The solace of a solitaire: a record of facts and feelings

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Chapter I

T THINK it is Voltaire, who, in his epigrammatic way, observes, that " solitude is delightful ; but it is desirable to have some one at hand to sympathise in the pleasure it affords you."

It is a great and stubborn fact that " it is not good for man to be alone." Still less is it good for woman, inasmuch as in her temperament, feeling and imagination are far more predominant than in his ; and, from the usual tenor of her education, she has not the means of keeping these impulses in abeyance, by directing her mind to the calming influence of scientific pursuits. Neither by her appointed and proper

A place in human affairs has she the resources which open a way of escape from morbid emotions that man has, in those stern duties of wrestling with circumstances, and fighting his way to position and pecuniary comfort, which every day, and sometimes all the day long, engage his time and thoughts. Of course, I am speaking of woman, as consigned by the condition of loneliness, to make out her happiness as best she may. When her lot is the natural and usual one of a wife and mother, she has (or ought to have) occupations and duties enough to engage far too much of her attention to leave her any leisure for the rovings and romance of the imagination. And when this is not the case, and her destiny is that which in courtesy is termed (< single blessedness," she has usually, in surrounding relatives, many claimants upon her kind offices, which, when faithfully and affectionately responded to, often grant, in the sweet consciousness of being useful, and the inward testimony of conscience to the fulfilment of duty, — to the good maiden aunt or cousin of the family, a happier lot than to the wife and mother.

These are women whose course amidst the. soft charities of life seems to be over a prairie sown with flowers. But there are some of the sex to whom such resources are denied, and whose journey has to be taken in absolute loneliness, and not through verdant and flowery prairies, but through a sandy desert, and a " waste howling wilderness."

Amongst these travellers, it has been ordained that I should take my place. Of the circumstances which led to such a dispensation I could say enough to fill a volume ; but it would be only to strengthen the egotism which is already in me, as in all solitary persons, too prominent a trait.

The bewitching charm of talking about one's self is of the most dangerous and deluding character. It seems to me much like spreading out faults and follies, as a draper spreads his goods upon a counter, for the public to take their choice of which is the best ; and probably to go away with the remark that there is nothing worth having in the whole lot.

Still, I must do something ; and to have an occupation for my pen having been my habit for a much longer period than fifty years, it appears to be the employment best fitted for me to engage in. So to that I turn. But in what way am I to use this restless pen ? I cannot go into autobiography, for, how can I come before the public with revelations respecting my personal history whilst I am still living ? Such a proceeding would be about as derogatory to self-respect as if I were to beat a drum and gather a crowd to see me walk about the streets on stilts. No ; I won't sit down and tell my own story, — that 's clear. " But you can tell a part of it, — you can bring out bits here and there," said self-love, clinching the argument by reminding me that it was by the relation of personal experience alone that striking passages in the life of any individual could be made of use in instructing others. I was told also to remember, how Madame de Stael (at least according to her relative and biographer, Madame Neckar de Saussure,) had intended to write a work on " The Education of the Heart from the Circumstances of Life;" and how could she have done this, except by revealing the history of her own heart, since that was the only one with whose education she could have had any expe-

Hence ? All this is very true, I replied, for the exhibitions of self-consciousness are, undoubtedly, those which concern us individually, much more than statements which guardedly and designedly stand aloof from all personal reference.

" All that great world," says M. de Montalembert, " which palpitates within the narrow limits of a man's life, of a heart which loves, — ah, this is the most beautiful and absorbing of histories. This is the tale which endures, and moves us all to the depths."

But what says that philosopher and acute critic, Mr Emerson, on the subject of egotism? — and autobiography, we must remember, is only another word for egotism — that miserable propensity which he describes as " the scourge of talent, — of artists, inventors, and philosophers. Eminent spiritualists shall have an incapacity of putting their act or word aloof from them, and seeing it bravely, for the nothing which it is." *

No ; I will not of set purpose go into autobiographical details. I will let my pen take its course ; and seeing that it is as the Solace of a

6 Solace of a Solitaire, &c.

Solitaire I give it any exercise, I will get out of it what mental refreshment I can for myself, and endeavour to make it, as far as I can, diffusive of good to others.

Chapter II

T N accordance with the purpose with which I concluded the last chapter, I do not think I can better begin this than by transcribing a short sentence which, on my first waking this morning, presented itself to my notice.

" Do you sleep, then, with a book under your pillow ? " you ask.

" No ; but always with one by my bed-side ; first, because I wake very early ; and next, because after sleep, and in the serene stillness of the morning hour, the mind is peculiarly open to impressions of an instructive kind. The sentence which came to me to-day as a morsel of spiritual good, was this remark of Lacordaire, the celebrated French priest : ' To betake one's self to one's own interior and to God, gives the greatest strength in the world.' "

" Do you know anything about that ? " quoth I to myself.

And here, to make myself intelligible, I may remark that, from living so long and so continuously in solitude, I have acquired a habit of holding dialogues with myself, or rather, with something better than myself, which often sets me right when I am about to diverge into error ; and is of great use in enabling me to understand what I am about, and where I am going. And when I say this. I beg to be understood, as by no means presuming to arrogate to myself anything peculiar to my own individuality in the possession of this bosom friend ; for it is near to every one of us, and only waits at the door of our conscience to obtain and respond to our notice.

When, therefore, my invisible but constant companion put the question whether I knew anything of the process of which Lacordaire made mention, and of the strength which he stated it to impart, I could, and did, promptly reply that I knew it well ; and could set my seal to it as a certain truth, known to me as such, upon the testimony of experience ; since, having for the last seven and thirty years been driven, by the force of circumstances, to live chiefly in my own interior, I have there found strength (at least when I have earnestly sought it) which I never could find elsewhere.

Now, I feel persuaded that, on reading this statement of mine, which I make under the consciousness that it is witnessed by the Searcher of hearts, amongst those into whose hands it may fall, if they be earnest and sincere thinkers, they will wish for some more specific notice on my part, respecting a matter so little understood, but so often felt to be wanted by them.

This may be thought a bold assertion ; but, believe me, you must be bold when you feel that you know what you are talking about. What confidence should you have in that doctor, who, when you were consulting him about your health, and were waiting for the prescription you expected him to write, — were to talk about considering your case, — looking for it in his books ; and, in fact, all but saying that he did not understand it, and you had better come again in two or three days, when he had thought it over ?

Now the person, be it man or woman, who, upon io The Solace of a Solitaire :

the borders of fourscore, writes or talks about human happiness or misery, which is just the healthy or unhealthy state of the soul, puts himself or herself in the place of the soul's physician ; and mustn't hum and ha, and think, and suppose, that this and the other method of managing yourself may be advisable ; but they must speak out affirmatively and say to you, "do so and so, — do it ; and then you will know the power that is in it to give you the strength you want, but have not."

But what right have you to assume to yourself the character of the soul's physician ? it will be said.

"No right," I reply, — and I don't assume it. It comes to me in the course of circumstances, as I have just told you, to have to seek in writing an occupation, and the solace for the burden of weariness which belongs to old age. The only question then is, What shall I write ? It is not to be autobiography. It cannot be romances and novels ; and God forbid it should be, even if I had the power ; since for an old man or woman to employ their time in portraying the vagaries of the imagination, seems to me worse than doing nothing. And I do not say this because I have never tried the benefit that may, even as a mere mental resource, be found in writing a novel ; for, when I began my literary career, nearly fifty years ago, it was by writing one called " The Favourite of Nature." It was highly successful ; — reached a fourth edition, and brought me the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds ; which, though pleasant enough to receive as one of its results, was of small value in comparison with the mental resource it afforded me under domestic circumstances of a somewhat trying character. I have nothing, therefore, personally to say against novel writing under proper conditions ; — which old age is not to be considered ; so, there is an end of my writing anything in the shape of a story.

Without, therefore, assuming to myself the character of teacher or preacher, it seems, that as I must write, the becoming position I have to take as a writer is that of using the opportunity it affords of leaving upon record, for the good of any who may care to benefit by it, such of my experience as I have found profitable to myself. To return therefore to the remark of Lacordaire, touching the strength that is to be found in retreating to God, and to one's own interior.

I do not hesitate to affirm that I know this to be a certain truth. It is a matter of experience with me. But how to persuade people to try and make it matter of experience to themselves is a difficult, not to say an impossible, thing to accomplish. Not, observe, because they do not feel the want of internal strength, — using the term as significant of a condition of inward repose and peace. I fully believe that there never was a time in which the inner world, or, in more simple parlance, the minds of human beings, presented a condition of greater tumult and consequent disquiet, than at the present day. The driving forces of ambition, of covetousness, of the love of pleasure, of every passion, in short, which the possession of money can help to gratify, seem to be at the back of almost everybody, — sending them on and on they don't know where, — to do they don't know what, — except that it is something to gratify the inordinate appetite of self-love, and self-will. No purpose, — no pursuit can be carried on with the moderation which is essential to peace of mind. Peace of mind indeed ! The word of the prophet to Jezabel may be addressed now-a-days to every nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, " What hast thou to do with peace ? " Especially is this want of spiritual rest experienced by those who are engaged in a commercial career. It was but yesterday evening that I was talking on this point with a family man of middle age, with whom, through his marriage with a near and dear connexion of mine, I am in habits of confidential intercourse. He is engaged in business, and I believe conducts it with due prudence and regard to the interests of those who are dependent upon him. Yet he acknowledged that in the present state of the commercial world, he believed it to be impossible for any one who was actively engaged in it, to know the meaning of such a feeling as peace of mind.

" I throw myself on the sofa," said he, " in the evening, and take up the newspaper, intending to have an hour's quiet recreation in reading it. But presently some engrossing thought of a business kind presents itself, and the paper drops on the floor, whilst I follow out the suggestions of my mind."

I expressed, as I felt, a strong conviction that this thraldom of the mind to the things of this world, was nothing less than closing up every avenue to happiness.

u He could say nothing about that ; all he could say was, that he felt persuaded he was not singular in the state of mind of which he had spoken ; for that, he had no doubt, almost every man who was engaged in a large way of business, if he spoke the truth, would say as he did, that he could apply his mind to nothing else."

" To nothing else," said I, " but the way to get money?"

" Well, we must get money as a means of getting on."

" What is money without peace of mind ? " quoth I.

" They are not thinking about peace of mind," he said ; " their business lies elsewhere."

I mused for some time after I laid my head upon my pillow on what had passed, and Mrs Quickly's comments on the death of Fals'tafT came to my remembrance. " A' made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child. 1 How now, Sir John !' quoth I ; ' what, man, be o' good cheer! So a' cried out God! three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of God ; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet." — King Henry V.

Methinks it is the characteristic of the present age to be pretty much of Mrs Quickly 's mind. It was the sign of a worldly man in the Psalmist's time, that " God was not in all his thoughts ; " but the query now seems to be whether he is in any of them ? Yet people have to suffer and die now, as has been their lot since the world began.

No doubt ; but they have a different way of encountering suffering and death than they had formerly. We have changed that, with everything else that is slow and roccoco. With the heaps upon heaps of novels, and serial tales, coming in such shoals, that the wonder is how the printing presses are not worn out in producing them ; with these " appliances and means to boot" for vanquishing affliction, who need to be unhappy ? One of the readiest ways of cheating reflection — (besides the old remedy of singing " Begone, dull care,") — especially the reflection which is apt to hover over the minds of sick people, would seem to be the reading of a serial tale in one of the periodicals. I gather this from reading in one of these multitudinous publications not long since, of an invalid lady whose most uneasy feeling, under her trying circumstances, was a fear that she should die before the story which she was engaged in reading in a certain magazine was finished ; and thus she would have to go out of the world without knowing the fate of the heroine ! In this state of the public mind, it is but to a very limited circle I can look for any sympathy in the refreshment I felt this morning in the remark of Lacordaire. I shall nevertheless leave it to take its chance of notice and acceptance with the few who may possibly be disposed to receive and profit by it.

There is always a remote, if not a present hope in recording on paper a useful thought. Mr Roscoe (I think it was) concluded some lines he had been requested to write in an album with a couplet as full of suggestive wisdom as it is of poetical beauty.

Having spoken with humility of the frailty of his tribute, and of the page on which he inscribed it, he adds,—

' ' Yet shall they both preserve their worthless trust, When this still frailer hand is turned to dust.''

Even so— " Cast thy bread upon the waters : for thou shalt find it after many days." *

* Ecclesiastes xi. I.

Chapter III

T SAID in the outset of my engagement of writing this record, that I should let my pen take its own course ; and as that seems to prompt me to speak of what interests me in my morning meditations, as suggested by the books I open, (for it is little more than opening them that occurs — it having long been my habit to read very little at a time of a thoughtful book) — I will give you a sentence which to-day struck me as imparting counsel as sweet as it was instructive. I find it in the "Life and Letters of Gerhard Tersteegen," a German writer of the mystical school ; and it occurs in a letter containing some directions he is giving to a correspondent respecting communion with God : — " Let it seem to thee," he says, " as if thou wert in the company, secretly, of a kind and beloved friend, through a foreign land and a desert wilderness."

It is often a pleasant, and, in some measure, a strengthening idea which I have of being attended by a guardian spirit, which, like that of Socrates, (that he calls his demon,) directs, reproves, restrains, and in times of trouble, comforts me. As Socrates observed of his invisible companion, my interior friend more often checks and calls me away from action, than he prompts me to engage in it. He seems to stand almost in perpetual antagonism to the impulses of my will, even in what may seem trivial things. I can recall instances in my experience, which occurred years before my mind came under the influence of religion as an abiding and practical principle, in which I was sensible of the presence and counsel of this invisible teacher ; and also that its action was most forcible when most needed. On one occasion in particular its restraining power was so vivid that I could have believed that with my bodily ear I heard a voice commanding me to " be still" The case was this : On the preceding day a domestic circumstance had occurred which was of a kind to occasion me extreme distress, and which caused me to retire to my bed extremely unhappy. On waking, my burden of misery, as always, I believe, happens after sleep, especially with persons of acute feeling, started up like a spectre, and I was beginning to sigh and weep, when the words seemed to go through me, " Hush — hush! be still /"

For a few moments I was really awed into silence ; but I was at that time too destitute of acquaintance with spiritual truth, and consequently of faith in its power, to follow in the path of obedience thus opened up to me.

I could multiply such instances of the timely and wise restraint of which I have been sensible in the silent world within my soul ; and very precious it is to me to believe that it originated in a far higher source than fancy. I got much to confirm and strengthen my faith in this inward Restrainer as nothing less than divine, by reading in Mr Emerson's " Representative Men," that " the Hindoos have denominated the Supreme Being the Internal Check?*

But whilst I am making religion so prominent a theme, I am aware that I thereby endanger my own acceptance with a reader.

* Article on Swedenborg, p. 104.

Distasteful, however, as the subject may be, it is a remarkable thing that we can never talk long and earnestly upon any matter that deeply interests our feelings, without, in some way or another, alluding to it. We may not mean to do so, nor even be aware that we are doing it, but the solemnising tenderness of everything that appeals to the heart, compels us, it may be but slightly as to words, but surely as to feeling, to have a sense upon our spirits that we are dealing with Him who holds our destiny in His hands, whenever we get to talking about what concerns our happiness or misery. We are, in short, for the time, under the influence of religion. For what is religion, I should like to know, in the proper meaning of the word, but TRUTH ? That matter which usually goes by the name of religion, and which consists in the outward badge by which persons distinguish themselves as belonging to a particular class of professing hearers, is a long way from possessing the nature of that of which I desire and mean to speak in alluding to religion.

All thoughtful persons must be conscious of possessing certain instincts of a holy and very precious kind, which, on all subjects that deeply affect their hearts, spontaneously mount upward (so to speak) to their heavenly source.

I had a charming illustration of this blessed yearning of the soul for divine communion with its Maker, this very day, in observing the singing of a lark as it sped on its way to the sky. Forth from the ground the joyous creature went, " singing and making melody in its heart," as if, in the exuberance of existence, it luxuriated in happiness. Presently, it sunk down to earth — contented to be there, and to be still — just as if its little humble offering of joyful gratitude being paid, its present work was done, and it was to wait quietly till the next impulse to mount and sing and rejoice was felt. It gave me a charming symbol of the soul in its aspirations of love and praise, now rising to the presence of its Creator with a song, and then, the divine afflatus withdrawn, sinking humbly down to its rest in peaceful silence. Ah, these brief but beautiful outcomes of devotional feeling, how exquisite is their influence ! It must have been of these touches of communion with the Fountain of life and everlasting joy, that the Psalmist spake when he said, " Howprecious are Thy thoughts unto me, O God ; how great is the sum of them ! "

It is painful to think how little of this living and lovely worship is practised, and how, instead of it, the service of God is commonly performed with the dry, dead bones of empty forms, and lifeless words. Still, I am disposed to believe, that, in tender and feeling hearts, there is much more of affectionate yearning after communion with God, than people in general are aware of. There is an illustration of this as a fact, in the following passage which I extract from the "Table Talk "* of Mr Rogers : —

"Do you ever say your prayers V* asked Plunkett of Grattan.

" No, never."

" What, never! — neither night nor morning ?"

" Never ; but I have aspirations all day and all night long."— (Page 173.)

We find this inward and spiritual view of religion chiefly in the works of the mystics ; the only religionists whose writings are of any use to me,

* Published by Moxon, 1856.

because they are the only people who recognise the Divine Being as ever present and ever acting in their own souls. This is just the place where He is wanted, and where His agency must be felt to render it operative for the individual's comfort and instruction. I am often struck with the utter uselessness of their religious views to the greater part of people, as it respects the state of their mind and feelings ; and should be at a loss to understand it, if I did not remember how it was with myself for many years of my life, and how it is, I believe, with everybody, till, by some severe stroke of affliction, they are drawn or driven to turn their attention inward, and seek their devotion in the secret of their own hearts. I daresay that most persons who pretend to any observance at all of religion, would say that it is in their own hearts they do look for its aid, but the fact is quite otherwise.. The plain truth of the matter is, that people in general do not know, and cannot even conceive, what the act of seeking the presence and agency of the Spirit of God in their own souls means. In point of fact, they do not know what the idea of God means. How should they, when the instruction they have received on that great subject leads only to their forming a set of notions that God is a Being whom they ought to acknowledge as the maker of heaven and earth, and worship after the mode of worshipping which is practised at the church or chapel they attend ; and that, besides this public act of devotion, they should read the Bible, and say their prayers night and morning, and observe the Sabbath by doing no work, and reading no novels or newspapers on that day.

All this put past ; there 's an end on 't, and very glad they are that it is ended. I was, at least when such was the fashion of the religion I followed, which was the religion in which I was educated, and in which I lived till I was five and thirty. Undoubtedly, there is much more spiritual instruction imparted at places of worship, and in religious teaching by books, than was the case in my youthful days. Sixty years ago, when I was eighteen, there was only Mr Simeon who bore the character of an evangelical preacher at Cambridge, my native and then dwelling-place ; and Mr Simeon and his followers, (who were recognised as "Trinity Church folks,") were regarded by me, and all my associates, as people quite removed from the pursuits, the sympathies, and one would almost say, the common nature of the parishioners of every other church in the town. Why this happened, I neither knew nor cared ; nor did anybody else, I believe, of my acquaintance. It was enough for us that this was the case, and that we had nothing to do with Trinity Church, nor Mr Simeon. The Sunday works put over, we started fresh the next day, with renewed eagerness, on the real point and purpose of our hearts, which was to have as much enjoyment of the world as we could. Here was our heart, and here our faith ; for here were the things that we saw and felt, and imagined we could put trust in. Happily for me, they soon gave way, and the mercy of God having granted me a belief in, and love of, the real in the things I had to deal with, I very early in my day turned to religion. In my first steps into this path, it so happened that this very Mr Simeon, whom I had held so cheap, was made of great service to me, as I have stated at some length in a work published by me some years since.* I do not now view the

* Reminiscences of Thought and Feeling.

ministry by which I was then greatly helped, as of the kind to build up and establish the mind, after the manner in which that of the mystics is so strengthening. But, in its time and place, I found it of great value, and remember it with respect and gratitude.