1874

Circular letters — Sunset on the Faulhorn — Ormont Dessus — Interruptions to poems — Other work done — “Little Pillows,” etc. — Swiss singing — That great transfer — A musical reverie — Return to England — Bright work and results.

HE give extracts from F. R. H.’s circular

letters on her journey to Switzerland in
1874, with her niece Constance Crane, other
friends (Elizabeth, Margaret, and Bessie) joining
in their mountain excursions.

“Sunset on the Faulhorn!” All day there had been strange rifts in the clouds, and sudden pictures of peaks or of abysses framed in white and grey; but towards seven o’clock the wind rose, and there was a grand outpour of colour upon everything, sky, clouds, and mountains.

Imagine yourself midway between heaven and earth, the sharp point of rock on which we stood hardly seeming more of earth than if we had been in a balloon, the whole space around, above, and below filled with wild, weird, spectral clouds, driving and whirling in incessant change and with tremendous rapidity; horizon zone, but every part of where horizon should be, crowded with unimaginable shapes of unimagined colours, with rifts of every shade of blue, from indigo to pearl, and burning with every tint of fire, from gold to intensest red; shafts of keen light shot down into abysses of purple thousands’ of feet below, enormous surging masses of grey hurled up from beneath, and changing in an instant to glorified brightness of fire as they seemed on the point of swallowing up the shining masses above them; then, all in an instant, a wild grey shroud flung over us, as swiftly passing and leaving us in a blaze of sunshine; then a bursting open of the very heavens, and a vision of what might be celestial heights, pure and still and shining, high above it all; then, an instantaneous cleft in another wild cloud, and a revelation of a perfect paradise of golden and rosy slopes and summits; then, quick gleams of white peaks through veilings and unveilings of flying semi-transparent clouds; then, as quickly as the eye could follow, a rim of dazzling light running round the edges of a black castle of cloud, and flaming windows suddenly pierced in it; oh, mother dear, I might go on for sheets, for it was never twice the same, nor any single minute the same, in any one direction. At one juncture a cloud ’ stood still, apparently about 200 yards off, and we each saw our own shadows gigantically reflected on it, surrounded by a complete rainbow arch, but a full circle of bright prismatic colours, a transfiguration of our shadows almost startling, each moreover seeing only their own glorification! When the whole pageant, lasting nearly an hour, was past, we sang “Abide with me,” and then

the dear old joyous “Glory to Thee, my God.”.

Ormont Dessus, September. This wees month of my Swiss journey is altogether different from the first, for now I am making wrz¢éng the first thing instead of idleness, Iam doing it quite in

— — — $ — $<$$ ee — n — m — m — w — w — apnpn — oaoaoo ‘moderation, and taking plenty of fresh air as well; one can be out half the day and yet get four or five good hours writing as well, under these circumstances, when there are no other calls upon time or strength whatever; and this combination of work and leisure is very delightful. Besides, I feel as if I had got quite a fresh start with that month’s rest; it seems as if nature had then walked into my brain and taken possession (turning me out meanwhile), and given it a kind of spring cleaning! rubbing up the furniture, and fresh papering some of the rooms, and cleaning the windows! That perpetual “moving on,” which,some so delight in, does not suit me nearly so well as staying in a place and taking it easy. The weather has been so much colder and more variable, since I changed my tactics, that the two things coincided beautifully; for, except two days, it has been too cold the last fortnight for any sitting out of doors.

I don’t know why I always seem to shrink from writing much, or even anything, of the “under the surface” life, (which is so much more than the “on the surface” and the mere surroundings,) in my circulars. They would be much fuller if I told one tithe of the hourly bits of gentle guidance and clear lovingkindness which make the real enjoyment, or of the perpetual little opportunities of a “word for Jesus” which He seems to give me, and often of real work for Him, which yet seems to come so unsought, so easily and naturally, so altogether without any effort, as to be not felt to be any working at all. Now I will give youan instance of how He took me at my word the other day. It was one of the few warm days, and I established myself with pen and“ink in a shady nook by a little, steep, down-hill torrent. I had ee. suddenly got that sort of strong impulse to write on a certain theme, without which I never do my best, but with which I always do my best poems. The theme was a grand one (‘‘The Thoughts of God”); I had thought of it for months, and never before had this impulse to begin upon it; though, once begun, I expected it to be one of my best poems. I spent a little time in prayer first, and then the warning and the promise in Jeremiah xv. 19 came strongly to my mind: “if thou take forth the precious from the vile, thou shalt be as My mouth.” I felt that wanted looking into; I wanted Him to take forth the precious from the vile for me, and to reveal and purge away, then and there, all the self and mingled motive which would utterly mar the work that I wanted to be for His glory. After that the question came, was I — had He made me — just as willing to do any little bit of work for Him, something for little children or poor people, simple and unseen, as this other piece of work, which might win something of man’s praise? Then, I was intensely happy in feeling that I could tell Him that I had no choice at all about it; but would really rather do just what He chose for me to do, whatever it might be. However, there seemed nothing else to do, so I began my poem, I don’t think I had written four lines when a labourer with a scythe came along a tiny path to drink at the stream a few yards below me. He did not see me, and started when I hailed him and offered him a little book, He climbed up to receive it, and then, instead of departing as I expécted, deliberately sat down ona big stone at my feet, and commenced turning over the leaves, and evidently laying himself out to be talked to. So here was clearly a little call; and I talked to him for some time, he being very interested and responsive. Just as he was going to move off, two lads, of about fifteen and eighteen, his sons, came crashing through the bushes; I don’t recollect whether the father beckoned them or not, anyhow up they came, and he quietly sat down again, and they sat down too, and seemed quite as willing to listen to the ‘old, old story” as he had been, only I could not get so much out of them. At last the whole crew departed, and I was just collecting my thoughts and reviving the aforesaid “impulse,” when in about ten minutes the younger lad reappeared, with his sister, a girl of about seventeen. They did not say a word, but scrambled straight up to me, and, seating themselves at my feet, looked up into my face, saying by their look as plain as any words, “‘ Please talk to us!” What could one do but accede! and they stayed at least another half hour, so quiet and interested that one could not but hope the seed was falling on ‘‘ good ground.” The girl, Félicie, was more communicative than the lads, very simple, but intelligent. By the time they departed a good part of the morning was gone, and the “impulse” too! but I enjoyed the morning probably twice as much as if I had

done a good piece of my poem; and it seemed so clear that the Master had taken me at my word, and come and given me this to do for Him among His “little ones,” and that He was there hearing and answering and accepting me, that it was worth any amount of poem-power. However, wext day the “impulse” came again, which is by no means always the case when once interrupted; and once fairly started, I have worked out what I ¢/znk is perhaps the best poem I ever wrote, so far as I can judge. But this is only one of constant instances which I “4 LIVING BRIGHT REALITY!” 147

could tell. I do so feel that every hour is distinctly and definitely guided by Him. I have taken Him at His word im everything, and He takes me at my word in everything. Oh, I cam say now that Jesus zs “to me a living bright Reality,” and that He really and truly és “more dear, more intimately nigh, than e’en the sweetest earthly tie.” No friendship could be what I find His to be. I have more now than a few months ago, even though I was so happy then; for the joy of giving myself, and my will, and my all to Him seems as if it were succeeded, and even superseded, by the deeper joy of a conscious certainty that He has ¢aen all that He led me to give; 8nd “I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him”: so, having entrusted my very trust to Him, I look forward ever so happily to the future (¢ there be yet much of earthly future for me) as “one vista of brightness and blessedness.” Only I do so want everybody to “taste and see.” Yesterday I somehow came to a good full stop in my writing much earlier than I expected, and asked what He would have me do next, go on, or go out at once? Just then a young lady came in; “Had I just a few minutes to spare?” So I went out with her at once. She had overheard a short chat I had had some days ago with another, didn’t know wat, but it had set her longing for something more than she had got. She had started out for a walk alone, thinking and praying, and the thought came to her to come straight to me, which she seemed to think an unaccountably bold step. Well, God seemed to give me exactly the right message for her, just as with Miss M last week, the two cases starting from a very different level but the result the same, a real turning point.

Don’t conclude, however, from these that I am always seeing results, because I am not; but that I am entirely content about, just as He chooses it to be.

It has occurred to me that, as I profess to be “writing,” you will expect a new book as the result, and will be disappointed; so I tell you simply what I have written, and what I am going to write.

“Our Swiss Guide.” Article for Sunday Magazine, on the spiritual analogies in all sorts of little details of mountaineering.

“For Charity.” Song for Hutchings and Romer.

‘‘Enough.” Short sacred poem.

“How much for Jesus?” <A sort of little true story for children; for an American edition.*

“True Hearted.” New Year’s Address (in verse) for Y. W. C. A., for January 1875.

“Tiny Tokens.” A small poem for Good Words.
“Precious Things.” A poem.

“A Suggestion.” Short paper for Home Words.
“The Precious Blood of Jesus.” A hymn,

“The Thoughts of God.” The aforesaid poem.

“Shining for Jesus.” Verses addressed to my nieces and nephews at Winterdyne.

“New Year’s Wishes,” by Caswell’s request, for a very pretty card,

These are all written, and copied, and done with. Next week, D.V., I set about what I have long wanted

* This manuscript we have no clue to; any information cencern. ing it would be acceptable.

°

to do: “Little Pillows,” thirty-one short papers as a little book for children of, say, twelve years old; a short, easily recollected text, to go to sleep upon for each night of the month, with a page or two of simple practical thoughts about it, such as a little girl might read every night while having her hair brushed. I think this will take me about a fortnight to write and arrange for press; adding probably a verse or two of a hymn at the end of each of the little papers. There are lots of little monthly morning and evening books for grown up people, but I don’t know of one for children except those containing only texts. I dare say I shall get in somehow three other little poems that want writing (being on the simmer): ‘‘The Splendour of God’s Will,” “The Good Master,” and (don’t be startled at the transition) ‘ Playthings”; also “Johann von All men,” a little article for the Dayspring. I can clear off things easily here, especially through not having so many letters. If I could manage three months every year in a Swiss or Welsh valley, I should keep my printer going.

Ormont Dessus, September 29, 1874.

DEAREST MOTHER, — I don’t know whether. there is enough of interest for a final circular. Not being sure of your address, the last went to Maria.... The last week at the Ormont Dessus the weather was perfect, and, without being unpleasantly hot, was warm enough for sitting out not merely in the sunshine but in the moonlight too. Sunday was one of the most exquisite days imaginable, brilliantly clear, the autumn tints throwing in touches of crimson and gold in splendid contrast to the pine woods, and (what is so rare in Switzerland) the noon and afternoon as glowing as the morning, everything vivid all day. At the little French service I soon saw we had ‘‘ somebody” in the pulpit, and it was M. de Pressensé, who is, I have been told, one of the first French orators. His sermon was both eloquent and good. The people sing beautifully, a downright treat, in German choral style as to music, slow. rich harmonies that bear dwelling on; one tune was Cassel, No. tgo in ‘‘ Havergal’s Psalmody.” It was such sweet singing, every one keeping to cres. and dim., neither instrument nor apparently any stated choir, but all the parts correctly sung by the congregation of peasants.... I have finished not only “Little Pillows,” but a little companion to it for morning use, “Morning Bells”; both manuscripts are ready for press. T do not think it is nearly so easy to write for children as for adults; constantly I refrained from what I would most like to say about the texts, because it would not be simple enough for the little ones. I have purposely avoided any stories or anecdotes, lest children should skim the book through in search of them, instead of reading them night and morning steadily. At least I know that is what I should have done! I do so hope these books will be really helpful to some of His little ones.... lam so sorry that I shall not see Miss Whately at Montreux; I have a nice letter from her; she has been delayed in England. You ask me how I am, dearest mother. Very well indeed; those pleasant mountain ascents with Constance were delightful. She is a first rate Alpinist, and we both enjoyed getting over crevasses and glissading. Since then I have done nothing to tire myself, and in every way have set health eS first; I do wish to be very prudent, only by prudence I don’t mean idleness. I sought to gain health and strength, that I might use it on my return..,

I had a short conversation with two respectable men from West Bromwich, who had been for a Swiss holiday with Cook’s tickets. They applied to me to interpret something for them, and this led to a little talk which

drifted as usual into better things, and I found a decided response. I had alluded to Christ’s finished work for us, when one of them answered quietly, “Yes, it’s a transfer, that’s the word. The last three days I have had that word always in my mind; that’s just what it is, a transfer, He takes our sins and makes over to us His righteousness.” Then he told me that he had met on the Rigi an invalid Irish clergyman, who seemed full of that one thing; that he began telling him of Christ’s finished work and he ended with it. “And I never saw it so clearly before, though I’ve been, so to say, looking about for it this long time; it was worth all my journey to get hold of this truth. It seemed curious that such an excellent clergyman should be obliged to give up his living from ill health and ordered abroad; but he was sowing the seed in fifty places instead of one. Yes, that great transfer! It’s blessed!”

Was it not a nice instance of the real use of such seed sowing?: In the train I had one of those curious musical visions, which only very rarely visit me. I hear strange and very beautiful chords, generally full, slow and grand, succeeding each other in most interesting sequences, I do not invent them, I could not; they pass before my mind, and I only listen. Now and then my will seems aroused when I see ahead how some fine resolution might follow, and I seem to zw2// that certain chords should come, and then they do come; but then my will seems suspended again, and they go on quite independently. It is so interesting, the chords seem to fold over each other and die away down into music of infinite softness, and then they wfold and open out, as if great curtains were being withdrawn one after another, widening the view, till, with a gathering power and intensity and fulness, it seems as if the very skies were being opened out before one, and a sort of great blaze and glory of music, such as my outward ears never heard, gradually swells out in perfectly sublime splendour. This time there was an added feature: I seemed to hear depths and heights of sound beyond the scale which human ears can receive, keen, far-up octaves, like vividly twinkling s¢ar/ight of music, and mighty, slow vibrations of gigantic strings going down into grand thunders of depths, octaves below anything otherwise appreciable as musical notes. Then, all at once, it seemed as if my soul had got a new sense, and I could see this inner music as well as hear it; and then it was like gazing down into marvellous adysses of sound, and up into dazzling regions of what, to the eye, would have been light and colour, but to this new sense was sound, Wasn’t it odd! It lasted perhaps half an hour, but I don’t know exactly, and it is very difficult to describe in words.

The long letter ends with:

I wish you had seen and heard the welcome my cousins gave me! It was so nice, and altogether I am so “ANOTHER BROUGHT!” 153

well and happy! It was curious, dearest mother, that you should send me Psalm ail. 1-3, for my mind was specially full of it, only adding verses 4.and5. I have so very much to thank Him for, and the beautiful sequence of five blessings seemed to sum it all up: “forgiveth,” “healeth,” “redeemeth,” “crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies,” and “satisfieth thy mouth with good things.” And, really, I may add “so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s,” for I feel so mentally fresh and unweary, and my cousins say they never saw me looking so well. Hoping soon to reach home, herewith ends the circular series of 1874! Your very loving child.

Returning from Switzerland in perfect health, much could be told of her active work. We are glad to be permitted to give one result of a visit, before returning home to Leamington, as a representative of many others.

Dear Maria, —

This is zo¢ acircular. Just pray for all here. is first-fruits! full and joyous decision for Christ, singularly tested and acted on at once. I knew she was not happy. When alone, I asked why she should let days and weeks go by, drifting away in the cold. I told her I should leave her room after praying, and begged her to remain praying alone, and surrender her whole self to the Lord Jesus. By and by, the time came for her music practising. There was a ringingness in her touch, playing with such joyance. Presently, I went in and just put my arm round her: “Is it for Jesus?” “Yes, I’ve made up my mind, it is a7 for Jesus!” Every action spoke it, the smile and bright determination of her voice. Without any suggestion from me she told her mamma, the next day, that she could no longer act in a French play at school. Here was a test at once. We told her to “pray about it and trust.” The governess was astonished at her decision, and the girls still more so. So the good confession was made, and she took her stand on the Lord’s side at once, in a way which is a real crossing of the Rubicon at school. I never talk to girls about “giving up.”...

I sent my sister the address of a young stranger, thinking that a visit would comfort her, and knowing how loyally she accepted work, but not knowing how inconvenient and pressing it would be.

DeEaAREST MARIE, —

I felt tempted to the old sense of pressure with your request, and cannot really possibly manage either of the calls you suggest, without getting totally overdone; that I can’t feel would be right. I know you will approve, for you and I always understand each other.

Then follows the characteristic postscript:

I have thought it over, and decide to telegraph to your friend to meet me at Willesden Station on my journey home, and I could stay an hour at the station with her. It will be well worth amy fatigue if I can epmiort BET. y