On May 28, 1716, she wrote to her kinsman, the Earl of Galway the second son of the old Marquis de Ruvigny. The elder son was killed at the battle of the Boyne; King William created the brother Earl of Galway. To him the aged lady thus wrote: "'Tis our duty to pray for and trust in the merciful providence of God; then it shall be well in the end, in this world or a better. I beseech God to give the consolation of His Holy Spirit to enable you to struggle with bodily pains; your resignation I have no doubt of, yet Nature will shrink, when the weight is heavy, and presses hard, which will not be imputed, because it is natural.

"I also pray to God to fortify your spirit under every trial, till eternity swallows all our troubles, all our sorrows, all our disappointments, and all our pains in this life. The longest, how short to eternity! All these ought to be my own care to improve my weak self, as the fortitude of your mind, experiences, and knowledge does to you. And I pray for such a portion of them in mercy to me, as may secure an endless glorifying, to so feeble, so ignorant, so mean a creature as myself, that I cannot be too little in my own sight.

"If there be a regency, the intended journey to Chatsworth must be laid aside, as I must now lay aside my pen for want of the day. I am certain of this being a truth, that I am,

"Faithfully and affectionately yours,

"R. RUSSELL."

Later letters to Lord Galway are couched in the same way, the last one thus ending—

"God, for the good you do mankind, grant you some easy years to do good upon earth before you change for a happy eternity. So does desire and pray Lord Galway's truly affectionate cousin, and faithfully such to gratify to the utmost of her ability, R. RUSSELL."

The dear old lady speaks in this letter of "evening creeping upon her," but she lingered to an extreme old age, dying on September 29, 1723, in her 87th year. She lived to see the Protestant rule firmly secured by the Hanoverian succession. In public affairs she continued to take interest, but always in subservience to the higher cause of moral and spiritual advancement. In one of her last letters she says of the son of the king, "I have inquired from Doctor Sloane how the Prince is to-day. He says, 'In a way to do well.' I trust, in the mercy of God, all our divisions shall be so with time."

One of her latest letters is dated September 4, 1716, addressed to her second daughter, the Duchess of Devonshire: "It is to no use to murmur that you could not be satisfied with taking the journey; the rather also because I believe I should have done the same. It is so fine a season I trust your return to Derbyshire will be easy; your mind would not have been such had you not done as you did. I shall be easy with a line or two from Lady Mary [her eldest daughter, who died unmarried in 1719] how you got to Chatsworth. At your first coming you will have a great deal to do, and so for the short time you can stay. I see no cause to fear, but that all will be, as we are, quiet; it is the temper of most to fear, or seem to do so." (She referred to the public tranquillity, of which the rebellion of the year before had left doubts.) "The season is exceedingly fine, not much burnt up; but the farmers, for talk's sake, ever wishing for what they have not; but it is good walking, and that is my best diversion. I cannot easily add any words to make this more a diversion to you, than that I thank God I have as much health as my years can have; and memory as yet enough to take a pleasure when I hear of what I love most, and desire all good may be their portion; which will afford content, while any thought whatever of good or ill remains in the head or heart of

"Your ever-affectionate mother, R. RUSSELL."

The spirit in which she bore the first overwhelming passion of grief may be best seen in the letters written by her to Doctor Fitzwilliam, who had been chaplain at Woburn, and who afterwards returned them to Mr. Solwood, the librarian there, by whom they were published. In 1819 another volume of letters was published, from the originals in the possession of the Duke of Devonshire. These range from her early married life down to her extreme old age; and contained greater variety of reference to the passing events of her time than are found in the Woburn letters, which are chiefly occupied with personal feelings and experiences. From them may be obtained as perfect a portraiture of Lady Russell as can be desired.

"Her letters," says Bishop Burnet, "are written with an elegant simplicity, with truth and nature, which can flow only from the heart. The tenderness and constancy of her affection for her murdered lord presents an image to melt the soul." Horace Walpole says, "I have now before me a volume of letters of the widow of the beheaded Lord Russell, which are full of the most moving and impressive eloquence." In fact it would be difficult to find a combination of so much good sense, tender affection, womanly fortitude, and deep piety in any collection of letters. It is observable also that in the whole course of these letters there is not to be found a trace of resentment or of reflection upon any person who had caused her husband's death. When James II. was no more king, but a fugitive in a foreign land, she utters no word of triumph over him, nor says that he was justly punished for his cruel crimes. Even the inhuman Jefferies, whose violence helped to get her husband condemned, is passed over in silence, and no reference is made to his disgrace, and his shameful end. She had attained to such moderation of spirit that no trace of anger appears against the unworthy instruments that had brought overwhelming grief upon her. In nothing more than this is the excellence of her Christian character conspicuous.

JAMES MACAULAY, M.A., M.D.

Frances Ridley Havergal

I.

HER EARLY LIFE.

"Oh, 'Thine for ever!' What a blessed thing
To be for ever His who died for me!
My Saviour, all my life Thy praise I'll sing,
Nor cease my song throughout eternity."

[Illustration]

Such were the words penned by Frances Ridley Havergal on an important day in her history; and they seem to be a fit expression of the purpose of one, the strains of whose songs shall reverberate through all ages.

Frances Ridley Havergal was born at Astley in Worcestershire on December 14, 1836. She was the youngest daughter of William Henry Havergal, who was rector of Astley. Her second Christian name she got from her godfather, Rev. W.H. Ridley, and rejoiced in the fact that he was descended from the godly martyr, Bishop Ridley.

Her eldest sister Miriam gives a glowing description of Frances:[1]

[Footnote 1: The quotations, when not otherwise acknowledged, are made, and the chief of the facts taken, by kind permission of Messrs. Nisbet & Sons, from Memorials of Frances Ridley Havergal.]

"My recollection of Frances begins with the first day of her life; a pretty little babe even then, and by the time she reached two years of age, with her fair complexion, light curling hair, and bright expression, a prettier child was seldom seen. At that age she spoke with perfect distinctness, and with greater fluency and variety of language than is usual in so young a child. She comprehended and enjoyed any little stories that were told her. I remember her animated look of attention when the Rev. J. East told her about a little Mary who loved the Lord Jesus. We were all taught to read early and to repeat by our dear mother, but as I had now left school I undertook the charming little pupil, teaching her reading, spelling, and a rhyme (generally one of Jane Taylor's), for half an hour every morning, and in the afternoon twenty or thirty stitches of patchwork, with a very short text to repeat next morning at breakfast. When three years old she could read easy books, and her brother Frank remembers how often she was found hiding under a table with some engrossing story. At four years old, Frances could read the Bible and any ordinary book correctly, and had learned to write in round hand; French and music were gradually added; but great care was always taken not to tire her or excite the precocity of her mind, and she never had a regular governess."

In the year 1859 she began to write an autobiography, commencing with her recollections of herself and her surroundings when she was four years old. She thus writes: "Up to the time that I was six years old I have no remembrance of any religious ideas whatever. Even when taken once to see the corpse of a little boy of my own age (four years) lying in a coffin strewn with flowers, in dear papa's parish of Astley, I did not think about it as otherwise than a very sad and very curious thing that that little child should lie so still and cold…. But from six to eight I recall a different state of things. The beginning of it was a sermon preached one Sunday morning at Hallow Church by Mr. (now Archdeacon) Phillpots. Of this I even now retain a distinct impression. It was to me a very terrible one, dwelling much on hell and judgment, and what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God. No one ever knew it, but this sermon haunted me, and day and night it crossed me. I began to pray a good deal, though only night and morning, with a sort of fidget and impatience, almost angry at feeling so unhappy, and wanting and expecting a new heart and have everything put straight and be made happy, all at once."

All this time she could not bear being "talked to," or prayed with, though she kept up a custom of going by herself every Sunday afternoon to a quiet room, and after reading a chapter in the New Testament would kneel down and pray; after that she "usually felt soothed and less naughty."

She appears even as a child to have appreciated very keenly the beauties of nature, and in the spring of 1845 she was most anxious to be made "a Christian before the summer comes" so that she might enjoy God's works as she believed a Christian alone could do.

Another soothing influence upon her spirited nature was the presence of any one whom she felt to be more than commonly holy, "not among those nearest and dearest to me at home," she confesses: "how perversely I overlooked them!—but any very pious clergyman or other manifest and shining Christian." "All this while," she continues, "I don't think any one could have given the remotest guess at what passed in my mind, or have given me credit for a single serious thought. I knew I was 'a naughty child,'—never entertained any doubts on the subject; in fact I almost enjoyed my naughtiness in a savage desperate kind of way because I utterly despaired of getting any better, except by being 'made a Christian,' which as months passed on, leaving me rather worse than better, was a less and less hoped-for, though more and more longed-for change."

When she was nearly nine years old, Mr. Havergal was appointed to the rectory of St. Nicholas, Worcester, and thither the family removed. Soon after their arrival, a sermon by the curate upon the text, "Fear not, little flock," aroused her from the feeling of self-satisfaction into which she had drifted. Having a favourable opportunity, she unburdened her heart one evening when alone with the curate, but he did not help the young seeker after peace. He said the excitement of moving and coming into new scenes was the cause most likely of her feeling worse, and that would soon go off; then she was to try and be a good girl and pray. So after that her lips were utterly sealed to all but God for another few years or rather more.

In 1848 her mother became seriously ill, and feeling that she was soon to leave her little girl, she said to her one evening: "Fanny dear, pray to God to prepare you for all that He is preparing for you." The sad event which the mother thus anticipated Frances could not or would not understand.

But what God had prepared for her she did in some measure realise when, a few weeks later, outside the house a funeral procession passed from the rectory to the churchyard, and inside a little girl flung herself on her bed with the lonely cry of a motherless heart, "Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma!" Her bright and apparently thoughtless manner led to the idea that she was heartless, but all the while she was heavy and sad for her loss, and weary because she had not yet received pardon of her sins.

Thus she went on, longing and trying to find peace, until she was fourteen years of age.