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CHAPTER XXXI.

"LOVE OTHERS TOO."

To Mr. and Mrs. Loomis.

EDINBURGH, February 9, 1875.

But

. . . Indeed, indeed, if I were with you, you would not find me grown egotistical. I can listen with I think deepened interest to all that concerns the lives of others. when I write (I who have no life any longer) I must revert to the one in whom I lived, and for whose sake alone I have any value. . . . You know the one subject that is forever in my mind. That" to be or not to be" is the only question for those whose soul has left them. I have more hope I have but hope. Some profess intuitive certainty. Here is a passage from a little book, D'Oyly Snow's, that helps me much:

What saves me from a weak uncertain faith, that would be scarcely better than atheism, is the conviction that tidings of God and immortality do not depend on hearsay, or on the correctness of a certain version of ancient history, but that they are by a natural process made gradually to stamp their impression on the mind of the creature as it advances in consciousness; in fact, that it is not by the violation of the universal creative method, but by the working of that method in its ordinary way, that man comes at the hope that is "full of immortality.”

[Extracts from letters to Miss Edith Wrench at different times.]

Every effort made turns into strength.

All we have and are is pure gift.

Enjoying each other's good is Heaven begun.

[Speaking of a bit of work done.] It teaches me to enter into the pleasure the artistic must have in designing their own patterns. That is the advantage of any even mediocre performance, that it enables you to enter more sympathetically into the higher attainments of others. I wish I had discerned this truth earlier in life, instead of throwing up drawing, etc., because I could not excel. Even in the matter of weeding this small plot, and watching the plants grow, the success will be small indeed, but I enter more fully into the delight of a garden for others. And the extension of our own personality by sympathy is just another word for progress, such as is possible to us in this world, such as we hope for in another and brighter sphere.

Only supporting supports.

Oh, to be always as good as one's word, unless there be some grave deliberate reason for rescinding a project! How melancholy it is that people should so habitually neglect their promises! The value, the imperativeness, of the spoken word, would be the first thing I should impress upon a child if I had one to educate.

There is nothing so terrible as ingratitude. That is why it is so dreadful when those who have been kind to one change; one so fears one has been ungrateful.

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[DUNKELD.] I got on the rough ground above the road, covered with Trientalis, and a lovely little shrub with waxy pink bells, and I saw a scene of glory I shall never forget. The day had been cloudy and showery, but as he got low the sun broke out, and there was a transformation indeed. The mountains seen through golden

mist might have been Alps in height, and the distant trees were very dark, while the birches in front of me were all interpenetrated with light, and stood bending as in worship before the great glory. Every leaf was quite still, and glistened with rain. How the birds sang! The cuckoo prattled about it, but some of the thrushes seemed to have caught the very secret of the scene, and to sing it out in a rapture of praise. Ah, my Edith, no world surely can be fairer than this!

Every-day life must be lived on the level of cheerful contentment. Looking back through my varied years I can remember with regret how dull I used to find home after some exciting visit; and I thankfully call up the remembrance that later my precious mother spoke of my habitual cheerfulness as something priceless to her. To the young I would whisper that life cannot be all conscious. vivid enjoyment. I sometimes think I might have done better in my early days if I had known this. Of course our health seems better (because we are too much occupied with other things to notice ups and downs) when we are in new scenes and places; and I fancy we are never acting more in conformity with the highest guidance than when we try to counterbalance the quiet routine. by some employment. I was three hours in the woods yesterday, alone, but not alone, and oh, my Edith, how. beautiful this stillness was, with gleams of slanting sunlight on moss and stones, and red fir trunks, and such squirrels! Struan hunted terribly, for I was afraid he never could get out of the thick tangle of rhododendrons; and afterward in the fern he did catch a rabbit, but I took it from him he did not know how to kill it. The sweet creature was in a swoon of terror, but as I carried it it revived, and its eye brightened, and when the little sportsman was off in another direction I put it into a covert of fern, and believe it will recover.

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DUNKELD, May 10, 1875.

My dear Edith's letters are always very interesting, and give the impression of not having been written in great haste. Whenever you feel hurry in a letter the charm is gone. But during a visit no one can give or ought to give much time to absent friends, and it was very sweet of my chick to write at all, and my generalization has no personal application. You will say that my eyes must be better, seeing my return to my small niggling hand. Well, they are better and worse. Yesterday was a very bad day of doing nothing but nurse Struan and disentangle his lovely coat. I fear I shall never have strong eyes again. I have great varieties of discomfort, but oh, I should be thankful to see to have my angel's thoughtful face before me, and the exquisite world in which he loved to help me to realize our Creator's love. I cannot describe the beauty of Dunkeld; of a new walk Vi and I took on Friday evening, in glades between the Crieff road and river. The cones are wonderful under great firs, quite fresh and smooth as in autumn. They always remind me of my Archie and Mary, and I trust October will find them here again, to pick more and ramble through the woods. I had seven letters yesterday, and expect more to-day. I send you Mrs. Blackie's; is she not kind and generous? Return her note, I shall keep it for days of dark discouragement, such as come to us all. . . . I am feeling very doubtful as to the publication of the Memoir. He was so retiring, and his rest is to me so sacred. Yesterday I wrote to Mrs. Lewes, and by her judgment I shall abide.

[Mrs. Lewes's answer was favorable to publication.]

To Mrs. Archibald Constable.1

DUNKELD, May, 1875. This is a good day with the eyes, and oh, so beautiful! I think of you all travelling, and perhaps meeting at sunny Aberdovey. I set out with dear Vi this morning to go to the Spanish chestnuts, but the wind turned me back. Struan, after a little indecision, went on with Vi. He is very fond of her. I make too much of him, and never did win much canine devotion. The loveliness was indescribable. My whole soul is expressed in Tennyson's two lines:

Though mixed with God and Nature thou,

I seem to love thee more and more.

And how this love and sorrow fill and exalt life! To me they are better than anything but the old joy, fulness of joy in his presence. I cannot tell you what new light seems to break on my soul.

To President Porter.

DUNKELD, July 14, 1875.

so

How good you are to me! And for this and all I thank my husband. I was much interested in those records of good and happy lives happy in spite of suffering peaceful and holy in their close. Most deeply do I feel with you a sadness and a regret that any should be driven by some inexorable logic to relinquish that hope of a further growth in knowledge and in harmony with the Supreme Will, which gives all their meaning and beauty to such lives. I know indeed that one with Mrs. Lewes's high moral sense would point me to their influence on others; but if there be no reality corresponding to their own dearest convictions, the whole universe to my thinking is chaos, for then delusion is stronger for good than recognition of fact. Oh, I cling with unspeakable te1 Formerly Miss Mary Wrench.

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