Chapter XI: A.d. 1867-1868

GIVING COMFORT TO OTHERS

Three more years only remained to Charlotte of life in the dear old home of her infancy. Those three years passed quietly, marked by no stirring events. On the 11th of December 1867, Otho St. George Hamilton, son of her sister Laura, died at the age of thirteen, after a long illness; and during these years Fanny continued steadily to fail. The delicacy developed into a case of decided consumption, but of a slow and lingering description. A few sentences are culled from the many letters which remain, belonging to this period.

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Feb. 1867._

‘I wish my sweet Leila to receive a few lines on her birthday....
_Tempus fugit_, indeed. When you open this you will be thirteen
years old. It seems to me as if each year now were growing
more and more important; the stream is widening; the mind is
opening; and ... may the heart be opening too to that Love which
is beyond all earthly love.

‘I had a pleasant childhood. My mind was very active, as well
as my bodily frame; and at your age I dare say that life lay
before me, a bright, hope-inspiring thing. It is well that it
should be so; it is a kind arrangement of Providence that the
young should be usually full of energy and hope. I like to
recall how I felt, that I may enter into the feelings of others.

‘Now of course I have not exactly the same kind of landscape
before me as I had at thirteen. I am in my forty-sixth year,
have known care and sorrow, and have at present but feeble
health. And yet, dear, I don’t want to exchange my landscape;
I have no wish to go back. I have found that middle age has
its deep joys, as well as early youth its sparkling ones.
Sometimes I ask myself,--“Now, in my present position, if I had
no pleasure in religion, if everything connected with that were
cut off, what would be left me?--what would life be to me?” O
Leila, what a tasteless, what a bitter thing! We want delights
that will not grow old, that will never pall, that will be just
as fresh and lovely at eighty as at eighteen. Religion is not
merely, as some seem to fancy, to prepare us for death, but to
be the happiness of life. It calls indeed for the sacrifice
of self-will in a hundred little ways; but it repays those
little sacrifices a hundred times over. Just think what it is
to realise such thoughts as these,--“The Lord Jesus loves me! I
am His own! I shall see Him one day, and be with Him!” How can
such thoughts ever lose their sweetness?’

TO THE SAME.

‘_April 28, 1867._

‘How different your still, noiseless dwelling must be to ours
at present! Not that we have much noise, but sometimes so
much seems going on. Yesterday M---- A---- D---- and a young
cousin came in the morning; then before they had left Cousin
M---- E---- and four fine children, then Uncle St. George and
his wife. All this before luncheon; others came after it; and
I went to the Poorhouse, and then lodging-hunting with Uncle
St. George. He _is_ so sweet and loving and good.... He delights
Grandmamma.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_July 1, 1867._

‘It is mournfully interesting to read my darling’s papers, of
which L---- has brought home many. Her prose is usually lively;
her poetry full of tenderness, often very sad.... The two latest
dated poems were, I think, written August 14. They were called
“An Early Grave” and “All is Vanity.” Every stanza of the
first expresses desire for an early departure. The second thus
beautifully closes--

“There’s rest beneath the yew; I know
There’s deeper Rest in realms above;
The Saviour’s Arm the valley through
Will me uphold with strengthening love;
My hope His Righteousness; my buckler, faith;
Why should I fear to tread the shades of death?”

‘If this really be the darling’s last written stanza, what a
touching interest it gives it!’

TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.

‘_Sept. 9, 1867._

‘Poor little Otho has rallied again, though the doctor holds
out no hope of ultimate recovery. This is a sad time for
my poor Laura, though there are sorer trials than that of
bereavement.’

The Hamiltons were at this time in great trouble, as they watched the long-drawn-out sufferings of their dying boy; and many letters were written by Charlotte to her favourite sister, full of intense feeling. Day by day she lived with them in their sorrow, anxiously looking out for fresh tidings, and thinking what she could say to comfort or soothe.

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Oct. 30, 1867._

‘PRECIOUS SISTER,--Your touching letter has quickened the
spirit of Prayer; but oh, I feel as if my prayers were often
so weak and worthless. I want more faith, more earnestness. I
have not time to write more, but could not let _that_ letter be
unanswered by your loving

‘C. M. T.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 9, 1867._

‘Fanny and I have been conversing to-night on the subject
of your dear suffering boy. You long fervently to see him
rejoicing in the prospect of departing and being with Christ.
Perhaps the one obstacle to his being able to do so is the
thought of parting from you. If his Mother were going with him,
he may think, he would be happy to go.

‘Now to me, were I in your darling’s position, there would be
comfort and pleasure in the idea--“Perhaps, as regards me,
leaving the body will _not_ be real separation from dear ones.
Perhaps I may be allowed to come to them, and minister to them,
and cheer them; though they cannot see me I may see them!” This
idea does not appear opposed to Scripture. The rich man in the
parable believed that Lazarus _could_ go to Earth; and Abraham
never said that he could _not_. If dear Otho thought that he
might possibly be permitted to watch over his Mother, and help
to make her happy, and be one of the first to welcome her to
bliss,--perhaps the real bitterness of death would for him seem
taken away. It seems quite possible that dear Robin was by his
child’s sick-bed, and that she _saw_ him, when her face so
lighted up with joy. “I believe in the Communion of Saints.”

‘Your dear boy is very young. A child’s religion seems almost
to begin with the Fifth Commandment. We can hardly yet expect
dear Otho to love the Lord whom he has not seen _more_ than the
parents whom he has seen and fondly loved. Do you not think,
darling, that you are almost _too_ anxious on the subject of
Otho’s state of mind? He is only a lamb; and the Good Shepherd
knows that he needs to be carried.

‘I should like to know when your dear boy takes the Holy
Communion, that I may be with you in thought and in prayer.
Otho is an invited guest to the Great Feast above; his robe is
prepared by his Lord,--don’t fear, love, that it will not be
very white and very fair....

‘_P.S._--_Nov. 10._--I have been thinking much of your dear one
in church; and I open my note to add another reason suggested
to my mind, as a cause why he may be unable ... to feel joy in
the thought of departure. You and I, my Laura, have known many
of God’s saints now in bliss; we have almost as many dear
friends in the world of spirits as in this. Perhaps we are
hardly aware of the influence which this has on our minds,--how
it helps to make Heaven a home. Your dear boy may feel that he
is going to enter amongst a great company of saints, almost
every one of whom is a stranger to him. To one so reserved as
Otho, this may be rather an awful thought. I wonder if it is
a comfort to him to think of sweet Letitia and Christian[13]
being there. Perhaps if you reminded him of that, it might
remove a feeling which--if he entertains it--he might not like
to mention even to you.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 13, 1867._

‘I thank God that He has made your darling willing to depart,
even to leave you. Your note is deeply interesting; and I think
you may feel that your prayers have been answered.... You must
now only think of the “far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory.” Probably every hour of suffering in some mysterious way
enhances and increases future rapture,--rapture more intense
than we can conceive. The longer I live, the more convinced I
feel that there _is_ this mysterious connection--in the case of
God’s children--between personal pain and future delight. So
that, if we could, as we fain would, shield our treasures from
suffering, we might be depriving them of some rich blessing.

‘_You_ are in the furnace, my precious sister,--a hotter
furnace, perhaps, than that which tries your child. I need not
repeat that whenever you want me, you have only to send for me.
You and I understand each other! How sweet is the tie between
us! Dear Mother is apt to indulge hopes of your boy’s recovery.
I think that she hardly realises his state, and probably she
scarcely knows how to write under the circumstances. She has
had a cold these last few days, but is, I hope, throwing it
off....

‘I send you a little book,[14] which I am sure will interest
you. It has been a mournful pleasure to me to prepare it. Your
lamb as well as mine will probably soon “be folded above.”’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Nov. 14, 1867._

‘My heart feels more with you, my Laura, in that still
sick-room than here. Perhaps many angels are about you and your
boy, though you see them not.

‘Like your dear invalid, I am especially fond of St. Luke’s
account of the dying thief. There is something so touching
in his looking at such a moment to the Saviour, whose Blood,
shed for his salvation, was at that moment trickling down in
his view; and there is something so sublime in our Lord’s
conferring Eternal Life,--such a gift,--at the time when He was
Himself undergoing the terrible sentence of death! We may envy
your dear suffering child, my Laura, when we think how soon, in
human expectation, his eyes will behold the King in His beauty.

‘O darling, you could hardly wish to keep him back, when the
Master calls him,--calls him to His Home--His Arms!

‘I feel for your dear husband; this is a time of sore trial
for him; but you suffer together. May God give you both “songs
in the night.” Those songs are perhaps sweeter to Him than the
Hallelujahs of the Angels.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 21, 1867._

‘How well I know that feeling which you describe,--the feeling
of being unable to pray fervently,--of being scarcely able to
pray at all! This is probably caused ... by fatigue of body, and
overstraining of mind and nerves. Perhaps God permits it, that
we should just sink in complete helplessness at our Saviour’s
Feet, and ask Him to pray for us, since we cannot pray for
ourselves.... You may be like a very little child, that can’t
even _ask_ for what it needs, but yet trusts and fears not.’

TO MISS LEILA HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 11, 1867._

‘Your very very sad account of dear Otho received this morning
makes one think that, even before this reaches you, the
sufferer may have been called _home_! Oh what a blessing it
is that it is indeed Home.... Dear Otho has had a sorely trying
journey, wintry and wearisome indeed; but there is no shadow,
never can be a shadow, on the Home to which he is bound. He
will never have to leave it again, to learn the lesson of
patience in pain. He will, through his Lord’s merits, be
ready there to welcome the dear ones whom he is now leaving
behind,--when they too may quit their school, and go to their
Father in Heaven....

‘This is a solemn time for you, my Leila. I had reached the
age of thirty before I ever looked upon that which is called
death, in my own home. These events make the invisible world
seem nearer. They should draw us upwards; they should bring us
closer to our God.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 12, 1867._

‘MOST PRECIOUS LAURA,--When Lady Catherine L----‘s only son was
called, she sank on her knees, and said,--“My child, I wish you
joy!” so wonderfully was she enabled to realise the happiness,
the ecstasy, of the freed spirit, rising up to the presence of
her Saviour and God. Happy, happy Otho! No more to be pitied,
but to be envied!

‘“O change, O wondrous change!
Burst are the prison bars,--
One moment past--how low
In mortal pangs,--and now
Beyond the stars!”

‘I will not write much to you now, darling. I am going to see
your Freddie, but intend to tell him nothing.

‘Express my tender sympathy to your dear husband. God support
you all.--Your loving

‘C. M. T.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Jan. 14, 1868._

‘It was not with dry eyes, my beloved Laura, that I could
read what was written in those volumes, to which a tenfold
value is given by their being last Remembrances from your
lately suffering, now blessed boy. Oh, with what a heavy heavy
heart must you have put up those parcels, and written those
inscriptions! It will perhaps be a long time before you can
realise with calm thankfulness that it is indeed so “well with
the child” that you can rejoice in his safety, his happiness....
I am now much more disposed to praise for my angel-girl than to
weep for her.... I can see so clearly the Love and Wisdom that
took her Home. Presently, my precious sorrowing sister, you may
feel the same about your boy. Your intense love will remain,
for love is immortal; your sorrow will die, for sorrow with
Christ’s people is _not_ immortal, thank God.--Your tenderly
loving

‘C. M. TUCKER.’

TO THE SAME.

‘I have enjoyed your dear letter, and it makes me feel
thankful. I have often thought that freed spirits probably lead
a life of delightful activity; none of the “burdens of the
flesh” to fetter them down. The idea of spirits preaching to
spirits is, however, rather new to me. But there seems nothing
against it, and probability rather in its favour. That verse in
St. Peter, to which you refer, certainly strengthens the idea;
for the disciples are permitted in so many ways to follow their
Master.

‘It is thus possible that, while you are weeping for your
darling, if your eyes were opened, you might see him the
bright, joyful centre of a little group of spirits of Indian
children,[15] repeating to them the lessons which he first
learned from you, but which he would now know better--oh, how
much better!--than you could ever teach him. I am sure that you
would not wish to take him back again to pain and weakness from
such an occupation.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_April 14, 1868._

‘MY OWN SWEET LAURA,--I feel that this month must be full of
heavy recollections to you; and oh, it is hard to have a bright
face to hide a bleeding heart. I hope that you will not put
any restraint upon yourself with me.... Easter has its peculiar
message of hope and joy to the mourner. Nature, bursting into
new life and beauty, repeats the message, gives it to us as it
were in an illumination of green leaves and bright blossoms.
The Church says, “Christ is risen indeed!”--and all around
us joyfully adds, “And _we_ shall rise again!” Your parting
with your boy is over; now only the meeting is before you. The
shadows fall behind; the glowing sunshine is in front.’