hail a birthday with much gladness.... The _real_ sadness to
me of birthdays, and of all marked days, is in the bitterly
disappointing answer I am obliged to make to myself to the
question: "Am I nearer to God than a year ago?" ... I never answered
your long-ago letter about your doubts and difficulties and
speculations on those subjects which are of deepest import to us
all, yet upon which it sometimes seems that we are doomed to work
our minds in vain--to seek, and _not_ to find--to exult one
moment in the fullness of bright hope and the coming fulfilment of
our highest aspirations, and the next to grope in darkness and say,
"Was it not a beautiful dream, and only a dream? Is it not too good
to be true that we are the children of a loving Father who
stretches out His hands to guide us to Himself, who has spoken to
us in a thousand ways from the beginning of the world by His
wondrous works, by the unity of creation, by the voices of our
fellow-creatures, by that voice, most inspired of all, that life
and death most beautiful and glorious of all, which 'brought life
and immortality to light,' and chiefly by that which we feel to be
immortal within us--_love_--the beginning and end of God's own
nature, the supreme capability which He has breathed into our
souls?" No, it is _not_ too good to be true. Nothing
perishes--not the smallest particle of the most worthless material
thing. Is immortality denied to the one thing most worthy of it?

I sent you "The Utopian," because I thought some of the little
essays would fall in with all that filled your mind, and perhaps
help you to a spirit of hopefulness and confidence which
_will_ come to you and abide with you, I am sure. You will
soon receive another book written by several Unitarians, of which I
have only read very little as yet, but which seems to me full of
strength and comfort and holiness.... Good-bye, and God bless you.

Your ever affectionate,

F. RUSSELL

_Lady Charlotte Portal to Lady Russell_

_January_ 26, 1887

DEAREST FANNY,--I wonder if you are quite easy in your conscience,
or whatever mechanism takes the place with you of that rococo old
article. Do you think you have behaved to me as an elder ought?--to
me, a poor young thing, looking for and sadly requiring the
guidance of my white-headed sist