than a time; 
 not only is this true of the universal limit of all 
 sorrow, but it is true of all feeling, in its own na- 
 ture; it wears itself out, and the greater its poig- 
 nancy the shorter its duration. If it were not so, 
 there are feelings, that would very soon come to 
 be not felt at all, for the physical capability would 
 fail. If God take away much ; if He empty you 
 of all else, it is only to fill you with himself. 
 Take courage; be hopeful, be confiding, and don't 
 quarrel with yourself, because you are not a block 
 of stone ! 
 
Igg LETTERS. 
 
 XX VI.— TO MRS. *****. 
 
 1838. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 It was much pleasure to us, to receive both 
 
 your own letter and Miss 's precious one; to 
 
 hear first that you had reached your home in 
 peace; and now that the promise of recovery is 
 confirmed. The very thought of your trials makes 
 us ashamed of having thought any thing of our 
 own; but the light weight and the heavy one, are 
 proportioned by the same hand ; and fitted to the 
 strength that is to bear them. I never had reason 
 to think my precious husband's life in danger; 
 though in the multitude of my sad thoughts upon 
 my bed, it sometimes would occur, that I might 
 never see my pretty home again. Still I never 
 really thought the complaint dangerous, so, what 
 were my cares to yours? If your present happi- 
 ness and gratitude are in equal proportion, as I 
 doubt not, you must feel that indeed. I am so 
 habitually persuaded that evil, greater or less, 
 never overtakes the child of God, but as a mes- 
 sage from the Most High, I go naturally in the 
 smallest reverse into investigation of the cause, if 
 so I may find out the cipher by which the mes- 
 sage can be read. Doubtless all Christians do the 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 189 
 
 same, and by the Spirit's help are led to judge 
 themselves aright; mine was a gentle hint; I wish 
 to understand and take it, that there be no neces- 
 sity to speak louder. Yours, my dear friend, 
 spake fearfully, and perhaps you have deciphered 
 it aright. It is so common a mistake, that whilst 
 vanity of vanities is written on all besides, and we 
 should be ashamed to set much value on riches, 
 or beauty, or high station for our children, learn- 
 ing and talent have been exempted from that sen- 
 tence ; and may be pursued without risk, and 
 coveted without restraint. But whoever thinks 
 so, will be sometime undeceived. Every good 
 gift of God has its value, and it is equally a mis- 
 take, to suppose that the lesser gifts are to be 
 despised or undervalued ; but greater or lesser, 
 the things of earth are earthy, and may not be 
 too anxiously coveted or eagerly pursued. If 
 beauty lasts but a season, learning serves us but a 
 season more, and both may be blighted in a day. 
 There is no doubt your dear child will recover 
 her mental, together with her bodily powers ; and 
 you will take graciously the parental warning; 
 neither to overtask her powers, nor to regret that 
 she is not able to do more. You have fair pro- 
 mise of a great blessing in them, if they grow up 
 
 as they are now I feel it is useless 
 
 now to talk of seeing you here, as we so fully an- 
 ticipated to have done before this time; still you 
 will keep it in mind ; and like an honest woman, 
 
190 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 let us know when you are able to discharge your 
 just debts. 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 c. w. 
 
 XXVII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 The Windmills, Blaclcheath, 
 
 Dec. 19, 1839. 
 
 Dear Madam, 
 If you were well acquainted with the habits of 
 our excellent friend, you would not be uneasy for 
 the safety of your letter. It is not the first time I 
 have received a similar " writ of discovery/' and 
 generally can do no more than assure my appellant, 
 that Mrs. never answers letters. In this oc- 
 casion I am happy to have procured from her an 
 
 acknowledgment that Lady 's letter is in a 
 
 drawer, which will be looked over, and that she 
 will communicate to you the result : for which 
 last, however, I decline to be her sponsor. This 
 lady, like many other valuable things, is a curiosity. 
 Though living in near neighbourhood, and entire 
 friends, I have not seen her for a twelvemonth. I 
 leave her to make her own apology ; but feel 
 obliged to an incident that has procured me the 
 favour of your Ladyship's letter. The subject is 
 
LETTERS. |<J1 
 
 one on which I feel deeply, painfully, perhaps with 
 too much hopelessness, that any thing we can do 
 will stay the mischief; yet we ought to try, if only 
 to shelter some buds of promise from the blight 
 that has come into our Lord's own garden, check- 
 ing every symptom of restored vitality. Personal- 
 ly, I am averse to controversy in reading, writing, 
 or conversing: as one housed and sheltered and 
 secured, is averse to put to sea again and bide the 
 storm. I was long entreated before I wrote the 
 " Listener in Oxford," and have read as little 
 and thought as little as possible upon the subject 
 since; not from indifference, but contrariwise: 
 from painful susceptibility to the mischief; less 
 painful to my mind, in its bolder outrages than 
 in its hidden influence. We know the lazar- 
 house, and may shun it, but who shall set land- 
 marks to the infected atmosphere that surrounds 
 it, and say, " here all is safe." I see nothing 
 safe. Persons one has depended upon, Chris- 
 tians and Christian ministers, who have no 
 idea of taking up the Tractarian views, have so 
 lowered their tone in spiritual things, as really 
 breaks one's heart with sadness ! I live much at 
 home, and out of society ; but still I meet and feel 
 the chilling influence every where. It is a real 
 refreshment, to receive a communication such as 
 yours, from one unchanged in the profession of 
 the gospel. Your ladyship is perhaps a better 
 judge than I am, respecting the plan proposed. I 
 have heard that much good has been done by the 
 
192 LETTERS. 
 
 association that leaves religious tracts monthly at 
 the houses of the rich in London ; they read from 
 mere idleness or curiosity, and because they do 
 not know where they come from. I will gladly do 
 anything I can do to promote the success of such 
 plans as you may devise. I take the liberty of in- 
 closing the only thing I have written further upon 
 the subject, in the form of a review, for a monthly 
 publication, of an inferior order, but for an impor- 
 tant class of readers, for which I wrote it by re- 
 quest.* I find it more wholesome, and how much 
 more pleasant, to write for truth, than against 
 error; but we must do what we can. 
 
 My brother, for whom you kindly inquire as 
 my father, is still in the exercise of his ministry at 
 Desford, though a good deal reduced in capability 
 by recent severe illness. With many thanks for 
 the pleasure you have afforded me, I am, 
 Your Ladyship's obedient servant, 
 
 Caroline Wilson". 
 
 * Review of" The Church in the World." 
 
LETTERS. 193 
 
 XXVIII.— TO LADY * * * 
 
 The Windmills, Blackhcath. 
 January 9, 1840. 
 
 My Dear Madam, 
 
 It is indeed curious lhat I should send you the 
 review of yourself, without the remotest suspicion 
 that I was doing so ; I received the work, as you 
 must know from the author ; and though I in- 
 quired of S , to whom I owed my thanks, he 
 
 kept your secret entirely. I did in fact attribute 
 it to another person, a gentleman. Need I add 
 the secret is safe with me, and I think you do 
 right to let it be supposed of masculine origin. I 
 should much like to see the proposed paragraph 
 added to the very useful little Tract, which last I 
 take the liberty of retaining. The only freedom I 
 have used, or found the least opportunity to use, is 
 in drawing my pen through your own correction, 
 which seemed to ask the reader to choose between 
 two phrases. Am I right in judging, that while 
 " the baptismal font," is nothing in any sense, the 
 "water of baptism" is a Scripture term for vital 
 renewal by the Holy Ghost : and that therefore 
 the former expression is rather the safest for your 
 purpose ? 
 
 You do injustice to your style of writing, to sup- 
 pose it incorrect ; but in that or anything else, I 
 beg you to command me at all times. I feel, or 
 apprehend a time approaching, when those who 
 . 17 
 
1Q4 LETTERS. 
 
 will hold fast the former things, and openly con- 
 tend for the pure faith of Christ, will be "left as a 
 beacon upon the top of a mountain, as an ensign 
 upon the hills," abandoned altogether of the host; 
 but they will be rallying points to the scattered 
 flock, round which the few will gather close amid 
 the general dispersion ; and dear and precious 
 they will be to each other, beyond anything we 
 have known of in our late triumphant progress. I 
 have thought, and so have others, that this may 
 be God's purpose, to bring out of all parties a 
 people* for himself, and unite them to each other 
 by the defection of their own separate churches ; 
 thus making Puseyism itself the instrument of pro- 
 ducing a unity in the Church of Christ, far other 
 than their arrogance demands. For the present, 
 I can only say, " Blessed be His name !" for 
 every individual whom I find safe. To you, my 
 •dear Madam, I cannot but perceive there is a near- 
 er and more painful interest : the evil has touched 
 your home and your domestic affections, and 
 mixes fear for those you love with jealousy for 
 your Saviour's glory. Still, be comforted, these 
 things are terribly taking to the young, unchastened 
 heart ; but many are gone out from us who will 
 come back : and many are hesitating who will yet 
 not go. All means must be tried, but the most 
 powerful is prayer. 
 The above was written before I received your 
 Ladyship's second letter ; for it, I must reserve 
 my answer till a future day, being busy, yet un- 
 
LETTERS. J95 
 
 willing to detain this. Meantime, in some haste 
 to terminate this unworthy return for your kind 
 communications, believe me, my dear Madam, 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XXIX.— TO MR. B * * * 
 
 1840. 
 
 It is reported that Mr. B wants to know 
 
 why Mrs. Wilson thinks it more a sin to go to the 
 # # # church concert, than to go to Westminster 
 Abbey at the Coronation Festival. Mrs. Wilson 
 has not said it is sin to go to either. The inex- 
 pediency and impropriety of the one festival ap- 
 pears to Mrs. Wilson to bear no proportion to the 
 other, though both may be, and have been ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 Westminster Abbey is at all times a place of 
 pomp and ceremony more than of devotion. The 
 Queen's Coronation is a thing of rare occurrence, 
 and certainly the appanage of the royal ceremony 
 left nothing of association with church worship in 
 the appearance of the place. A very different 
 case in Mrs. Wilson's opinion to the desecration 
 of parish churches, and common places of worship, 
 by the same persons and in presence of the same 
 populace, who are to occupy the same seats for 
 
196 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 their habitual Sabbath service; which, if it have 
 no effect upon the mind, the setting apart of build- 
 ings for the purpose can scarcely be necessary at 
 all ; but which in Mrs. Wilson's opinion, is calcu- 
 lated to bring the church into contempt, if it do no 
 worse. However this may be, as to the celebra- 
 tion itself, Mrs. Wilson is sure there is a great 
 difference between the act of an individual going 
 in a crowd to Westminster Abbey, at a season of 
 national rejoicing, to an entertainment so sanction- 
 ed and appointed as that at the Coronation ; and 
 the act of those, who having consecrated both 
 themselves and their churches to the service of 
 God, do for their own purpose, get up such enter- 
 tainments, and affix names to it, that ill become 
 the printed lists of this world's pleasure-makers, 
 however innocent the occasion, in the face of their 
 congregations, to the distress of the tender con- 
 science, to the offence of many, to the misleading 
 of more, to the triumph of the worldly, who know 
 better what a believer's profession requires of him, 
 than he sometimes knows himself. All this is done 
 on the present occasion. We leave the parties to 
 measure and divide the evil-doing. 
 
LETTERS. 197 
 
 XXX.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 Bath Hotel, Bournemouth, 
 August 13, 1840. 
 Dear Milady, 
 Your much expected and more desired letter 
 overtook me here ; no unfit spot to enjoy the 
 thought of your enjoyments. I need hardly tell 
 you how much I am delighted with your descrip- 
 tion of yourself. Those are delicious moments, 
 when the worn and jaded spirit that the world has 
 tired, finds the fresh zest of young existence can 
 return, and we be sixteen again, in the enjoyment 
 of what neither wears nor ages. I am so happy 
 about you as I cannot tell; my love for you was 
 never so well proved, to myself, as when I first 
 heard of your departure from the Hospital, by the 
 fact that pleasure was my first sensation at the 
 news. Self spake afterwards, and said we could 
 not spare you : but I thought, I knew that you were 
 right, and doing most wisely for yourselves, and 
 though I could spare some better, I have never 
 brought myself to the exact point of being sorry ; 
 if I had, your letter would have shamed me. Now 
 if I were not the happiest of beings I should envy 
 you ; most fully I do indeed enter into all you 
 speak of, and since the place is what you expect- 
 ed, and the church what you expected, I do not 
 regret the sort of unseen leap you took, although I 
 did. and read anxiously on, till your description 
 
 17* 
 
198 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 came to the Sunday. Truly has God cast the lot 
 into the lap for you, and as surely will He bless it 
 to you. Your dear child will retain, I trust, un- 
 spoiled, those natural and innocent tastes which 
 alone will bide the test of time and sorrow, and 
 whatever else advance of years may bring. In 
 early life I knew no other pleasures, and though I 
 have tried many others since, and loved them, 
 and worn them, and loathed them ; the time seems 
 fast approaching when these will alone remain. 
 To find they do remain, in all their freshness, is 
 ever and anon a great delight to me, — as it is just 
 now to you — fancying always in society I am five 
 hundred years old, and had better be off the stage, 
 — yet, turned loose upon a heath, I discover that I 
 too am sixteen. I was under this blissful impres- 
 sion when your letter reached me. We travel at 
 a sort of venture this year, scarce knowing where 
 we would go. From Southampton we drove to 
 Lymington, to pass a quiet Sunday. It is what 
 may be called a stupid, uninteresting little place; 
 but the air has something so peculiar in it, as 
 makes it a pleasure to exist and breathe: there is 
 a good clergyman, a comfortable little inn, and we 
 passed a most pretty Sunday. More rapturous 
 sensations waited for our arrival here. Had you 
 not left our world, I am sure we should persuade 
 you to come ; I have enjoyed nothing equally for 
 very many years. It is a new watering-place, 
 easily accessible in one day from London ; and to 
 us poor Southrons a great discovery; beyond the 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 199 
 
 smell of gas, the noise of engines or the taint of 
 smoke ; beyond the regions of donkey-driving, and 
 almost of carriage wheels, with the very best ac- 
 commodation that can be enjoyed at an Hotel. 
 We have found no place where the sea could be 
 so enjoyed within doors and without ; you can 
 walk miles by the water's edge, with the most 
 beautiful cliffs above you, and when tired of that, 
 you may strike into the woods and lose yourselves 
 in impervious shade. I have been in a fit of poe- 
 try ever since I came here — now ten days since 
 — and had there been no seventh in the ten, it 
 would have needed only continuance to be as 
 bright as yours ; but alas! the Sabbath brought 
 nothing but blight upon our paradise. Whatever 
 the first Eden was, it ceased to be when God went 
 out of it, and there has been no Eden since, till 
 He in His grace shines on it; and though next to 
 His word, there is no pleasure like the enjoyment 
 of His works, the one has no zest without the 
 other. Yes, I mean to be quite sure we shall 
 come and see you next summer, because if we do 
 not, it may be still the next, and never get farther 
 off; anticipation, however, is not one of my facul- 
 ties, and if I lose some pleasure by this want of 
 forecasting, I also escape much pain. Much I 
 should like to see you now. We leave here on 
 Saturday for Weymouth, thence pass at the be- 
 ginning of the week to Lyme; and thence on a 
 visit to my sister near Bristol. We expect to 
 reach home about the 10th September, there and 
 
200 LETTERS. 
 
 then to miss once more our friends at the Hospital, 
 the very name of which now grates upon the ear. 
 Self must have its say, and since I cannot after 
 
 your letter regret that you are at C , I must 
 
 wish C were not where it is ; too far for us, 
 
 though not for you. This last, I well believe; It 
 is a knot more easily cut than disentangled, that 
 holds the Christian and the world together. Great 
 indeed is the manifestation of divine love to those, 
 to whom is given both the power and the will to 
 do what you have done. I wish — no I don't wish 
 — for God has done for me abundantly above all I 
 could ask or think ; but if I did wish at all, it 
 would be for exactly such a home as yours to end 
 my days in. By favour of the new freedom of the 
 press, I hope you will write to me from time to 
 time, if only to convince us that you are not too 
 happy even to remember, — as I shall else suspect. 
 Perhaps you will not like to write again till we 
 reach home, or if you should, the letter will be 
 forwarded, without troubling you with a new 
 address. With all love and gratulation to Sir 
 
 J and the young naturalist, believe me, 
 
 what you know I am and shall be, 
 
 Ever affectionately Yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 201 
 
 XXXI.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 The Windmills, 
 Nov. 6, 1840. 
 Dearest Milady, 
 If I forgot you at all other times, I should think 
 of you in a gale of wind : but it is not so. The 
 supply of letters is very short this season, and per- 
 haps my correspondents do not suspect it is owing 
 to the dryness of the weather. Yet is it true, both 
 in fact and in philosophy; and you may not expect 
 letters in fine weather. My mornings are devot- 
 ed to my books, broken in upon only by charitable 
 and domestic concerns ; my afternoons to exer- 
 cise and visiting, my evenings, to my husband; 
 consequently the only time for letter-writing is a 
 wet afternoon; and if there are no wet afternoons 
 for six months together, what but absolute dearth 
 can be expected. This is the simple truth, worth 
 a hundred thousand excuses. But I did want very 
 much to hear from you, and to have the beautiful 
 impression of your felicity renewed. It is a strong 
 word, perhaps, for such an attainted world as this. 
 I should not apply it to any sort of happiness, but 
 the enjoyment of God in his works, or in his 
 words. Most earnestly I trust that you will long 
 retain it unembittered. You do not wish now to 
 
 take Admiral F 's vacated honours, I am sure. 
 
 However I laughed at the romance of C , I 
 
 never doubted the blessing of God would attend 
 
202 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 upon your leaving the Hospital, because you did 
 it in His love. How many restless and joyless 
 members of God's family might have peace, if 
 they would go and do likewise : if they had cour- 
 age to cut the knot they cannot disentangle. I 
 want to see you dreadfully; I must beg you not to 
 
 fall out with C till we have been to visit 
 
 you. I feel a wonderful persuasion of coming 
 next year, wonderful for me, for I do not like next- 
 years. When I was single, I said if I ever kept 
 house I could have no salt beef, because I could 
 not provide for next week; it seemed too long. 
 However the beef comes ready salted, and plea- 
 sures innumerable have come ready sweetened 
 and prepared; and found me ready to accept 
 them and be grateful to the Giver, baiting nothing 
 of enjoyment for lack of expectation. Now what 
 am I to tell your felicity-ship, of this w 7 orking-day 
 world of ours ! Nothing now, for the sun is come 
 out, and I am off, and you must wait the next 
 rainy day. 
 
 Thursday, March 2. 
 To resume. — Great part of our friendly popula- 
 tion are away at Brighton; and we are enjoying 
 our uninterrupted homeliness, a little disposed, in 
 one sense, to walk disorderly of late, that is, to 
 walk away to Mr. M on a Sunday. I sup- 
 pose you are not beyond the reach of " rumours 
 of wars," &c. It has occurred to me, whether it 
 might be that a war would break your peace. I 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 203 
 
 hope not, for one who has served his country so 
 long and well, may justly claim the remainder of 
 his years to serve another master, and enjoy his 
 better wages ; not that any body believes we shall 
 have war, except the students of prophecy, who 
 are all alive; and they prefer revolution, I believe, 
 which seems nearer at hand. If God's time be 
 come, we have no interest in wishing it postponed ; 
 but till we see the sign of His coming, " Give peace 
 in our time, O Lord !" is the heart's natural prayer; 
 and I do not like out-running God's judgments, to 
 go before his wrath. It seems as if we were less 
 patient of iniquity than He is. Indeed, with all I 
 have seen, and learned of his goodness and long- 
 suffering pity, it is the greatest trial of my faith, to 
 believe that there will ever be an end to it. But 
 He has said it. Now how much love will you 
 
 please to deliver for me, to Sir , with some to 
 
 the country lass, for whom my respect increases. 
 Mr. Wilson would, lam sure, wish me to say for 
 him all manner of fine things, both laudatory and 
 congratulatory. Do write often, and whenever it 
 
 rains you shall have first turn Farewell. I 
 
 have not told you that we are well, but we are so, 
 in mind, body, and estate, — to God be the praise ! 
 Shall you come up or down this winter? Or do 
 you scorn us utterly? 
 
 I am ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
OQj. LETTERS. 
 
 XXXII.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 February 1, 1841. 
 
 My dear Lady , 
 
 I am afraid you have thought me long in writing. 
 That you may never think otherwise than the. truth 
 about it, allow me to say that in the daily division 
 of my time, there is none properly assigned to let- 
 ter-writing; which therefore has to abide the 
 chance of wet weather, indisposition, or other ac- 
 cidental opportunities. Some reason I had for de- 
 lay, in the expectation of hearing from Seeley of 
 your MS. As it has not appeared, I conclude he 
 thinks, as I should expect to be the case, that it 
 does not require correction. I have considered 
 fully and deliberately all you say upon the painful 
 subject of our correspondence, and feel I agree 
 with it wholly and without reserve. It was early 
 days in this mischief that I wrote my work ; and it 
 w 7 as framed more to defend the healthy, than to 
 cure the already infected. I doubt it is in many 
 cases necessary to give the poison and antidote to- 
 gether. But the more I deliberate, the more I feel 
 assured I am not the person for the undertaking 
 you propose; however, if your machinery were in 
 motion, I might occasionally assist it. I will say 
 nothing of disinclination to controversy, that would 
 be a bad reason : but I plead unfitness; I am, if 
 truth be told, too much a woman to play with such 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 205 
 
 dangerous weapons safely; apt to be sharp when 
 warmed in the conflict, and to wound when 1 do 
 not mean it; and a great deal too sensitive in my 
 own nature, to brave the wounds I may receive 
 for reprisal. Beside, lam unfavourably situated, 
 by the great goodness of God; out of sight, 
 and almost out of hearing of the strife, except by 
 remote effects. I live in a small circle of like- 
 minded friends, and never meet Puseyites, unless 
 some youth from college strays this way, or non- 
 sense-talking girl ; so that I really know not half 
 that you do, of the actual workings of the system, 
 and the phases under which it must be practically 
 viewed and dealt with. If I may form a judgment 
 from your letters upon the subject, no one would 
 be so competent as yourself to meet the mischief 
 and treat it in its home characters. Why not take 
 out of those letters you speak of, what may be in- 
 jurious to Dissenters, and so publish them ? For 
 my own part, I refuse to fight on any ground but 
 the Word of God. I love the Prayer Book, and I 
 approve the Homilies; but I can make no stand 
 there; because, if Tractarians can prove their opi- 
 nions in any degree upon the authority of the 
 Church of England, I then demur to the Church. 
 It is human. If the church is with them, the 
 church is wrong. Such is my real mind upon this 
 subject, that if all Christendom, past, present, and 
 to come, should be brought to give countenance to 
 these errors, it would not move me — to anything 
 but grief — for there the Rock of ages stands, un- 
 18 
 
206 LETTERS. 
 
 moved, immoveable, the same yesterday, to-day, 
 and for ever; the same whether they will hear or 
 whether they will forbear; the same to me, if not 
 a foot beside were found still standing on it. I 
 care for the church only because, and only as long, 
 as she Herself stands thereon. Meantime, she is 
 but the superstructure, with all her excellence; — 
 not the foundation. I will abide by and defend, 
 but may not build upon her: I will argue for her, 
 but not from her. Still I do think with you, that 
 Puseyism is purely sectarian ; and that Puseyite 
 ministers break their ordination vows. The vari- 
 ous modes you mention of meeting the subject, 
 seem all good; but are they not occupied already? 
 I see advertisements of publications almost daily, 
 which seem, — for 1 do not read them, — to take up 
 the subject in almost every form. The difficulty 
 of getting the already biassed to read, is certainly 
 great in all such cases; but that is a state of mind 
 so uncandid, they would hardly be benefited if 
 they did read. Nevertheless, I do not disapprove 
 of your plans and suggestions, — quite otherwise: 
 and would promote, as I might find opportunity, 
 though I cannot originate or undertake anything; 
 so at least is my present impression; leaving it 
 open to the all-directing Hand to employ me as He 
 will, if He should judge otherwise, and make ma- 
 nifest His pleasure to me. Do not let this, or my 
 slowness in replying, deprive me of ihe pleasure 
 of hearing from you, and hearing all that you are 
 inclined to sav, and doin^ all I can do, to assist 
 
LETTERS. 207 
 
 your endeavours. I am sure they will do good, for 
 your heart of hearts is in it, and God will bless 
 your talent to His own use. No wonder you find 
 all errors intermixed in this. It has been said, that 
 Adam was the first Pope; if so, he was the first 
 Puseyite; and it belongs by inheritance to every 
 natural man; it is the religion of fallen humanity, 
 and therefore has more or less been as it were the 
 colouring matter of every device of the Father of 
 Lies for the separation of the church. 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XXXIII.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 March 12, 1841. 
 
 My Dear Lady 
 
 The first paragraph of your letter makes me 
 ashamed. I am not the busy, useful, industrious 
 being you take me for, and I am not sure I did 
 right to say I had not time for letters. There is a 
 sense in which it is true, but it does not apply to 
 my correspondence with you. Having nothing to 
 do, but what I please, from my first waking hour 
 to the last, I found nothing so easy as to fall into a 
 habit of getting rid of time without knowing what 
 became of it; and you know how soon the mind 
 falls into the habit: and when a day has passed, in 
 
208 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 writing nothings, and saying nothings, and doing 
 nothings, what a brain full of nothings will surely 
 remain. The withdrawal of all intellectual im- 
 pulsion and compulsion from without, would soon 
 have reduced my sometimes overwrought, and 
 therefore weary brains to this condition, if I had 
 not made laws to myself, that such and such 
 hours should be so-and-so employed, and should 
 not be intruded upon by trifling occupations; 
 among which, I ought not to have reckoned my 
 correspondence wiih you, as correspondence in 
 general, because your letters are both good and 
 useful, as well as pleasant, and leave other than 
 useless thoughts upon the mind. I make it a law 
 to write for several hours every day, then I am a 
 devotee to air and exercise, whether to tread the 
 earth or dig it; and Blackheath, you know, is nei- 
 ther on the top of a lonely mountain, nor in the 
 heart of a wilderness; and I am not in the habit 
 of being either " engaged" or " not at home." 
 Enough of self: but you will perceive how mere a 
 fid-fad I might become, if I did not say to myself, 
 "Those letters must wait for a wet day, and not 
 break in upon my hours of study." 
 
 Your last letter deeply interested me. You will 
 be struck as I was, with the remarkable coinci- 
 dence of our thoughts, at probably the same mo- 
 ment: so much, that I am induced to inclose the 
 extract of what I had written a day or tw r o before 
 I received your letter: coming, by so different a 
 process, to so similar a conclusion. I was writing 
 
LETTERS. 209 
 
 upon the incarnation, quite irrespective of anybo- 
 dy's views of doctrine, but, intent only upon my 
 subject, wrote myself into the conclusion, without 
 any premeditation, or design of proving it, that a 
 Papist or Puseyite cannot believe the deity of 
 Christ. Thus, while you were inferring from their 
 language, &c, with which you are familiar, that 
 they do not believe the doctrine; I, who know no- 
 thing of that, had by a directly opposite process, 
 inferred for the doctrine itself that it could not be 
 so believed. I enclose the extract, as it stands now, 
 in a work I am writing, but may be many times 
 altered before it reaches the press. Your observa- 
 tions will not certainly induce me to weaken it. I 
 inclose again the Review, which I do not want, or 
 can get again. I wish the Semi-Puseyites could be 
 made to see the danger of their concessions, and 
 the folly of their talk: where every inch of ground 
 they yield gives standing-room for the assailants. 
 Verily, if our ministers had been bred soldiers or 
 philosophers, they would have learned better wis- 
 dom ; if indeed there be no treason in the heart. 
 In lack of both, a little memory might serve them. 
 Cannot they, who are so anxious to restore the for- 
 mularies of the church, remember what that church 
 was before they were disused? Oh! I fear the 
 leaven is in the heart — Cl members one of another," 
 but not as "the body of Christ." I am not sure if 
 I ever saw, or only heard of, your son as the fa- 
 vourite pupil of my brother; he, I am sure, will be 
 gratified by what you tell me of his fidelity to the 
 18* 
 
2]0 LETTERS. 
 
 truth. Never, I believe, was there a moment in 
 which trimming was so dangerous, so ruinous; 
 and though it is a light word, it has a deep, a dead- 
 ly import. The evangelical church itself, even as 
 distinct party, has become unsound ; and we witness 
 the strange anomaly of an ultra-calvinist contend- 
 ing for baptismal regeneration. I read, with pecu- 
 liar interest, your mention of God's dealings with 
 yourself; — fitted indeed to give a just and painful 
 accuracy to all your views and thoughts upon these 
 matters, adding in some sense knowledge to your 
 faith, even in respect of errors and corruption, 
 which we know only by deduction from the truth 
 that opposes them. To the " why" of a heart that 
 must so long to be at rest, we can only answer, 
 who is the Lord of hosts so likely to employ upon 
 the field, in difficult and dangerous times, as the 
 one who has seen most service. Certain we are, 
 that whatever he requires, he bestows; the battle 
 is not ours, but God's. With all Christian interest 
 
 and regard, I am, my dear Lady , 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 211 
 
 XXXIV. TO LADY ***** 
 
 April 23, 1841. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I hope you have not left town, seeing your letter 
 dated a fortnight back; I have been absent from 
 home, and only found it on my return. It has 
 pleased God, since I wrote to you, to send a cloud 
 over my dwelling-place: occupying for some time 
 my thoughts and feelings: by the death of a sister, 
 at my house, very unexpectedly, and with painful 
 circumstances attending. I have since been away, 
 for the refreshment of our spirits from the shock. 
 I go so rarely to London, partly for lack of a car- 
 riage, and more for lack of inclination, that I have 
 almost entirely lost my sometimes numerous ac- 
 quaintances there, and do very seldom either go 
 or stay therein. A more determined country- 
 mouse does not exist. I loved society once, but I 
 don't now. I loved nature always, and better now 
 than ever. I never go to London with my own 
 good will, although so near it: and generally in 
 the bustle of a day's business; I can scarcely 
 therefore hope for the pleasure of seeing you. 
 Perhaps we must all feel a measure of satisfaction 
 in the outbreak at Oxford; it promises a crisis; 
 their submission is affected, and will issue in defi- 
 ance, perhaps separation, which may serve the 
 church, while it loses them. I think they can onlv 
 
212 LETTERS. 
 
 fortify themselves now by isolation ; — by becom- 
 ing a party, and making proclamation of war. 
 This will do good, for all except themselves: how- 
 ever we may feel for those within, we cannot, we 
 must not, regret to see the cordon de sante drawn 
 rigidly round the dwellings of the infected. I am 
 told by a student from Oxford, that a Newspaper 
 is to be substituted for the Tracts. We do not ex- 
 pect, of course, that they will be silenced. With 
 all kindness and respect, 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 P. S. On re-perusing your note, I perceive you 
 have not seen No. 90. It exceeds credibility in 
 evil daring. I am told Newman is a lost man : in 
 intellect and spirits confused and crushed ; I am 
 inclined to think the best issue would be their ab- 
 sorption in the church of Rome; it would save 
 numbers who will ever follow a separate banner. 
 I perceive too, that I have not thanked you for 
 kind wishes, and expressions of interest; and 
 promises of prayer that availeth much, and is 
 never undervalued by those that know their need. 
 Neither have I said how much I should like to 
 meet you, while yet acquiescing in the inutility of 
 a brief and tumultuous morning call. You have 
 not mentioned when you expect to leave town. 
 
LETTERS. 213 
 
 XXXV.— TO LADY * * * * * 
 
 Blachheath, June 19, 1841. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I did not think I could be so long, without ac- 
 knowledging your last kind enclosure; so very 
 kind when you had so much to do. I was glad 
 too to find that you are satisfied, that all is doing 
 that can be done, to meet the painful need at pre- 
 sent. I think so too, and every day see fresh ad- 
 vertisements. There is one from Mr. Goode, who 
 is likely, I think, to vindicate spiritual truth faith- 
 fully. I dare say you have heard, that a gentle- 
 man in London has printed and sent by post Bishop 
 M'llvaine's charge, to every clergyman in the 
 kingdom. This is truly, as you suggested, to 
 make a good use of the new freedom of the press, 
 given us by the reduction of postage. I hear 
 much of the Bishop of Chester's last charge, no 
 doubt it will be printed ; all this is good ; and I 
 have heard, I am not sure with how much truth, 
 that a Tutor has been displaced from Baliol Col- 
 lege, Oxford, for introducing Puseyism into a lec- 
 ture. On the other hand, I hear anxiety expressed, 
 do you, who probably know more — participate in 
 it? that a Conservative government, will fill the 
 bench with Puseyites. If this be so, what are we 
 to wish for ? I believe it can only be that God will 
 do his own wise and holy pleasure in all things, 
 
2 [4 LETTERS. 
 
 without reference to our choice in any matter. 
 Charlotte Elizabeth, who knows and cares so 
 much for Ireland, thinks a change of government 
 will put a stop to much of the good doing in Ire- 
 land, — Is it so? 
 
 Your extracts, printed and in manuscript, are 
 very excellent, and very sad ; as confirming our 
 own sad impressions of the real, the final, and the 
 fatal bearing of these views. 
 
 I hope you are enjoying your release from the 
 bustle of London life, still surrounded and occu- 
 pied by those you love. Leamington has not es- 
 caped the Oxford epidemic, I believe, — what has? 
 I was going to say, who has? but thank God, there 
 are still a few, and the gladness of one's heart, as 
 ever and anon one meets with them, is a compen- 
 sation, some compensation at least, for the per- 
 petual and heart-breaking change of tone, detected 
 everywhere around us. Would this be recovered, 
 even by the annihilation of ihe party, as such ? I 
 am afraid not. The confusion of mind about re- 
 generation in baptism, is undermining all truth in 
 the evangelical party, — quite apart as they think 
 and intend, but not really so, — from Tractarian 
 views. Oh ! how much poison people swallow 
 without detection or suspicion. Well, we can trust 
 God with the care of his own truth, and we may 
 pray Him to take care as well of our valued and 
 endangered church ; most of all that our own 
 hearts grow not cold, on the abounding of iniquity 
 and error, so as to cede the lonely and forsaken 
 
LETTER?. 215 
 
 standard. Let me have the pleasure, some day, 
 of another letter from you ; for believe me, I value 
 them highly, and am, my dear Lady, 
 
 With sincere esteem, yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XXXVI.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 December, 1841. 
 Dear Milady, 
 With all thanks for your obliging inquiries; I 
 have not gone down during the late gales, which 
 is all that can be said, for I do not find I like it 
 much better than I did last year: but having no 
 harbour of refuge out of the house, I was obliged 
 to betake myself to walking up and down between 
 two baize doors that have been put up in the pas- 
 sage. I observe you make no allusion to anything 
 in my former letter; but I conclude you received 
 it. Thank you very much for yours, as bright as 
 ever. Why do you thus endanger the tenth com- 
 mandment? It has been a beautiful season every- 
 where — saving the winds — which yet were no- 
 thing like last year's and did us no sort of mischief; 
 a hard frost last week, and now again warm as 
 spring. This was true when I wrote it. I dare 
 say there was much of truth in your judgment of 
 your young neighbours, — but the line is narrow, 
 
216 LETTERS. 
 
 an error on one side is nothing compared to an 
 error on the other; and, I believe you know I al- 
 ways thought you a little too lax in the reading 
 for young ladies; did I not? Whether so or other- 
 wise, as applied to the present question, we know, 
 dear milady, there is much that is attractive in 
 mind and person, that is nevertheless contrary to 
 purity and simplicity in a young female, and much, 
 how much ! that is pleasing to the natural mind, 
 which is nevertheless contrary to godliness. I do 
 not advocate a vacant mind, but, if there were 
 nothing good to fill it, which cannot be, it is better 
 than a polluted one. You will perceive therefore, 
 I concur with your pastor in the principle, though 
 there may be extremes in the practice. If one 
 sin, aye or one sinful thought be spared them by 
 this abstinence, they will not be the losers, will 
 they? What have I to tell you? We are losing 
 
 our friends the , who leave Blackheath at 
 
 Christmas. I do not know what Mr. Wilson 
 
 means to say to Sir 's delightful letter : 
 
 pious curates are scarce since they all turned Pu- 
 seyites. I know one sound and useful man, who 
 has a curacy of £100 a year without a house, and 
 would be glad indeed to get a better; particularly 
 if where he could take in a couple of pupils: the 
 
 Rev. Mr. of . 
 
 This letter has been a week in getting itself 
 written, and here it ends. With all love and 
 affection, &c. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 217 
 
 XXXVII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 December 18, 1841. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I am so much obliged to you for writing again. 
 I had become quite unhappy, because, having let 
 time so unconsciously pass after the reception of 
 your former letter, I did not know where to ad- 
 dress you. A few days only before the coming 
 of your last, I had sent to inquire if Seeley could 
 tell me your present abode. Thank you very 
 much for relieving my difficulty. I received your 
 former communication on the eve of leaving home 
 for our usual summer ramble, and did fully intend 
 to answer it while out; but I did not do so, and 
 then it was too late on my return, as I believed, 
 to find you. Now my long loitering book is done, 
 and gone out of my hand, and I am quite at 
 leisure: and believe me, very happy to resume a 
 correspondence on which I set great value. To 
 answer your kind inquiry first, the Blackheath 
 fire was not within reach of us, and occurred dur- 
 ing our absence. The people were strangers here, 
 but it was a very distressing scene. I have read 
 with great attention the sermon you kindly send; 
 I do not think the language of page 18, 19 can be 
 admitted at all, without so much concession to 
 Puseyism as throw's all into their hands, though 
 the preacher does not so intend. Is not this the 
 19 
 
21g LETTERS. 
 
 whole secret of our danger and our ruin? (that 
 men see not the issue of their concession) for 
 ruined we shall be at this rate by our advocates, 
 if such they are ; I mean our peace-makers. 
 " We have the Scriptures," but we are not left to 
 our own " unassisted and erring judgment," &c, 
 &c, to deduce the truth from them. True, but 
 what is to help us? Not the Holy Spirit, who 
 wrote the Book and can alone throw light upon 
 it ; but " a complete rule," composed alas ! by 
 other erring judgments and dim lights; but capa- 
 ble of a completeness which the Word of Inspira- 
 tion wants! And how, after all, does this infalli- 
 ble authority end? Just as it always does: in the 
 "I have said" of the preacher. The Bible is 
 judged by the church — the church by the preach- 
 er — and the preacher, as he always must and 
 ought to be, by the hearers; and if some recusant, 
 sitting in the corner of a pew during the sermon, 
 chooses, by his own unassisted and erring judg- 
 ment, to decide that "Our own church does teach 
 and enjoin things that she is not prepared to deduce 
 and prove from Scripture," there is an end of the 
 complete rule. The Scriptures only can decide the 
 controversy, and we end where we had better 
 have begun : in deducing the truth " afresh" from 
 the Book of Truth. I do not so speak in verbal 
 criticism upon this sermon, but merely to show 
 what I am strongly convinced of, that there is no- 
 thing between the full exercise of private judgment 
 on the written Word, and the infallible authority 
 
LETTERS- 219 
 
 of an individual head — a Pope — even the apostolic 
 priesthood will not do, because they will not agree. 
 You may place an equal number of them on either 
 side of your dinner-table: produce a certain text 
 from the Bible, and ask them what it means; their 
 interpretation shall be not only different, but con- 
 trary. On which side of your dinner-table is the 
 authority of the church ? And verily you shall 
 fetch the Prayer Book and not help them : for the 
 one half will say the church teaches baptismal re- 
 generation, and the other that she does not. We 
 cannot, because we ought not, to have peace on 
 such terms as these. It can be so achieved only 
 as it has been before ; there can be but one of two 
 infallibles — Christ, and Antichrist. — He who is 
 God ; and he who shows himself as if he were 
 God. I am convinced there is no medium ; and 
 our ruin is, that well-intentioned, peace-loving 
 men, do not perceive this. Is not the real panacea 
 
 contained in Mr. 's last page? Excuse me 
 
 all this. 
 
 The only passage in my writings I now recal 
 upon the subject you desire, is found in the " Lis- 
 tener in Oxford," pages 175 — 178. I know you 
 have the work, else I would copy it. I think some 
 part of it is to the purpose, but I will think farther, 
 and remit anything else to you that I find, or that 
 occurs to me to say of it hereafter. Your little 
 Tract is very good to its intent ; I shall be happy 
 to distribute it. But what has become of your own 
 book? I never heard more of it. There are 
 
220 LETTERS. 
 
 some sad little attractive-looking children's books 
 
 in circulation, by N 's sister, that need to be 
 
 exposed. I am going to do something in it by a 
 Review, perhaps: but I have "fired my periodi- 
 cals," and can do little more, I fear. We were 
 this summer at the Isle of Wight, and looked in 
 
 upon poor , one Friday, in the chambers of 
 
 his imagery. Thank God ! indeed, we may, that 
 that misleading is over. It was sad to see Chris- 
 tians, true Christian people crowding to his chapel; 
 and declaring that he still preached the gospel; so 
 completely had he preached them into forgetful- 
 ness of what the gospel is, as they once heard it 
 from himself. But he was too honest a man : and 
 all who are so, must do as he has done ; I am 
 afraid we shall not find many. We have been 
 pleased to find Dr. Arnold of Rugby taking so 
 strong a position against them : on the ground that 
 the church is not the ministry, but the members. I 
 am afraid I have given you some proof herein of 
 a fit of idleness, by all this idle talk. You seem 
 to have a great many children : have you not? I 
 cannot think how you can find time to write: and 
 yet I hope you can ; for it is a great pleasure to 
 
 me. I am, my dear Lady , 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 221 
 
 XXXVIII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 December 5, 1841. 
 
 My dear Lady , 
 
 Very kind you are, to indulge me with such a 
 family picture ; blessed in you, and a blessing to 
 you, I am sure. By the help of the night-lamp 
 too, I discover how it is you find so much time to 
 write, in the midst of all your patriarchal cares. I 
 have ransacked the far places of my memory in 
 vain, to recal a single impression of an interview I 
 once had with you; my sister tells me it was at 
 Tunbridge Wells, thirty-one years ago ; but so full 
 of bustle and of change, has been to me the tread 
 of time in subsequent years, I find earlier impres- 
 sions fairly trod out of my poor brain, while they 
 are distinctly remembered by others. Great is 
 God's goodness to the creatures of his hand, whe- 
 ther he blesses with many or with few; for I can- 
 not help contrasting the full casket of your trea- 
 sures, with mine — full too, yet made to hold but 
 one. 
 
 Excuse so much of self, a sign the book is done; 
 which you must allow me the gratification of send- 
 ing you when it is out. I can hardly tell you the 
 name, as that is the last thing decided upon; but I 
 am sure that Christ is the subject; I have written 
 it under more than usual discouragement. Many 
 even of my own friends, — and of the public many 
 19* 
 
222 LETTERS. 
 
 more, — who would once have welcomed, and re- 
 joiced in the truths it contains, will now disrelish, 
 dispute, and perhaps reject them. "Who hath be- 
 lieved our report," is the altered language now of 
 those who remain unaltered, whereas they w 7 ere 
 once upon the popular side. So at least, I think it 
 will be more and more, for what I call the out and 
 out evangelical doctrines; the full entire Gospel; 
 such as a now almost extinct generation of pious 
 ministers, in and out of the church, preached it, 
 and bequeathed it to us; but left, as I fear, few 
 successors to themselves. But may we not regain 
 by opposition, what we have lost by amalgama- 
 tion 1 It was not popularity produced those men, 
 though it finally embraced them. God knows his 
 own purposes, and we know that they are good. 
 It should suffice us. Thank you for all that 
 you enclosed, especially the very nice " Mother's 
 
 Thoughts," which I do like very much ; S has 
 
 not sent the MS. to which I have full leisure now 
 to give attention, and at all times would do so at 
 your request. I felt much pleased by what you 
 
 said of Archdeacon , not having read the 
 
 , but knowing it to be Puseyite : but 
 
 when I repeated it to a clergyman, one of the 
 truest I now know, he said it was impossible to 
 take out of the book, the false views that pervade 
 it throughout. Is this so? I shall like very much 
 to see your letters. It is easier to write in some 
 cases than to speak, but it is a pity, when differ- 
 ences must be controversy, — too much the case 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 223 
 
 just now. I hear we are to have a triumph at 
 Oxford as to the poetry chair, in which I feel great 
 interest, for the sake of the craft, as well as of the 
 University ; but most for the honour of the church 
 
 and its religion. If I had known Mr. to be 
 
 your son-in-law, I might not have ventured to criti- 
 cise his sermon. 
 
 What is true on one side, is true on the other; 
 and while there are many who are of Israel, yet 
 are not Israel, there are some of every party who 
 are not under its condemnation ; and will eventu- 
 ally be proved to have miscalled themselves. I 
 am sure you may hope this of all your dear chil- 
 dren, who are now differing from you. Christ's 
 sheep do often lose themselves, but He can never 
 lose them. 
 
 With the best wishes of this best season, believe 
 
 me, dear Lady 
 
 Sincerely and obliged, yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
224 LETTERS. 
 
 XXXIX.— TO LADY * * * 
 
 January 22, 1842. 
 
 Dear Milady, 
 The month of January is arrived, and I must 
 inquire after the ponies; to whom I beg to make 
 the compliments of the season, and if they stand 
 so much my friends as to bring you hither, I 
 promise them every manner of civility, excepting 
 that of being run away with by them. Whether 
 I will ever give them an opportunity, must remain 
 doubtful, till I see them ; though I am by no means 
 so bad, as I was in that particular. Of course 
 you can feel no surprise, at the precedence here- 
 in given to your favourites ; before I express either 
 
 sorrow or hope about dear Sir J 's gout, &c, 
 
 my thoughts being simply intent upon seeing you ; 
 and my purpose in writing to know when you 
 will come, — much more important than the coming 
 of the king of Prussia. You must really give us 
 as much notice, as you give yourselves, because 
 if we have not to fit up St. George's Hall, I am 
 sure there are friends, who will desire to be en- 
 gaged to meet you, and don't be niggardly of. 
 time. We have beautiful weather now, but I 
 could have wished you here at a better season, 
 for such a house as ours. We will do what we 
 can to keep you warm : w 7 ithin if not without. Mr. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 225 
 
 Wilson said I should tell you he left Staffordshire, 
 when quite a boy, therefore knows not your 
 
 present world. O fie ! it was not Mrs. B , but 
 
 your own letters; and I shall not be satisfied till I 
 ask the ponies. With the best wishes of the season, 
 and every season to yourself and Co. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XL.— TO LADY * * * * 
 
 February, 22, 1842. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 It may seem strange, but it is true, that at this 
 moment I have it not in my power to comply with 
 your wishes. I never make but one manuscript 
 copy of what I write for the press, and that is in 
 the printer's hands. The proof has passed through 
 mine, and is in his hands also. I cannot send for 
 it, because I do not know in which sheet the 
 passage is, and I am as utterly unable to recal my 
 own words, as if they were any body's else. I 
 think the inclosed extract has not been altered as 
 far as it goes; but there is apparently something 
 before, and something between, which are neces- 
 sary to perfect the extract. In the former, it is, I 
 know, a direct mention of Socinianism, something 
 
226 LETTERS. 
 
 to the effect that they are consistent, in that, not 
 believing the divinity of Christ, they do not pre- 
 tend to trust their salvation to him. The latter 
 omission is something to the effect, that He who 
 judges will do it individually, not by communities, 
 because in the soundest community there may be 
 dishonest hearts, whose pure creed will not save 
 them, and in the most unsound, there may be 
 wrong-headed people, who neither understand nor 
 intend what they profess. These are not the 
 words, but the purport of them. I have every 
 reason to expect, that the work will be out in a 
 few weeks. If you can w T ait, the earliest copy 
 shall be forwarded to you, if you will kindly tell 
 me how and where ; and then make whatever use 
 you please of it. I am tempted to send you the 
 
 inclosed, which will appear in the 
 
 next month ; but you will please to keep the secret, 
 as to the writer entirely to yourself. We are 
 much comforted, by the choice of the new Bishop. 
 It has been told me, that he selects for his ex- 
 amining chaplain, the most pious young man in 
 the University. Is the new Irish Bishop one of 
 your family 1 
 
 With pleasant anticipations of your coming 
 packet, believe me, my dear Lady, 
 Ever Yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 227 
 
 XLL— TO LADY * * * 
 
 February 28, 1942. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I have read your interesting document with 
 critical attention, but I find nothing in it that can 
 be objected to, according to my own estimate of 
 divine truth. The sacrifice of truth to unity is 
 the ruinous device of the Evil One, that needs to 
 be scrutinized and exposed ; because it is so well 
 calculated to catch the simple and unsuspicious 
 under the loved and ever lovely name of peace. 
 There is a remark worthy of all observance, in 
 the volume of Ridley, just issued by the Parker 
 Society : either of his or Latimer's ; that unity in 
 anything but the truth, is not concord, but con- 
 spiracy. My dear old minister, William Howels 
 the only pope I ever was in danger of acknowledg- 
 ing on my own behalf, was used to remark, that 
 the Scripture direction is to be " first pure, then 
 peaceable," which might never be reversed, to 
 give precedence to the latter. 
 
 Your paper will be read with interest, and I 
 doubt not with the blessing of heaven, by your 
 children's children, perhaps for many generations. 
 Dr. 's share in it is very good. 
 
 No doubt you are a subscriber to the Parker 
 Society. It bids fair to be a rich mine of gospel 
 verity to strengthen and invigorate our rapidly en- 
 
228 LETTERS. 
 
 feebling hands. Of course, whatever be the pre- 
 text for a declaration of war, justification by faith 
 alone, and regeneration by the Spirit alone, is the 
 ground on which the weary conflict must be main- 
 tained, and all be lost or won. Satan cares as 
 little about rubrics and formularies, apart from 
 these, as the lowest churchman amongst us. The 
 party, I had very nearly said his party, at Oxford, 
 have not hesitated to say that high-church and 
 low-church does not signify : it is the Calvinism 
 that must be exterminated, a name that in their 
 tongue I have no doubt stands for what we mean 
 by the Gospel — the perfect work of Christ. 
 
 I shall take care of your paper, till further orders, 
 and beg you to believe me, 
 
 Your obliged and affectionate 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XLIL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 March 24, 1842. 
 Dearest Milady, 
 We have been much too long without commu- 
 nication from you, and with you. I find by ex- 
 perience the proverb must be reversed, " no news" 
 is very seldom " good new T s ;" but generally con- 
 trariwise. I suppose the old enemy must oc- 
 casionally be contended with : and it is encourag- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 229 
 
 ing to hear you speak cheerfully of the winter past, 
 notwithstanding your sick-room labours and 
 anxieties. It shows you are yourself better, and 
 more comfortably situated, which greatly tends to 
 lighten your affectionate toil. It has been a very 
 fine and cheerful winter : and having had few 
 storms without and none within, I find myself in 
 very good keeping. We look to your coming 
 with great desire : and however it may be delayed, 
 you will surely come at last ; so I mean to think, 
 
 as pertinaciously as I thought to see you at C 
 
 last summer ; I never found castle-building a bad 
 practice. I write to you rather the sooner, for 
 for that I expect to be from home all next week. 
 Mr. Wilson is going to spend it with his relations 
 in Worcestershire, and I am going with him for 
 the simple purpose of not being left behind. You 
 will observe by the papers, the death of Mrs. H — 's 
 brothers. The first, and younger, was a very 
 sudden but most beautiful death ; leaving a wife 
 and family; the second, occasioned no doubt, by 
 the former, a single man, and the last brother. I 
 
 dare say Mr. H will have written you the 
 
 account of it, as I know he corresponds with Sir 
 
 J . It is truly such a death that one might 
 
 long to be allowed to die. 
 
 Thank you for the sermon : and yet, I almost 
 regret when you make me speak about this. If 
 your pastor were an unknown man, I should hear 
 with simple satisfaction what you say about him, 
 
 on his account and yours. But Mr. is not uo- 
 
 20 
 
230 LETTERS. 
 
 known, and the more favourably you speak ofhim 
 the more uneasy I grow on your account. If by 
 unprejudiced, dear, you mean indifference to the 
 empoisoning leaven, that is so rapidly corrupting 
 the pure stream of gospel-truth, so full, so blest of 
 late years in our church, and throwing into confu- 
 sion the minds of God's own people ; speaking 
 merely of that modification of Tractarianism which 
 would disown its name, and so be only the more 
 dangerous to the simple-minded, — you may ask no 
 such thing of me, dear friend ; I am not one to 
 stand indifferently by, while the strong-holds of our 
 faith are assailed on the one hand, and betrayed 
 on the other, and undermined on all ; you know 
 me too well to think so. But a candid opinion you 
 shall have upon this or any other subject on which 
 you ask it; so, candidly, I find nothing amiss in 
 the sermon except two expressions, " Alms at 
 God's altar," page 1, and ''Opportunities of re- 
 ceiving the Body and Blood of Christ," page 8 ; a 
 mode of speaking better understood by me, per- 
 haps, than by many to whom it was addressed. 
 So, leaving criticism, I think, or rather we think, 
 for we read it together, and made the same re- 
 mark; it is very poor, and does not effect in us the 
 only purpose for which it seems intended — to make 
 the coin bestir itself in our pockets; the sad and 
 urgent facts of the case being; known to us before 
 through other channels. Now all this will vex you: 
 and I do not like to vex you ; but, if you really are 
 so innocent as not to know why /, an out-and-out 
 
LETTERS. 031 
 
 Evangelical, a Low Churchman, a Calvinist, any- 
 thing or everything that you may please to call it, 
 
 do not like Mr. P , just ask Mr. P how he 
 
 likes me, and perhaps he will bring you to a better 
 
 understanding of the difference. Or ask Sir J , 
 
 if you like, why when all is making ready for the 
 battle, the fleets do not lie pele mele, one amongst 
 the other. 
 
 Mrs. W is so urgent upon me not to forget 
 
 her kind remembrances, pray consider them as 
 sent. She has moved to the Heath again, and is 
 quite well. I am afraid there is no more news, 
 except that the 13 s are likely to lose their se- 
 cond daughter, Georgiana. Mr. L has now a 
 
 religious curate, who is doing some good in the 
 
 parish. So much for gossip. Love to Sir J 
 
 and the young ladies. I shall come and see you 
 
 some day, in spite of Mr. P , but not till after 
 
 your visit here : in May, I cannot give you longer. 
 Tell Miss Fanny we are all "solfa-ing it;" and I 
 expect when next we meet Mr. Wilson will sing 
 a second with her in great style. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson - . 
 
232 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 XLIIL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 April 13, 1842. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 The long-expected book has come at last. I 
 have inscribed the lowly offering to yourself, and 
 put it in S 's hands to transmit as soon as pos- 
 sible ; for I take it to be too heavy for the post. 
 Meantime, I lose not a day to enclose the extract 
 you desire; and have added another, of the same 
 import. Do with either what seems to you good. 
 
 Indeed, indeed it is a serious thing to write a 
 book, or say any thing that cannot be unsaid — re- 
 voked — recalled — however we may change. Most 
 grateful above all persons I have cause to be, that 
 by a peculiar providence, I was withheld from the 
 public exercise of my talent for scribbling, till the 
 truth of God had taken full possession of my mind ; 
 and thus escaped the guilt and misery of its unhal- 
 lowed use ; and all the regrets that might have 
 been helplessly suffered, in seeing my own foolish 
 words remain in action on the minds of others. I 
 think often, with mixed gratitude and horror, on 
 what I should have written, had I written once. 
 
 Thank you much for all the contents of your 
 packets ; I like the Tract very much, as I do eve- 
 rything you write or say. I wish this sad, sad 
 subject lay not so near to your personal feelings 
 and affections. Without any such interests, one 
 
LETTERS. 233 
 
 has enough lo do, to keep one's mind in peace 
 about it; and I am sure it must sadly intrude itself 
 on yours. But I may write no more now, lest I 
 detain the inclosure, which you want. The book 
 I hope will soon follow it, and meet with some ac- 
 ceptance in your experienced judgment. It will 
 be too strong for most, I know that; but so many 
 like to read my books, who like not the whole 
 truth as it is in Jesus, I had a mind for once to 
 force it on their attentions. Excuse haste, and al- 
 low me to be, 
 
 Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilsox. 
 
 " One class of persons we know there is, who 
 profess not to believe, that the Crucified was God ; 
 and there is so much of consistency in their creed 
 they do not profess to trust their salvation to him : 
 whatever value Socinians set upon Christ's death 
 as man, they do not consider it that perfect and 
 sufficient atonement for sin which it can be only as 
 he was God. But there is another class of whom 
 I think with more wonder and some doubt; who 
 do profess to know the infinite character of the one 
 great sacrifice and satisfaction made for sin, and 
 recognize in the blood of the covenant the blood of 
 God ; yet make so light of it, take at so little its 
 efficacious value, one scarcely can think that they 
 believe it. Grosser than his who thought the gift 
 of God could be purchased for money ; baser than 
 his who parted with it for one morsel of meat, is 
 20* 
 
234 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 the estimate of Christ's atoning blood, by those 
 who think its efficacy can lose or gain, by admi- 
 nistration of their own poor polluted hands; or 
 aught that they can add to it or take from it. I do 
 not make myself their judge to decide a question, 
 which may decide their everlasting state ; I believe 
 by Him who judges, it will be decided individual- 
 ly ; not in communities or communions, whether 
 held together by error or by truth. In the truest 
 communion there are wrong-hearted ones, whose 
 pure creed will never save them ; in the most un- 
 sound there may be wrong-headed ones, who do 
 not understand or intend their own profession ; 
 and so may escape its guiltiness. God knows, but 
 when we see this precious blood postponed, its effi- 
 cacy made dependent on names, and forms, and 
 places, and ceremonies; ordinances, institutions, 
 works, sufferings, merits, or wdiatever else man's 
 wit can substitute therefor, or add thereto; and 
 men profess to find more safety and repose in these 
 than in the sole value of the death of Christ: the 
 doubt forces itself upon me, and I return it to every 
 such a one, and bid him lay it deeply to his heart, 
 — whether he does indeed believe the Crucified 
 was God." — Christ our Lam, p. 50. 
 
 "Let us lose ourselves, and renounce ourselves, 
 and forget ourselves in contemplation of the glori- 
 ous mystery: (its Incarnation,) if only we be lost 
 in shame with it for our low estimate of its cost of 
 our redemption; thinking, as we do sometimes, to 
 
LETTERS. 235 
 
 dispense with the Saviour's merits; at other times 
 to purchase his merits with our own ; nor that the 
 lowest price ; for while many are thinking to ob- 
 tain salvation, or to procure the benefits of Christ's 
 death, by obedience to the law of God, depending 
 for acceptance on prayer, and penitence and bap- 
 tism and church-communion, and other their good 
 works, because these are ordained of God, and 
 commanded to be done : not a few are merchan- 
 dising for the same precious purchase with a still 
 baser coin — with forms and fantasies of their own 
 devising, which God has not commanded, and for 
 which they can produce no law at all, but of their 
 own making. And oh ! the depth from which our 
 thoughts have fallen from contemplation of that 
 high and holy theme ! even to behold no inconsi- 
 derable number whose supposed merits, proffered 
 to Almighty God, as substitutes or make-weights 
 of the Atoning Sacrifice, are things in actual op- 
 position and contradiction to his word. Do these 
 believe that the Crucified was God 1 We ask 
 again and leave it." — Christ our Law, p. 59. 
 
236 LETTERS. 
 
 XLIV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 May 10, 1842. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I shall be very much pleased to receive the book 
 you promise me; that or any thing left for me at 
 
 Messrs. H 's, in Mincing Lane, finds its way 
 
 to me in a few hours. I am not at all likely to be 
 from home for more than a few days till July, and 
 perhaps not then. I will give you a candid opinion 
 of the letters; but I say beforehand, that there can 
 be no reason to withhold them. The words of a 
 tried and experienced Christian, who has seen so 
 much of life as you have, must be valuable, at 
 least to those who are entering upon it; and may 
 be very strengthening to those who are equally ad- 
 vanced, and drawing near, as you are, to the long- 
 ed-for shore. Sure I am, at least, they shall not be 
 by me objected to on the ground you speak of. It 
 is the wisdom of the world, not of God, to withhold 
 the truth, and make compromise with error, be- 
 cause the one may do harm, and the other be mix- 
 ed with good. The former position is never true, 
 in the latter, the harmfulness of the error is all the 
 greater for the mixtures. Of the works, of which 
 you ask my poor opinion, I have read none, except 
 Father Clement, very long ago; a pretty clear 
 clear proof that I do not like them, but that is wide 
 of the question whether they are lawful. I should 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 237 
 
 not say unlawful— but I doubt their efficacy, and 
 suspect their general tendency. For the very- 
 young I disapprove them wholly, and who else 
 will read them ? That is a foolish question per- 
 haps, because a great many others do read them; 
 and it is not impossible that just that number may 
 derive good impressions from them, which they 
 would not get, because they would not seek, in 
 better reading ; I mean the idle readers of a cer- 
 tain age. I do not know, but 1 so thoroughly dis- 
 taste the things, I am afraid lest it warp my judg- 
 ment to condemn them wholly: had I a family to 
 bring up, I should certainly make no use of them. 
 But should they not at best be judged of individu- 
 ally? I apprehend some of those you name to be 
 much worse than others: and if they are to be to- 
 lerated at all as a medium of conveying religious 
 truth, it must be with a strict limitation as to their 
 character and bearing in other respects. # # # 
 
 Your next problem, my dear Lady , is a 
 
 more difficult one; I fear beyond my solution now, 
 not washing to detain this letter. There is just 
 that difficulty in the very front of it, which so 
 often meets me, and puts my wisdom at fault. 
 People ask their way without saying where they 
 are going; and I may direct them to York, while 
 they are bound for Exeter. 
 
 There is not, there cannot be one road for those 
 that are to pursue the world and to possess it, and 
 those that are to renounce it. I could write you 
 a volume, to prove that a pious parent should not, 
 
238 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 and could not, stimulate and fill the young imagi- 
 nation with unhallowed images of forbidden things, 
 to become the torment and the taint of a mind de- 
 voted to God, and conformed to his holy will; 
 while not one word that I might say, should be 
 applicable to the parent who wishes and intends 
 that the child should succeed and shine among the 
 gay, the loved, the happy of this world's society. 
 For after all, the world's poetry is better than its 
 prose — the dreams of fairy land are better than 
 the drudgery of mammon — the wildest disciple of 
 romance is more lovely in her generation, than 
 the cold, calculating drawing-room coquette. That 
 her delusion will be the shorter and her disappoint- 
 ment the surer, is no great evil: for the fashion of 
 this world passeth, the game is soon played, and it 
 matters little whether it be won or lost, when it is 
 ended. If I look to gather winter stores into my 
 garner, I plant my ground with one thing; if I 
 want it to look pretty through the summer season, 
 I plant it with another. Is not this so? But no 
 more now, except the sincere esteem of, 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 239 
 
 XLV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 August 29, 1842. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I received your note, and soon after it the pro- 
 mised book; on the eve of departure from Black- 
 heath for a short season ; and thank you much for 
 affording me another opportunity and excuse to 
 write. I thought the time had expired for your 
 sea-side address, and that I must wait another. 
 The book I looked hastily over before I left it be- 
 hind, quite sufficiently to be satisfied of its cha- 
 racter, and I trust it will be very useful to a not 
 unimportant class, — that of young men entering 
 on the profession — with a wish to reconcile its 
 practices with the mind of God. The difficulty of 
 this in every profession, trade, or calling, as now 
 carried on in the world, — the more than difficulty, 
 I should say impossibility, of following any after a 
 godly sort, without the sacrifice of its temporal 
 advantage to a greater or less extent, is a thing 
 that has much fixed my attention through life, by 
 the opportunity I have had of observing the spirit- 
 ual difficulties of every class of persons. From 
 the least to the greatest, I have seen that the ut- 
 most the god of this world proposes, must be fore- 
 gone, unless some manner of service or of homage 
 be conceded to him. " All this will I give to thee, 
 if" — must be heard in every believing heart ; and 
 
240 LETTERS. 
 
 the choice made in every faithful one, to be less 
 rich, less honourable, less successful, in this world, 
 than he might have been if the love of Christ con- 
 strained him not. I am so persuaded of this my- 
 self, I always purposed if I had children, to keep 
 it before their eyes and my own, as a matter of 
 course, that the great things of this world must be 
 righteously renounced, and no question made, how 
 they might be righteously attained : not in one 
 path only, but in all, from the bar downward to 
 the poor waterman, who could make money on a 
 Sunday, if. Is there any stronger evidence of 
 human corruption, and the present reign of the 
 evil one, than this — that the most lawful calling 
 cannot be righteously pursued without departing 
 from the common practices of the world, and leav- 
 ing its utmost advantage to the ungodly. I was 
 much pleased with your approbation of our dear 
 
 friend C M , and so was he, for I made 
 
 him a party to your observations. Authors sorely 
 need encouragement, and they will need it more 
 and more, who in these days are to stand against 
 the turning tide. When I leave home, I feel the 
 truth of your observation, that I am happy to live 
 out of the sphere of contention, and fire my poor 
 missiles from a distance. It is difficult to go many 
 miles from home, and take the chances of a single 
 Sunday, without encountering the mischief in some 
 form or other. I was sadly grieved in this way at 
 * * * last Sunday, more perhaps than the thing 
 was worth; for though Mr. had some repu- 
 
LETTERS. 241 
 
 tation at , as an evangelical minister, I never 
 
 heard him fully preach the truth, nor quite believ- 
 ed he did, though others thought so. I was quite 
 unprepared, however, and proportionately shocked, 
 to hear him tell a large congregation, well enough 
 disposed I dare say to believe him, on the text: 
 "Make your calling and election sure;" that the 
 only calling and election here spoken of was al- 
 ready their's, by birth and baptism in the Christian 
 church; and their only care must be to keep it, 
 and make sure of its ultimate benefits, by a holy 
 and virtuous life. And so deeply leavened is the 
 sometimes religious world with this insidious 
 poison ; so confused and confounded are minds 
 not really persuaded or perverted, that numbers 
 sate contented with the hearing, and departed 
 satisfied w T ith what they would sometimes not 
 have endured to listen to. This is the forecasting 
 woe, that threatens all people, to strive against 
 Popery and Puseyism all the week, and on the 
 Sunday listen to their perversions without know- 
 ing it. For myself, I am a faint-hearted coward, 
 and would gladly be out of hearing of these ru- 
 mours of wars; but I am ashamed to be saying all 
 this to you, who have to bear with it, and to deal 
 with it so much more nearly. Does it not some- 
 times make you cry, " How long, O Lord, how 
 long?" 
 
 I have not your former letter by me, and am 
 afraid there may be something in it I neglect to 
 
 answer to. If you see the , you will 
 
 21 
 
242 LETTERS. 
 
 find in the ensuing number a review of Tractarian 
 Novelists; Paget and Gresley in particular, of 
 which you will detect the writer perhaps. They 
 are monstrous. 
 
 It is rather grievous to observe to what extent 
 also the periodical press is in possession of the 
 enemy. You see I am terribly out of heart. 
 Nevertheless, there seems to be a sound gospel 
 ministry here. I call to mind your question re- 
 specting the clearness of Mr. M 's writing. In 
 
 his preaching, being extempore, it is something 
 quite extraordinary. I was pleased to have my 
 impression of it confirmed by your notice of it, in 
 connection with the eagerness and rapidity of his 
 delivery; it indicates a mental power of a very 
 peculiar character; because it is a rapidity and 
 perspicuity of thought, not of mere language: it is 
 the mind, and not the tongue, that acts with such 
 extraordinary velocity and exactness. I am afraid 
 you will discover by my prating, that I am under 
 the influence of watering-place idleness. I expect 
 to return home next week, and hope to be soon 
 obliged with another communication from you. 
 
 Meantime, my dear Lady , believe me, 
 
 Sincerely and obliged yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 243 
 
 XL VI.— TO MRS. T . 
 
 September 7, 1542. 
 
 My very dear Friend, 
 
 The newspapers have made known to me your 
 great affliction : what can I say to you? Nothing 
 of comfort that the Holy Ghost has not already 
 said within you, but only a few vain and empty 
 words of human sympathy and love, — " The Lord 
 gave," or rather lent, and if we ask, why should he 
 resume'? we must first answer, why should he 
 have ever given? 
 
 Yours was indeed a brief loan, poor dear ! and 
 because I know your more than common desire 
 for children, and more than common delight in 
 them, I estimate very deeply your present suffer- 
 ing. That you are upheld and supported under 
 it, I am also sure, for your heart has been too 
 long given to Jesus, for you to refuse him any 
 thing beside ; and He has been too long given to 
 you, for any other loss to leave you destitute. 
 
 These are lowering and darkening times, dear; 
 and they who see their loved ones safe on shore 
 before them, will die happier than they who leave 
 them on the deep: you cannot feel this now, but 
 you will. Be comforted and wait; you know that 
 I say to your dear husband, all I write to you, and 
 comprehend him in all I feel for you. At your 
 leisure, and entire inclination, not before, I should 
 
244 LETTERS. 
 
 like to hear of both of you. We are just returned 
 from our usual summer holiday; thank God in 
 health. With Mr. Wilson's most kind regards, 
 and feeling sympathies, believe me, dear, 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XLVIL— TO MRS. T . 
 
 September 20, 1842. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your letter is just such as I expected from 
 yourself; the voice of thanksgiving from a broken 
 heart — praise in the depth of affliction. Such 
 choice and lovely flowers bloom but a short sea- 
 son in general ; there seems but little of the dross 
 of earth about them, and why should they bide 
 the fire. 
 
 In respect of your wish about the Epitaph, I 
 think those you selected very appropriate ; and 
 should hardly expect to substitute a better of my 
 own. But if it is the feeling of your love to put 
 something of mine upon the tomb of your precious 
 child, perhaps the inclosed will meet your wishes, 
 which I have penned for the purpose. It is not 
 easy to select within the given compass; I send it 
 only on the condition that you make no ceremony 
 of rejecting it, if you prefer another ; since it is 
 
LETTERS. 245 
 
 your estimation of it only, that can give it value 
 for the purpose. I write in haste lest you should 
 be anxious for it. Yes, dearest, I have ceased to 
 wish for children long before my death-bed. It is 
 the natural desire of a wife, but I very soon found 
 I had enough to love, and enough to lose. The 
 very feeling, at first so painful, that if I should lose 
 my husband, I should have nothing left, was soon 
 converted into a thought of satisfaction. I should 
 wish to have nothing left in this world, that my 
 whole heart's affections might be transferred at 
 once, and the last tie be broken. This has been 
 long my feeling; but you are younger, dear, and 
 must not so desire. You have blessings left, and 
 they must bring their duties and their cares, and 
 you must try yet to enjoy the one, as well as fulfil 
 the other ; and you will — God will comfort you. 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 
 Brief thrall of sin 
 
 His spirit held — in Jesus risen again, 
 Brief be the tomb 
 
 That holds his body now, till Jesus come. 
 
 21* 
 
24G LETTERS. 
 
 XLVIII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 October 25, 1842. 
 
 My dear Lady , 
 
 Though I have been too long in saying it, I hope 
 you will believe that your first letter, saying most 
 of yourself and of what is yours, was by no means 
 the least interesting to me. Indeed, apart from the 
 near interest I have in Desford Rectory, that is a 
 story might deeply affect any heart, feeling and 
 liking to feel its entire dependence, trusting and 
 liking to trust, everything to the control and de- 
 termination of the Most High. Indeed you say 
 right, there is enough there, and enough every- 
 where, to shame us out of anxiety of any kind. 
 Mistrust in a child of God, is the most irrational 
 thing in the world ; but seeing that we are such 
 poor frightened children, striking interferences of 
 providence like that you mention, are very gra- 
 ciously given from time to time, and may be most 
 profitably repeated and contemplated, for our en- 
 couragement as well as for our reproof. You 
 have a right to be assured, and must be assured, 
 that you will not be turned aside permanently, 
 however opposed by adverse influences for a sea- 
 son; and we will hope not even this. I have no 
 doubt myself, and it is the feeling of the most de- 
 cided people I meet with, that it is war, not peace, 
 for which we must prepare ourselves: separation 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 247 
 
 not union, to which we must be ready to submit, if 
 it please God to suffer the extremity of this mis- 
 chief. We do expect the Evangelical party must 
 stand out, with such a show of resistance and de- 
 termination, as will either force respect by its num- 
 bers, influence and consistency, and afford for Zion 
 a stronghold, and a safe one within the establish- 
 ment; or, as will, on the other hand, so array the 
 hierarchy against us, that we shall be cast out, 
 ministers and people together, from the parental 
 roof; and if on the one hand we see many, who 
 seemed to be of us, going out from among us, or 
 compromising all that is most precious to us, those 
 who abide are waxing stronger and stronger, and 
 gathering as it were in expectation of the conflict. 
 Such are the signs of the times, I would you had 
 no more personal difficulties and anxieties about it 
 than I have, for though sore distressed, and often 
 very sad in spirit about this declension in the 
 church, and obscuration of the light so long enjoy- 
 ed, it is as the member feels for the body, rather 
 than individually for itself. I shall stand by the 
 established church, as long as she will let me; but 
 I feel that I could do very well without her, if it 
 became necessary. It would be a great loss for 
 this world ; but what is there of this world that we 
 cannot do without, and count but loss that we may 
 win Christ: and having won him, maintain the 
 purity of his faith, and the glory of his name. 
 
 No, my dear Lady , I have not discovered 
 
 that remedv, nor have T, like some others, looked 
 
248 LETTERS. 
 
 for it, for I never believed it was intended in the 
 present dispensation. A great deal was thought 
 at one time, about getting pious men into parlia- 
 ment. Men whose social position did not require 
 it of them, (for I would not have them shrink from 
 it where it does,) put themselves forward, and 
 were supported by the religious body as such, in 
 the expectation of dethroning Satan there; there 
 was an honest purpose and expectation of a great 
 deal of influence for good ; and I found myself 
 almost alone in my opinion, that they were doing 
 wrong. In the stir about the Sabbath again, in- 
 stead of catching eagerly and thankfully at such 
 poor crumbs of relaxation, as would have been 
 thrown to us by that hard taskmaster, God's peo- 
 ple thought to have, and would have nothing less, 
 than the utmost limits of his law, and purpose. 
 Perhaps, too, the increase of religion in the high 
 places of our church, has wakened a too lofty ex- 
 pectation there, which, like the others, will disap- 
 point itself. I have had but one mind about it all, 
 it is a very simple view ; but nothing has disproved 
 it yet. Our Lord is gone to receive a kingdom of 
 his Father, he did not commit to his servants the 
 government of the world in his absence ; but left 
 the usurper on the throne till He returns. Far 
 other was his last behest to them, "Love not, touch 
 not, taste not, handle not." He did not ask his 
 Father then to give it them ; far other was his last 
 prayer for them. His people will reign with Him, 
 they cannot reign without him, they may not pre- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 249 
 
 vail to have the domination any way until He 
 come again, and the God of this world is cast out. 
 The Assistant of Education, respecting which 
 you inquire, was a periodical publication edited by 
 me for many years, and really written almost 
 wholly by myself. The Listener was a part of it, 
 also the Scripture Readers' Guide, now a separate 
 work, in the 11th edition. Several of those you 
 mention, I hope may be separate works some time, 
 as I have them so prepared ; but would not take, 
 and could not get others to take, the risk of their 
 publication. About the advertisement you speak 
 of, I am surprised ; as I believed the work, as a 
 whole, to be out of print. My publisher failed and 
 disappeared. I cannot tell who has advertised it. 
 Still, if you get it, there is nothing of consequence 
 in it that is not my writing ; and a good deal that 
 might be used in education, religion apart. Indeed 
 
 I should consider the " ," a very nice 
 
 and valuable gift to make to many persons. Your 
 secrets, be assured are quite safe with me, and I 
 
 doubt not so with S ; and I shall be pleased to 
 
 see your Letters in print. I can hardly make up 
 my mind, what to be doing next: but I cannot be 
 idle long, for my own mind's sake. Circumstances 
 give more weight to the question of profit, than I 
 could wish it had, in the choice of subject: but 
 this too is of God, and perhaps I require the im- 
 pulse to keep me going. Nevertheless I hope I 
 wait, and am sure I ask, for his direction in it. 
 
250 LETTERS. 
 
 This is, I fear, a desultory epistle; but your kind- 
 ness excuses everything, and you will 
 
 Ever believe me yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 XLIX.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 November 22, 1842. 
 
 My Dear Lady 
 
 I have received safely your inclosure, which 
 shall be carefully kept till I have further directions 
 from you respecting it. Greatly indeed I am 
 grieved to hear of your serious indisposition; I 
 can only hope and pray it may be but a temporary 
 alarm, — a word I do not apply to you, but to those 
 who cannot spare you. I will not impose a long 
 letter on you now, lest you weary yourself to 
 answer it; instead of just telling me you are get- 
 ting well. I think I do not understand your pro- 
 position respecting regeneration : that is, I under- 
 stand your negative as to the baptismal service — 
 there is, and ever must be a weak point, when we 
 attempt to defend our church, in her formularies 
 at least, though I believe not in her intentions. I 
 say, "defend the church," because heartily as I 
 would at all times defend our establishment by 
 Holy Scripture, I refuse all defence of Holy Scrip- 
 ture by the opinions of our church. What I do 
 
LETTERS. 251 
 
 not understand is your view of regeneration as a 
 change of state: I think you do not seem to mean 
 a change from a state of nature to a state of 
 grace ; from a state of condemnation to a state of 
 justification ; as the high church party do, and as 
 we do ; and yet I cannot think what other change 
 of state can be in your mind. In the passage you 
 allude to, the word regeneration evidently, I think, 
 means the resurrection of the body to renewed ex- 
 istence ; which by analogy would strengthen our 
 view that its ordinary meaning is the resurrection 
 of the soul to spiritual existence, when it passes 
 from death unto life. This we believe regenera- 
 tion to be, and this we wish to disconnect from the 
 baptismal service, otherwise than as between the 
 sign and the thing signified ; which may or may 
 not be in connection at any given time. And this 
 we wish to make our church say, as far as we can, 
 because if she will not, we must not defer to her 
 opinion against what we believe to be the mind of 
 God as manifest in Holy Writ. Mr. wish- 
 ed to make the church in the right ; but many who 
 think him scripturally unanswerable, are not satis- 
 fied with his defence of certain phrases in the 
 Prayer book. For my own part, as I profess not 
 to expect perfection in anything that comes from 
 the hands of man, I would rather stand upon the 
 Articles, and the general purport of her services, 
 and give up, as unfortunate and objectionable, the 
 few expressions that have led to so much mischief 
 and misapprehension. I would rather regret the 
 
252 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 blemish on her fair cheek, than attempt to paint it 
 out. But I should like to know what you mean by 
 a change of state as effected in baptism; only, not 
 till you are well enough to write at ease. The 
 Bishop of London's Charge has thrown a huge 
 mass of ballast into our sinking boat, which threat- 
 ens to swamp us utterly. But no more now; 
 while God is on our side, we will not, and we do 
 not fear what man can do against us. With the 
 deepest interest in your health, and all that con- 
 cerns you, believe me, my dear Lady 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 P. S. — I should like to know, whether in the 
 case of your death, the secret of your authorship 
 is to be for ever kept. 
 
 L.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 January 3, 1843. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 Many thanks for all your kind communications: 
 I am now so much on the debtor side, I think we 
 shall not cross upon the road. I quite understand 
 your term now, as synonymous with what we call 
 High Church ; but still think the latter the belter, 
 because the more familiar term. Perhaps, to avoid 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 253 
 
 all the difficulties, of calling things by different 
 names, which are only degrees of the same thing, 
 is better. Nevertheless Tractarian, High Church, 
 and Evangelical, would be three things in the eyes 
 of most readers. I think your proposed addition 
 to the book, quite unobjectionable; and as regards 
 the word catholic, it may be useful. I was much 
 pleased to get another copy of your little book, as 
 it enabled me to send the first into the servants' 
 room. I have received also the two volumes of 
 Poetry : but alas ! I do not pretend to be no lover 
 of poetry. I was born a poet, and bred a poet; 
 and am perhaps too much of a poet still, but alas! 
 What a requisition you have made, to read two 
 volumes of — what shall I say? However, I will 
 try at your request to look again ; at present I 
 simply confess, I have found more Puseyism than 
 poetry. There are many reasons for reading bad 
 prose ; but I never yet could find a reason for 
 reading or writing bad poetry; just because there 
 is no necessity for poetry at all. I hope you will 
 not be angry at this affront to your friend's muse ; 
 but you confess you have not read them. 
 
 I have not written any more in the C , 
 
 than I have named to you — except two; when I 
 do so, I will tell you. 
 
 I note your suggestions about Union : but fear I 
 am too hopeless, to be the instrument of promot- 
 ing it. I never knew a moment at which it seem- 
 ed so impossible, except by previous separation 
 from the church; and even then, if the people of 
 22 
 
254 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 God within the church should become, as I think 
 they ultimately will, a severed but united body, 
 the state of the dissenting churches is most un- 
 favourable to anything like union with us, on that 
 side. Already they are taking advantage of our 
 strife, to attack both sides ; and it appears to me 
 also, that their spirituality as a body is as much 
 on the decrease, as their ill-will toward the Estab- 
 lishment is on the increase. I am entirely per- 
 suaded myself, that there can be no union; but an 
 agreement to differ in love, about all that is not 
 necessary to salvation. Never alas ! were we ap- 
 parently so far from this. It may come, but I 
 think it can be only through a time of such oppo- 
 sition, and persecution, from the world and its 
 church, as shall force the church of Christ to stand 
 together, in its defence. Accept the best wishes, 
 of this beautiful and bountiful season, come in with 
 such unusual brightness. 
 
 I am indeed rejoiced and thankful, that you are 
 
 tolerably well again. My dear Lady 
 
 Yours in real union, 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 255 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 LI.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 February 6, 1843. 
 
 I am in arrears, I fear, with all your kind com- 
 munications, and books too; which I am giving 
 away discreetly, and hope they will do good. I 
 
 mean ten copies of the " ." AH 
 
 you write about disunion is most true, most sen- 
 sible ; but alas ! it is retrospective, and w 7 hat can 
 that avail 1 You say " if dissenters had remained, 
 instead of separating." I doubt not you are right; 
 but that is past. I do not know to what particu- 
 lar period of separation your extract refers. If to 
 that of the ultra-calvinist separation, under Messrs. 
 
 B , &c; they long ago broke up, and God and 
 
 the world took each their own amongst them. If 
 the Irvingite party, — they are already joined in 
 heart to the Puseyite faction; and will join hand, 
 when they can do it without shame. Other de- 
 nominations of dissenters already show themselves 
 awakened by our strife: but are taking arms, to 
 wound us on both sides. Even if they were better 
 disposed to peace than I fear they are, we can no 
 longer invite them to return into our fast-crumb- 
 ling edifice, out of which w r e are momentarily ex- 
 pecting to be expelled. 
 
 A very learned and pious clergyman here the 
 the other dav, wished to change the name, Dis- 
 senters, and unite the pious of all sorts, under the 
 
256 LETTERS. 
 
 name of Consenters ; you would consent to this, but 
 would you be prepared to see the whole body of 
 God's people in the Establishment withdraw from 
 it, to form this Consentient Church ! For my own 
 part, I could be content to see it, if God did it; but 
 I could not resolve to be the doer of it: because, 
 better as the vital part might be without its en- 
 cumbrance of worldly intermixture, the disloca- 
 tion would be terrible, and its effects upon the 
 world and its church most lamentable. Besides, I 
 agree w 7 ith you about the present and temporal 
 advantages, among many spiritual disadvantages, 
 which the temple of our God derives from the sur- 
 rounding mass of outer-court worshippers; or the 
 advantages, at least, which society derives, from 
 the temporary amalgamation. Alas ! it is not on 
 our side now, that the pulling-down of bulwarks is 
 threatened : and our words will have little effect 
 upon our opponents. It has been always foreseen 
 by the far-seeing and deep-thinking, that the high- 
 church and evangelical parties, being not differing 
 but opposed in principle, could only adhere by suf- 
 ferance on the part of the majority: — unity was 
 impossible. Most of us fear that the time is come, 
 when that sufferance will be refused ; and then the 
 minority must secede. I desire, on my own part, 
 that it should be the act of our unnatural mother, 
 to cast us from her bosom, rather than ours to 
 abandon her, even in her corruption, while liberty 
 of conscience is allowed on the disputed points. 
 Approving therefore entirely your "Extracts," I 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 25? 
 
 do not see them applicable to the present crisis. I 
 pray God to protract it, — and he may; but the 
 feeling of most is that the crisis approaches, more 
 or less near, some say ten years — some say ten 
 months. Much depends upon the government. Jf 
 they grant a convocation, or meddle with church 
 matters in parliament, the numbers are against us; 
 and the church in England, will not long be the 
 church of England; for which we shall all deeply 
 grieve, and Satan will triumph gloriously; but it 
 will not be we who have removed our tents, or ex- 
 tinguished our lamps within her. 
 
 How artful those people are ! — among the host 
 of them, there is not a more dangerous and per- 
 verted or perverting one than . Your 
 
 " Worldly Religion" is a true painting, and will 
 be a true likeness of more than it is drawn for. 
 You may be quite at ease respecting the princi- 
 ples, likely to be derived by your orphan niece, 
 
 at Miss E 's; their reputation for religion 
 
 stands high; but there is said to be very great 
 deficiency of instruction in every tiling else, which 
 is a great evil for one who may have to maintain 
 herself, hereafter as you say, by the exercise of her 
 mental acquirements. Would it be any satisfaction 
 to you, that I should see her? Accept this return 
 of little for your much; and the inclosed from my 
 valued pastor, against that enormous heresy of the 
 Tractarians; "No regeneration before the ascen- 
 sion." Ever most truly yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 22* 
 
258 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 LIL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 February 12, 1843. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 You have so entirely misunderstood my last, I 
 must undeceive you ; not only for the ease of your 
 own mind, but, lest you should impart to any one 
 else the thought which is founded wholly on mis- 
 apprehension. I almost think it would be enough 
 to ask you to read my letter again : but I may have 
 written obscurely, and you may have forgotten to 
 what I was answering, when I put the interroga- 
 tory that you quote. You had exhorted to union. 
 I saw but one union at this time possible, which 
 was to be deprecated : I asked you if you would 
 consent to that, not asking you to consent, but mean- 
 ing to express my certainty that you would not; 
 and when I added that / could, it, &c, it was an 
 expression of painful resignation to the Divine will 
 in that which I anticipate. From what part of my 
 letter you could draw the inference that it is God's 
 people who are banding together to secede, when I 
 meant to express the deep and anxious fear with 
 which all the evangelical party see the high-churcb 
 party banding together to force them out, I cannot 
 at all guess; but I must have expressed myself ill 
 indeed for you so to understand me. I do not 
 know a single individual, lay or clerical, who 
 wishes, purposes, or even thinks of leaving the 
 church; but I know 7 few thinking and feeling and 
 
LETTERS. 259 
 
 informed persons, who are not afraid that under 
 the growing influence of Puseyism, the Establish- 
 ment will so change its ground as to leave us a 
 separate body. That this does not occur to you as 
 a possibility, without our own act, may arise from 
 your not knowing what is doing, or is likely to be 
 done. But suppose to yourself, the bishop of Exe- 
 ter refusing ordination to every man, who will not 
 subscribe that we are justified by baptism; and 
 suppose him next to suspend all the curates, and 
 withdraw all licenses within his power, on the 
 same ground — or because they won't bow to the 
 altar — or any other anti-scriptural thing. Such 
 power he already has, and to an extent has exer- 
 cised. But suppose further, that the Queen grants 
 what they want; a convocation empowered to act 
 in church matters, and make changes in the ritual, 
 under the pretence of settling disputes. Immedi- 
 ately the majority may decide for doctrines and 
 practices, which no righteous minister can com- 
 ply with ; articles which he cannot subscribe, 
 because they are unscriptural: forms which he 
 cannot use, because they are idolatrous. What 
 must follow, as regards the ministry? What 
 would, and ought to follow as regards their 
 flocks? This is the view I meant to exhibit, the 
 only one I or my friend from Oxford, to whose 
 words I seem to have done great injustice, ever 
 contemplated. This w 7 as meant by Dr. Arnold, 
 whom I quoted to you; by Mr. Blunt, who on the 
 verge of eternity expressed his belief, that less 
 
260 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 than ten years will accomplish it certainly — of 
 some who think that ten months will see it done — 
 of many a devout heart, I feel assured, now earn- 
 estly praying, that when the trying time shall 
 come, he may stand fast in the Lord ; though it 
 may be at the cost of all he holds most dear. Now 
 I must ask of your justice to read my letter again, 
 and see if it will not fully, and in every part, bear 
 this explanation as its obvious sense; if it will not, 
 then it must have been a very stupidly-compound- 
 ed effusion. 
 
 When this time comes, my dear Lady , 
 
 it is not the little band who will rally round the 
 Lord's forsaken ensign, that will have to deter- 
 mine who is, and who is not to be among their 
 number: as you seem to think. True, we may 
 hope, and trust, and pray; but we must not sleep 
 upon our watch-tower in a time of siege. It may 
 please God you will not live to see it. I some- 
 times hope, and if I might, could wish that I may 
 not, — who am a little younger — for it will be 
 fraught with grief to many whom I love, if not 
 much affecting myself 'personally. We both may 
 pray for delay, even if we are hopeless to see the 
 ill finally averted ; but to suppose that any godly 
 person within the Establishment can wish it, pro- 
 mote it, purpose it; no, really I could not have 
 written any thing that could bear that construc- 
 tion. I write under a press of occupation, and 
 will therefore delay answering all the rest of your 
 
LETTERS. 261 
 
 kind propositions. With many apologies for this 
 haste. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 P. S. — My picture of the church of Christ in 
 England now, is of a besieged city, (not a rout,) 
 of which the weakening garrison, after a brave 
 defence, will be ultimately marched out, — I hope 
 with their colours flying. 
 
 LIIL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 March 25, 1843. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 If you are ashamed of writing, I am sure I ought 
 to be ashamed of not writing ; after all your kind 
 communications. I offer but one excuse, because 
 I had in fact but one reason for not doing so, viz., the 
 having another book in hand, which generally im- 
 pedes my letter writing. If there is any difference 
 in our view of the sad subject of our correspond- 
 ence, it arises wholly, as I think, from the differ- 
 ent position from which we view it. You take 
 your view from the centre — you see the picture 
 in detail — you individualize the effects — you have 
 Puseyism embodied, as it were, in those about 
 
262 LETTERS. 
 
 you — I may almost say, within you : even at your 
 heart's core. Possibly this propinquity may vary 
 the bias of your opinions, about as much, and no 
 more, than the light summer breeze gives its di- 
 rection to the waving corn. I draw from a dis- 
 tance, and see only the broad outline, the larger 
 features. I never meet, with the individuals, ex- 
 cept an empty youth, or foolish young girl now 
 and then, who meeting me as a stranger of well- 
 known sentiments, will seldom venture a talk with 
 me by broaching their opinions. Consequently, I 
 know less than you of the interior working of the 
 system, and am not within reach of personal in- 
 fluence. I do not know such persons as you speak 
 of, as being converted to seriousness by the Ox- 
 ford party ; I think every such case must stand 
 upon its individual merits. If the dissipated youth 
 is indeed a broken-hearted penitent, learning to 
 hate the sin he lately loved, and to renounce it for 
 Jesus' sake, he will assuredly not rest always in 
 Puseyism ; it may prove to have been the school- 
 master that led him to Christ. But if the change 
 be only from self-indulgence to self-righteousness, 
 an alarmed conscience taking refuge in a formal 
 devotion, the convert is no safer than he was be- 
 fore. I am not sure that he is not in a more 
 dangerous position, by reason of his false security ; 
 he is like one, who in a storm of wind, should be- 
 take himself for shelter to a baseless roof. It ap- 
 pears to me, that these cases, be they many or 
 few, are so very individual, and so impossible to 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 263 
 
 discriminate, that they need not in the least degree 
 affect our judgment of the Tractarian influence. 
 
 I think things wear rather a different aspect in 
 Ireland than in England ; our pious ministers 
 might, if they would, read the cold formulary to 
 the empty benches, while the untaught labourer 
 perished in his prayerlessness and ignorance; but 
 if any one set about to do what your son does, he 
 would be impeached and perhaps suspended for 
 altering the service. Our dear pastor has a ser- 
 vice for communicants on the Friday before the 
 sacrament; but having no place large enough to 
 address them except the church, he dares not omit 
 the smallest portion of the service, which is not 
 the object at all, but a really inconvenient deten- 
 tion ; so that we in England are not likely to mis- 
 construe daily service. Such a one as yours, with 
 a gospel address at the end of it, would be a bless- 
 ing everywhere, if the people would go ; but in 
 England they would not. The Puseyites may say 
 vicarious prayers for the people, if they please, but 
 nothing will take the English poor to church 
 bodily, but a good stirring gospel sermon. I say 
 not this of the rich, they will do anything, rather 
 than renounce the world, and its affections, and 
 lusts; as required by the gospel. Truly you say, 
 exterior trifles of dress &c, do not signify in them- 
 selves. Intrinsically we should not care to choose 
 between the tri-color and the drapeau-blanc ; but 
 when they were the insignia of legitimacy and of 
 usurpation, they did signify. I fear it is so now 7 
 
254 LETTERS. 
 
 between the black gown and the white: and we 
 must not hoist the enemy's colours in the day of 
 battle, or follow them. This is, I think, the whole 
 extent of the difference in our views. I would 
 rather you were right, for then the case is not so 
 bad as I think : and so God grant it may be. 
 Be assured you never wrote one word that gave 
 me anything but pleasure. I have never heard 
 
 anything whatever as to Dr. T , but I know 
 
 a quarter in which I am likely to learn when oc- 
 casion serves. I do not know anything of the 
 circular you speak of respecting Puseyism * * * 
 
 Mr. , of whom I think you ask me somewhere, 
 
 though I cannot find the passage, has a district 
 church in Greenwich, and is the Editor of the 
 
 ' C R ,' the most bitterly anti-evangelical 
 
 periodical, and he is the strongest Tractarian in 
 our neighbourhood. Personally, I do not know 
 him, for we are understood as exclusive here ; and 
 it is one advantage of authorship, that people 
 
 know both Mr. 's mind and mine too well to 
 
 ask us to meet. If, in speaking to this, I am 
 answering an inquiry made by somebody else, ex- 
 cuse it, as a confusion in my mind. I have not 
 yet received your book. Again begging you to 
 believe you never wrote an unsuccessful letter, 
 and hoping you will oblige me with many more, 
 
 believe me, my dear Lady , 
 
 With esteem and affection, yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 265 
 
 LIV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 April, 1843. 
 
 My Dear Lady , 
 
 I have become so much accustomed to the in- 
 dulgence of receiving your letters, I almost take 
 it to heart when they cease to come, though I feel 
 the fault is with myself on most occasions. I have 
 to thank you for your books, duly received ; and 
 really valuable in my opinion. If your gentle re- 
 monstrances will not stay the torrent, they may 
 rescue many a pious spiritfrom its headlong course. 
 I will tell you anything I hear about it; but shall 
 be much surprised that any thing objectionable can 
 be pointed out. Our world is sadly dividing upon 
 books, as well as every thing else; so that Seeley 
 says there are just two sets of buyers, one for 
 his books, &c, and the other for Burns', &c. 
 Still there is and ever must be, a middle class of 
 readers, who have come to no decision ; and dip 
 into both urns with their eyes shut, for the chance 
 of whatthey may draw up. It is this class that I hope 
 may lay their hands on both your books, and be 
 profited thereby. On your responsibility, in pub- 
 lishing, I am sure that you at least may be at rest ; 
 for harm they can never do to any one. My wri- 
 ting has not progressed much of late, owing to a 
 very little indisposition, and a good deal of earthly 
 care. Meantime, I believe we only desire to be 
 23 
 
266 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 directed rightly, in what we do ; and to be relieved, 
 if it may be, from anxiety about the future ; to 
 which end, grant us your prayers. I assure you, 
 I more welcome than resist your " good words, 
 and comfortable" about the church. The May 
 meetings, though I go not to them, I hear have 
 taken a very satisfactory tone this year ; firm, de- 
 termined, zealous and affectionate; — what passed 
 in the House is also thought to bear a favourable 
 aspect. It is said that the strong opposition to the 
 Factory Education Bill, has warned the govern- 
 ment of increasing distrust of the Establishment, 
 on account of Tractarian influences in it. But 
 perhaps you know more of these matters than I 
 do. If you meet with any works you think it 
 
 would do good to review for the , will 
 
 you kindly point them out to me ? 
 
 I do fully concur in all you say, respecting the 
 treatment of the erring in personal and indivi- 
 dual intercourse, whenever opportunity occurs, 
 though I deprecate every concession made to the 
 party or to their principles, by word or deed, in 
 general conflict ; and on the open field — in the 
 pulpit, in writing, or however else. Even there 
 we may earnestly contend for the truth, without as- 
 sailing persons or parties directly; but we may not 
 modify and dress it, to avoid giving them a wound, 
 or driving them away still farther from the Gos- 
 pel. So I think, but still agree with all you have 
 said, upon our communications with the misled, 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 2G7 
 
 and the misleading individually. Excuse all this, 
 and grant me the pleasure of hearing from you. 
 Most truly yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 August 25, 1843. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I too had thought the hiatus unusually long, 
 which only shows how much you have humoured 
 me heretofore. I was apprehensive lest it might 
 be caused by increase of anxiety for your precious 
 grandson; and am delighted it was only the idle- 
 ness, or rather relaxation, — for I do not believe 
 that the first word ever applies to you, — of domes- 
 tic pleasures. I perceive that I agree much more 
 with you about the Millennium than with those 
 from whom you differ. I do not think it so near 
 as many do; and have a perfect persuasion of its 
 being the seventh thousand of years: but then our 
 dates are not sufficiently certain, to rest the calcu- 
 lation upon. I wholly agree with you in the re- 
 jection of those limited views of the Millennial 
 kingdom: of which indeed I was not aware. I 
 think too, assuredly, that all present things will be 
 at an end; churches, ministrations, &c, all that 
 characterizes the dispensation of the Spirit, which 
 
268 LETTERS. 
 
 will itself be ended ; but perhaps I anticipate a 
 sudden termination, at the coming of the Son of 
 man; you a gradual overthrow preparatory there- 
 to. It may be so. I profess to know nothing. 
 
 I cannot define the C 's views of baptism, 
 
 because it does not seem to me they can do it them- 
 selves, owing perhaps to more than one person 
 having treated the subject therein ; and it is indeed 
 not many of the via media people who can say 
 what they mean. Like Armitage, they often think 
 to rid themselves of the difficulty by inventing a 
 new definition; which turns out to be only a new 
 term, that really defines nothing. As I hold what 
 are called extreme views, they are easily enough 
 explained; though it may be thought not so easily 
 proved. Calvin never cleared his language, what- 
 ever he did his views, of scholastic obscurity. 
 Query : When he says infants are regenerated in 
 baptism, does he mean water baptism, or baptism 
 of the Holy Ghost, which may not accompany the 
 ceremony; but which ceremony without it is no 
 baptism in his mind? Or when he says regenera- 
 tion, does he mean being born again of the Spirit 
 unto life 1 It is quite certain the school-men used 
 the word in a very different sense ? These ques- 
 tions I cannot answer, being little acquainted with 
 his writings. My view is different any way ; for 
 I believe nobody is entitled to be baptized at all, 
 except on the assumption that they are regenerate, 
 of which the required faith and repentance are the 
 evidences received on profession from the adult, — 
 
LETTERS. 269 
 
 in hope and charity from the infant. If the as- 
 sumption be a false one, there is (in Scripture lan- 
 guage) no baptism, but an empty sign of a non- 
 existent thing, the invalid half, if I may so speak, 
 — a seal set upon nothing. If I am right in sup- 
 posing previous regeneration to be required of them 
 that come to be baptized, it is plainly not baptism 
 that confers i.t. You will perceive I thus make 
 water-baptism nothing in the world but a recogni- 
 tion of a fact, and not the doer of it. If ever the 
 Scripture seems to speak of baptism as more, I be- 
 lieve it means the baptism of the Holy Ghost and 
 fire; and it is probable many of our older writers 
 meant so too. As to the language of our church, 
 I give it up, and stand upon her intentions, to be 
 learned by weighing together the whole of her tes- 
 timony. If she requires faith and repentance of 
 them that come to be baptized, she requires the 
 fruits of regeneration ; and therefore cannot intend 
 to confer that of which she requires the fruits be- 
 forehand. What unregenerate heart ever repented 
 or believed? Of the other sacrament, I take just 
 the same view ; the bread and wine are nothing, 
 as the water is nothing, but the emblems. If the soul 
 is previously united to Christ, it feeds on Him, not 
 them — if it be not, it receives nothing. I have thus 
 expressed my views in brief, as I have fully in my 
 last work, " Christ our Law." It accords with 
 those of Dean Milner, and others of his time, who 
 exhausted the controversy, which we are reviving 
 so painfully. I agree with you, both in judgment 
 23* 
 
270 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 and in apprehension, about that master-piece of 
 Satan — apostolical succession; may I not rather 
 write, that master lie? * * * * lam glad 
 to hear you have kept something of a journal, it 
 must be valuable. There is one thing excites my 
 curiosity, but I do not ask: It is, — I cannot think 
 how old you are. 
 
 My life has been peculiar, in nothing so much 
 so as my conversion ; as unsought as Saul's of 
 Tarsus, and far more resistant. I had no religion 
 when you saw me. Perhaps that was the reason 
 you refused me. I can remember nothing about 
 our interview, but my disappointment: and I was 
 too light-hearted to care a great deal about that. 
 I think I wanted to go to Ireland. Unhappily I 
 never kept a diary, or a memorandum of any kind; 
 unless others have kept letters, there can be no 
 material for my life but in my memory ; but seven- 
 teen year's almost daily correspondence with my 
 precious husband, will suffice for that period. 
 These are preserved, but cannot be used in his 
 lifetime. Up to that period, I shall put down from 
 memory; there is little to relate since, in the quiet 
 tenour of domestic happiness. God mercifully veils 
 the future. Don't think me conceited, but God must 
 have his glory in my salvation : there will be none 
 t me — if the story is told rightly — but shame from 
 first to last. Small ground for exultation, if I have 
 had ten talents and paid the usury for only five. 
 You, I am sure, will not construe this expression 
 into a boast, nor disbelieve that the writing of it 
 
LETTERS. 271 
 
 fills my eyes with tears. I know my mental pow- 
 ers to have exceeded the results : and if I write 
 my life, instead of afFecting to underrate them, I 
 will say so: for it is to this hour my heart's grief, 
 and will be to the end, my grief of griefs. It is so 
 much so, so abidingly so, that any allusion to my 
 talents goes through my heart like a sharp sword: 
 producing an almost involuntary cry for pardon. 
 I see so much more done, even now, by those who 
 have less mental power than I have, to say nothing 
 of the past. This is a terribly long gossip : but a 
 proposed fit of idleness at the sea-side has been de- 
 layed a few days, and so left a vacuum. I think 
 to be at Dover, but not more than three weeks, 
 from Saturday next. Everywhere, believe me, 
 
 dear Lady , 
 
 Your affectionate and obliged, 
 
 Caroline Wilso.v. 
 
272 LETTERS. 
 
 LVI.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 November 1, 1843. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 It is a too long time again, since I have written 
 to you ; one of the evils of which is like that of put- 
 ting aside a book, one forgets where one left off. 
 But yours is before me, and I must first say, that 
 it really comforts me to find you are not older. Per- 
 haps you will not thank me, for this sort of self- 
 congratulation. You must needs be very weary, 
 on so rough a road, although it has been no longer 
 a one; but the double generations over whom your 
 life has so near an influence, and so dear an inter- 
 est, will prevent your counting impatiently the 
 other ten ; if it so please your Father you are to 
 reach the natural age of man. Thank you, very, 
 very much for the brief recital of your spiritual 
 life. It is deeply interesting, just one of those that 
 for God's glory, and most sovereign love, should 
 be remembered and recorded. Whatever may be 
 the advantage, — and there is much of early reli- 
 gious habits and impressions, by parentage and 
 education, — there is the advantage on the side of 
 adult and more sudden conversions, that they give 
 an experimental witness to the doctrines of the 
 gospel, much more difficult to shake than opinions 
 otherwise imbibed. The " I know that I have 
 
LETTERS- 273 
 
 passed from death to life ;" is seldom in these cases 
 assailable by human doubts and difficulties; or the 
 mode and manner of the purpose, likely to become 
 obscured, by the confusion of human disputation. 
 Furthermore, such conversions do and must en- 
 hance our knowledge, of the " preciousness of 
 Christ," — "love much for much forgiven." 
 
 I am pleased again to find how little we differ. 
 I think I may say, not at all, on the two subjects 
 alluded to ; Baptism and the Second Coming. The 
 reason, I suppose, that mine are called extreme 
 views, or that I at least, took possession of the 
 word on my own behalf, is that among the persons 
 called evangelical, (who would be included in the 
 Puseyite term, low church,) there has arisen a con- 
 fused, higgledy-piggledy notion of they know not 
 what efficacy in the sacrament as such. Some 
 confine it to the children of believers, some ascribe 
 it to the faith of the sponsors ; the most part mean 
 nothing at all by it, only they will have it so ; and 
 dispute for words, against those who give a 
 straight-forward avowal of just their own senti- 
 ments in plain terms. B 's book is the strong- 
 hold of these confounders; and since the advance 
 of Puseyism, all the moderados have betaken them- 
 selves to this confusion, in order to find shelter 
 from the thunders of the church; and call all ex- 
 treme who will not be puzzled too. So being of no 
 such mind myself, for playing hide and seek, I took 
 up the word these trimmers throw behind them, 
 without very much care on whom it falls, so they 
 
274 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 escape the opprobrium of " low church" by prov- 
 ing an alibi for themselves. A name is shorter 
 than an argument, and often does as well. 
 
 Poor S has certainly returned, from Rome, 
 
 but to what? That is hard to guess; but he has 
 expressed his conviction, that Rome is Babylon, 
 and her worship of the Virgin, idolatry; and on 
 that confession has re-communicaled with us. 
 More I know not. I know no more of the Chris- 
 tian Union Association than I learn from the 
 Record ; I think its tendency surely is to what you 
 desire : a willing movement toward that union 
 perhaps, which God alone can accomplish, or 
 which I, at least, can anticipate only from a forci- 
 ble separation of his people from all others. I still 
 do not know, as I did not when you named it here- 
 tofore, any such movement toward separation in 
 the church as you have heard of, nor can tell in 
 what papers you have seen the apparent effort 
 making. Every English churchman with whom I 
 have spoken, without one exception, regrets the 
 separation in Scotland, and considers it a mistake. 
 True, our hearts are with them, for they are the 
 brethren in Christ, suffering for conscience' sake, 
 as they believe ; but our judgment is against them, 
 universally, as I believe. That many expect a 
 similar separation among ourselves, is another 
 thing ; expectation is not intention. Noah expect- 
 ed the waters, and prepared; he neither wrought 
 for them, nor invoked them. Surely it must be 
 from the church's enemies you hear of these inten- 
 
LETTERS. 275 
 
 tions ; I mean from Dissenters or Puseyites. The 
 only other quarter I can think of, is that of the 
 Plymouth Brethren; but that is too inconsiderable 
 and unstable a party to be worth the name of se- 
 cession, — true godly souls as I believe they most- 
 ly are. 
 
 I am rejoiced to hear no worse a report of your 
 little grandson, and trust the precious loan may' be 
 prolonged. 
 
 I hope I shall soon hear from you again. I wish 
 among other things, to know if you are safe. You 
 will be sure I feel w r ith you respecting your two 
 sons' opposing notoriety in the conflict, and read 
 with peculiar interest every mention of their 
 names : not without apprehension that it may at 
 this moment be adding to your many cares. 
 Believe me with 
 
 True affection, yours, 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
276 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 LVII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 January 8, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 If any thing can heighten the interest of your 
 letters to me, it is their containing matters so 
 deeply interesting to yourself, as the subjects of 
 your last. Being a great newspaper reader, and 
 having you always in mind, I remark your son's 
 progress with painful attention, and look out for 
 
 his name, as if it belonged to me. Mr. M , in 
 
 his sermon yesterday on Abraham's trial, said 
 many things that might have comforted you ; but 
 I am bad at repeating, having no verbal memory: 
 the main purport was, that the blessings attached 
 to affliction are not direct, else they would be most 
 blest in hell : but the use of trial is, to put the mind 
 in a fit state to receive a blessing — a state of hu- 
 mility, submission, and confidence. This is better 
 effected by not seeing the purpose of God in it, 
 which is comparatively a small exercise of faith. 
 Abraham could have no idea why he was to slay 
 his only child, nor may another father, whose only 
 child is slain or taken from him ; thence came the 
 simple and pure faith, which fitted Abraham to re- 
 ceive the greatest blessing God himself could con- 
 fer, but only such faith made him capable of enjoy- 
 ing. Are you not in Abraham's case, with respect 
 to your son, and perhaps your grandchild too? 
 
LETl'EKS. 
 
 277 
 
 1 feci some confidence that we should agree 
 about particular and general redemption, if we 
 could first define our terms. I don't know Lu- 
 ther's letter, or forget it ; there is in some Calvinis- 
 tic w 7 riters a hard, cold mode of setting forth these 
 most precious doctrines, which is anything but like 
 the way in which the Scripture gives them, and 
 God intends them. " If Christ did not in any sense 
 die for all mankind, why, I ask, is there a human 
 soul at this moment out of hell?" said our preacher 
 the other day. If Christ, in dying, redeemed all 
 mankind, why is there a human soul in hell 1 The 
 two questions will fence both sides, and swai?ip hu- 
 man reason, if you please, between them, for there 
 is no way out. To the believer, there is no experi- 
 mental difficulty, but most abundant blessedness in 
 the mystery of the divine purpose; but it is as you 
 truly say, an incommunicable certainty. Old Wil- 
 liam Howells w T as used to say, "Never mind these 
 doctrines now; wait till you cannot do without 
 them. Whenever you fully know the iniquity of 
 your own heart, you will find you cannot be saved 
 without election." I confess myself very grateful, 
 however, for having had this point settled for me 
 experimentally at the beginning, by the manner of 
 my conversion, and so I think had you. 
 
 I wish I had written sooner, as I am rather 
 anxious to hear from you again about yourself. 
 That I did not, as I wish I had done, was occa- 
 sioned by mere press of writing, in getting a book 
 
 to press, and reviewing for the . If you 
 
 24 
 
278 
 
 LETTEKS. 
 
 meet with it, my articles are on Dr. C *s Insan- 
 ity, &c, Charlotte Elizabeth's Wrongs of Women, 
 and a book, which I believe must be written by an 
 Irishman — a Roman Catholic undisguisedly — per- 
 haps you know 1 " Rome, Pagan and Papal." It 
 is laughably mischievous, or mischievously laugh- 
 able. I wonder if you ever got your IMS. from 
 
 C E , which was the happy first occasion 
 
 of my hearing from you. Her odd marriage turns 
 out very well, I believe really happily; but she is 
 going quite beside herself about the Jews: her last 
 publication is painful to think of, as coming from 
 so useful and respected a pen. 
 
 I suppose I am safe in using your last address. 
 How does your book succeed? Believe me, dear 
 
 Lady , 
 
 With great esteem, yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LVIII.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 February 14, 1844 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 My gratitude must weigh against my ill-deserv- 
 ing, for your long and acceptable letter. A new 
 book in hand, and a too cold house, which dulls 
 down my faculties most miserably, have made me 
 to be so great a defaulter of late. The thought of 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 279 
 
 your having been ill, stimulates my self-reproach, 
 which can only be appeased by writing immedi- 
 ately. Upon the subject-matter on which your 
 mind is so ill at ease, I will only now tell you what 
 I think myself; perhaps of some better authorities, 
 as I meet with them, hereafter. I have not seen 
 the book you speak of, but it is not a new thought 
 to my mind, nor a new subject of discussion in my 
 
 circle. Mr. would, I think, agree with what 
 
 I am about to say exactly: and so would my here- 
 tofore pope, William Howells, who cleared my 
 brain on that and many other points. Now what 
 / think, — for I speak of myself, and for myself 
 alone, — is, that Christ died for the whole of hu- 
 manity, to the extent of removing from every one 
 the guilt and punishment of imputed, original, or 
 birth-sin, as it is variously called; so that nothing 
 but actual sin will be brought into judgment 
 against any one. Now if this be so, no child who 
 dies before the age of responsibility, can perish ; 
 from imputed sin it is freed by the death of Christ; 
 of actual sin it has not been capable. Into con- 
 demnation therefore it cannot come: to hell it can- 
 not go. Now there is only one alternative; it 
 must go to heaven — to glory. But while the re- 
 mission of the original penalty of sin is thus made 
 sure to the entire justification of the guiltless babe, 
 by the work of the Son. on behalf of all mankind ; 
 the principle of sin derived from Adam remains, 
 unless the Spirit also does His work; the fallen na- 
 ture cannot go to heaven; the babe must be sane- 
 
2S0 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 tificd as well as justified; it must be born again. 
 We assume, therefore, that those who die in infan- 
 cy, are as necessarily regenerated by the Spirit, 
 as they are justified in Christ. If you say this is 
 inference only, and not proved, I think the latter 
 position can be proved from Scripture, and that 
 the former is a certain conclusion from it. It will 
 be at once apparent, that if this is the process of 
 infant salvation, there can be no difference be- 
 tween one child and another; an unconscious babe 
 can neither lose nor acquire capability of sin by 
 surrounding light or darkness. When the Bible 
 tells me that Christ's blood was shed for the sins 
 of Christendom, I will believe the remission of 
 Adam's sin so limited ; but while it is written, "the 
 sins of the whole world," I can draw no lines of 
 demarcation. As to supposing that a child is saved 
 by Christian parentage, or Christian baptism, it is 
 to me the purest fiction that human fancy ever in- 
 vented : and something worse ; for it is of the very 
 essence of antichrist, making another Saviour, an 
 earthly depositary for the benefit of the death of 
 Christ ; another "pair of keys," to lock and unlock, 
 to kill and to make alive, which I would as soon 
 trust to the " holy father" of Rome, as to the "holy 
 mother" of England, or any ordinance or parent- 
 age therein. I find no such thing in Scripture; 
 1 Cor. vii. 14, having, to my mind, no relation to 
 1 he salvation of a child. As to that Protean per- 
 sonage called "The Church," when she can be 
 produced, we may come to some better under- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 281 
 
 standing of her mind: at present her sons are all 
 at variance, unable to decide on what she says : 
 still less what she means; and should these be 
 brought to agreement from Exeter to Chester, or 
 the Shetlands, the all-important question would re- 
 main; If she be right, or wrong? I do not think, 
 however, that the view we speak of is impugned 
 by the expressions you quote ; we all suppose them 
 to be, by nature, the children of wrath; the ques- 
 tion is, whether that nature has been changed by 
 grace. In respect of burial, I hope "our mother" 
 knows it has as little to do with salvation as bap- 
 tism has; the one is the door of admission, the 
 other of egress, to the professing church: there 
 is abundant profession without faith, there can 
 scarcely be faith without profession ; and such can- 
 not be accepted of the church unless it be made; 
 how then can she bury an unbaptized adult'? But 
 nothing of this applies to infants; and for once only 
 I can agree with Henry of Exeter, that it is very 
 odd that people, who do not care to be baptized 
 into the church, should wish to be buried from out 
 of it. I have not quoted from Scripture, because 
 your own two passages, 1 Cor. xv. 22; and Rom. 
 v. 18, are the strongest I can recal to the estab- 
 lishment of my view, though assuredly not alone. 
 All this is struck off in haste, because I would not 
 delay to acknowledge yours, and inquire, not un- 
 anxiously, about your health, ^ndthis was the first 
 subject of your letter, thoug i there are many more 
 that should be answered; whereas there is no point 
 24* 
 
282 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 on which my mind is more thoroughly made up 
 and made clear, to my own apprehension. 
 
 More I cannot write now ; but soon again. I 
 feel much for your family griefs and apprehen- 
 sions. May they be blessed, or averted ; and why 
 not both 1 It has been to invalids dangerous 
 weather, I apprehend. May you at least be spar- 
 ed to the many who cannot spare you. Indeed I 
 shall not fail to be delighted with the shawl you so 
 kindly propose to send; but why so kind to the un- 
 worthy 'i 
 
 Farewell — God and good angels guard you, in 
 sickness or in health. Ever believe me, 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 P. S. Your last book is going to rebuke Tracta- 
 rianism in Petersburg. 
 
 L1X.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 March 8, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 The book is finished, and the review gone to 
 press, and I must give myself a holiday to write 
 to you, or I shall never tell you what you wish. 
 Your last kind letter made me sorry, as it implied 
 that I must have expressed myself, otherwise than 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 283 
 
 I meant ; since it produced regret on your part, 
 for what you had written. I certainly did not 
 think there was the least objection to the discuss- 
 ing of the subject between us, or any others of 
 like mind, sedate and reasonable; but I did think 
 
 M rash to put the thought in print, for the 
 
 weak-minded and apprehensive. Whatever I said, 
 this was what I meant. The " legitimate bound- 
 ary" I spoke of, was nut of " inquiry" into God's 
 ways ; but that while we may say God permits evil 
 and sin for his own good purposes, we may never 
 say or suppose he can for any purpose, be the 
 occasion of it. I fear that remark led you to sup- 
 pose, that I thought the discussion of the subject 
 unwise; which I did not. Having set this matter 
 right, I scarcely need say next, how much I should 
 like to see you ; and yet I have felt just as you do 
 — the disappointment that always comes of a 
 drawing-room interview — where people have pre- 
 viously expected much. In my own case, it is 
 sure to come ; by my natural and total want of 
 tact and self-possession, which makes nothing of 
 me at all times, except after long intimacy. In- 
 deed, my want of confidence in conversation, even 
 with the simplest and the meanest, limits my use- 
 fulness almost wholly to my pen, and is at times a 
 great grief to me; especially since reputation has 
 given a weight to my counsels, which might make 
 my words useful, if I could only get them out. 
 The fact is, I am in every sense of the word timid. 
 All this does not mean that T will not see vou, if 
 
284 LETTERS. 
 
 you will allow me ; in any manner that may be 
 most agreeable to you. 
 
 I want to tell you what you ask about myself; 
 but how shall I convey a just impression of what 
 I was when mercy found me, in few enough words 
 for a letter ! For years I had never bent my knee 
 in prayer, or any way recognized the existence of 
 a God. I hated, and knew I hated — which is not 
 commonly the case — the very name of God. Mine 
 was an understanding enmity. I knew not only 
 what is in the written word, but even the shades 
 and colourings of opinion, in the construction of 
 it. I had heard the Gospel and read controversy, 
 as I read every thing else; and had even made up 
 my mind, that if there were any thing in it at all, 
 the Calvinists were right. But I believed it was 
 all fiction together, and beneath an intellectual 
 being, to be troubled about at all. Happily, I was 
 always modest, and therefore I never gave utter- 
 ance to my opinions. I believe even my brothers 
 and sisters had no idea of more than absolute in- 
 difference to religion. It was far more — indiffer- 
 ence has no existence in my nature — it was hatred. 
 My brother, though he knew nothing of this, said 
 of me that I was the most hopeless of his family. 
 "There is the pride of intellect, that will never 
 come down," was his expression. I delighted to 
 hear the name of God and the truth of God made 
 a jest of; but as to disliking the people of God, or 
 saying anything to pain them, I should as soon 
 have thought of hating a man for believing or dis- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 285 
 
 believing the Copernican system. You must guess 
 the rest, or I shall never end ; at the time of con- 
 version, I was in a clergyman's family in Lincoln- 
 shire, — of the true old-fashioned high-church, in its 
 coldest, stupidest, most inoffensive character. Mrs. 
 Trimmer was their whole gospel. The necessity 
 of going to church, the necessity of hearing the 
 Bible read by my pupils, was to me a painful and 
 degrading task; which could not but betray itself, 
 though words they heard not from me about the 
 matter. I held them, I fear I treated them, who 
 only admired and petted me, in sovereign con- 
 tempt. Without a shade of real religion them- 
 selves, they were of course shocked at my manifest 
 disregard, of what they called so : but they never 
 spoke to me upon it. 
 
 At this time, I violently attached myself to a 
 lovely young woman of my own age, daughter of 
 a neighbouring clergyman. After my manner, I 
 wrapped myself up in this one satisfaction — my 
 idol for the time beins% I invested her with all 
 the excellences she had or had not ; no matter 
 what she really was, (about which I have no clear 
 opinion:) quite certain it is' that she had no know- 
 ledge of true religion at all, and never pretended 
 to have, and despised the Gospel of Christ to the 
 full as much as I did. But she had a religion — 
 a sentimental desire for a better world, such as 
 comes simply of disappointment in this. My in- 
 ferior mentally, she surpassed me in the very 
 thing I prided myself upon ; — philosophy — in the 
 
286 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 conduct of ordinary life, to be above circum- 
 stances, misfortunes, disappointments, and all man- 
 ner of " this world's wrongs," which we used to 
 set ourselves to abuse, while we read Young's 
 Night Thoughts, to avenge ourselves. In short, 
 she always behaved well and acted properly, and 
 spake wisely; while I, with all my knowledge and 
 philosophy, was " a wild ass's colt :" with a mind 
 beyond my own control, or that of any body else, 
 and too artless to wear the guise of any thing I 
 was not. I saw her advantage, and spoke often 
 to her of it, lamenting my own want of self-con- 
 trol and submission to circumstances. This 
 finally occasioned her, not having courage to 
 speak to me of my want of religion, to write me a 
 a letter, remonstrating with me upon it, and assur- 
 ing me it was religion alone that gave her that 
 advantage over me, which I so much admired 
 and coveted. Now I can fully say that in this 
 letter was no mention of Christ — no reference to 
 the Spirit — no one word of the gospel method of 
 salvation, or anything that might not have been 
 said by a Socinian or a Deist; any one who be- 
 lieved in an over-ruling God, or a future state of 
 happiness or misery. 
 
 On first reading it, my indignation knew no 
 bounds : It was an insult upon my understanding 
 — a presumption upon my friendship; I sat down 
 and answered in all the bitterness of wounded 
 pride, and unrestrained contempt. It happened 
 the letter could not <zo that day, it was some miles 
 
LETTERS. 287 
 
 off and nobody could take it. The next day — O 
 what a day was that — I must not make remarks, 
 but merely state facts. I felt that I was moved, 
 shaken. What shame, what degradation; I, even 
 /moved by such things as these! impossible. I 
 could have buried my head in the earth for shame 
 and humiliation. The only comfort was, nobody 
 could ever know it. But this changed my purpose ; 
 — if I was to seem unmoved, why should I be 
 angry I I burned the letter and wrote another, 
 very kind, very dignified, very philosophical and 
 high-minded, but quite indifferent, of course. It 
 happened again the letter could not go, but my 
 conflict was now with God ; I loathed, I scorned, 
 I refused, I told the blessed Redeemer, who by his 
 Spirit was contending for me, that I would not 
 yield — I icould not have him — I would not be his. 
 Words are not adapted to describe things like 
 these, that pass between spirit and spirit without 
 voice or word ; and yet are more real than words 
 could make them. I hated my friend for telling 
 me; I hated myself for caring about what she 
 said : but Oh ! I hated most the blessed One who 
 was thus trying to force upon me the degradation 
 of his name. It w r as soon over; on the third day 
 I wrote another letter ; I owned the precious truth 
 of what she had reproached me with ; avowed my 
 altered purpose, and acknowledged my obligation 
 to her. Beyond that, I said nothing to any body 
 at the time — they would have only mocked and 
 and wo-ndered and taken me for mad, and my 
 
288 LETTERS. 
 
 friend would have been foremost in that opinion. 
 All that they saw was, that I had become religious 
 — that is, I read the Bible. 
 
 I became ill, and was almost immediately re- 
 moved. But from that third day, all was changed 
 to me ; I read, I praised, I prayed, I rejoiced with 
 joy unspeakable. I had nothing to learn as to the 
 nature and manner and meaning of the change. 
 I knew all that before, as a fiction ; it was now an 
 experimental truth. From that time Jesus was 
 mine, and I was his; but Oh ! what a soil it was 
 for the seed to grow in ! what a time before it 
 could be wrought upon to profit; all to do, all to 
 undo, and everything in the natural character 
 against the work. However, you know the issue; 
 it was hard work He undertook at first, and has 
 been hard to the last. I have defeated Him, dis- 
 honoured Him, denied Him, practically, never pro- 
 fessedly, a thousand, thousand times; but from 
 that hour to this, I have never doubted Him. How 
 could I? Had Paul himself more evidence than 
 I had? No, for he had never been what I was, 
 and he made no resistance. The recital is long, 
 my time is gone; I leave you to make the com- 
 ment on the bare text; but it may interest you to 
 know, that my friend subsequently married a dig- 
 nitary of the church, of high birth and indifferent 
 character; forgot in her change of fortune, her 
 preference of another world ; affected fashionable 
 life, derided all I said to her and wrote to her 
 about the change, of which she had been the in- 
 
LETTERS. 289 
 
 strument; till, as my religious profession grew, 
 being really unacceptable to herself, and offensive 
 to her worldly irreligious husband, our acquaint- 
 ance was broken off; and I know only by com- 
 mon report, that she died last year suddenly 
 while dressing for a ball. Thus God has secured 
 the whole glory to himself, there was none to the 
 creature on any side. But I must break off here, 
 and if I have omitted anything in your letter, that 
 should be noticed, it shall be so hereafter : — The 
 subject always overwhelms me; — meantime, be- 
 lieve me, 
 
 Very sincerely and affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LX.— TO LADY * * * * * 
 
 April, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I delayed answering your last kind note, to find 
 if any one here knew Mr. well enough to de- 
 sire him to call on you, which of course he would 
 be well-pleased to do, if he knew you wished it. I 
 do not know him, nor have I yet found any one 
 who does. By report, I suppose he is the most 
 evangelical in your part; whether up to our mark 
 of divine orthodoxy, I am not sure, I never heard 
 
290 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 him. I believe he was a convert from Rome ori- 
 ginally, and is certainly of good repute. 
 
 As to Mr. B , I like none of all the things 
 
 you speak of. "There is a way, that seemeth 
 good unto a man," &c. We might say, it cannot 
 be a bad way that gets a worldling out of bed, 
 takes him to church, brings him within hearing, 
 &c. ; but is it so? Has not this been the way of 
 Antichrist, from the beginning? Does not Satan 
 know, that he has a stronger hold through the se- 
 curity of a false religion, than in the felt risk of no 
 religion. Is not experience against our conclu- 
 sions in this matter. I like your " words" from 
 
 Abp. W on the unedifying use of Scripture. 
 
 However, if I liked to go to church at eight 
 o'clock, which I do not, I should abstain from it 
 now, as I should from wearing a certain coloured 
 ribbon at an election-time, which might, please 
 
 my fancy at any other period harmlessly. B 
 
 is very notorious, and has made efforts to go 
 farther, but was checked, either by the bishop or 
 the people, as is stated variously. The eleven 
 o'clock service, is a choice good luck, to the fair 
 faneantes of the West End ; to ease them of a 
 morning or two per week. 
 
 I am half tempted to ask, if I may send my hus- 
 band to call on you some day. You would like 
 him better than me; — everybody does; and they 
 are right. But do not say Yes, if you had rather 
 not be disturbed by strangers. I shall go on 
 hoping to see you in some way. We are going, 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 291 
 
 as I expect, to Tunbridge Wells on Monday next, 
 for ten days at the utmost. 
 
 My new book is not christened. If you ever 
 drive to Seeley's, ask him about it; for I cannot 
 get him on with it. It is but a trifling concern, 
 which seems to suit the age. " Too grave," " too 
 deep," " too good ;" is the bookseller's language 
 now. So much for Gresley, Paget and Co. The 
 gravest pens must betake themselves to lightness. 
 My book is intended for the reading of idle people, 
 on a Sunday afternoon ; but I hope there are truths 
 
 in it. Dear Lady 
 
 Very affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 May 27, 1844. 
 
 My Dear Lady 
 
 I inclose you C. E.'s answer. I just tore off* 
 the part of your letter that concerned her, and 
 transmitted it without note or comment, on the 
 subject-matter of it. You certainly have awaken- 
 ed my curiosity too, about Mr. Close, and will tell 
 me, if you satisfy your own. I will ask Seeley 
 about your friend's book, &c. ; as to reviewing, I 
 did ask, and am always obliged for a hint to this 
 issue. Writing is as necessary to my brain, as to 
 
292 LETTERS. 
 
 my purse: and the greatest part of the difficulty is 
 always to find the subject. I am very glad of 
 your report of Mr. Burgess ; I never knew before, 
 on sufficient authority, on what ground his good 
 reputation stood, although I knew he had it. Still 
 I wish he did not keep saints' days. I appreciate 
 all the bon hommie, as well as Christian love, of 
 your method of conformity ; letting every body do 
 as they like in things that do not signify; and 
 would indeed that that were so, though I appre- 
 hend it is hardly compatible with the idea of an 
 establishment, even in externals; however that be, 
 it does not seem to me applicable to the case in 
 question. Things unimportant in themselves, be- 
 come important when they become significant of 
 other things. When the wars of York and Lan- 
 caster deluged our land with blood, through great 
 part of two centuries, no man, I apprehend, sup- 
 posed it was the colour of roses about which they 
 were contending; but I am afraid the peace-maker 
 who should have adopted your plan, by wearing 
 the red rose one day, and the white next, to mark 
 his indifference to the colour of a flower, would 
 have received a Lancastrian shaft through one 
 lobe of his brain, and some Yorkist bullets into 
 another ; and verily, if our clergy will be doing the 
 same thing, the fault is their own if they be mis- 
 trusted on both sides ; and have their best inten- 
 tions misinterpreted. Blood has flowed, the blood 
 of the holiest and the wisest, has flowed abundant- 
 ly and widely, about the worship of saints and the 
 
LETTERS. 293 
 
 value of ordinances. We cannot plead ignorance 
 of Satan's design in all this movement; we might 
 know, we do know, that war has been proclaimed 
 within our Protestant Establishment, against the 
 Protestant faith. It is not we who are on the ag- 
 gressive: we made no attack upon the taste of 
 others for white and black; Wednesday or Thurs- 
 day; fish or flesh. We were at peace, and then it 
 did not signify. We are now attacked — besieged 
 in our entrenchments; whether under these cir- 
 cumstances we should hoist our enemies' colours, 
 and cede all our outworks at their first summons, 
 I must refer you to the Duke of Wellington. My 
 own view is, that in decision, not in compromise, 
 our path of duty and of safety lies. 
 
 With respect to our intercourse with the party 
 in the affairs of common life, I suppose the duty 
 must vary with the circumstances. You have ex- 
 perienced, more perhaps than any one, the difficul- 
 ty of holding spiritual intercourse and conversa- 
 tion with them. Where it does not resolve itself 
 into disputation and contention, it must be very 
 desirable to bring the truth to bear upon the erring 
 and deluded proselytes of either form of apostacy; 
 but it must still be simple, straightforward, uncom- 
 promising truth: or God will not bless it to the 
 hearer or the speaker; and in most cases, it is dif- 
 ficult to get through without offence. I would not, 
 however, discourage the attempt in any one who 
 has at once courage and self-possession enough, 
 to bear their master's banner unscathed through 
 25* 
 
294 LETTERS. 
 
 the enemies' lies, without making it a call to 
 arms; an unavailing strife of words to no good 
 issue. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXIL— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 July, 1844. 
 My dear Friend, 
 It is due to your love, to tell you among the first 
 of the final arrangement of our long expected 
 move. Within three weeks, we draw our stakes 
 and loosen our cords, to fix our tent elsewhere. I 
 hardly know how I feel about it: perhaps as you 
 would if you were leaving * * *; perhaps as a 
 donkey does when he has tossed his load on his 
 head, and stands kicking his heels up in the air, 
 without well knowing what is to follow. Glad, I 
 am sure I am, but whether to be eased of superflu- 
 ous good, or of the care that for the two last years 
 has embittered it, I am not sure. Dishonest indeed 
 I have been to my heavenly Father, if I have not 
 truly told Him in every prayer, that I am willing 
 to relinquish any temporal enjoyment for the spiri- 
 tual advantages I expect. I am willing, I am de- 
 sirous : I am very grateful to be allowed the 
 change, if this is to be the issue, which He only 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 205 
 
 knows, who hears my constant and abiding pray- 
 er, to have less of the world, and more of Him 
 and His. 
 
 We have taken a very comfortable house at 
 , very pleasantly situated, but with no gar- 
 den. Only think how I shall enjoy myself when I 
 come thence to visit you; and, dear friend, if ever 
 you come to visit us, you will take of our fruits 
 and flowers, as we of yours, for you shall stay one 
 Sunday. Meantime, you must think of me as 
 half-distracted with cornices and canopies and 
 carpeting; and all longing for a house not made 
 with hands, that will not need this trumpery. Till 
 this is over, I may not see you, scarce think of 
 you — but still be, 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Carol i n e VVi lso y. 
 
 LXIIL— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 July, 1844. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I wanted you to speak to me of your position, 
 not because I did not know it, but because until 
 you did so, I could not properly speak of it to you, 
 to express my sympathy and feelings for you. 
 These are greater than my surprise, for I think 
 
296 LETTERS. 
 
 you have had apprehensions of the kind for some 
 time, and many other things gave indication of 
 what might come to pass. But farther than this I 
 have thought, that if God had purposes of loving- 
 kindness towards all or any of you, some such 
 thing must come to pass, to arrest a course as pain- 
 ful I am sure to you, as grievous to all your friends, 
 and ruinous to your dear children. Now the mes- 
 senger has come, and you must call the place Bo- 
 chim.* And so you will ; and you will think be- 
 side, how much severer a message of reproof it 
 might have been. There might have been a sum- 
 mons without warning; there might have been the 
 cutting off of children, in the midst of earthliness 
 and error; or you, dear, might have been called 
 upon to leave them, uncertain whether they would 
 have followed where you go. Now all of these 
 things are spared you, and time given for rinding, 
 or returning, to the way of life. It is a painful, 
 very painful dispensation: do not suppose I think 
 lightly of it, but I do hope the temporal loss, and 
 temporary privation, may be your gain in spiritual 
 enjoyment even now, besides the eternal issues af- 
 fecting those you love. Be sure that all that con- 
 cerns you remains upon our hearts with real inter- 
 est. If you should remain the summer at , 
 
 and at any time feel that our corning would not be 
 oppressive and disagreeable to other parties, we 
 should have great pleasure in seeing you there 
 
 * Judges ii. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 297 
 
 once again. I always find my love grow on the 
 declining prosperity of rny friends ; I rather think 
 it is the character of Christian affection to do so, 
 for I believe our gracious Master does the same; 
 more tender towards the sick ones of the house- 
 hold. But worldly feelings understand not this: 
 and you must be candid, and not ask us, if it will 
 be unpleasant to any body. I could most wish to 
 hear the place was gone, for I know by experience, 
 how painful the going is, and how much better 
 over. But I tell you how the dela^ will act to your 
 advantage; you will look upon every thing with 
 painful feelings, till your heart is wholly weaned 
 from them; and then, when the leaving comes, 
 instead of being a painful effort to resign them, it 
 will be a grateful sense of satisfaction as for a 
 great relief. So, dear friend, let your heavenly 
 Father manage it in his own way. If you have 
 retained the light of His countenance, that is 
 enough for you, and for the rest, hope all things; 
 striving only to be faithful to them, as you are to 
 Him; and not to do, as He does not, lose his chil- 
 dren by too indulgent love. I was, as usual, much 
 pleased with , and much with all she seem- 
 ed to feel upon this painful subject. In her, God 
 has, I trust, given you an abiding blessing, that 
 will, under all circumstances, administer to your 
 comfort or consolation. 
 
 Let us try to look on the bright side still, and 
 count your gains instead of losses. I do not won- 
 der at your temporary depression ; but that will 
 
208 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 not return ; it was only to break you into more 
 peaceful submission. This done, the opposing bar- 
 rier of self-will broken away, the stream will run 
 more smoothly : though at times it swell, it shall 
 not overflow, to go over you. " When thou pass- 
 est through the waters, I will be with thee." 
 Ever affectionately Yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXIV.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 September 14, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 Much and many thanks for two prompt and 
 w r elcome notes. I shall give all attention to your 
 lists, but rather apprehend you are in the wrong 
 
 class of books, for the C . Such as the 
 
 , &c, are too trifling, others too long 
 
 out. Reviews of that sort take only notice of new 
 
 publications; the C only of those that, 
 
 more or less, can be made to bear upon religion ; 
 and are of some weight for or against the truth. 
 Not tales or novels, I apprehend, unless weight be 
 given by the names of men, who write them; as 
 was the case with Messrs. Paget and Gresley. 
 
LETTERS. 299 
 
 The thing that most astounds my incapability, is 
 how you can read so many sermons. I cannot 
 read any; and Seeley would tell you nobody reads 
 sermons: as he says to all that propose to print 
 them. I do not think more than the brief notices, 
 
 at the end of the C , could be acceptable 
 
 on that head, not worth the work of reading for. 
 The only one you have so kindly troubled yourself 
 to register, that does not appear to me too old, or 
 too trifling for a lengthened review, may be Lady 
 C. L ; if, as you say, it is likely to have influ- 
 ence: — query whether it can have any, or will be 
 
 heard of, where the is read, which is 
 
 not among fashionables assuredly ; whereas we of 
 the graver sort, who read and write, do not re- 
 quire information upon works that never appear 
 amongst us. You may know otherwise ; but I 
 
 have an impression, the only moves 
 
 among the clergy and others, of the more decided 
 tone. I will ask S , if Lady C. L is suit- 
 able ; but, you ask me to tell you, what I hear 
 about it: the probability is, I shall never meet an 
 individual who has heard of it; so little are such 
 books thought of in my sphere. For myself, I de- 
 precate religious novels wholly and entirely; and 
 never should open one, but for the specific purpose 
 of reviewing. Re-perusing your former letters, I 
 can heartily join in your wish, if not your hope 
 about field-preaching. Our church is not, in her 
 present form, the church of the people, but of the 
 upper half of them ; and so it will remain, while 
 
300 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 the supposed remedy for our need is church-build- 
 ing, instead of gospel preaching. But, alas! the 
 tide runs all in that direction, and 1 see no prospect 
 of a reflux. I rather anticipate that the dominant 
 party will lay the cold hand of formality on all of 
 life or utility that is within its reach, until, — I can- 
 not, and you will not wish that time arrived — when 
 here, as in Scotland, we shall worship in the high- 
 ways, for lack of the churches, from which we shall 
 be ejected. So speaks my prophetic muse. May 
 she prove a lying prophet, is my wish and prayer; 
 but, " Give peace in our time, O Lord," is the very 
 utmost that my faith can compass, even in the 
 prayerful utterance of my wishes. 
 
 It is needless to repeat, that I do not agree with 
 your Clericus, as to where our safety and our wis- 
 dom lies; having so fully heretofore explained my- 
 self to you. I see no authority in the Bible for his 
 views. I shall meditate the subject, on which you 
 wish me to " write a book, for I terribly want to 
 begin one now; and I shall be greatly obliged by 
 any explanation of your views about it. Assuredly 
 you know that world better than I do now ; though 
 once I did, which made the " Listener" so mis- 
 chievously efficacious. I rejoice to find you well 
 enough to dine en masse. I am too nervous, (vul- 
 gariter, shy) for a table d'hote, it takes my appe- 
 tite right away ; but I dare say you often find very 
 pleasant acquaintance in that manner. Out of doors 
 gaiety is by no means so disturbing to me; and I 
 delight myself greatly with the drums, trumpets 
 
LETTERS. 3Q l 
 
 and guns, flying artillery, and battery practice, 
 that goes on before my windows every day. 
 
 C. Wilson. 
 
 LXV.— TO LADY *****. 
 
 Woolwich Common, Dec. 16, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady , 
 
 While I have not written to you, I have been 
 
 doing your bidding — smashing Lady C. L 
 
 to my heart's content — shame on her ; if she is a 
 child of God, if not, I have nothing to say about 
 it. It is sensible and well-written, after her man- 
 ner, but I wish I had power to extinguish such 
 books for ever. You will see what I mean in the 
 
 next ; I wish she could read it without 
 
 knowing whence it came. I would not criticise 
 minutely what I deprecate wholly — the better the 
 worse is all I can say. To please S , I touch- 
 ed on all the other books, which is as you suppose, 
 a common practice, where there is something in 
 common, and not gone by in time. The worst of 
 reviewing such books is the necessity of reading 
 them — the pleasure of abusing them is great. 
 
 Do tell me everything you take the trouble of 
 thinking about my writing, past, and especially 
 future, for I am really at a loss often what to set 
 
 about. Miss F — is a near neighbour, but I 
 
 26 
 
302 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 have not met her yet, nor do I know her writing. 
 I do not think you say truly of yourself respect- 
 ing the unconverted. Our feeling towards them 
 cannot be too strong ; is never, 1 believe, strong 
 enough, at least my own is not ; and yet I would 
 do any thing to save a soul, if I thought I possibly 
 might, in preference to every other work of love, for 
 it is surely first. Whether I think the preaching of 
 the law in the first instance is the best and likeliest 
 method to bring the soul to Christ, is another 
 thing; perhaps I do not, but it may be so some- 
 times : and I am still thinking of what you suggest, 
 and always am delighted and obliged with your 
 suggestions, — so pray go on. I am sure your 
 walk in life is a very important one, and God has 
 especially endowed you for it, to sing the Lord's 
 song in a strange land ; where I, alas, should hang 
 my silent harp upon the willows — for very sadness. 
 How easily would you answer your own question. 
 " Why is this ?" I wish I could transmit you all 
 a sermon I just now heard upon " W r e have this 
 treasure in earthen vessels ;" but there is enough 
 in the text to solve your problem. If we had it 
 always in the fine porcelain of the earth, we should 
 straightway fancy there was some value in the ves- 
 sel itself; and if it were gilded quite over the base 
 clay, we should straightway believe the clay itself 
 was gold. Is not God's glory always his first ob- 
 ject in those he loves and saves ? and does He not 
 well to manifest, how little his Pearl can lose or 
 gain by the more or less beauty of the setting? 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 303 
 
 This I say with reference to your first remark, 
 about good feeling and high principle in the people 
 of the world. I cannot admit the fact generally, 
 that those who live in sin are God's people at all, 
 whatever they may have professed. False pro- 
 fession is truly very painful and disheartening, and 
 sends us to the Word, to try our ground again ; 
 whether we believe an empty fable. No more 
 now, but do write to your 
 
 Most undeserving, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXVI. TO LADY ***** 
 
 November 22, 1844. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I feel it a long time since I communicated with 
 you. I think continually about you, nevertheless, 
 wonder how you are going on ; hope you are get- 
 ting more accustomed to your strange position ; 
 more cheerful and peaceful under your reverses; 
 more joyful in anticipation, and in memory less 
 sad; and then I ask myself why, since I want to 
 know all this, I do not write and ask? Thank you 
 for all such information given in your last, and do 
 believe that you cannot write anything, about your- 
 self and yours, that does not wake my sympathy 
 
304 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 to pleasure or to pain. It is always a satisfaction 
 to me, that I know your island-home ; and where 
 you walk, and what you see, and who you live 
 amongst. I can imagine winter makes as little 
 change in your beauties, as can be anywhere, — 
 one great advantage of the sea, and the sea-tem- 
 pered atmosphere. Glad I was to hear you had 
 achieved anything like a home of your own, that is 
 a house to yourself, instead of furnished lodgings. 
 I could think of few things, so little likely to be 
 mental improvement, as the study of German and 
 
 Italian authors ; wherefore it was I wished 
 
 occupied with something better. Meantime do not 
 take my w 7 ords for more than they mean. She is 
 young, unformed, and inexperienced, quite capa- 
 ble and quite likely to grow wiser as well as older; 
 and to be turned away from the erroneous views 
 and dangerous fantasies that now bewilder her. 
 But of deep importance, of tremendous importance 
 is it, what influence she abides under now, whether 
 of companionship or books; for that which makes 
 one smile, as the folly of a girl, will make one sad 
 indeed as the delusion of a woman. Truly sorry 
 I am on her account as well as yours, that the 
 
 S s have left you; and so withdrawn the 
 
 better influence of their better minds. May the 
 Divine light and grace, dearest friend, make you 
 all I once knew you; except in that which cannot 
 be restored here, but will be hereafter; and make 
 your dear child, nil that you once wished her, and 
 I once hoped to see her: then we shall be agreed 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 305 
 
 again in opinion, as we are now in love for each 
 other and interest for her. That it will be so I 
 hope and expect, because in looking to the future, 
 I cannot forget the past. We are all here going 
 on prosperously, and I hope thankfully; liking 
 Woolwich extremely; and not insensible of our 
 great responsibility, if with so much privilege, of 
 those that plant and water, and Him that giveth 
 increase, we grow not up in daily increasing sta- 
 ture, and fulness of Christ. 
 
 Dear Milady, may we meet again; meantime, 
 let there be openness and faithfulness and confi- 
 dence, not mystery, between us, even while there 
 cannot be agreement. With kindest wishes to the 
 young Islander, believe me, 
 
 Ever yours, most affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilsox. 
 
 P. S. — There is but one subject, dearest, of your 
 letter which must be an embarrassment between 
 us; because I cannot speak my mind upon it, 
 without giving you pain, at a time when I feel 
 that you have pain enough; and yet you must 
 feel my silence says as much as if I spoke my 
 mind; with more liability of misapprehension. 
 Prejudice in my mind, must necessarily be all in 
 favour of your child. But after all, there really can- 
 not be much mystery between us, about the matter. 
 You have known my mind so long and intimately 
 heretofore on all matters, but especially on reli- 
 gion, and that mind remains so wholly and entirely 
 26* 
 
306 LETTERS. 
 
 unchanged, it cannot be unknown to you or any 
 wise a secret from you, that your dear child is not 
 what /would have her; and in other and better 
 days, did confidently hope from her. The misera- 
 ble nonsense I saw her read, the mistaken views I 
 heard her express, and the influence under which 
 I saw her to be thinking, feeling, and acting, gave 
 occasion to my earnestly-expressed hope, that her 
 new friends would be wiser than her old ones; 
 and lead her back to the paths of truth and peace. 
 
 LXVIL— TO LADY * * * * * 
 
 January 6, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady — — 
 
 I cannot think how it is I am so long in writing, 
 while the non-arrival of letters from you is to my- 
 self so great a miss. Thought rather than time, 
 has perhaps been pre-occupied — to say nothing of 
 Christmas in London, which slays my intellectual 
 being dead. 
 
 I have just lost another of my sometime many 
 sisters; for I was at ihe fag-end of a family often. 
 It is no cause of grief, but. rather of exalted joy, 
 that one so sweet and saint-like, at an advanced 
 age, and with nothing to leave on earth, has put 
 on a long-expected crown. My only thought of 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 307 
 
 sadness is something about survivorship in a fast- 
 emptying world — a sort of lag-behind, when so 
 many are gone before. We must put away such 
 feelings, and be ashamed of impatience in our 
 day's work. If I did it better, I think I should be 
 less impatient. Enough of self. All compliments, 
 good wishes, and bright blessings of the season to 
 yourself. 
 
 We are irr some spirits about your neighbour of 
 Exeter; we shall beat him, and thereby keep other 
 meddlers quiet, I trust. It is encouraging, too, to 
 find in the laity so much care about the matter. 
 That the people would not become Tractarian, I 
 was always sure; and one of the many evils 
 therefrom to be anticipated, I thought was, that 
 we should have one religion for the people, and 
 another for the aristocracy: a calamitous point in 
 any nation's history. I scarcely hoped for so 
 speedy and spirited a resistance of the first in- 
 roads. You will not be so much pleased as I am, 
 to see the first battle fought and victory gained, 
 over the black and white gown. I have not read 
 the "Cross and Crescent." It was ordered for 
 our Reading Society, but I believe is to be sup- 
 pressed as too free: in which case I shall not see 
 it. I am not for reviewing much, having a book in 
 hand; only in case of something very desirable. 
 
 We find your Dublin Magazine very intelligent; 
 I have forgotten to say, "thank'ye" for it. Let me 
 have the pleasure of hearing soon, if only that you 
 are well ; and I will try to seem more grateful in 
 
308 LETTERS. 
 
 future. Reverting to your letter, I see your men- 
 tion of Dr. Arnold. Why! you would laugh if you 
 could hear all I say about it ; because my admira- 
 tion exceeds the limit of common parlance, and 
 runs riot. It is long since I have or shall 50 like 
 another book ; so new, so fresh, so lofty, so pure, 
 so independent ; but if I were to characterize it 
 all in one word, it would be sense. Farewell, I 
 hope you will mention the precious child when you 
 write. 
 
 Most affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXVIII.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 February 22, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I must take occasion of the thanks due to you 
 for the pretty shawl, just arrived, to perfect my 
 answer to your letter. The shawl arrived by post 
 
 two days since, and also a note from Mrs. , 
 
 requesting me to let her know that 1 received it, 
 which of course I did. The workmanship is very 
 good, and the texture most delicate; I beg you to 
 believe I shall have much gratification in wearing 
 it as your gift. For the subject-matter yet unan- 
 swered of your last nice long letter — I am not sur- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 309 
 
 prised that you cannot feel the importance of these 
 petty innovations, seeing that to you they are not 
 
 so, being really habituated to such things in ; 
 
 but if any clergyman in England now persists in 
 them, contrary to the known habits and wishes of 
 an English congregation, it is a perversity impos- 
 sible to conceive, if he does not attach importance 
 to them; and if he does, that importance stands 
 upon the ruinous corruption of our faith. *If they 
 be insignificant, why offend with them even one of 
 the weakest of their flock ; much more, why offend, 
 the whole weight of public opinion in our country? 
 It is difficult to set limits to mortal absurdity; but 
 the man who does this, without an ulterior mean- 
 ing, passes my most generous indulgence for his 
 folly; and, moreover, exceeds my credulity of the 
 fact.' You may know otherwise. I forgot in the 
 haste of my last, to say that I think the extract for- 
 merly inclosed, is very suitable to the times: and 
 in effect most true, as to where the danger hides 
 itself; and therefore is most dangerous. 
 
 There is an influence again, perhaps, in 
 
 your opinion of Arnold's book, and also a political 
 one, which does not weigh so heavily with me. 
 A Tory I am, most entirely ; but not having, like 
 yourself, others to think for, such matters do not 
 affect my estimate of a character, nor my enjoy- 
 ment of a book. I do not agree with Arnold in a 
 hundred things: but I do admire him more than I 
 have done man of woman born for many a day ; 
 and have not hesitated to recommend the work to 
 
310 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 any one. However, you are not alone ; opinions 
 run so high for and against the book, it is danger- 
 ous to name it in company, lest you open a fire of 
 disputation. Nothing, however, seems to abate 
 the vivacity of my enthusiasm in his favour; there 
 is no accounting sometimes for peculiar sympa- 
 thies with character; but never to me can super- 
 ficial spots upon the disc, be conjured into an 
 eclipse. What do you think of the Irish Educa- 
 tion schemes ? 
 
 I suppose it is yet doubtful whether the Oxford 
 
 sentence against W is good in law ; but 
 
 whether or not, it is a great triumph of the right 
 that it has been past. Like another great agitator 
 he can only come off on a technicality : which will 
 not affect the view of his deserts. The decease 
 of the Camden Society is another glorious issue of 
 
 our struggle. Your must be, by your last 
 
 account of him, very little deserving to be ranked 
 among the innovators. I cannot but foresee he 
 will soon doff their colours, if he still wears them. 
 
 I did not say more about the particular story of 
 
 Sir , because prohibition, not criticism, was 
 
 my object. It matters not what is in it. I wish- 
 ed it, and all like it, whether better or worse, un- 
 uritten and unread, which makes of no moment 
 the morality of the story, or the lessons it con- 
 veys. I feel much as you express yourself of the 
 baptismal tract. The man who writes it ought not 
 to use the baptismal service ; nor he who believes 
 
LETTERS. g|j 
 
 it ; therefore it is a pity so to enhance the difficul- 
 ties of a conscientious minister of our church. 
 
 I hope to hear you are better, and your interest- 
 ing invalid at least not worse. What a fearful 
 treasure is that sweet child ; but the other is the 
 darkest cloud still. 
 
 I wish you would not get up so soon in the 
 morning ; I don't like works of supererogation, and 
 think it cannot be good for you. Now farewell, 
 with many thanks, for all kind words and thoughts 
 and deeds. You are the only person who ex- 
 tracts a long letter from me, and they but little 
 worth : for it is a by-gone talent with me to write 
 a letter. Yet I am 
 
 Ever affectionately yours : 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LX1X.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 May 26, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady , 
 
 I was delighted at sight of your letter, which if 
 mine reached you at all, it crossed on the road. I 
 am not surprised that you cannot find my felicities 
 in the Isle of Wight, any more than my horrors in 
 London. All these things depend, most happily, 
 on habits, tastes and feelings, infinitely and benefi- 
 
312 LETTERS. 
 
 cently varied according to our health, position and 
 estate. I did not think you would find very much 
 of higher and better things ; and so it proves. 
 The main subject between us this time, is to be 
 Mesmerism, you say. Upon this my mind is very 
 
 well made up, in despite of C. E. and Miss M , 
 
 only I do wish that wise women would not write 
 nonsense. If Mesmerism has cured anybody of 
 anything, as I dare say it has, it is of course avail- 
 able as a remedy for disease; and it appears to 
 me perfectly absurd, to suppose it less lawful than 
 any other means. It is simply a matter of experi- 
 ment and fact ; and certainly I should try it, if I 
 believed in its efficacy ; which would depend not 
 on argument but fact, taken not upon opinion but 
 testimony. At present I believe it is occasionally, 
 not generally, efficacious. For all other purposes, 
 I believe it a mixture of delusion and imposture. 
 I strike off a large part of its wonders, as deliber- 
 ate deception ; another part as ignorant delusions ; 
 and all that remains, such as real fits of insensi- 
 bility, hysterics, somnambulancy, that may be 
 superinduced on weak, sensitive and nervous sub- 
 jects, to be perfectly explicable on well-known 
 natural principles, without supposing anything 
 supernatural. If I believed it more, I should be- 
 lieve it unlawful ; but even so, I should avoid it as 
 monstrously foolish and dangerous, unless medical- 
 ly applied. As to what pious clergymen may write 
 or say, it is a fact against which experience can- 
 not close its eyes, that the grace of God which im- 
 
LETTERS. 313 
 
 parts to his servants so much of better things, 
 does not endow them with worldly wisdom, or 
 give them sound judgment upon matters not direct- 
 ly spiritual ; there is no manner of vagary, by 
 which sound and good men have not been for a 
 time deluded ; and I am fain to confess thereon, 
 that their testimony carries with it little weight to 
 my mind, except it be statements of plain fact, or 
 the evidence of their own senses, without note or 
 comment. At the same time, I own no sympathy 
 with those who, like , &c, refer all such mat- 
 ters to Satanic influence. Satan is wiser than his 
 instruments, he takes advantage of all human 
 follies ; if he invented them he would do it better, 
 as I think. So wonderful and curious are the 
 operations and influences of nature, nothing of 
 that sort passes my belief; but I am, for that very 
 reason, slow to accept evidence of supernatural 
 influence. 
 
 ******* Assuredly your daughter cannot be 
 wrong, to try all means with her dear boy, and 
 hope and pray to the last. Your new charge is a 
 heavy and affecting one. I suspect few are so 
 well endowed as yourself, to meet it and fulfil it; 
 and wisdom and power, not your own, will assured- 
 ly be added unto you. It is an affecting case, and 
 yet how much mercy and amelioration in it. May 
 God support and guide you, as he will. I don't 
 know your house by it's name ; so perhaps it is not 
 where I guessed. My writing stands sadly still, 
 from seeing too much company ; which is not so 
 27 
 
314 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 good for me as thought and paper. In haste and 
 bustle still 
 
 Most affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 ,'LXX.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 July 1, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 Time has stolen on, and I have not thanked you 
 for a mueh-desired letter, desired they always 
 are ; but most after delay. Reasons about as 
 usual with myself, writing and a good deal of 
 company in and out, tending to distraction of 
 thought. I hope Southampton will agree with you 
 better than the Island ; but am accustomed to think 
 it a relaxing air, and not healthful. I believe, 
 however, these are mostly relative rather than ab- 
 stract propositions, according to the constitution 
 on which they act. I am quite concerned for 
 your many and not light troubles; but do trust that 
 they will subside, as the most troubled waters are 
 wont to do, at the Divine word. Meantime there 
 is no more to say, but " Fear not, for I am with 
 thee." 
 
 We are, thank God, much as usual, spared all 
 the heavier trials of humanity, and I trust grateful 
 
LETTERS. 315 
 
 for health and peace ; but most of all for grace and 
 pardon, and a brighter world to come. Next week 
 I expect we are going from home, to Folkestone 
 first, for about three weeks ; but if you are kind 
 enough to write, I shall be anxious for a few 
 words of medical report ; and your letters will be 
 forwarded wherever I may be. Let me not be 
 long ignorant where to find you, at any time. 
 Poor Ireland seems to fall from bad to w r orse, and 
 who can even pretend to read the issue ? * * * * 
 The religious aspect of things looks all of one 
 colour, and that a sombre one, as if men — rulers 
 at least — were determined to level all, and cast 
 Truth quite out of the account, till God be pro- 
 fessedly, as well as virtually, forgotten ; and all 
 distinctions of truth and error denied. This very 
 liberalism gives the Puseyites a check, for the pres- 
 ent at least. God knows his own purposes in all; and 
 will give us, I trust, submission. Oh ! when will 
 patience have its perfect work ? It is far from it 
 still in me. 
 
 I pray God to restore your family to health, and 
 to amend your own. Ever believe me, 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Carolina Wilson. 
 
316 LETTERS. 
 
 LXXI.— TO LADY ***** 
 
 September 8, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I was glad indeed to receive your kind note 
 yesterday. I had been really anxious, yet was 
 afraid to trouble you with inquiry. Thank God 
 for your restoration, which most heartily I do, 
 though the least of the many who cannot spare 
 you. We always feared the Southampton atmos- 
 phere for you : but you have had a heavy weight 
 of cares as well : and though I believe you are not 
 so nervous a person as myself, where is the tem- 
 perament that does not more or less suffer bodily 
 for the mind's sorrowing and carefulness I I can 
 well believe, that the near vision of eternity at 
 hand, has so far lightened them as to increase 
 your perception of their nothingness, and reduce 
 to a minimum of difference life's best and worst. 
 But then you are feeling so much for others, who 
 have still a life before them, desolate and bereaved 
 of their most precious child. May you be strength- 
 ened and comforted, both with them and in them. 
 Spare yourself, meantime, from all bodily and 
 mental labour that can be dispensed with, how- 
 ever much it deprives your absent friends of your 
 communications. 
 
 Under the circumstances, I feel ashamed almost 
 to intrude even this letter upon you, unless I know 
 
LETTERS. 3J7 
 
 something which it would interest you to speak of. 
 But oh! how minor interests sink and fade before 
 the shadows of earthly sorrow, or lights of un- 
 earthly joy; and both ways your thoughts have 
 been withdrawn from common converse upon 
 common topics. We are just arrived at home 
 from our short holiday, at Folkestone first, and 
 then at Southborough, my haven of delightsome 
 refuge from the dust and brownness of this worn 
 and weary region of the habited world ; where 
 the oak-tree and the heather cure all my maladies 
 of mind and body. In haste and unsettledness, 
 therefore, I write to say how anxiously and sym- 
 pathizingly I am, 
 
 Ever yours, 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXII.— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 September, 1845. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 Truly glad am I to get your note, though in one 
 sense it is just too late. We postponed as late as 
 
 we could our promised visit to , in hope to 
 
 hear from you, but could not make up our minds 
 to write to you. You will have no difficulty, I 
 trust, to understand our feeling in this. We knew 
 how many you have to please, and felt the proba- 
 27* 
 
318 LETTERS. 
 
 bility, that at such a time as this, our presence 
 might not be agreeable to every body, however 
 much so to you. We feared, if we wrote, you 
 would not like to refuse us, and that perhaps some 
 one would be annoyed, or you embarrassed; so 
 that after much talk, and much hesitation, we re- 
 solved to give it up, and we only yesterday re- 
 turned from . My husband says he 
 
 cannot make holiday again. We have three 
 school-girls coming to us to-morrow for Michael- 
 mas, and a further reason for us is, you know, 
 that we cannot afford as many movements as we 
 should like; therefore I fear it must be given up 
 for this season, though I confess myself a little 
 vexed, that your letter failed by a single day to 
 
 find us at , whence possibly we might 
 
 have stolen just till Saturday or Monday. How- 
 ever, we felt, whilst we should have sincerely 
 liked to come, some little delicacy about it. I am 
 thankful, dearest, for the tone and spirit in which 
 you are able to wait. That, I apprehend, is your 
 lesson now; and when that is learned, you will be 
 taught and enabled to submit. It is so our graces 
 are maintained, our spirits perfected in Christ: 
 here a little and there a little, as we need it, and 
 can bear it; but done it must be. "Patience 
 must have her perfect work," and no one grace be 
 wanting at the last. Happiest they that are the 
 aptest scholars, to learn their lesson fastest, and 
 be dismissed from tutelage to their most blessed 
 home. Do give my love to all, for in some sort I 
 
LETTERS. gig 
 
 do feel for all. I have been a little out of health 
 this summer, but was much mended by my sojourn 
 at Southborough ; and am still further improved 
 
 by the few days passed at . Is it not 
 
 the greatest of all blessings, that you can say, you 
 are all well. Let me hear of you now and then, 
 for I get thinking of you anxiously sometimes. I 
 don't suppose I shall be from home again till 
 Christmas : then in town; but I fear you will not 
 be to be seen then. Be sure I shall try to see you 
 whenever I can, for your trials deepen my feeling 
 of interest in you ; nevertheless, you have cause 
 for great praises still. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXIIL— TO LADY ***** 
 
 October 20, 1845. 
 
 My dear Lady 
 
 I do not think I can be happy any longer with- 
 out writing to you ; and yet not to make you 
 write, more than six words. I know how you are 
 occupied, with a too painful certainty, without 
 supposing you ill. 
 
 The calamities of others dwell much upon my 
 mind, when coming within personal cognizance; 
 sometimes with great gratitude; sometimes with 
 
320 LETTERS. 
 
 timid apprehensiveness ; as if they must come to 
 me next. I do not consider this last a feeling to 
 be encouraged, because it is a prejudging of the 
 Divine purpose, and a sort of self-influence not re- 
 quired of us. I apprehend, that to think with 
 grateful satisfaction how w r e are spared while 
 others suffer, is a better thing, and equally efficient 
 to secure sympathy, and make us to go softly. 
 That I think of your daughter, and of your suffer- 
 ing with her and for her, is not surprising, missing 
 the continual pleasure of your letters, and know- 
 ing that illness or sorrowful occupation is the 
 cause. I will hope not the former. Can I do any- 
 thing for you, say anything to you, or anything 
 about you, in all your suspended labours 1 
 
 I am quite settled in again for the winter, and 
 hope, if health and peace is granted, now to com- 
 plete the book some time in hand. We are think- 
 ing much, perhaps as often before, with exaggera- 
 tion, of the condition of the sister island. At all 
 hands, a trying winter seems preparing for the 
 poor. I doubt not, because I have had too long 
 observation of the fact, that something will turn 
 out to lessen the difficulties that overhang. In 
 public and in private, 1 have always seen it so. 
 No calamity, no grief, no difficulty, proves as 
 great in fact, as it seems in idea; and that by 
 reason of some uncalculated good thrown provi- 
 dentially into it. Have you not seen it so, not as 
 an accident, but as a rule in the Divine economy? 
 T think I have, and it makes me always rather 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 321 
 
 impatient of croakers and alarmists, in their talk 
 of things to come. Nevertheless, we have much 
 to think of, and much to watch and wait for, in 
 the aspect of things around us. The secession of 
 Messrs. Newman & Co., seems to me unmixed 
 good: it will undeceive the conscientious and 
 alarm the time-serving, who were following in 
 their steps, but never meant their conclusion ; and 
 I think it will open the eyes of the rulers in Church 
 and State to all they care about: the political 
 and hierarchical consequence of encouraging the 
 movement. * * * I should like, for my own part, 
 a more expansive besom, and a wider sweep. I 
 suppose this union attempt at Liverpool is after 
 your own heart. It would be after mine, if I had 
 any hope of its success, but am fearful it will lack 
 results. Nevertheless, it is worth the trial, for the 
 sin of God's people is enormous : not by separa- 
 tion from the church, or adherence to it, but by 
 separation and disavowal of each other. I know 
 nothing, however, of this, or anything but what I 
 see in the newspapers and magazines; so com- 
 pletely am I secluded here from the intercourse of 
 men, religiously and politically informed ; there- 
 fore am simply prating my own thoughts, for the 
 mere pleasure of talking to you, I believe. I will 
 trouble you with no more, lest it prove ill-timed : 
 but must be, 
 
 Ever most affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
322 LETTERS. 
 
 LXXIV.— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 December 31, 1845. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 Very sensible of your great interest and feeling 
 for me, expressed in your note, and well known 
 before, I have yet purposely delayed writing, till 
 a little further progress should be made in the 
 treatment of my complaint, in hope to report sa- 
 tisfactorily. Thank God, I am fully enabled to do 
 
 so. I saw A a^ain on Saturday, and he 
 
 seemed quite satisfied, and almost surprised, I 
 thought, at the measure of his own success. My 
 general health meantime, is better than it has been 
 for a twelvemonth ; my mind at rest, and my 
 spirits restored. So I think you will say it ought 
 to be as happy a Christmas, as gratitude can make 
 it. I have been afraid to be too sanguine, lest 
 another blow should come, but that is wrong. 
 Thankfulness should not be kept in check by mis- 
 trust ; seeing that if disappointment do come, I 
 have had proof that strength and guidance will 
 abundantly come with it. I am more persuaded 
 daily, of what I care most about, bodily; that the 
 disease was an accident, whilst there is every 
 reason now to believe, it will be entirely removed. 
 Such is the aspect now; it may be otherwise; but 
 I am trying to do, what I am sure, it is best to do, 
 to live each day separately, enjoying its own good, 
 
LETTERS 323 
 
 submitting to its own evil; but not losing the bene- 
 fit and present grace of either, in looking forward 
 to what may be hereafter. If we did always so, 
 few days there would be, in which thankfulness 
 for good possessed, would not preponderate; and 
 those few would not be farther darkened, by appre- 
 hensions and regrets. It is my nature to be too 
 timid, too apprehensive, too imaginative of unreal 
 evils; but this is not creditable to faith and love, 
 and I would have it otherwise. " He shall be de- 
 livered from fear of evil," is a great promise. 
 Thank you, dear, for all you write, of kindly and 
 of spiritual feeling. You are very kind to propose 
 # * # *. We made our yearly visit at Christmas 
 in town, and may not at present egress again. 
 Indeed I am too marvellously well to make it at 
 all necessary: — there have been times and may 
 be again, when I have thought it would be a great 
 relief to stay a few days with friends, to change 
 the current of things; and should such return, I 
 shall remember what you said, and ask you if it 
 will suit you to receive us. Every kind wish and 
 blessing of the season, to you and yours. 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
324 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 LXXV.— TO MRS. M . 
 
 May, 1846. 
 
 My dear Mrs. M- 
 
 Thank you, dear, for your salutations, pleasing 
 reports, and kind inquiries. I thought on you on 
 Sunday. I cannot say wistfully. I had made up 
 my mind to a dies non, so far as human minis- 
 trations are concerned, whereas my exhilarated 
 spirits, and the delights surrounding me, supply at 
 once the temple and the music. I am so much 
 better, so different to my own feelings. I had a 
 
 mind to ask you, if the Mrs. W of Queen's 
 
 Terrace is still there, so little can I believe that 
 this is she. The weather has been so exquisite, 
 the place is so beautiful, I cannot tell you how 
 much we are enjoying it ; perhaps it needs the long 
 and dreary weight of dulness that has been upon 
 me, to feel the delight of being again alive, in full 
 enjoyment of God in his works, and of his works 
 in him. In these best moments, when the soul 
 goes free of earthly pressure, we do not feel the 
 need of earthly help ; but, alas ! the pressure will 
 return, and because "the well is deep," we then 
 need the stronger arm to help us to draw there- 
 from ; and very sad, and very saddening it is, that 
 with three churches, the several ministers of which 
 seem really intent to do their duty, and two or 
 three curates beside; the preaching is so ineffi- 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 cient, one can scarcely suppose a slumbering soul 
 wakened, or a waking one elevated by any one of 
 them. Well, well, in that blest time you talk of, 
 we shall have done with our rushlights; to fear 
 their removal, or bewail their dimness, where 
 neither sun nor moon will be any more needed, 
 but " the Lamb is the light thereof." Aye truly, 
 as you suggest, if this exquisite creation be the 
 place accursed of our captivity, what will be the 
 beauty, call it earth or heaven, of our kingly 
 dwelling-place, when we reign with Christ. The 
 hvo last words comprise all I know, and all I care 
 about it. I am delighted to hear my five children 
 are better, all kindness to them and remembrance 
 to dear friends. Do not expect us before Mondaj r . 
 I am afraid to look sadly glum when the time 
 comes, but ever, 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXVL— TO MR. B 
 
 August 20, 1846. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Often in the thoughts of my head upon my bed, 
 
 it has occurred to me "What must Mr. B 
 
 think? no inquiries, no renewal of invitation, or 
 notice taken of his illness." I have been very ill 
 28 
 
326 LETTERS. 
 
 too, worse than you, in some sense, since you seem 
 to have been about your business. I have only 
 wandered from room to room these five weeks. 
 Illness, incident to the extraordinary season, I sup- 
 pose, so dashing me, and laying me prostrate alto- 
 gether, it is with difficulty I raise my head high 
 enough to write even this. Do not come to see 
 me now, though I want to see you, for half an 
 hour's conversation would be a quarter too much. 
 But write and let me know, at times, where and 
 how you are, and as soon as I am stronger, I will 
 answer you properly. 
 
 Our Father thus lets us approach the golden 
 gates, and peep through the key-hole. I see only 
 brightness, what do you see? Oh yes, the book 
 was done before this illness came. I have scarce 
 wit enough now, to correct the press. 
 
 We are going to the sea as soon as T am able. 
 
 Mr. M is gone to travel for four or five weeks 
 
 quite disabled. Every body is suffering except my 
 precious husband, who is quite well; and shall add 
 to this. I cannot, but am, 
 
 Very affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 327 
 
 LXXVIL— TO MRS. M . 
 
 Hastings, August 31, 1846. 
 
 My dear Mrs. M , 
 
 Your kind inquiries deserve a more quick reply, 
 but reports having gone to Woolwich, which 
 would probably reach you, I thought to wait for 
 an amended report. The time for it however is 
 not yet, and we must w r ait God's further pleasure. 
 I do not think I am better, I should say I am 
 worse; but that one does not discern, between the 
 sofa and the bed, how really ill one is ; and so it 
 may be only, that I have discovered in attempting 
 to perform the function of health, that I am more 
 ill than I thought I w 7 as ; and do not, as I expected, 
 recover all at once. Nevertheless God has favour- 
 ed and prospered us in everything — all things turn 
 out well for us. Fagged out with the journey, we 
 were so fortunate as to get good accommodation 
 at the best hotel, the place being crammed, where 
 we had to stay and abide the noise, waiting for 
 lodgings on Saturday. Beautiful indeed is the lit- 
 tle apartment we have got, the very best we could 
 have; and beautiful all that we see around us. 
 Then everybody is so good to the litlle suffering 
 woman — strangers send her beautiful fruit, and the 
 very waiters are careful of her. And then her 
 precious dear husband is never out of her sight, 
 enough at all other times to cure her of anything. 
 
328 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 This tender generous air, in contrast with our 
 own, so ungracious and hard, it seems to me to 
 blight what it blows upon, is so balmy and deli- 
 cious, fanning you just as if it knew you were ill, 
 and was afraid to hurt you ; as if God had tem- 
 pered it! and so he has to his shorn lamb and 
 feeble sheep. Then why with all am I not better? 
 Perhaps because he does not mean I should be. 
 Be it so, even as he will ; I feel that in being here, 
 we are doing, as well as waiting, his pleasure; 
 which I did not feel, so long as I refused to try the 
 most probable means of restoration, unequal as I 
 really did feel to the exertion. 
 
 Here I can be much in the open air, sitting on 
 the shore, or drawn about in a chair, and even 
 from my window breathe in the sea. In appetite 
 and cheerfulness I have greatly gained, but my 
 breathing is worse, &c, &c. My husband is 
 getting anxious in not having medical advice. 
 
 Tell Mr. B this if you see him, and that he is 
 
 in some hurry to hear from him in answ T er to his 
 letter. Thus you see, dear, whatever be the final 
 issue of my illness, I have nothing but mercies and 
 loving-kindness by the way; say rather indulgences 
 of every kind, which thousands more suffering can- 
 not have. I wish that you were all here, except 
 that I believe a more bracing air might suit you 
 better, — St. Leonard's to wit, which I hate ; this I 
 love. If you are kind enough to write again, do 
 
 not omit any news you may have of Mr. M , 
 
 as well as the health of your fever-patients, and 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 329 
 
 anything that may have been heard of the health 
 of our man of God. This is a great letter for 
 these times; pray for us, not for life or death, but 
 for strength to wait and bear. With all love to 
 the loved, 
 
 Ever affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXVIII.— TO MRS. * * *. 
 
 Hastings, September 4, 1846. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 Too long neglected. For the feelings of my 
 kind friends, as well as my own idleness, the bulle- 
 tins were safest in my dear husband's hands, so long 
 as he could throw his couleur de rose upon them. 
 But now it is time that I speak for myself. I am 
 not getting better, dearest, I have never thought I 
 was: but rapidly worse since I came here, in res- 
 pect of my breathing, which must be the material 
 thing. We have called in the soberest and most 
 experienced man we could find, who, having plied 
 me with the stethescope, pronounces my left lung 
 to be consolidated ; so accounting for all the dis- 
 tressing symptoms. If this is so, and I see no rea- 
 son to doubt it, though my precious husband would 
 fain be incredulous still, it becomes simply a ques- 
 tion of lime and amelioration. Unless I greatly 
 28* 
 
330 LETTERS. 
 
 improve in a few days, of which 1 see no promise, 
 we shall leave this place and make progress to- 
 ward London; staying perhaps at Tunbridge 
 Wells a week, and perhaps elsewhere, to see if 
 any change makes any difference. If not, some 
 London physician must sign the warrant, and we 
 must proceed to counsel what is to be done. 
 Should his chariot-it'heels be slow in coming, a 
 mild, dry nook that might allow me still to take 
 the air, and feel the sun, would greatly ease the 
 yet remaining way ; whereas at Woolwich there 
 is no prospect for me but my bed. For my hus- 
 band's sake, I would have all done to prolong, 
 what for me cannot be too short; but the almost 
 convulsive agonies I sometimes suffer for want of 
 breath, makes such continuance doubtful, unless 
 change of place relieves it. I know I am afflicting 
 you, my dearest, by all this. You scolded me at 
 Woolwich for the hint I dropped in the form of 
 wishes. I had, a prescience then of what was 
 coming, without a good reason to give for it. 
 But why did you scold me? More than one 
 hand, and young hands too, have given mine a 
 shake of congratulation to-day, on hearing the 
 doctor's fiat, and wished they might go too. Why 
 not so, dearest? Were you ever parted from 
 your best beloved, and felt no wish to join him ? 
 That is impossible. There is but one counter- 
 thought that stays the prayer: for that one I keep 
 silence and say nothing. At present I suffer only 
 in my breath, but it is great distress at times. 
 
LETTERS- 33 1 
 
 Thank you, these chairs are perfectly comfortable 
 to me. With no other exercise, even the shaking 
 is beneficial, and my moments of greatest ease are 
 when drawn through these soft soothing breezes. 
 Gladly would I live and die in this sweet place, 
 endeared to me by many recollections, chiefly of 
 those I am shortly to rejoin. But that may not 
 be. We must be near to London, and I trouble 
 you with all this, because I feel the friends who 
 love us could do us no greater good at this junc- 
 ture, that to suggest the place wherein to wait, 
 least painfully, the final issue. We talk about 
 Streatham, Brixton, Clapham, Richmond : but w 7 e 
 know too little of the localities to judge. If you 
 can advise us, do. I am not of those who run 
 about the world to prolong a doomed life at any 
 cost, but I have seen long illnesses so lightened by 
 keeping out of doors, to even the last hour, espe- 
 cially in consumption, that I cannot help dreading 
 my cold mansion at Woolwich, whence egress 
 would be impossible. I am now not properly able 
 to walk up stairs, and shall probably not long be 
 able to walk at all; not for want of legs, but want 
 of breath ; however, to change seems difficult. 
 " God will provide." If a few months be all, it 
 very little signifies. Now write to me, and tell me 
 that you will not fret. I know you love me, but I 
 can render you nothing but to love again, and that 
 I will do in heaven. 
 
 Tell dear Mr. B to comfort and uphold my 
 
 precious husband, who will not yet give his con- 
 
332 LETTERS. 
 
 sent to let me go. I would I could take him with 
 me! Excuse this almost first note I have written, 
 too full of all but what I wanted to say, dearest. 
 Most affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXIX. TO MRS. * * * 
 
 Hastings, Sept. 5, 1840. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 It is my fault you have not heard. I claimed to 
 write myself, for surely best from me to your fond 
 heart will come the news that you will call sad ; 
 and compassed, blessed, embraced as I am with 
 kindest interest on every side, I have scarcely a 
 right to say it is not sad that will make others so; 
 though not myself. My illness has increased, the 
 serious token of it with extraordinary rapidity. 
 My breathing is terrible, and obliged us to call in 
 advice here; and the stethescope having been ap- 
 plied, there seems no doubt it is a consolidation of 
 the left lung. Dearest, God has spoken, and we 
 have no more to do. If this be true, it is only a 
 question of more or less time, more or less tempo- 
 rary alleviation. Never, never can it be sad to 
 me to stand still and watch for the parting of the 
 
LETTERS. 333 
 
 waters of Jordan to let me pass, and close on all I 
 desire to see no more; and not from me can ever 
 the cry be heard for a little more time to suffer 
 and to sin, and wait and long for Him my soul de- 
 sires. If it ever should be so, He will have cause 
 to say I have held strange language with him here- 
 tofore ; when for very love, as I believe, I have 
 entreated, implored, reproached Him that He 
 would not let me come to Him, when I could not 
 be satisfied with any thing beside. No, no ! — His 
 Spirit will not let me be so false — to-night, to- 
 morrow, if it be His pleasure ! But there is one 
 thought that stays the prayer — my precious hus- 
 band is not yet content ; it takes him by surprise, 
 he thinks a prolonged period of expectation, even 
 without hope, would be good for him — would re- 
 concile him — wean him — water and mature per- 
 haps the Divine life in his own soul. If so, be it 
 so. At least we must do all that can be done. 
 Neither am I indifferent, if awhile his chariot- 
 wheels delay their coming, how that interval is 
 passed. A milder atmosphere than Woolwich 
 is indispensable. Our house at Woolwich might 
 soon be got rid of, but where find another ; our 
 thoughts run many ways, mine run as they always 
 did run, after my affections. I do not like to go 
 where I love nothing. Then the gospel, its preach- 
 ed voice I shall probably hear no more ; but to my 
 husband, and in private to myself, the ministry is 
 
 important. My choice is towards ; or ; 
 
 — perhaps itself will be too damp and low ; 
 
334 LETTERS. 
 
 but is there not higher ground within a mile or so; 
 
 or , or some common or other; — not a 
 
 town, not a street, but where I may sit under a 
 tree, or be drawn about in a garden, or at least 
 breathe to the last the pure breath of heaven, and 
 see nature's beauties, and hear nature's music. 
 
 This is my whole desire if I live ; If I die imme- 
 diately it little matters where. About those parts 
 I have many friends, who would watch over me 
 temporally, and sympathize with me spiritually. 
 But you, dear, to whom, whenever I depart, I shall 
 go more indebted for past kindness than to any 
 other being left behind, need I say how pleasant it 
 would be to me, to be near enough to see you 
 more frequently ; to receive the out-pourings of 
 your own heart's sorrows; perhaps to lighten them 
 by my own growing joys. All this must be God's 
 arrangement if he wills it; for we are much at a 
 loss. 
 
 I tell it you, on the chance your knowledge of 
 the neighbourhood may do us service. We came 
 here on Monday. My daily increasing suffering, 
 simply from my breathing — for I suffer nothing 
 else — a difficulty amounting, at times, to almost 
 convulsive struggles for existence, warn us to try 
 another change. 
 
 We mean to go to Hawkhurst for a night or 
 two ; thence, if w r e can get lodgings, to Tunbridge 
 Wells. Monday or Tuesday you might write to 
 the former, afterwards to the latter place, to the 
 post-office. 1 have written more than I am well 
 
LETTERS. gcjfj 
 
 able, and should write to many others. Give 
 prayers to us both — most for the comfort of my 
 most dear and precious husband. This must be 
 all now. If there be time, I shall have more, much 
 more to say. Bless you, dearest. 
 
 Yours, most affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 LXXX— TO MRS. M- 
 
 Hastings, Sept. 6, 1846. 
 
 Dear Mrs. M , 
 
 The Sabbath bells have rung you to church, and 
 hundreds of others; among the rest, my dear dis- 
 tressed husband, unused to break the bread of 
 peace alone; may Jesus comfort him ! it is my only 
 care. I want to tell you how much brighter a 
 Sabbath I am allowed to contemplate; not through 
 the key-hole now, the door itself is opening. My 
 illness has taken a more serious character, is con- 
 sidered now to be upon the lungs, and capable of 
 nothing but alleviation : longer or shorter as the 
 progress may be. Too soon for me, the bright 
 dawn cannot come, who have grown so sadly 
 weary of the night; nay on that very night itself 
 a light has come, that was not there before, since 
 
336 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 I was told the fact, cheering the dark, and making 
 the fair more beautiful. But the blow has come 
 suddenly on my precious husband, and he thinks 
 if I linger awhile, even in sickness, and without 
 hope, he shall be better reconciled and profited by 
 the prolonged warning. If this be so, I am con- 
 tent to wait. At present I only suffer from dis- 
 tressed breathing, and utter incapability of any 
 kind of effort. As I am getting manifestly worse 
 every day, we are advised to leave here immedi- 
 ately, to try another change. We propose to-mor- . 
 row to move to Hawkhurst for a night or two, and 
 thence to Tunbridge Wells, if we can secure fit 
 accommodation ; if not, somewhere toward home. 
 I hope no new troubles have prevented your writ- 
 ing to me. I feel very anxious to hear of the 
 
 M s, unheard of when Lady W wrote. I 
 
 do not think of' your hearing him to-day, but trust 
 he may be on the return, with renewed powers, to 
 warn the happy, and to cheer the sad, with his 
 most blessed message. 
 
 By me, the voice of the charmer, charm he ne- 
 ver so wisely, will probably be no more heard from 
 the pulpit. We do not want, by day-light, the 
 guiding stars of night: provision for the living, 
 not the dying. Nevertheless, if I reach home with 
 breath enough remaining, I do hope yet to speak 
 with all my friends again of the past and coming 
 things, in which we take mutual pleasure. The 
 difficulty of speaking is a great distress to me now, 
 
LETTERS. 337 
 
 wishing to talk more with my husband, of what 
 can be no longer kept out of sight; nevertheless, 
 there may be more time allowed for this. We 
 shall probably be at home within a fortnight, even 
 if no more pressing symptoms bring us forward. 
 If it appears probable I shall live the winter, it 
 must not be at Woolwich, I apprehend ; if not, it 
 little matters. God must give us guidance in this 
 matter, for we know scarcely what to do, or where 
 to go. Remember me most affectionately to your 
 dear girls. Write to me, if you can, at Tunbridge 
 Wells, unless to-morrow at Hawkhurst, and let 
 me be, 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson. 
 
 Mr. B writes that people live with consoli- 
 dated lungs for twenty years ! What a Job's 
 comforter ! to one so nearly without breath al- 
 ready ! 
 
 29 
 
338 LETTERS. 
 
 LXXXL— TO MRS. * * * 
 
 Hawkhurst, Sept 8, 1846. 
 My dear Friend, 
 It is even so. He has heard my cries; He has 
 seen my tears; not to add unto my life fifteen 
 years, — I have not asked him for as many days; 
 but to turn another way the current of a disease I 
 so peculiarly dreaded. So at least it appears, and 
 if it so proves, remember, for encouragement, it 
 is a direct answer to prayer. When I thought I 
 had an incurable disease I did not ask a miracle 
 to cure it ; but I did ask earnestly that something 
 else might carry me off before the time arrived ; 
 and certainly I never, so asking, left my knees 
 without an encouraged feeling that some how or 
 other my prayer was heard. Apparently now the 
 answer is made plain. My illness has assumed a 
 decided character, my lungs are affected, and 
 faster or slower, I seem to be sinking into con- 
 sumption. At Hastings, where I went to mend 
 myself, I grew daily worse, and the doctor then 
 first warned me of my real state. We conse- 
 quently left it yesterday, to try other air, and move 
 ourselves gradually home. In this sweet spot we 
 rest ourselves a night or two, and proceed to Tun- 
 bridge Wells if we get lodgings, but shall in any 
 case make homeward next week. What next, we 
 know not; if my life is likely to be prolonged, we 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 339 
 
 must remove for the winter. A little time will de- 
 velope the more or less rapidity of that which 
 seems to admit of no doubt and no remedy. One 
 lung is said to be consolidated : and my respiration 
 is so dreadful ! at times almost an agony. I have 
 no other suffering at present ; but that is great, 
 making me afraid to move or speak, lest I bring 
 on a paroxysm. To you I need not say, how all 
 this is to me: but my darling husband earnestly 
 pleads for time: he thinks it would soften the blow, 
 and increase its usefulness. God only knows that, 
 and if it would I am content to linger. My dear 
 friend, as many will hear, and will not understand, 
 why 1 want no time of preparation, often desired 
 by far holier ones than I : I tell you why, and shall 
 tell others, and so shall you. It is not because I 
 am so holy, but because I am so sinful. The pe- 
 culiar character of my religious experience has 
 always been a deep, an agonizing sense of sin: 
 not past, but present sin ; the sin of yesterday, of 
 to-day, confessed with anguish hard to be endured, 
 and cries for pardon that could not be unheard ; 
 each day cleansed anew in Jesus' blood, and each 
 day loving more for more forgiven ; each day 
 more and more hateful in my own sight, and hope- 
 less of being better; what can I do in death, I 
 have not done in life? What do, in this week, 
 when I am told I cannot live, other than I did last 
 week, when I knew it not? alas, there is but one 
 thing left undone: to serve Him better; and the 
 death-bed is no place for that. Therefore I say, if 
 
340 LETTERS. 
 
 I am not ready now, I shall not be so by delay, so 
 far as I have to do with it. If He has more to do 
 in me, that is His part. I need not ask him not to 
 spoil his work by too much haste. I try to ask 
 nothing, for my loved husband's sake: but I am a 
 timid and impatient sufferer. 
 
 Now I know in all this, I am putting you to grief; 
 but you must hear of it, if not from me ; and ought 
 not to be left to do so. This is as much as I can 
 write now. If power remains you shall hear from 
 me again. Pray for me, and write to Tunbridge 
 Wells Post Office. 
 
 Very, very affectionately yours, 
 
 Caroline Wilson - . 
 
 LXXXI.— TO LADY ****** 
 
 Tunbridge Wells, September 16, 184G. 
 
 Dear Lady 
 
 Hardly, and with much delay, I consented to let 
 my husband tell you that God has spoken now, 
 audibly, and not in broken whispers, as of late, 
 respecting my failing health. To lose the power 
 of speaking or of writing, just when I feel I have 
 most to say, is very painful to me. Doubtful now, 
 whether they may be in any measure restored, 
 seeing them at present diminishing every day; one 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 341 
 
 word I must have with you while I can. The 
 bright, the blessed hour for which I have toiled 
 and waited so many years; the panacea at all 
 times of every painful, every fearful thought, has 
 seemed in my spasmodic agonies of brealhlessness, 
 immediately at hand; of these I have been much 
 relieved by a distinguished practitioner here. I 
 cannot count the issue now by days, but whether 
 weeks or months or years, it is, I believe, ina- 
 verlible. 
 
 It is sudden, but you know how welcome, as 
 surely He knows, who has heard my cries under 
 the loathed burthen of remaining sin, with almost 
 reproaches, that He kept not his word, to fill the 
 hungering and thirsting after righteousness. The 
 
 relief derived by Mr. H 's treatment delays 
 
 us here some days longer ; — then to Woolwich. I 
 want to say some parting words of love and gra- 
 titude and sympathy, but I find I cannot. Write 
 to me, I can yet enjoy and profit by your words, 
 and will repay by proxy if not otherwise. Believe, 
 all I would but cannot say, 
 
 Most affectionately, 
 
 Caroline Wilsox. 
 
 29* 
 
342 • LETTERS. 
 
 This was the last letter my dear wife wrote. 
 The night which followed was passed without 
 much uneasiness; and when she awoke in the 
 morning after a short sleep, it pleased God that 
 she experienced neither pain nor the slightest rest- 
 lessness of body; her voice was little altered, and 
 her mind as composed and clear as before her 
 illness. 
 
 Finding herself much weaker, she said : — " Oh ! 
 if I die to-day, what a mercy! but the blessing 
 would be so great I dare not calculate upon it." 
 
 Having taken her breakfast and looked out upon 
 the beautiful sunny prospect which the open win- 
 dow commanded, she exclaimed: — 
 
 " I want no more of the world ! how dark is all 
 behind — how bright the prospect before ! so un- 
 clouded — so safe — so secure! Jesus! so true to me! 
 I so untrue to thee! whom have I in heaven but 
 Thee — and there is none on earth I desire besides 
 Thee !" 
 
 At another time : — 
 
 " This is my bridal day, ' the beginning of my 
 life.' I wish there should be no mistake about the 
 reason of my desire to depart and to be with Christ. 
 I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and 
 I desire to go to Him, that I may be rid of the 
 burden of sin — indwelling sin — the sin of my na- 
 ture — not the past — repented of every day — but 
 the present, hourly, momentary sin, which I do 
 commit, or may commit — the sense of which at 
 times drives me half mad with grief." 
 
LETTERS. 343 
 
 Some very dear friends had come from Lee to 
 see her. To Mrs. B. who was applying Eau de 
 Cologne to her face, she said, " Oh ! if this is dy- 
 ing, what mercy!" To their daughter she said, 
 " Jessie, I do not wish you to be like me, as I am 
 the chief of sinners, but as I am in Christ." When 
 they had gone away for a short time, I asked her 
 if she would like to see them again. " Oh yes, let 
 them come, what have they to hear but of the 
 love, faithfulness, and truth of God — but at what 
 time did they say they would come V — " At four 
 o'clock." " They must come soon, as I am sink- 
 ing very fast." Afterwards she said; — "I have 
 written a book to testify that God is Love ! I now 
 testify that He is Faithfulness and Truth. I never 
 asked a petition of God, that sooner or later, I did 
 not obtain." 
 
 About half past four, doubtless feeling that the 
 desire of her soul to be with her Saviour was 
 about to be granted, she said, "Oh ! I am sinking 
 so fast !" These were the last words she uttered, 
 and her countenance glowing with heavenly joy, 
 at twenty-three minutes past five, she fell asleep in 
 Jesus without a struggle. 
 
344 LETTERS. 
 
 The following lines are taken from her "Poeti- 
 cal Catechism ." — 
 
 Our home ! what spirit has not felt the charm, 
 The untold meaning, hidden in that word 7 
 
 Can any not recal one throb of joy 
 
 That swell'd the bosom when that name was heard ? 
 
 Far banished from the beings most beloved, 
 Strangers and pilgrims on a foreign soil ; 
 
 Where even that we have is scarcely ours, 
 Claimants to nothing but to care and toil. 
 
 Chill'd by a rugged and ungenial clime, 
 Despised as aliens, taunted and disclaimed, 
 
 What brilliant visions animate the soul, 
 
 Whene'er our country or our home is named 1 
 
 Heaven is our home — our best beloved is there, 
 And there is all that we can call our own ; 
 
 Treasures far other than earth's borrowed joys, 
 There are our wealth, our sceptre, and our crown. 
 
 What then is death ! Is it the mournful shroud, 
 The soldered coffin, and the sable train ] 
 
 The brief inscription, and the mouldering stone 
 That tells the careless stranger, we have been? 
 
 Mistaken emblems of unreal ill ! 
 
 Phantoms that pale the conscious sinner's cheek ; 
 Spectres ! that haunt us in life's gayest hours ! 
 
 When Christians die, how false the tale you speak. 
 
 Far other visions crowd his closing eye ; 
 
 Death comes to him a messenger of love — 
 He hears angelic hosts their songs prepare 
 
 To greet his coming to the realms above. 
 
LETTERS. 345 
 
 He sees the Saviour stand with hand outstretched 
 To wipe the tears of sorrow from his eye ; 
 
 He hears the Father from his lofty throne, 
 Invite him to his mansion in the sky. 
 
 Behind him — he beholds earth's thousand ills, 
 
 With all the folly of its mad pursuits ; 
 And sin disrobed of passion's artful guise, 
 
 Stands forth confessed with all its bitter fruits. 
 
 Before — what mortal accents may not tell 
 Something, life's grosser vision cannot see, 
 
 The bright beginnings of eternal bliss, 
 The gleam of coming immortality ! 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 O Lord, hear ! O Lord, have mercy ! Thou seest 
 what I am. The fear of thy judgments has taken 
 hold of me, I am cast out from thy presence, there 
 is no life remaining in me by reason of this oppres- 
 sion. O Lord, how long ? Why dost thou not come 
 unto me, to comfort, and to bless me. Have my 
 sins separated between me and thee? Is it to try 
 me, and to prove me, and to show me what is in 
 me? 
 
 O Lord ! I confess my sin, and my iniquity is 
 ever before thee. I have been wrong in every 
 thing. Thou hast done every thing for me, and I 
 have rendered Thee nothing. Thou dwellest with 
 him that is of a contrite spirit ; a broken and a con- 
 trite heart thou wilt not despise. Lord ! thou know- 
 
346 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 est my heart is broken, it is contrite, and trembleth 
 at thy word. Now then I entreat thee to fulfill thy 
 word, and speak peace to my soul. Lord! thou 
 canst do it; I know thou canst; I know how great, 
 how sufficient thou art. O that I could see thee, 
 as I have seen thee in the sanctuary. I want nothing 
 else — thou knowestthat I want nothing else. Jesus, 
 Master, blessed, blessed Lord! O when wilt thou 
 return and take me to thyself. Forgive me this 
 impatience — if it be sin, O pardon it. Thou too 
 wert tempted — thou too wert afraid, thou hast 
 known the weight and bitterness of sin. O Jesus, 
 pity; Saviour — help me, and let not the enemy 
 prevail against me. Show me what it is that has 
 offended thee. I am utterly purposed not to offend. 
 I desire holiness more than my necessary food, — 
 my soul is athirst after righteousness. I would be, 
 thou knowest that I w T ould be, conformed in all 
 things to thy will ; but I cannot, O I cannot ! Thou 
 hast tried my nature, thou knowest I have no power 
 against my sins ; I lay myself in the dust before 
 thee. Wilt thou not, wilt thou not help me ! Speak 
 one word of peace, that I may go on my way re- 
 joicing. Speak the word, and there will a great 
 calm. O God ! I will not let thee go, unless thou 
 bless me. Thou wilt bless me, thou wilt keep me, 
 thou wilt bring me through. Be quieted within 
 me, O my soul, for I shall yet praise Him, who is 
 the strength of my life and my portion for ever! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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