LETTER XXIX.
From Clarence to Carlton.
Dear Robert,—What is that “Furnace” named in your
last? Have you, too, endured such “horror of thick darkness,”
and encountered the “fight of afflictions?” And
have you been so down into “the horrible pit and miry
clay?”
On one occasion I asked a venerable man to write the
history of his life, whose mental sufferings had been great,
and of long continuance; but he declined, and my judgment
was, of course, then submitted to his. Robert, it occurs that
my opinion was not erroneous; and hence let me ask why
not write your history? At all events give me in several
letters a brief outline of your mournful and yet happy trial.
Some friends here, for I affect not to conceal that your letters
are no secrets, say they are really profited by the perusal.
One remarked the other day, “What a pity we may not
so unbosom to the world in books, as in our letters!” And
he contends that the unstudied effusions of the heart do often
more good, than the guarded, exact, and cold lessons of clerical
wisdom in official essays and sermons. Perhaps I say
it, who ought not; but if man saw your heart as we see it in
your letters, they too must be affected kindly as we at Somewhersburg.
For my own letters I dare not say so much;
yet I do honestly mean all that is written in them: and
hence, if you deem them of any value, to your friend Winterton,
for instance, why let him read.
It is, indeed, true, that many matters in private letters are
thought unsuitable for the public taste. For instance, we
write unreservedly of Jesus Christ—as our Saviour—our
king—our master—our all: whereas in public we speak in
a guarded and studied way, as though it were affectation to
speak tenderly of the Saviour! It would, to be sure, be affectation
and pharisaism to go out of the way to do all this;
yet it is certainly something very criminal not to mention our
Lord, when the occasion plainly demands it.
Far from us to think that persons are ashamed of Christ,
who never directly name Him in essays and poems. But if
not for circumstances we should often be at a loss to know
what some admired writers in magazines and newspapers,
who profess friendship for Christianity, do truly believe about
its divine author. And especially is this defect noticeable in
many short poems, whose writers are said to be religious
people.
One plausible reason may exist for this caution:—a possibility
that cold and worldly hearts, and a sensual taste in
readers, would make such turn with disgust from writings
too full of Christ. Hence, instead of “throwing pearls before
swine,” which would but turn and rend these prudent
essayists and poets try to be “crafty, and catch with
guile.”
If we are known to be Christians, it is not contended that
we are always obliged to do what might seem like a parade
of our religious sentiments: still there is reason for the fear,
that some secret distaste of our own too often begets a cowardice,
which we term caution. And what is religion worth
without Christ? And what good and perfect gift from the
Father of Lights, but through the Redeemer? Is he not to
be honored as the Father? and when we receive the Son, do
we not receive the Father also? And when we meditate, as
all true Christians must do more or less at times, on all that
clusters around the cross, we can see for the time none but
Christ. Then how is it that professed Christians should so
scruple, on fitting occasions, in their letters, their essays,
their poems, their oral conversations, to speak of Jesus Christ
as their all in all? Is literature disgraced by the introduction
of a Name, at which all things in heaven and earth
shall bow? Or shall good men tacitly allow the wide field
of letters to be mere neutral ground? After making every
allowance, and admitting every palliation, yet we fear this
studied omission of names, and words, and expressions in
compositions intended for the public, that savor of Jesus
Christ and true devotion, is traceable to false shame.
Robert, are we not forbidden to bring a railing accusation?
Ought we not to suffer without giving vent to indignation?
Blessed are good men when persecuted for right
eousness' sake; theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And what
will avail the lying apologies persecutors and their apologists
throw like a veil of gauze around their faces? The
veriest tyro in history, and the merest child in philosophy,
sees through the pretence.
By the way, do you consider the sacrifice of your books
altogether a loss?
Yours truly,
C. Clarence.
