6 — The Handicap of a Hopeless Attachment

Chapter 6 THE HANDICAP OF A HOPELESS ATTACHMENT TO MARRY or not to marry, ― this was Henry Martyn’s question, ― whether it were better to serve God by remaining single or by taking to himself a wife.

He was only nineteen, this brilliant young student who had found Christ at Cambridge, and was giving up all to God. For Christ ’s sake he had already sacrificed his chosen profession, the law, and now came this question of marriage. Back in Cornwall, not far from the old home in Truro, there was a young lady, Lydia Grenfell by name, whom he greatly admired. He hoped to woo her some day and make her his wife. Must this be added to his other sacrifices?

Ere long the question seemed answered. Charles Simeon won him for missions, and he resolved to go out under the Church Missionary Society at his own charges. But his income was not sufficient for two. So he put away all thoughts of marriage.

Yet the question was far from being settled. By and by his friends began to feel that such a saintly young scholar could do more for God as a chaplain of the East India Company than as a missionary. It would give him great prestige and open wide doors of opportunity in India. But Martyn shrank from its subtle temptations. The salary was large, and a wife almost a necessity, and he was grieved to find dreams of marriage again creeping into his heart.

Early in 1804, an event occurred which made it necessary for him to go as a chaplain or not at all. He and his sisters lost all their patrimony through a disaster in Cornwall. The younger, being unmarried, was left without means of support, and Martyn felt that he ought to assume it. But the salary of a missionary was not sufficient for this. So, on the advice of his friends, he applied for a chaplaincy. Being promised the next vacant post, he went down to Cornwall in June to spend his vacation and take leave of his loved ones. Both parents were dead, but his sisters were there, and Miss Grenfell.

Bitter-sweet were the days that he spent there. Lydia proved more charming than ever, but marriage was out of the question. Even a chaplain’s salary, large as it was, would not support both a wife and a sister.

Miss Grenfell ’s home at Marazion was only twenty-six miles from Truro, yet for over a week Martyn made no attempt to see her. On the last Sunday in June, when he went to St. Hilary (not far from Marazion) to preach in Cornwall’s famous old church, he hoped to find her in the congregation. But she did not come and he suffered the keenest disappointment. Yet, in his pain, he thanked God for keeping her away, as she might have proved a distraction. In the evening after tea he went to call on her, and that night gave her large space in that famous journal in which henceforth her name appears on almost every page.

’ Called after tea on Miss L. G.,’’ the poor young fellow wrote, ’and walked with her and ’, conversing on spiritual subjects. All the rest of the evening, and at night, I could not keep her out of my mind. I felt too plainly that I loved her passionately. The direct opposition of this to my devotedness to God in the missionary way excited no small tumult in my mind. I continued an hour and a half in prayer striving against this attachment. One while I was about to triumph, but in a moment my heart had wandered back to the beloved idol again’ A month later, when he returned to Cambridge, the farewells cost him sore. Parted with Lydia, perhaps forever in this life, with a sort of uncertain pain which I knew would increase to greater violence afterward,’’ his journal says. And thus it proved. Yet cost what it might, he resolved to be true to his missionary vow. That night, ere he slept, he made a re-dedication of himself to God. "Never,’’ says Miss Yonge, "were hopes and affections more thoroughly sacrificed."

Meanwhile what about Lydia? Did she return Martyn’s affection? Apparently not at this time. She had known him for years (her Sister Emma had married his cousin) and she admired him greatly. But she was six years his senior, and her mind was too much taken up with a former love affair to think much about him. The young man to whom she had been engaged proved unworthy, and afterwards married another; yet she had an idea that her promise to him was binding as long as he lived. Her sister, however, thought she cared more for Martyn than she was willing to show, and told him so when he confided in her the story of his love on the way back to London. This gave him pain as well as pleasure, and added to the intensity of his affection.

Nevertheless he adhered to his resolution not to marry. But before leaving England, the question came up again for discussion. At a meeting of the Eclectic Society of which he was a member, one of his friends told him that he "was acting like a madman to go out unmarried." All the other ministers present expressed the same views, and poor Martyn was sorely perplexed. His sister having been recently betrothed to a worthy young man, he was now free to marry. Was this God’s way of revealing His will?

"When I think of Brainerd," he wrote at this time, how he lived among the Indians, traveling freely from place to place, can I conceive that he would have been so useful had he been married? Schwartz was never married, nor was Paul. On the other hand, I have often thought how valuable would be the counsel and comfort of a Christian brother in India. These advantages would be obtained by marrying. I am utterly at a loss to know what is best.’ His friends would not let the matter drop, and at length he wrote to Mr. Simeon. While awaiting his answer the Tempter stood by. ’I have not felt such pain since I parted from Lydia in Cornwall," he says. I could not help saying, Go, Hindoos, go on in your misery; let Satan still rule over you; he who is appointed to labor over you is consulting his ease.’ No, thought I, hell and earth shall never keep me back from my work.’’ When Simeon’s letter came, it contained such weighty arguments against his marrying that he acquiesced at once. On July 17, 1805, the young chaplain sailed from Portsmouth on the Union, one of a large fleet bound for the East. As he slowly sailed past the coasts of Devonshire and his beloved Cornwall, the thought of the loved ones there well-nigh broke his heart. He thought he had parted from them forever, but he was soon to see them again. On the 19th, to his great surprise, the fleet anchored off Falmouth, not far from his home! While awaiting orders from Nelson it remained there three weeks. At first Martyn made no attempt to see Lydia, though she was only twenty miles away. But ere long love conquered, and, having first asked God to prevent it if it be contrary to His will, he boarded the coach for Marazion, and, with much confusion, told her of his love, and asked if she would come out to him if it seemed best for him to marry in India. But she would not commit herself, and he returned to Falmouth greatly depressed. On August 10 he went to pay her what proved his last visit. At five that morning a signal had sounded announcing the sailing of the fleet. But he did not know it until about nine, when, as he sat reading the Scriptures to Lydia and her mother, a messenger arrived saying that a friend was waiting at St. Hilary with a carriage to take him to Falmouth.

"It came upon me like a thunderbolt," says the poor young lover. "Lydia was evidently painfully affected by it; she came out with me that we might be alone at taking leave, and I then told her that she must not be offended at receiving a letter from me from India. In the great hurry she discovered more of her mind than she intended; she made no objection whatever to coming out. Thinking perhaps I wished to make an engagement with her, she said we had better go quite free. With this I left her.’’ By dint of hard riding Martyn reached Falmouth in time. But he had a narrow escape. The fleet was well under weigh, but the Union, having become entangled in the chains, had been unable to clear the harbor. The captain was vexed, but Martyn thanked God, and Lydia wrote in her diary: Doth not God care for His own, and order everything that concerns them? The fleet must not sail till the man of God joined it; praised be the name of the Lord."

Lydia ’s sorrow, though not so keen, was now akin to Martyn ’s own. It sometimes happens that love begets love, and it had evidently been so in her case. "Much have I to testify of supporting grace this day,’’ she wrote in her diary on August 10, after their final parting. "My affections are engaged past recalling, and the anguish I endured yesterday, from an apprehension that I had treated him with coolness, exceeds my power to express; but God saw it, and kindly ordered that he should come and do away the idea from my mind. It contributed likewise to my peace, and I hope to his, that it is clearly now understood between us that he is free to marry where he is going, and I have felt quite resigned to the will of God in this, and shall often pray the Lord to find him a suitable partner." Little did she know her own heart!

Two months after landing at Calcutta, Martyn received a packet of letters from home. There was one from Lydia and one from Charles Simeon sounding her praises. Having recently made her acquaintance, he now expressed regret that she had not gone to Lydia with Martyn. Poor Martyn! Did ever a man suffer more at the hands of his friends? The next day he told his brother chaplain, David Brown, all about it. Mr. Brown assured him that a wife would be a great help in the work, and advised him to send for Lydia. So, on July 30, 1806, after many days of deliberation and prayer, he wrote her a long and loving letter asking if she would come. At Dinapore, whither he was sent in October, he waited long for an answer. The heat was excessive, the work heavy, and his strength beginning to fail. Yet he labored incessantly and gave much time to prayer.

He greatly needed a wife. He had plenty of servants, but no one to watch over him and make him take care of himself. His salary was ample, but his great house with its spacious rooms and wide verandas was entirely lacking in comforts. Mrs. Sherwood, who with her husband was Martyn’s guest for two days, tells how much she suffered for want of a pillow. Her face ached badly at night, but she could find nothing to lay her head on but a bolster stuffed as hard as a pin-cushion!’’ But she found much to admire in Martyn himself. In her autobiography she gives a charming picture of him as she knew him in his Indian home. "He was dressed in white and looked very pale," she says, "which, however, was nothing singular in India. His hair, a light brown, was raised from his forehead, which was a remarkably fine one. His features were not regular, but the expression was so luminous, so intellectual, so affectionate, so beaming with divine charity, that no one could have looked at his features and thought of their form. He was as remarkable for ease as for cheerfulness, and had a rich, deep voice and fine taste for music. When he relaxed from his labors in the presence of his friends, it was to laugh and play like a happy, innocent child, especially if there were children to laugh and play with him."

It was weary waiting for Lydia. ’’Ever, through the solitude, the suffering, and the toiling of the first twelve months at Dinapore,’ says Dr. George Smith, "the thought of Lydia Grenfell, the hope of her union to him, and her help in his agonizing for India,, runs like a chord of sad music." Once he dreamed she had come, but awoke with a sigh to find it only a dream. "Perhaps all my hope about her is but a dream!" he wrote the next day in his diary. "Yet be it so; whatever God shall appoint must be good for us both, and I will endeavor to be tranquil and happy, pursuing my way through the wilderness with equal steadiness, whether with or without a companion." At last, on October 24, 1807, after more than a year of suspense, her answer reached Dinapore ― a refusal on the ground that her mother would not give her consent. It was a blow that well-nigh crushed Martyn. "Lydia refuses to come because her mother will not give her consent," he wrote to the Rev. David Brown, who had advised him to send for her. "Sir, you must not wonder at my pale looks when I receive so many hard blows on my heart. Yet a Father’s love appoints the trial, and I pray that it may have its intended effect. Yet, if you wish to prolong my existence in this world, make a representation to some persons at home who may influence her friends. Your word will be believed sooner than mine. The extraordinary effect of mental disorder on my bodily frame is unfortunate; trouble brings on disease and disorders the sleep. In this way I am laboring a little now, but not much; in a few days it will pass away again. He that hath delivered and doth deliver, is He in whom we trust that He will yet deliver."

’’The queensware on its way to me can be sold at an outcry or sent to Corrie. I do not want queensware or anything else now. My new house and garden, without the person I expected to share it with me, excite disgust.’’ On the receipt of Lydia ’s letter, Martyn wrote at once to ask whether, if he agreed not to urge her to leave her mother, she would consent to an engagement in order that they might still correspond. But she refused this too, and bade him a final farewell.

It broke Martyn ’s heart and cost her much sorrow. Why, then, did she not go? To Charles Simeon, who went to intercede for his beloved young friend, she gave four reasons, ― her health, the indelicacy of going out to India alone on such an errand, her former engagement to another man, and the unwillingness of her mother to give her consent. But these, alas! were excuses, rather than insurmountable obstacles. Had she really wanted to go, the first three would have carried no weight, and the fourth would doubtless have yielded to prayer and persuasion. Her diary is full of intense love and devotion to God, but one may search its pages in vain for a single sentence expressing a desire to join her lover in India and share in his work. She loved Martyn and she loved God, but not enough to make such a sacrifice. The poet probed deep into her heart and laid bare its secrets when he wrote:

"The woman of his love Feared to leave all and give her life to his, And both to God.’’

Yet few dare blame her. Let those heroic souls whose sacrifices match those of a Christina Coillard or an Ann Judson cast the first stone.

Thus ended Henry Martyn ’s wooing. But his friends were loath to let the matter drop. They thought he needed a wife and when the sister of his dear friend, the Rev. Daniel Corrie, came to join her brother in India it was suggested that perhaps she might be the one. By and by a rumor reached England that they were soon to be married. Lydia heard it and was greatly disturbed! Simeon heard it and wrote to David Brown to confirm it.

How could you imagine’ Brown wrote back, ’that Miss C. would do as well as Miss L. G. for Mr. Martyn? Dear Martyn is married already to three wives, whom I believe he would not forsake for all the princesses on earth ― I mean his three translations of the Holy Scriptures’

Ill-health, lack of visible results, his hopeless attachment, and the death of both sisters, leaving him the last of his family, filled Martyn’s cup of sorrow full to overflowing, yet he continued to work without ceasing. "When the news of the death of his second sister reached him in March, 1810, his grief was excessive. But Lydia now took compassion on him and wrote offering to take the place of her who was gone. This acted as balm to his sorrowing heart. ’ My long lost Lydia consents to write to me," he wrote to David Brown. The correspondence that followed was the great solace of the two weary years that remained. He had given her up but she was ever his dearest," and the last letter he wrote was to her. On October 16, 1812, when Martyn burned out for God at Tokat, he was only thirty-one. Humanly speaking, had Lydia been there, he need not have died. With a wife to care for and comfort and cheer him his life might have been lengthened and his service for India greatly prolonged. "It was the greatest calamity of his whole career that Lydia did not accompany him," says Doctor George Smith. "But we cannot consider it a ’bitter misfortune as some do, that he ever knew her. His love for her worked a higher elevation for himself and gives to his Letters and Journal an intense human interest."

Lydia Grenfell saved herself; but she cut short and marred Martyn’s career, and lost the high honor of being his wife. Would her decision be different, could she come back and live her life over?