'You question me as to the nature of the benefits conferred
upon me by Mr. E.'s preaching. I answer, that his influence
has been more beneficial to me than that of any American, and
that from him I first learned what is meant by an inward life.
Many other springs have since fed the stream of living waters,
but he first opened the fountain. That the "mind is its own
place," was a dead phrase to me, till he cast light upon
my mind. Several of his sermons stand apart in memory, like
landmarks of my spiritual history. It would take a volume to
tell what this one influence did for me. But perhaps I shall
some time see that it was best for me to be forced to help
myself.'
* * * * *
'Some remarks which I made last night trouble me, and I cannot
fix my attention upon other things till I have qualified them.
I suffered myself to speak in too unmeasured terms, and my
expressions were fitted to bring into discredit the religious
instruction which has been given me, or which I have sought.
'I do not think "all men are born for the purpose of unfolding
beautiful ideas;" for the vocation of many is evidently the
culture of affections by deeds of kindness. But I do think
that the vocations of men and women differ, and that those who
are forced to act out of their sphere are shorn of inward and
outward brightness.
'For myself, I wish to say, that, if I am in a mood of
darkness and despondency, I nevertheless consider such a mood
unworthy of a Christian, or indeed of any one who believes in
the immortality of the soul. No one, who had steady faith
in this and in the goodness of God, could be otherwise than
cheerful. I reverence the serenity of a truly religious mind
so much, that I think, if I live, I may some time attain to
it.
'Although I do not believe in a Special Providence regulating
outward events, and could not reconcile such a belief with
what I have seen of life, I do not the less believe in the
paternal government of a Deity. That He should visit the souls
of those who seek Him seems to me the nobler way to conceive
of his influence. And if there were not some error in my way
of seeking, I do not believe I should suffer from languor or
deadness on spiritual subjects, at the time when I have most
need to feel myself at home there. To find this error is my
earnest wish; and perhaps I am now travelling to that end,
though by a thorny road. It is a mortification to find so
much yet to do; for at one time the scheme of things seemed
so clear, that, with Cromwell, I might say, "I was once in
grace." With my mind I prize high objects as much as then:
it is my heart which is cold. And sometimes I fear that the
necessity of urging them on those under my care dulls my sense
of their beauty. It is so hard to prevent one's feelings from
evaporating in words.'
* * * * *
'"The faint sickness of a wounded heart." How frequently
do these words of Beckford recur to my mind! His prayer,
imperfect as it is, says more to me than many a purer
aspiration. It breathes such an experience of impassioned
anguish. He had everything,--health, personal advantages,
almost boundless wealth, genius, exquisite taste, culture; he
could, in some way, express his whole being. Yet well-nigh he
sank beneath the sickness of the wounded heart; and solitude,
"country of the unhappy," was all he craved at last.
'Goethe, too, says he has known, in all his active, wise, and
honored life, no four weeks of happiness. This teaches me on
the other side; for, like Goethe, I have never given way to
my feelings, but have lived active, thoughtful, seeking to
be wise. Yet I have long days and weeks of heartache; and
at those times, though I am busy every moment, and cultivate
every pleasant feeling, and look always upwards to the pure
ideal region, yet this ache is like a bodily wound, whose
pain haunts even when it is not attended to, and disturbs the
dreams of the patient who has fallen asleep from exhaustion.
'There is a German in Boston, who has a wound in his breast,
received in battle long ago. It never troubles him, except
when he sings, and then, if he gives out his voice with much
expression, it opens, and cannot, for a long time, be stanched
again. So with me: when I rise into one of those rapturous
moods of thought, such as I had a day or two since, my wound
opens again, and all I can do is to be patient, and let it
take its own time to skin over. I see it will never do more.
Some time ago I thought the barb was fairly out; but no, the
fragments rankle there still, and will, while there is any
earth attached to my spirit. Is it not because, in my pride, I
held the mantle close, and let the weapon, which some friendly
physician might have extracted, splinter in the wound?'
* * * * *
'_Sunday, July_, 1838.--I partook, for the first time, of the
Lord's Supper. I had often wished to do so, but had not been
able to find a clergyman,--from whom I could be willing to
receive it,--willing to admit me on my own terms. Mr. H----
did so; and I shall ever respect and value him, if only for
the liberality he displayed on this occasion. It was the
Sunday after the death of his wife, a lady whom I truly
honored, and should, probably, had we known one another
longer, have also loved. She was the soul of truth and honor;
her mind was strong, her reverence for the noble and beautiful
fervent, her energy in promoting the best interests of those
who came under her influence unusual. She was as full of wit
and playfulness as of goodness. Her union with her husband
was really one of mind and heart, of mutual respect and
tenderness; likeness in unlikeness made it strong. I wished
particularly to share in this rite on an occasion so suited to
bring out its due significance.'