1848–1852

‘The new decade — Meteor flashes — ‘‘ Oh for faith’? — Schoo! at last — Showers, but wo blessing — Breaking the ice — The climax — The school sunbeam — A gleam of hope — Trusting Jesus — School again — Illness and patience — Wales — Singing and responding at ‘‘ Taffy services.”

AUTOBIOGRAPHY RESUMED.

KNOW I did not love God at this time, the very

thought of Him frightened me; but sometimes a feeling not unlike love would make me go to sleep with a wet pillow. It would often be thus. Going to bed, I would determine I would try to think about God, hard as it was; and after I lay down, as my thoughts did not flow at all naturally heavenward, any more than water flows upward, I forced them into a definite channel by a half whisper. ‘‘ How good it was of God to send Jesus to die!” was my usual beginning, while I by no means felt or believed that wonderful goodness. Nevertheless it usually ended in my crying most heartily because I was so bad and He was so good, and because I didn’t and couldn’t love Him when He even died for sinners.

Here I ought to say that, for preservation from one deadly error, I ought especially to be thankful to my ever watchful Keeper. Never for one moment, even from my earliest childhood, have I ever been tempted to think otherwise of myself than as a great and miserable and helpless sinner. Never have I dared to think myself “as good as others,” for even as a little child I knew and felt the sinfulness of my own heart. Never has the shadow of a hope in my own righteousness, or of any trust in myself, crossed my mind. Yet even this I say with the reservation that it is and has been so, as far as my Own consciousness goes, for every year shows me more and more the utter deceitfulness of the heart: “who can know it!” Oh the comfort of thinking that there is One who &zows it, and can therefore cleanse its most hidden chambers from their dark pollution. “‘O God, unto whom all hearts be open,” etc., is one of the sweetest things in our sweet Liturgy, to me, and it is wonderful what confidence it has often given me.

So passed the five years till the spring of 1850, a time full of many recollections which I should like to retrace, had I not determined to abide by my intention of recalling only the history of what I would now dare to hope, though for many years I doubted it, is God’s own work in me, which He, according to His promise, will perfect in His own time.

1850 (Spring) to 1851 (February).

The bells were ringing in the new year, and not year only but decade, when Maria woke me and said, “It is 1850 now, Fanny!” It was quite dark, and I lay listening to the new year’s birth-song in silence. A dim looking onward through a fresh “ten years” all the way till 1860 came before me; I should be grown up if I lived; I a woman, how curious it seemed! Perhaps I should be dead, and where? If I lived, should I be a

Christian? ‘That was the great thing in all my anticipations of coming years; but in a solemn hour, like a new year’s midnight, it grew greater and more important than ever. The sound of the bells died away, and all was quiet again. I did not muse long, but fell asleep to wake up in the first grey twilight of 1850.

Now the decade has nearly glided by (the first entire one in my recollection); the new year’s bells of 1860 will soon be sounding forth; God has preserved my life hitherto; and how shall I answer the great question then, not “shall I be” but “am IJ, a Christian?” May I, trusting and believing in the Lord Jesus as I do hope He has taught me to do, answer this great question of my life with a humble yet confident “yes”? And, in entering upon another ten years, may I not hope that “to him that hath shall be given,” that He will give me more faith, hope, and love, more knowledge of Himself, more meetness for His presence? Amen/

I don’t so much remember particular incidents in the early part of this year as general feelings and impressions, which were then rather altered in character, so much so as to form the beginning of a new division in my heart story. This much I know, that a soberizing thoughtful time seemed to fall on me like a mantle, and my strivings were no longer the passionate spasmodic meteor flashes which they had been, but something. deeper, more settled, more sorrowful. All this was secret and only within my own breast, for not only at this time but all through my early life there were but a very few who knew me to be anything but a careless merry girl, light hearted in the extreme. This spring a strange new sense of the vanity of life and earth and everything but the oe thing came over me, and when alone I sat and mused till I often cried. I began to look onward more, and feel that I should not be a child much longer (I was thirteen); and then years would go by so quickly, people said they did, they went faster even then to me; and what would they bring? vanity and sameness and vexation? And life began to seem such a little thing to me, such “a handbreadth,” and what was there in it to care for? I couldn’t expect a happier lot than I had, and yet all I had was unsatisfactory; and I should always be myself too, and I hated myself, so what was to be done?

Two or three things happened (though I do not at all remember’what), which tended very strongly to confirm these sad thoughts; death seemed around me; “passing away” earth’s motto; “vanity” life’s keynote. As the beautiful spring came on there was a mist of melancholy over the very flowers: they had opened, well, what matter? they would fade again, and so would everything! I did not enjoy that spring as I had others, its charm was gone. In the end of May I joined Ellen in London, and we spent six weeks of gorgeous summer weather together at Wycombe with grandpapa. What brought it before me I don’t know, but now came a more definite and earnest prayer, for fai#Z. Oh to believe in Jesus, to believe that He had pardoned me-! I used to go to bed rather early, and lie awake in the long summer twilight till Ellen came up, praying for this precious gift. Oh for faith! That was my cry; but it was not given, at least not as and when Tasked. I read a great deal of. the Bible at this time in a “straight on” sort of way, expecting to come to something which would set me free and bring the great gift of faith within my grasp. How I got it I can’t in the least tell; but certainly about this time I had a clearer idea of salvation than ever before, though I fancied myself farther than ever from its blessedness.

This reminds me that asa child I read a good deal of the Bible, Isaiah being nearly my favourite book from the time I was ten or eleven. I never succeeded in reading for any length of time on any regular plan, because if I missed at all in one I got disheartened and ennuyée, and after giving up altogether for a little while began something else. Once I determined, if eternal life were in the Scriptures, find it Z would, and resolved to begin giving an hour a day to very careful and prayerful reading of the New Testament.

Then came the great break in the current of my outer life, and with it a development of the inner. August rsth, 1850, to my great delight I went to school. And that single half-year with dear Mrs. Teed, formerly of Great Campden House, at Belmont now, was perhaps the most important to me of any in my life. The night before I went, Ellen, — dear, gentle, heavenly sister that she was, stood by me, brushing my hair, and taking the last opportunity of loving counsel. She told me that I was going to begin a new chapter in my life: stay, her words were, ‘‘One of the great events of your life, F anny!” and then she was silent. I was captiously disposed, and rather wanted to avoid a serious conversation, so I answered carelessly, for I knew by the tone of her voice what she wanted to lead on to. But it would not do, she went on till I was softened, — a most unusual thing under the process of being talked to, which generally had the most opposite effect. She spoke of God’s love, and of how pleasant and sweet a thing it was to love Him who first loved us. I could not stand it, and for the first time for five years I spoke out: “I can’t love God yet, Nellie!” was all I said, but I felt a great deal more.

Next day I went. Maria took me, and we reached Belmont quite in the evening. It was nearly prayertime, and Maria and I were left to have some tea alone in the great drawing-room. We had just finished when voices reached us, and we tried to find our way in their direction. They came from the schoolroom, where the girls were singing their evening hymn prior to the weekly address of their chaplain, It sounded very sweet and soothing, as we stood behind the door in the last glow of sunset, and somewhat subdued the spirits and the curiosity which were exciting me considerably. Then Miss Teed came out and brought us in, just as Mr. Parker was beginning his sermon. It was from some text in Samuel which I forget; but the two leading ideas were, that we should begin the new half-year with the Saviour who loved us and gave Himself for us, and ina spirit of helpful love one toward another. It was a rather long address, and I was very tired and excited, so I know I did not listen to it nearly all; but this much I have retained until now, and it was the keynote of my prayer that evening as I knelt for the first time beside my little school bed, so white and curtainless.

How I should like to run on with many reminiscences of school life! But I zw2// not! It was not long before I felt that Mrs. Teed’s teaching was something more than common, but, till towards the end of the half-year, things went on much as usual with me.

After the middle of the half-year there was a difference. It was Mrs. Teed’s fizale to her long course of school work, and she longed and prayed that it might indeed be finished with joy through the outpouring of God’s blessing upon her labours. That none might leave her roof unimpressed was her desire, and it was to a great extent fulfilled. She prayed and spoke with us, ‘together and individually, with a fervour which I have never since seen equalled, and seemed a very St. Paul in the intensity of her yearning over us. The result was what might be really called a revival among her young charge. There may have been, and probably was, some excitement; but that the Holy Spirit was, even then and there, sent down into many a young heart, and that many dated from that time their real conversion to God, and went home that Christmas rejoicing in a newly and truly found Saviour, I have no doubt whatever. My own two dearest friends were among these.

But, before the full tide of all this blessing set in, I was much in earnest. To begin with; it must indeed have been a heart of stone that could resist dear Mrs. Teed’s sweet and holy power. Besides, we had pious teachers who often spoke on the best things to us, and had little meetings for prayer weekly in their own rooms. And there were many Christian girls too, easily recognised by their general “walk and conversation,” almost by their very countenances; these I knew “took sweet counsel together,” and I envied them and longed to dare to share it. Mary was one of these; we were naturally a great deal together, and I longed to be able to speak and tell her how unhappy I often was; but it was long before I summoned courage. At last I did,

AUTOBIOGRAPHY. ie 33

“Mary, dites-moi, est-ce que vous aimez Dieu?” (We always had to speak French.) She looked almost surprised, there was no doubt about the matter with her. “Oui, certainement,” she said, “je ’aime plus que je ne pourrais vous dire.” Then I burst into tears and sobbed out “Eh bien, c’est cela que je désire tant, et moi je ne le puis pas!” The ice wag broken, and dear Mary spoke very sweetly to me: I did not regret my confidence this time. “Pouvez vous ou voulez vous dire que vous étes encore un petit enfant?” ‘Oh, oui, je sais que je ne suis qu’un enfant.” ‘Alors, écoutez! Jésus disait, ‘Suffer the little children,’ etc. C’est chaque petit enfant qui doit venir 4 Lui, chaque petit enfant qu’Il appelle, qu’Il veut embrasser.” She begged me to go to Jesus and tell Him I wanted to love Him and could not, and then He would teach me to. The words of wise and even eminent men have since then fallen on my ear, but few have brought the dewy refreshment to my soul which the simple loving words of my little Heaven-taught schoolfellow did. But as yet they were only asa “very lovely song,” etc., though I loved to listen to them, and acted upon them in darkness and trembling. After this I had many talks with Mary, ‘but with no one else. Even with Diana, the goddess almost among my school friendships, and whom I believed to be like Mary, not a syllable could I utter on the subject; though I longed to hear her speak to me as Mary did.

November came, and with it a marked increase of ‘anxiety among undecided, and earnestness among decided ones. I remember a feeling of awe stealing over me sometimes, at the consciousness that the “power of

D the Lord was present” among us. For so indeed it was. As day after day passed on, one after another might be observed (even though little or nothing were said) to be going through the great sorrow which seemed to prelude the after-sent peace; and day after day one after another, hitherto silent, spoke out and told what peace and joy in believing they had found, and blessed God that they ever came to Belmont. Religious topics became the common subjects of conversation among the girls; for even those as yet untouched could not but be struck with what passed around them. In very general conversation I occasionally joined, but. more reservedly than any almost, and never alluding to my own feelings, though I knew what it was for my heart to feel as if it must burst. Iam not quite sure, but I think, when Elizabeth told me that she too had found peace, I told her enough of my heart to establish confidence between us.

As I heard of one and another speaking in such terms of confidence and gladness, my heart used to sink within me, it seemed so utterly unattainable. I prayed despairingly, as a drowning man cries for help who sees no help near. I had prayed and sought so long, and yet I was farther off than.these girls, many of whom had only begun to think of religion a few weeks before. It was so very dark around me; I could nat see Jesus in the storm nor hear His voice. They spoke of His power and willingness to save, but I could find nothing to prove that He was willing to save me, and I wanted some special personal evidence about it. To know, surely, that my sins were forgiven, and to have all my doubts taken away, was what I prayed and waited for, Every day a ee as it passed, while more were added to the rejoicing ones around me, only left me more hopeless, more heartsick at the hope deferred and often almost lost.

Yet I drank in every word (and they were many) that I heard about Jesus and His salvation. I came to see that it was Christ alone that could satisfy me. I longed intensely to come to Him, I wept and prayed day and night; but ‘‘ there was no voice nor any that answered.”

The climax came about the first or second week in December. I shall never, never forget the evening of Sunday, December 8th. Either the sermon at church or Mrs. Teed’s subject, or both, had been Mark ii. 1-12. Anyhow, I know we had heard much of that palsied one in his lonely helplessness, and of Christ’s words of forgiveness, bringing joy and power and healing. Diana had hardly seen me all day, which was an unusual thing. (She was the sunbeam of the school, and a most particular friend of mine, and I loved her with a perfectly idolatrous affection, — such as, until that time, I had never given to any one, I, and most others, always supposed that her charming disposition and general sweetness arose from a purer and deeper fount than could dwell in her’own nature; yet she never spoke on sacred things, though she seemed as faultless as a child could be.)

For some days previously she had mixed as little as possible with others, though apparently unintentionally, and there had been a slight depression about her which, though probably unnoticed by others, struck me, from being accustomed to watch every changing light on her face with something approaching adoration. ‘That even-

36 MEMORIALS OF fF. R. #.

ing, as I sat nearly opposite to her at tea, I could not help seeing — nobody could — a new and remarkable radiance about her countenance. It seemed literally lighted up from within, while her voice (I wonder whether it was as musical to others as to me!) even in the commonest necessary remarks sounded like a song of gladness. Something was coming I was sure. Diana was not the same. I looked at her almost with awe, as one would on some spirit visitant. As soon as tea was over she came’ round to my side of the table, sat down by me on the form, threw her arm round me, and said: “Oh, Fanny, dearest Fanny, the blessing has come to me at last. Jesus has forgiven me, I know. He is my Saviour, and I am so happy! He is such a Saviour as I never imagined, so good, so loving! He has not cast me out, He said so, and He says so to you. Only come to Him and He will receive you. Even now He loves you though you don’t know it.” Much more she said which I do not remember, but the tone of her voice is as clearly sounding in my ear as if she still spoke. Yes, she had found peace, and more than peace, — overflowing unspeakable joy; yet, even in the first gush of its shining waters, she thought of those around, and almost her first impulse was to desire that her friends should possess what had been given to her to find. Then she told me how, while every one had supposed her to be a Christian, she had not been so, though she had been seeking and praying for a long time; and how, that day, the words “thy sins be forgiven thee” had struck her suddenly, and she had thought them over all day till the time came when she could be alone with Him who spoke them; and then came the joyful power of believing in the love and might of that gracious Saviour, and His deathbought pardon.

Afterwards, she told me how new and strange many things seemed to her. The way in which she spoke of motives particularly impressed me. It was a new light to me. Actions, words, and intentions had been enough for me before, but from that evening I felt that my standard was raised, and that henceforth my strivings after a holy life must include more than I had dreamt of. A consciousness of the purity of heart required by God came over me; and, though more disheartened than ever, I had learnt a great lesson.

The few remaining days, till the holidays, passed much as before, except that the last two or three unsettled me, and made me very much indisposed for a continuance of the earnest steady toil of the foregoing weeks; for the Jjirst coming home from school, at the end of an unbroken half-year, is not “ttle thing to a child.

From that time till the spring of the present year I date a course of weary seeking, inconstant and variable; often departed from, but as often renewed, and by God’s grace never entirely given up; brightened from time to time with a gleam of hope; sweetened from time to time with a drop, though but a drop, of the still fountain of heavenly peace; yet, as a rule, passed in the cold mists of doubt, and the chilly storms of temptation and inward strife, and the dim twilight of miserable and even disappointed longing.

Oh, how gladly I would have exchanged my best

things of earth, my happiest months and years, as far as outward things were concerned, with any one’s lot, however wretched, who possessed that joy in the Lord which I could not find. At any time I would willingly have lost or suffered anything, might it but have brought me to the attainment of ‘full assurance.” And I am quite sure that zo¢hzng, in the way of earthly and external trials, could have been to me what the inner darkness and strife and utter weariness of spirit, through the greater part of these years, has been. Many may have thought mine a comparatively thornless path; but often when the path was smoothest there were hidden thorns within, and wounds bleeding and rankling.

february, 1851.

I feel that the beginning of this year ought to be marked as the commencement of a new life-chapter, because it was then that, for the first time, I ever knew what it was to have one gleam of hope or trust in Christ, or one spark of conscious faith. Not that I would date conversion exactly from this time; that I cannot fix. The ¢#me I know not, the fact I would desire to “make sure” more and more.

Having broken the ice by speaking on sacred things with a few at Belmont, it was the less difficult to do so again, and before long I had made a confidante of Miss Cooke (who. afterwards became my loved mother). I think it must have been February when she was visiting at Oakhampton at the same time with me and had several conversations with me, each of which made me more earnest and hopeful. At last, one evening, (I remember it was twilight,) I sat on the drawing-room sofa alone with her, and told her again how I longed to know that I was forgiven. She asked mea question which led to the hearty answer that I was sure I desired it above everything on wee ee ee ee earth, that even my precious papa was nothing in comparison, — brothers and sisters, and all I loved, I could lose everything were it but to attain this. She paused, and then said slowly: “‘ Then Fanny, I think, Y am sure, it will not be very long before your desire is granted, your hope fulfilled.” After a few more words she said: “Why cannot you trust yourself to your Saviour at once? Supposing that now, at this moment, Christ were to come in the clouds of heaven, and take up His redeemed, could you not trust Him? Would not His call, His promise, be enough for you? Could you not commit your soul to Him, to your Saviour, Jesus?” Then came a flash of hope across me, which made me feel literally breathless. I remember how my heart beat. - “I coudd, surely,” was my response; and I left her suddenly and ran away upstairs to think it out. I flung myself on my knees in my room, and strove to realize the sudden hope. I was very happy at last. I could commit my soul to Jesus. I did not, and need not, fear His coming. I could trust Him with my all for eternity. It was so utterly new to have any bright thoughts about religion that I could hardly believe it could be so, that I had really gained such a step. Then and there, I committed my soul to the Saviour, I do not mean to say without azy trembling or fear, but I did — and earth and heaven seemed bright from that moment — J did trust the Lord Jesus.

For the next few days my happiness continued. Over and over again, I renewed that giving up my soul to the Saviour which had made entrance for the joy. Tor the first time my Bible was sweet to me, and the first ’ passage which I distinctly remember reading, in a new and glad light, was the fourteenth and following chapters of St. John’s Gospel. We went to Bewdley in the large ‘carriage, and I rode outside, so had no conversation to disturb me. In coming home I took out a little Testament from my pocket, and read those beautiful chapters, feeling how wondrously loving and tender they were, and that now I too might share in their beauty and comfort.

We must again leave the Autobiography, to
supply some needed links.

In July 1851 our father married Caroline Ann, daughter of John Cooke, Esq., of Gloucester. One of Frances’ poetical letters lovingly describes her satisfaction at this event.

Her great desire to go to school was again gratified, and on the 5th of August, 1851, shé went to Powick Court, near Worcester. Being one of the first arrivals, Frances was invited to tea in the drawing-room, and exceedingly astonished Miss Haynes by throwing her arms around her, exclaiming “I am so delighted to come to school!” Towards December she was on the point of gaining many prizes, when the intensity of her application was checked by severe erysipelas in her face and head. She was soon removed home, and both school and home studies were prohibited by medical order. I well remember her patience even then, when almost blind, and passing many weeks

EE eee of precaution, wearisome to her naturally active mind and body. She was so extremely agile in every movement, a very fairy with her golden curls and light step, her dear father calling her his “Little Quicksilver,” that to “He still” was no light trial.

Extracts from letters to Elizabeth Clay, her schoolfellow and life-long correspondent, will here and elsewhere supply an otherwise lost link; they extend over a period of twenty-eight years, and are those referred to in future pages as letters to Re C.”

Cotwyn, Nortu Wates, August 1852.

We came here on the 2nd. The change is doing us all good, and we think dear papa’s eyes are a little better. Colwyn suits me much better than Llandudno, and I am as well as possible. We find pretty walks ad infinitum. The donkey-girl teaches me Welsh. JI think I learn it very fast, and I have a Welsh Testament and Prayer Book. At what Mary calls the “Taffy service” I can sing and chant and respond as fully as the natives themselves.

Now for a little quiet bit, to tell you how I am getting on. I wish I were not so impatient as I am, at hearing the (to me) dreadful news that I must on no account go to school again till after Christmas, and perhaps not at all! Oh Iam so disappointed! I cannot bear to be ignorant and behind others in learning, so this check is just what I most needed. Still, I am sure it will be all right; and if I receive good things at the hand of such a Father, shall I murmur at such a drawback, which is only to teach me a lesson I must learn after all.... How bright everything seems with you! I fear I shall never have such joy, still I do not give up seeking; but there seem so many things in the way. I have been thinking a great deal about my confirmation, though it will not be for two years. It seems such a solemn vow. I fear I should never have strength to keep it; but it is one of my most constant prayers that, if I am spared to be confirmed, I may never act as if I had not been.