Records of Later Life Part 60

Ever yours, f.a.n.n.y.

RAILWAY STATION, HULL, Friday, 4th.

I have been spending the afternoon crying over the tender mercies of English Christians to their pauper population, till my eyes smart, and itch, and ache, and I shall have neither sight nor voice to read "Coriola.n.u.s," which I must do this evening. To this Hull Railway Hotel is attached a magnificent Railway Station (or rather _vice versa_), shaped like a horseshoe, with a s.p.a.cious broad pavement, roofed with a skylight all round, making a n.o.ble ambulatory, of which I have availed myself every day since I have been here for my walking exercise....

I was just starting for my walk to-day, when in came old Mr. Frost, my Hull employer, President of the Literary and Scientific Inst.i.tution, before which I am giving my present readings, the princ.i.p.al lawyer, and, I believe, Mayor of Hull,--a most charming, accomplished, courteous old gentleman of seventy years and upwards, who, finding that I was about to walk, proposed to accompany me, and we descended to the Station.

As we paced up and down, I remarked, lying in a corner, what I took at first for a bundle of rags. On looking again, however, I perceived there was a live creature in the rags--a boy, whose att.i.tude of suffering and weariness, as he crouched upon the pavement, was the most wretched thing you can imagine. I knelt down by him, and asked him what ailed him: he hardly lifted his face from his hands, and said, "Headache;" and then, coughing horribly, buried his miserable face again. Mr. Frost, seeing I still knelt by him, began to ask him questions; and then followed one of those piteous stories which make one smart all over while one listens to them; parental desertion, mother marrying a second time, cruelty from the step-father, beating, starving, and final abandonment. He did not know what had become of them; they had gone away to avoid paying their rent, and left this boy to shift for himself. "How long ago is that?"

said Mr. Frost. "Before snow," said the lad,--the snow has been gone a fortnight and more from this neighborhood, and for all that time the child, by his own account, has wandered up and down, living by begging, and sleeping in barns and stables and pa.s.sages. The interrogatory was a prolonged one: my friend Mr. Frost is slow by age, and cautious by profession, and a man by nature, and so not irresistibly prompted to seize up such an unfortunate at once in his arms and adopt it for his own. In the course of his answers the boy, among other things, said, "I wouldn't mind only for little brother." "How old is he?" "Going on two year." "Where is he?" "Mother got him." "Oh, well, then, you needn't fret about him; she'll take care of him." "No, she won't; he won't be having nothing to eat, I know he won't." And the boy covered his face again in a sullen despair that was pitiful to see. Now, you know, Hal, this boy was not begging; he did not come to us with a pathetic appeal about his starving little brother: he was lying starving himself, and stupefied, with his head covered over, buried in his rags when I spoke to him; and this touching reminiscence of his poor little step-brother came out in the course of Mr. Frost's interrogatory accidentally, and made my very heart ache. The boy had been in the workhouse for two years, with his mother, before she married this second husband; and, saying that he had been sent to school, and kindly treated, and well fed in the workhouse, I asked him if he would go back thither, and he said yes. So, rather to Mr. Frost's amazement I think, I got a cab, and put the child in, and with my kind old gentleman--who, in spite of evident repugnance to such close quarters with the poor tatterdemalion, would by no means leave me alone in the adventure--we carried the small forsaken soul to the workhouse, where we got him, with much difficulty, _temporarily_ received. The wife of the master of the poor-house knew the boy again, and corroborated much of what he had told us, adding that he was a good boy enough while he was there with his mother; but--would you believe it, Hal?--she also told us that this poor little creature had come to their gate the night before, begging admittance; but that, because he had not a _certain written order_ from a certain officer, the rules of the establishment prevented their receiving him, and he had been turned away _of course_. I was in a succession of convulsions of rage and crying all this time, and so adjured and besought poor old Mr.

Frost to take instant measures for helping the little outcast, that when we left him by the workhouse fire, the woman having gone to get him some food, and I returned blaspheming and blubbering to my inn, he--Mr.

Frost--went off in search of a princ.i.p.al police-officer of Hull, from whom he hoped to obtain some further information about the child, which he presently brought back to me. "Oh yes, the magistrate knew the child; he had _sent him to prison_ already several times, for being found lying at night on the wharves and about the streets." So this poor little wretch was _sent to prison_ because literally he had not where to lay his head!... I wouldn't be a man for anything! They are so cruel, without even knowing that they are so: the habit of seeing sin and suffering is such a _heart-hardener_.

Well, the boy is safe in the workhouse now, and is, according to his own wish and inclination, either to be sent to sea or put out apprentice to some trade. I have pledged one of my readings for purposes of outfit or entrance-fee, and Mr. Frost has promised me not to lose sight of the child, so I hope he is rescued from sin and suffering for the present, and perhaps for the future.

Do you remember what infinite difficulty I told you I had had in rescuing that poor little wretch out of the streets of Glasgow? But then she had the advantage of a _mother_, who drove her into them day after day, to sing her starvation in the miserable mud and rain,--luckily this poor Hull boy's mother had not this _interest_ in him.

I have come home, dear Hal, after my reading, and resume my letter to you, though I am very tired, and shall go to bed before I have finished it.

I do remember Robertson's sermon about Jacob wrestling with the angel, and I remember the pa.s.sage you refer to. I remember feeling that I did not agree with it. The solemnity of night is very great; and the aspect of the star-sown heavens suggests the idea of G.o.d, by the overpowering wonder of those innumerable worlds by which one then _sees_ one's self surrounded,--which affect one's imagination in a reverse way from the daylight beauty of the earth, for that makes G.o.d seem as if He were _here_, in this world, which then is all we see (except its great eye, the sun) of these mult.i.tudinous worlds He has created, and that are hanging in countless myriads round us. Night suggests the vastness of creation, as day can never do; and darkness, silence, the absence of human fellowship, and the suspension of human activity, interests, and occupations, leave us a less disturbed opportunity of meditating on our Creator's inconceivable power. The day and the day's beauty make me feel as if G.o.d were very near me; the night and the night's beauty, as if I were very far off from Him.

But, dear Harriet, do not, I entreat you, challenge me to put into words those thoughts which, in us all, must be unutterable. If I can speak of nothing that I feel deeply but with an indistinctness and inefficiency that make me feel sick as with a bodily effort of straining at what I cannot reach, how can I utter, or write, upon such a subject as this! Do not, I beg, ask me such questions, at least in writing; speaking to you, there might be times--seldom, indeed, but some--when I might stammer out part of what I felt on such a subject; but I _cannot_ write about it--it is impossible.

I have many things to tell you, for which I am too tired to-night, but I will tell you them to-morrow. G.o.d bless you. It has just occurred to me that I have a morning reading to-morrow, and some visits to pay first, and I must go to the workhouse and see that boy once more, and satisfy myself that whatever he is put to hereafter is his own choice; and so I shall have no time to write to you to-morrow, and therefore I will finish my letter to-night.... I had an application from Dr. Hawtrey, the Provost of Eton, through Mary Ann Thackeray, the other day, to give some readings to the Eton boys, which I have delightedly agreed to do--but of course refused to be paid for what will be such a great pleasure to me; whereupon Dr. Hawtrey writes that my "generosity to his boys takes his breath away." I think _I_ ought to pay for what will be so very charming as reading Shakespeare to those children....

I had a letter from Mrs. Jameson yesterday, from whom I have heard nothing since she left my house....

And now, dear Hal, I have told you all my news,--oh no, I haven't either:--I went last night, it being my holiday, to hear Mr. Warren, the author of "Ten Thousand a Year," and the Recorder of Hull, address the members of the Mechanics' Inst.i.tute on the duties, privileges, difficulties, dignity, and consolations of labor. I was greatly delighted. I sat on the platform, opposite that large concourse of working men and women--laborers well acquainted by daily experience with the subject of the eloquent speaker's discourses,--and was deeply touched by the silent attention and intelligent interest with which, for two hours, they listened to his admirable address.

I have got it, and shall bring it down and read it to you. Good-bye. Do not fail to let me know what I can do for Dorothy. Good-night.

Ever as ever yours, f.a.n.n.y.

HULL, Thursday, December 2nd, 1847.

My chest and throat, my dear Hal, are well. I have still a slight cough, but nothing to signify....

I never acted in all Yorkshire before. I do not know why, during my "first theatrical career," I did not, but so it was. My harvest now is not likely to be very great, for the prices at the theatres in Leeds and Hull are very low, the theatres not large, and so habitually deserted that an occasional attraction of a few nights hardly has time to rouse the people from their general indifference to these sorts of exhibitions. However, I am both living and saving, and am content.

We have in our last letters got upon those subjects which, upon principle and by choice, I avoid,--bottomless speculations, wherein the mind, attempting to gaze, falls from the very brink and is drowned, as it were, at the very surface of them.

Your theory of _partial immortality_ is abhorrent to me--I can use no other term. Pray conceive me rightly--'tis an abhorrence of the opinion, which does not include you for holding it; for though my whole being, moral and mental, revolts from certain notions, this is a mere necessity of my nature, as to contemplate such issues is the necessity of certain others, differently organized from mine.

I would rather disbelieve in the immortality of my own soul than suppose the boon given to me was withheld from any of my fellow-creatures.

Besides, I did not, in the position I placed before you, suggest the efficacy of _any special kind of idea_ of G.o.d, as connecting the holder of it with Him.

For aught I can tell, the n.o.ble conception of the Divinity, formed out of the extension of the n.o.ble qualities of his own soul by the n.o.blest man, may be further from any adequate idea of G.o.d than the gross notion of a log-worshipper is from the spiritual conception of the most spiritually minded man (only remember _I don't believe this_). But, inasmuch as it is something out of himself, beyond himself, to which the religious element of his nature aspires--that highest element in the human creature, since it combines the sense of reverence and the sense of duty, no matter how distorted or misapplied--it _is_ an idea of a G.o.d, it _is_ a manifestation of the germ of those capacities which, enlightened and cultivated, have made (be it with due respect spoken) the G.o.d of Fenelon and of Channing. I do not believe that any human creature, called by G.o.d into this life, is without some notion of a Divinity, no matter how mean, how unworthy, how seldom thought of, how habitually forgotten.

Superst.i.tion, terror, hope, misery, joy--every one of these sentiments brings paroxysms in every man's life when _some_ idea of G.o.d is seized upon, no matter of what value, no matter how soon relinquished, how evanescent. Eternity is long enough for the progress of those that we see lowest in our moral scale. You know I believe in the progress of the human race, as I do in its immortality; and the barbarous conception of the Divinity of the least advanced of that race confirms me in this faith as much as the purest Christianity of its foremost nations and individuals. Revelation, you say, alone gives any image of G.o.d to you; but which Revelation? When did G.o.d begin, or when has He ceased, to reveal Himself to man? And is it in the Christian Revelation that you find your doctrine of partial immortality and partial annihilation? I believe I told you once of my having read in America a pamphlet suggesting that sin eventually _put out_, destroyed, annihilated, and did away with, those souls of which it took possession; this is something like your present position, and I do not know when I received so painful an impression as from reading that pamphlet, or a profound distress that lasted so long, from a mere abstract proposition addressed to my imagination.

I believe all G.o.d's creatures have known Him, in such proportion as He and _they_ have chosen; _i.e._, to none hath He left Himself utterly without witness; to some that witness has been the perfect life and doctrine of Jesus Christ, the most complete revelation of G.o.d that the world has known.

All have known Him, by His great grace, in some mode and measure; and therefore I believe all are immortal: none have known Him as He is, and but few in any age of the world have known Him as they might; and an eternity of progress holds forth, to my mind, the only hope large enough to compensate for the difference of advantages here, and to atone for the inadequate use of those advantages.

Dearest Harriet, I hate not to make an effort to answer you, and you like, above all things, this species of questioning, speculating, and discussing. But there is something to me almost irreverent in thus catching up these everlasting themes, as it were, in the breathing-time between my theatrical rehearsals and performances. You will not mistake me. I know that the soul may be about its work (does not George Herbert say

"Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes that and the action fine"?)

even at such times, but a deep and difficult mental process should not be snapped at thus.

You know I never can _think_, and to think on such subjects to any purpose would almost necessarily involve thinking on none others; and but for my desire to please you, and not put aside with apparent disregard your favorite mental exercises, I should be as much ashamed as I am annoyed by the crude utterance of crude notions upon such subjects to which you compel me.

You say our goodness and benevolence are not those of G.o.d: in _quant.i.ty_, surely not; but in _quality_? Are there two kinds of positive goodness? I read this morning the following pa.s.sage in a book by an American, which has been lent to me by a young Oxford man whom I met, and fell much in love with, at Carolside--he is a great friend of Dr. Hampden's: "The greater, purer, loftier, more complete the character, so is the inspiration; for he that is true to conscience, faithful to reason, obedient to religion, has not only the strength of his own virtue, wisdom, and piety, but the whole strength of Omnipotence on his side; for goodness, truth, and love, as we conceive them, are not one thing in man and another in G.o.d, but the same thing in each." I agree with this, dear Hal, and not with you, upon this point.

These speculations are a severe effort to my mind, and, besides shrinking from the mere mental labor of considering them, I find it difficult, in the rapid and desultory manner in which I must needs answer letters, to place even the few ideas that occur to me upon them clearly and coherently before you.

Did I tell you that that impudent---- I've no more room, I'll tell you in my next. Give my love to Dorothy, and

Believe me ever yours, f.a.n.n.y.

HULL, Sat.u.r.day, December 4th, 1847.

I did tolerably uncomfortably without Jeffreys [a man-servant who had left me], and that, you know, was very well. I paid old Mrs. Dorr something extra for doing all the work in the rooms upstairs, had a fire made in the little man-servant's room in the hall, and, after twelve o'clock, established Hayes therein to attend to my visitors. My table was laid for dinner in the front drawing-room, and at dinner-time wheeled into the back drawing-room, where, you know, I always sit; and after my dinner wheeled out again, and the things all removed in the other room by Hayes. The work is really nothing at all, and it would have been most unnecessary to have hunted up a man-servant for a couple of weeks, for last and next week are the only two that I expect to pa.s.s in Orchard Street, before I remove to my King Street lodgings.

You speculate more, dear Hal, than I do, and among all things on that Covent Garden performance, that "Series of Scenes from various Plays of Shakespeare, to be given in his honor, and towards the purchase of his house at Stratford-on-Avon." I suppose it will be a very protracted exhibition, but my only reflection upon the subject was, that I was glad to perceive that my share of it came early in the course of events.

I had no idea of proposing Hero [my dog] as your sister's inmate, but supposed he would be harbored in the stables, the kennels, or some appropriate purlieu, be sufficiently well fed, and take his daily exercise in your society. This was my vision of Hero's existence under your auspices, and, as you may readily believe, I had no idea of quartering him on the reluctant _dogmanity_ of anybody....

I have just had a charming letter from Charles Sedgwick; if I can remember, I will keep it to show it to you.

Order your boots, or anything else, to be sent to me, dear Hal, but you know I shall not be with you yet for a month, and possibly not then; for though no _pleasant_ engagement (how nice it is of you to suggest that!) would interfere with my coming to St. Leonard's, _unpleasant_ ones might; any opportunity of making money certainly would, and such may occur to interfere with my present plans, which stand thus: I return to town to-morrow (there is but one evening train, so I must travel all night to rehea.r.s.e on Monday morning for the "Shakespeare Memorial Night," on Tuesday); I shall remain in London a week, and on the following Monday go down to Bannisters for a fortnight, which will bring me within a few days of the expiration of my term in Orchard Street, and I shall return from Bannisters to move myself; on the following Monday, the 3d of January, I will, please G.o.d and you, come down to St.

Leonard's....

I was so ill in spirit yesterday that I could not write to you. I am better to-day. Thank G.o.d, my patience and courage do not often or long forsake me!...

---- has written again to borrow money of me; and that impudent Liverpool manager, who _borrowed_, _i.e._ did not pay me, my last night's earnings, when you were there with me, has written to say that, if I will go to Liverpool _and act for his benefit_, he will pay me what he owes me; to which I have replied that, when he _has_ paid me what he owes me, we will see about further transactions with each other.

Certainly "Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time."

Oh, my dear! in Parker's "Discourse upon Religion"--the book I told you I was reading--I light upon this pa.s.sage: "The indolent and the sensual love to have a visible master in spiritual things, who will spare them the _agony_ of thought." Is not that definition of thought after my own heart, and just as I should have written it?

G.o.d bless you. Give my love to dear Dorothy.

Ever as ever yours, f.a.n.n.y.

DEAR HARRIET,

I have not yet read either of Mrs. Gaskell's books, but I mean to do so.

I have just got through, with unbounded amazement, a book called "Realities," written by a Miss L----, for whom Lady M---- has taken a great fancy. A more extraordinary production--realities with a vengeance--I certainly have seldom read; and the book is in such contrast with the manner and appearance of the auth.o.r.ess that it will be a long time before I get over my surprise at both.