THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR.
January 20, 1861. I have run over the birth-histories of the nations of
Europe, in their chaotic rise from barbarism; and have just completed
a bird’s-eye view of Italian mediæval history, with Koeppen’s aid. The
present history of Italy interests me greatly, and I would like to be
able to link the present with the past. But what a debatable ground it
has always been, and how unsparingly it has always been made mince-meat
of, by all in authority there!
But all that history has revealed shows no more important epoch than
the one in which we are living at this moment, in our unsettled and
discordant Union. I hope it will come out plain and positive, as a
question of right or wrong for every man to decide. It is so already,
yet all will not see. So I hope that the demon of slavery, that
“mystery of iniquity,” will make his evil way evident, that we may
return to no vile compact with sin.
February 28. The bluebirds have come! and the meadow-lark has sung over
in the fields behind the garden, these two or three mornings. I have
dreamed of spring these many nights, and now it is coming--coming!
What a blessing dreams are! I have heard birds sing, in bluer skies
than May could show; doves have alighted on my head; violets, such as
cannot be matched in any meadows for perfect tints and fragrance, have
blossomed at my feet; have wept for joy at the sublime beauty of Alps
grander than any real Alps,--which I would yet fain see, though I shall
not, with these eyes,--all this in my winter dreams. Through dreams, we
must always believe in a deeper and more perfect beauty than we know.
The world is lovely, but there is a lovelier, else we could not see
what we do in sleep. The glory of living is that life _is_ glorious
beyond all our possible imaginations,--the eternal life,--the “glory
that shall be revealed” in us.
March 2. What does cause depression of spirits? Heavy head and heavy
heart, and no sufficient reason for either, that I know of. I am out
of doors every day, and have nothing unusual to trouble me; yet every
interval of thought is clouded; there is no rebound, no rejoicing as
it is my nature to rejoice, and as all things teach me to do. We are
strange phenomena to ourselves, when we will stop to gaze at ourselves;
but that I do not believe in; there are pleasanter subjects, and self
is a mere speck on the great horizon of life.
A new volume of poems by T. B. Aldrich, just read, impresses me
especially with its daintiness and studied beauty. There are true
flashes of poetry, but most carefully trimmed and subdued, so as to
shine artistically. I believe the best poetry of our times is growing
too artistic; the study is too visible. If freedom and naturalness are
lost out of poetry, everything worth having is lost.
March 3. Eternal life and eternal death; what do these words mean? This
is the question that comes up again and again. It has recently been
brought up by those whom I am appointed to instruct; and the question
with its answer, brings new and fearful responsibility with every
return. I am more and more convinced that the idea of _duration_ is not
the one that affects us most: for here it has proved that those who
are least careful about what they are in heart and life, are trying
hardest to convince themselves and others that the “doctrine of eternal
punishment” is not true. By making themselves believe that to be the
all-important question, they draw off their own and others’ attention
from the really momentous one,--“Am I living the eternal life? Is it
begun in me now?”
And now I see why I have questioned whether it was right in me to
express my own doubts of this very doctrine. The final renovation of
all souls, their restoration to life in holiness and love, is certainly
a hope of mine that is not without a strong infusion of confidence; but
I dare not say it is a belief; because both reason and revelation have
left it in deep mystery; and the expression of any such belief does
not seem to me likely to help others much; certainly not those who are
indolent or indifferent regarding the true Christian life.
Then the “loss of the soul” is in plain language spoken of by our Lord
as possible. What can that mean, but the loss of life in Him? the loss
of ennobling aspirations, of the love of all good, of the power of
seeing and seeking truth? And if this is possible to us now, by our own
choice, why not forever?--since, as free beings, our choice must always
be in our own power?
The truth that we must all keep before us, in order to be growing
better forever, is that life is love and holiness; death, selfishness
and sin; then it is a question of life and death to be grappled with in
the deep places of every soul.
March 5. I cannot let this birthday pass without a memorial of its
sun’s rising and setting on flower-gifts from these my girl-friends:
a wreath hung on my door in the morning, and a bouquet left in my
room at night. It brings spring to my spirit earlier than I expected;
pleasant it is to receive any token of love; and gifts like these
come so seldom, that when they do come, I am sure they mean love.
And with them comes the assurance of a deeper summer-warmth,--the
arousing of all high and holy feelings in the deep places of the soul
yet winter-sealed. “My shriveled heart” shall yet “recover greenness.”
I could not feel this “deadly cold” that sometimes pierces me, if
incapable of warmth. It may not be in an earthly clime that my nature
shall blossom out freely and fully into heavenly light; but the time
will come.
Yesterday was the inauguration: we have a President, a country: and we
are “the Union” still, and shall so remain, our President thinks. But I
doubt whether the pride of slavery will ever bow to simple freedom, as
it must, if the self-constituted aliens return. There is a strange new
chapter in the world’s history unfolding to-day; we have not half read
it yet.
Sabbath, April 14, 1861. This day broke upon our country in gloom; for
the sounds of war came up to us from the South,--war between brethren;
civil war; well may “all faces gather blackness.” And yet the gloom we
feel ought to be the result of sorrow for the erring, for the violators
of national unity, for those who are in black rebellion against truth,
freedom, and peace. The rebels have struck the first blow, and what
ruin they are pulling down on their heads may be guessed, though not
yet fully foretold; but it is plain to see that a dark prospect is
before them, since they have no high principle at the heart of their
cause.
It will be no pleasure to any American to remember that he lived in
this revolution, when brother lifted his hand against brother; and
the fear is, that we shall forget that we are brethren still, though
some are so unreasonable and wander so far from the true principles of
national prosperity. Though the clouds of this morning have cleared
away into brightness, it seems as if we could feel the thunder of those
deadly echoes passing to and from Fort Sumter. But there is a right,
and God always defends it. War is not according to His wish; though it
seems one of the permitted evils yet. He will scatter those who delight
in it, and it is not too much to hope and expect that He will uphold
the government which has so long been trying to avert bloodshed.
Another unpleasant association with this day. I went to the meeting
expecting and needing spiritual food, and received only burning coals
and ashes. There was a sermon (not by our minister, I am glad to say)
to prove that Satan will be tormented forever and ever; and the stress
of the argument was to prove the _endlessness_ of his punishment.
The text was taken from the twentieth of Revelation, a chapter which
few have the audacity to explain; but the object was to show that
“eternal,” in its highest sense, is not so plainly taught in the
Bible, as “eternal” in its lowest sense, that of duration. Truly, “The
wisdom of men is foolishness with God!”--the deep and sacred truth of
eternal life lies hidden yet in the words of Christ, for him who will
understand. It seems to me wrong to preach a theoretical sermon like
this to those who are hungering for the bread of life; who are longing
to come nearer to the Saviour, and receive His spirit. I think none
but a young minister would have preached so; certainly, a warm-hearted
Christian could not have treated the subject in that cold argumentative
way. As it was, I could only pity one who could so misinterpret his
Master’s words; he must be yet on the outer threshold of the heart of
Christ, if so near as that, and not, like the Beloved John, leaning
on His bosom. And I grieved for the “hungry sheep,” who looked up and
were not fed. But if such sermons drive all hearers to the word itself,
refusing human interpretations, they may do good. Alas! We grope in
darkness yet! Man is blinded to God’s deep meaning everywhere, in
thought and in life, in religion and in government. The dark ages are
not wholly past; nor will they be, until all fetters of thought and
limb are broken.
Yet, through all, the birds are singing with the joy of sunshine after
April rain; and earth is beautiful and bright, beneath the promises of
spring,--written on soft skies and sweet west winds. The good God sits
yet upon His throne of love!
April 21. The conflict is deepening; but thanks to God, there is no
wavering, no division, now, at the North! All are united, as one man;
and from a peaceful, unwarlike people, we are transformed into an army,
ready for the battle at a moment’s warning.
The few days I have passed in Boston this week are the only days in
which I ever carried my heart into a crowd, or hung around a company
of soldiers with anything like pleasure. But I felt a soldier-spirit
rising within me, when I saw the men of my native town armed and going
to risk their lives for their country’s sake; and the dear old flag of
our Union is a thousand times more dear than ever before. The streets
of Boston were almost canopied with the stars and stripes, and the
merchants festooned their shops with the richest goods of the national
colors.
And now there are rumors of mobs attacking our troops, of bridges
burnt, and arsenals exploded, and many lives lost. The floodgates of
war are opened, and when the tide of blood will cease none can tell.
May 6. Through the dark and lurid atmosphere of war the light of
“Nature’s own exceeding peace” still softly falls on the earth. The
violets have opened their blue eyes by the roadside; the saxifrage
fringes the ledges with white; and the arbutus, the Pilgrim’s
mayflower, blossoms on the hills away from here; we have no hillsides
for it to grow upon, but I had some on May-day, from the hills of
Taunton. How strange the contrast between these delicate blossoms
and the flaring red flower of war that has burst into bloom with the
opening of spring!
Every day brings something to stir the deep places of the soul, and in
the general awakening of life and liberty it may be that every heart
feels its own peculiar sorrow and happiness more keenly. There is a
deeper life in every breath I draw; and messages from distant friends
seem more near and touching. One day, from one of the most beloved
and honored, comes a kind word for my poor efforts at poetry; almost
a prophecy of some blessed days of summer life among the mountains by
and by,--and a holy benediction, “God bless thee, and keep thee!” that
fell upon my heart like the first ray of some new and unknown morning.
All life seemed green and glowing with a freshened trust. God is, and
goodness is; and true hearts are, forever! There is nothing to doubt,
even in these dark days!
Then, the next day, a message from dear Esther (she could not write it
herself) to say that she is dying, and wants to hear from me again. And
to think that she had been drooping all these spring days, while I have
been too full of occupation with the stir of the times to write! But
she says my words have always been good for her, and surely few have
blessed me by life and thought as she has. Heaven will have one bond
for my heart, closer than any yet. I am glad that she can lie down in
peace, before the horrible scenes of bloodshed, which only a miracle
can now avert, shall be enacted.
May 9. I had set myself to reading Maury’s “Physical Geography of the
Sea,” after a long deferring; but now that he has come out as a rank
rebel against his country, I cannot feel any interest in his theories,
ingenious as they are said to be. Like poor, wise, fallen Bacon, his
ideas may prove something to the world, “after some years have passed
over,” but one is not fond of being taught by traitors.
May 15. A glimpse into a heart which has always been closed, both to
God and man,--what a chaos it discloses! Yet with all the elements of
order there, it is like the promise of a new creation. Such a glimpse,
such a half-unveiling, one has given me to-day, out of a soul-deep,
long-repressed longing for “something to love!” Ah, that sorrowful need
of every woman’s heart, especially; yet more joyful than sorrowful,
because the longing shows the fulfillment possible,--yes, certain.
In the heavenly life, which such aspirations prophesy, there is love
abounding, to give and to receive. And I am thankful for one more to
love.
May 20. Esther dead! Gone home two days before I heard or dreamed of
it! But since she has gone home,--since it is only a glorious release
for her,--I will not let a thought of repining sully the gladness I
ought to share with her. It is only that one who has always lived near
the Holiest One is now called nearer still. I have known her only in
Him, and there I know her and love her still.
May 22. They write to me of her funeral, of the white flowers beside
her head, and of her own lilies of the valley strewn over her in the
grave by one who knew how she loved them. Everything that would have
made her happy, had her eyes been open to see, and her ears to hear.
They sang the hymns she loved, “Rock of Ages,” and “I would not live
alway,” and “Thy will be done.” And my dear friend is free!--her soul
has blossomed into heavenly light! I told her once that this book was
for only her to see; I do not like my thoughts when I think them for
myself alone; and there is no other friend who would care as she cared.
Will she read them now?
May 27. This is the gala week of spring. None of the early flowers have
quite faded, and the apple-trees are in full bloom, while elms and
maples are just wearing their lightest drapery of green, so tardily put
on. Soft breezes, sweet melody from many birds, clear sunshine, not yet
too warm,--all things are just in that state, when, if we could wish
for a standstill in nature, we should.
And Esther has been one week in heaven! It seems to me, sometimes, as
if some new charm was added to cloud and sunshine, and spring blossoms,
since she went away; as if it were given me to see all things clearer
for her clearer vision; she would speak to me, if she could.
Lectures these few days on historical women. Paula, Queen Elizabeth,
and Madame de Maintenon, thus far. Paula, the friend of St. Jerome,
and the woman whom the speaker made to illustrate friendship, pleased
me most, as presenting a higher ideal than either of the others.
Christianity gave woman the privilege of a pure friendship with
man; before unknown, we are told. It is one of the noblest gifts
of religion, and I wish people believed in it more thoroughly. But
only a truly elevated and chastened nature can understand real
friendship,--not a Platonic ideal only, though that is elevated, let
who will sneer at it: but a drawing of the noblest souls together,
and to the Soul of souls, for the highest ends. This is Christian
friendship; union in Christ for all beauty, all purity, all true and
noble life, which He illustrated in His own glorious life and death,
and of which He is now the inspiring power. “We are complete in Him.”
Yes, I am sure that it is in drawing near to Him that I feel the
loveliness of such beauty as that into which the world now blossoms;
for is not He the Lord of nature, and also my Lord and Friend? And
through His great love for us, I see the ideal of all true human love.
“As I have loved you,” He said, “so must we love each other, with
tenderness, forbearance, generosity, and self-sacrifice.”
Such friendship is possible, is eternal; and it is almost the most
precious thing in the soul’s inheritance.
June 12. I have been free for a few days, and have taken a journey,--a
flying tour among some of my friends. How it quieted me, to be with my
peace-loving friends in these wild times of war!
There are some friends whose presence is encouragement in all that is
good, whom to look upon is to grow stronger for the truth. There are
homes, too, over which saintly memories hang, making all within and
around them sacred, blending earth with heaven by holy sympathies.
How blessed I am, to know such friends, to enter such homes as these!
Sometimes I can truly say, “My cup runneth over!”
June 14. Still the same old weariness of study; “weariness of the
flesh.” Books are treasures, but one may work among treasures even,
digging and delving, till there is little enjoyment in them. And the
greater pain is, that, by becoming numb to the beautiful and true,
in any form, one does not feel its power entirely, anywhere. So I
felt this morning, which I stole from my books. I sat on a ledge in a
distant field, all around me beautiful with June, and no sight or sound
of human care in sight. I sat there like a prisoner, whose chains had
dropped for the moment, but the weight and pain of them lingered still.
Yet I began to feel what it is to be free, and how sweet and soothing
nature always is, before I rose to return. I think it would not take me
long to get accustomed to freedom, and to rejoice in it with exceeding
joy.
June 23. Weary, weary, too weary to listen patiently to the heavy
Sabbath bells; far too weary to sit in the church and listen to loud
words and loud singing. And my brain is too tired to let my heart feel
the beauty of this quiet day. I only know that the balm and beauty of
June are around me, without realizing it much. But rest will come soon,
up among the mountains with friends who love noise and confusion as
little as I do. I shall be at peace. A blessing will come to us, among
the hills.
July 4. Crackers all around the house at night. Fire-crackers,
torpedoes, pistols, and bell-ringing, are enough to make one sick of
one’s country, if this is the only way of showing one’s patriotism. I
am sure, as I lay last night, nervously wide awake, with every shot
startling and paining me as if it had really gone through my brain,
I felt more belligerently disposed toward the young patriots than
toward the Southern rebels! But if there is no other way of nursing an
interest in free institutions among these juvenile republicans, there’s
nothing to be done but to endure the “Fourth of July” once a year, for
the general good.
August 1. Yesterday I visited the residence of the late Hon. Daniel
Webster, at Marshfield. There was much that was interesting to see
in the great man’s home; I think the two things that pleased me most
were the portraits of his mother, and his black cook, or housekeeper.
The latter was a fine painting, the face so full of intelligence,
gratitude, and all good feelings; and there was an evidence of the
true sympathy and home comfort between master and servant, if it is
well to use those words, in the picture itself, the care with which
it was painted, as well as the speaking face. The other was simply an
old-fashioned cut profile, in black outline, and underneath it the
words, “My excellent mother--D. Webster.”
Out of doors, the wonderful old elm was the greatest attraction, with
its branches sweeping the ground, and making an arbor and a cathedral
at once, before the threshold. Webster himself--but it is not well to
call up anything but pleasant memories of the dead; and these do linger
about the home he loved. What the nation thinks of him may be recorded
elsewhere.
August 2. I visited Plymouth, placed my foot on the memorable
“Plymouth Rock,” of the Pilgrims (now so enclosed and covered as to
leave scarcely space sufficient for my large foot to rest upon), looked
at Mayflower curiosities in the hall, books, shoes, and fans of the
olden time, and more especially pewter platters, which, judging from
some ancient will I looked over in the Court House, were the most
important personal property of the Puritans. John Alden’s well-worn
Bible was open at the date of publication, 1620, so he had it new
for his westward voyage; I wondered whether it was the gift of some
friend left behind, or his own purchase. Miles Standish’s long rapier
was scarcely more interesting to me than the big kettle labeled with
his name, which might have supplied the colony with dinner, judging
from its size. Some old documents relating to the Quakers caught my
attention; one especially, wherein Winthrop demurred from signing
his name to a report of Commissioners, wherein this troublesome sect
were adjudged worthy to be put to death for their “cursed opinions
and devilish tennets,”--Winthrop signed, leaving testimony beside his
name, that it was “as a querry, not as an act.” Coming back to George
Fox’s journal, which I had borrowed for vacation reading, I could not
but smile at the difference a hundred or two years will make; I can
admire both Puritan and Quaker for their sincerity, and only wish they
could have understood each other better. There is no defense for the
persecution of the “Fathers,” except the imperfection of human nature,
and there is only this for the misguided ways into which the Quakers
were led, by mistaking their own fancies for the “inner light.” Better
death on both sides (for what each held to be truth) than indifference
to truth. And, stepping among the bones of the Pilgrims, on Burying
Hill, and looking away over the waves which brought them and freedom to
New England, and so to the Union, I could not but contrast the struggle
of that day with the present war for liberty against oppression. It is,
in reality, the “Old Colony” against the “Old Dominion,” or rather, the
latter against the former, aristocracy against the republic. God will
prosper us now as then; but perhaps we are to be brought as low before
Him as they were, before our cause can be victorious.
August 3. Fishing on the “Indian Pond” in Pembroke half the day,
catching sunfish and shiners, red perch and white; my first exploits of
the kind. It is a pleasant day to remember, for the green trees and the
blue waters, for lilies wide awake on the bosom of the waters in the
morning sunshine, for fresh breezes, and for pleasant company.
August 11. At Amesbury,--with two of the dearest friends my life is
blessed with,--dear quiet-loving Lizzie, and her poet brother. I love
to sit with them in the still Quaker worship, and they love the free
air and all the beautiful things as much as they do all the good and
spiritual. The harebells nodding in shade and shine on the steep banks
of the Merrimac, the sparkle of the waters, the blue of the sky, the
balm of the air, and the atmosphere of grave sweet friendliness which I
breathed for one calm “First-day” are never to be forgotten.
August 20. One of the stillest moonlight evenings,--not a sound
heard but the bleat of a lamb, and the murmur of the river; all the
rest a cool, broad, friendly mountainous silence. Peace comes down
with the soft clouds and mists that veil the hills; the Pemigewasset
sings all night in the moonshine, and I lie and dream of the beauty
of those hill-outlines around Winnipiseogee, that I looked upon with
so satisfied a greeting from the car window on my way hither. The
mountains do not know their own beauty anywhere but by a lakeside. So
it is: beauty sets us longing for other beauty; the clouds moving above
their summits suggest possibilities that earthly summits, at their
grandest, can never attain. And no dream can suggest the possibilities
of the beautiful that “shall be revealed.”
August 24. “The eye is not satisfied with seeing, and the ear with
hearing,” and one can never tire of the vision of mountain landscapes,
and the quiet song of summer rivers. Every day since I have been here
in this beautiful village of Campton, I have driven through some new
region; sometimes into the very heart of the hills, where nothing is to
be seen but swelling slopes on every side, hills which have not quite
attained mountainhood, but which would be mountains anywhere but in
the “Granite State;” and sometimes out into the interval openings of
the river; with new views of “Alps on Alps” on the northern horizon,
the gate of the Franconia Notch opening dimly afar with its mountain
haystacks piled beside it. It is rest to soul and body to be among
these mountains; one thing only is lacking; the friends I had hoped to
see here are not with me. But too much joy is not to be looked for;
let me hope that they are among scenes more beautiful, and with dearer
friends than I. Yet how delightful it would have been, to be with the
best friends, among the most beautiful scenes.
August 25. I am enjoying the society of my old friend and former
associate teacher. She is more gifted than I, in most ways, and it
is pleasant to talk to some one who, you take it for granted, has a
clearer understanding, and deeper insight, and more adequate expression
than yourself.
August 28. Yesterday a rare treat; a ride to Waterville (to the “end
of the wood” as they speak of it here) in a three-seated open wagon. I
wish they would have only open ones for mountain travel.
September 5. Why do I not love to be near the sea better than among
the mountains? Here is my home, if birthplace makes home. But no, it
is not my natural preference; I believe I was born longing after the
mountains. And rivers and lakes are better to me than the ocean. I
remember how beautiful the Merrimac looked to me in childhood, the
first true river I ever knew; it opened upon my sight and wound its way
through my heart like a dream realized; its harebells, its rocks, and
its rapids, are far more fixed in my memory than anything about the
sea. Yet the vastness and depth and the changes of mist and sunshine
are gloriously beautiful; I know and feel their beauty. Still, I admire
it most in glimpses; a bit of blue between the hills, only a little
more substantial than the sky, and a white sail flitting across it; or
when it is high-tide calm,--one broad, boundless stillness,--then there
is rest in the sea, but it never rests me like the strong silent hills;
they bear me up on their summits into heaven’s own blue eternity of
peace. But is it right to wrap one’s own being in this mantle of peace,
while the country is ravaged by war?--its garments rolled in blood,
brother fighting against brother to the death? The tide of rebellion
surges higher and higher, and there is no sadder proof that we are
not the liberty-loving people that we used to call ourselves, than to
learn that there are traitors in the secret councils of the nation,
in forts defended by our own bravest men; among women, too: “Sisters!
oh, Sisters! Shame o’ ladies!” A disloyal woman at the North, with
everything woman ought to hold dear at stake in the possible fall of
this government,--it is too shameful! I hope every one such will be
held in “durance vile” until the war is over.
But will it end until the question is brought to its true
issue,--liberty or slavery? I doubt it: and I would rather the war
should last fifty years, than ever again make the least compromise with
slavery, that arch-enemy of all true prosperity, that eating sin of our
nation. Rather divide at once, rather split into a thousand pieces,
than sink back into this sin!
The latest news is of the capture of the Hatteras Forts, a great gain
for us, and a blight to privateering at the South;--with a rumor of
“Jeff Davis’s” death, which nobody believes because it is so much
wished. Yet to his friends he is a man, and no rebel. War is a bitter
curse,--it forbids sympathy, and makes us look upon our enemies as
scarcely human; and we cannot help it, when our foes are the foes of
right.
Norton, September 8. Am I glad for trials, for disappointments, for
opportunities for self-sacrifice, for everything God sends? Ah! indeed
I do not know! How many times, when we say, “Try me, and know my
heart,” the answer is, “Ye know not what ye ask!” And I know not why,
in some states of mind and body, what _seems_ a very little trouble (or
would, if told another), should be so oppressive.
But “little,” and “great,” in the world’s vocabulary, are very
different terms from what they are in individual experience; and
submission, and grateful acquiescing obedience to divine will, are to
be learned by each in his own capacity. Two weeks ago, I was saying
over to myself, every day, as if it were a new thought, Keble’s lines,--
“New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.”
And as those words kept recurring, as if whispered by a spirit,
I thought I should be glad to have my best treasures to give for
sacrifice, to make others happy with what was most precious to me. And
as my way seemed uncertain, and for a day or two I knew not whether
to move or to sit still, I said, “Lead me! Behold the handmaid of the
Lord; let it be unto me according to Thy will,--only let me do nothing
selfishly.” And the answer came in the withdrawal of a blessing from
me; no doubt with purposes of greater blessing to some one, somewhere
and somehow; and I am only half reconciled as yet. Shall I ever believe
that God knows best, and does what is best for me, and for us all? It
is easy enough in theory, but these great and little trials tell us the
truth about ourselves,--show us our insincerity. And now I close this
record, which has been my nearest companion for so many months. Esther
is gone. Is there any friend who cares enough for me just as I am, to
keep it in memory of me? Or had I better bury it from my own eyes and
all others’? It may be good for me to read the record of myself as I
have been,--cheerful or morbid,--and of what I have read, thought,
and done, wisely or unwisely. The “Country Parson” thinks a diary a
good thing; and I do too, in many ways, but I would rather write for
a friend’s kindly eyes than for my own: even about myself. Therefore
letters are to me a more genial utterance than a journal, and I would
write any journal as if for some one who could understand me fully,
love me, and have patience with me through all. I do not know if now
there is any such friend for me; yet dear friends I have, and more and
more precious to me, every year. If these were my last words, I would
set them down as a testimony to the preciousness of human friendships;
dearer and richer than anything else on earth. By them is the
revelation of the divine in the human; by them heaven is opened, truth
is made clear, and life is worth the living. So have I been blessed,
drawn heavenward by saintly messengers in the garb of mortality. So
shall it be forever, for true love is--eternal, it is life itself.
September 12. Is it always selfish to yield to depression? Can one help
it, if the perspective of a coming year of lonely labor seems very
long? No. I shall not be alone; I shall feel the sympathy of all the
good and true, though apart from them; and though I cannot come very
near to any under this roof, yet to all I can come nearer than I think
I can. And by and by these strange restless yearnings will be stilled;
I shall quiet my soul in the peace of God. He has said, “I will never
leave thee nor forsake thee!” Oh! what is any woman’s life worth
without the friendship of the One ever near, the only divine?
Yes, I will make my work my friend. My trials, my vexations, my cares,
shall speak good words to me, and I will not blind my eyes to the
beauty close at hand, because of the lost glory of my dreams. I wish I
could be more to all these young glad beings,--it is not in me to touch
the chords of many souls at once, but I will enlarge my sympathies.
October 5, 1861. This first week of October, this month of months,
shall not pass without some record of its beauty. Norton woods and
Norton sunsets are the two redeeming features of the place; as its
levelness is its bane. What is it in us that refuses to love levels? Is
it that there is no searching and toiling for anything, up cool heights
and down in sheltered hollows?
These splendidly tinted maples before my window would be a hundred-fold
more splendid if lifted up among the hemlocks and pines of the
mountainsides. Oh! how magnificent those New Hampshire hills must be
now, in the sunset of the year!
The place is a level, and boarding-school life is a most wearisome
level to me, yet flowers spring up, and fruits grow in both. We are to
welcome “all that makes and keeps us low;” yet it seems to me as if it
would be good for me to ascend oftener to the heights of being; I fear
losing the power and the wish to climb.
Let us say we are struggling to put down slavery, and we shall be
strong.
October 8. Yesterday two letters came to me, each from a friend I have
never seen, yet each with a flower-like glow and perfume that made my
heart glad. And at evening a graceful little basket of fruit was left
in my room, and this morning a bunch of fringed gentians, blue with the
thoughtfulness of the sky that hangs over the far solitary meadows, the
last answer from earth to heaven from the frosty fields.
October 11. Rain: and just one of those dreary drizzling rains which
turn one in from the outer world upon one’s own consciousness,--a most
unhealthy pasture land for thought, in certain states of mind and body.
Just how far we should live in self-consciousness, and how far live
an outside life, or rather, live in the life of others, is a puzzle.
Without something of an inner experience, it is not easy to enter into
other lives, to their advantage; some self-knowledge is necessary, to
keep us from intruding upon others; but it is never good to make self
the centre of thought.
October 13. George Fox’s journal is a leaf from a strange chapter
of the world’s history: from the history of religion. If a plain
man should come among us now, asking leave of none to speak, but
“testifying” in religious assemblies to the reality of the inward
life of light and peace in Christ, his blunt and simple ways might
be unpleasing to many, but every scoffer would look on, more with
wonder than with anger. Many, I am sure, would welcome such a voice
of sincerity and “livingness,” sounding through the outward services
of religion. The days of religious persecution can scarcely return
again; nor, it is to be hoped, the days of those strange phenomena
which so irritated our ancestors; men walking as “signs” to the people,
declaring their dreams to be visions from God, and uttering wild,
unmeaning prophecies for inspiration. How hard it is to learn what
“true religion and undefiled” is! _Life_ is a better word for this
universal bond than _religion_. And we shall see, sometime, that it
is only by the redemption of all our powers, all that is in us and in
the outward world, that we are truly “saved.” We must receive the true
light through and through, we must keep our common sense, our talents,
our genius, just the same;--only that light must glow through all, to
make all alive. And when home, and friendships, and amusements, and all
useful and beautiful thoughts and things are really made transparent
with that divine light, when nothing that God has given us is rejected
as “common or unclean,” the “new heaven and the new earth” will have
been created, and we shall live in our Creator and Redeemer.
The great difference between the early Quakers and the Puritans seems
to me to be that the former had larger ideas of truth, deeper and
broader revelations, yet mixed with greater eccentricities, as might be
expected. The Puritans were most anxious for a place where they could
worship undisturbed, as their consciences dictated; the Quakers were
most desirous that the Word of Life should be spoken everywhere,--the
Light be revealed to all. Each made serious mistakes,--what else could
we expect, from the best that is human? And the errors of both were, in
great part, the errors of the age,--intolerance and fanaticism.
October 12. How refreshing the clear cold air is, after the summer-like
fogs and rains we have had! I love the cold; the northern air is
strengthening; it has the breath of the hills in it, the glow of
Auroral lights, and the purity of the eternal snows. There is little
of the south in my nature; the north is my home; Italy and the tropics
will do for dream excursions; I should long for the sweeping winds of
the hillsides, if I were there.
October 15. The beauty of this morning was wonderful; something in the
air made me feel like singing. I thought my weariness was all gone; but
leaning over books brought it back. After school four of us rode off in
the wagon through the woods; and delighted ourselves with the sunset,
the katydids, and the moonlight.
October 22. I heard Charles Sumner on the Rebellion: my first sight
and hearing of the great anti-slavery statesman. He was greeted with
tremendous applause, and every expression of opposition to slavery
was met with new cheers. He does not seem to me like a man made to
awaken enthusiasm; a great part of his address was statistical, and
something we all knew before,--the long preparation of this uprising of
the rebels; and his manner was not that of a man surcharged with his
subject, but of one who had thoroughly and elegantly prepared himself
to address the people. At this time we are all expecting orators to
speak as we feel,--intensely; perhaps it is as well that all do not
meet our expectations. One idea which he presented seemed to me to be
worth all the rest, and worth all the frothy spoutings for “Union” that
we hear every day; it was that our battalions must be strengthened by
_ideas_, by _the_ idea of freedom. That is it. Our men do not know what
they are fighting for; freedom is greater than the Union, and a Union,
old or new, with slavery, no true patriot will now ask for. May we be
saved from that, whatever calamities we may endure!
The ride to and from Boston has a new picture since summer: the camp
at Readville, just under the shadow of the Milton hills. It is a
striking picture, the long array of white tents, the soldiers marching
and countermarching, and the hills, tinted with sunset and autumn at
once, looking down upon the camping ground. Little enough can one
realize what war is, who sees it only in its picturesque aspect, who
knows of it only by the newspapers, by knitting socks for soldiers, and
sewing bed-quilts for the hospitals. I should give myself in some more
adequate way, if we were definitely struggling for freedom; for there
is more for women to do than to be lookers-on.
October 27. Looking out on the clouds at sunset, the thought of God
as constantly evolving beauty from His own being into all created
forms, struck me forcibly, as the right idea of our lives; that, like
Him, we should be full of all truth and love, and so grow into beauty
ourselves, and impart loveliness to all we breathe upon, or touch.
Inspiration from Him is all we have to impart in blessing to others.
What is the meaning of these moods and states that fetter some of us
so? I have seen life just as I see it now, and been glad in it, while
for many months all things have brought me a nightmare-feeling that I
could not shake off. I know it is the same world, the same life, the
same God; I do not doubt Him, nor the great and good ends that He is
working out for all; yet nothing wears its old delight.
October 30. “And with a child’s delight in simple things.” That I have
not lost all this, I felt to-day, in receiving a note from an unknown
person,--from one who had read some poems of mine in childhood, and
now, a woman, bears something not unworthy the name of poet; to hear
some new voice speaking to me in this way, as a friend, is pleasant to
me. I have written as I have felt, in my verses; they have been true
words from my deepest life, often; and I am glad whenever they call
forth a sincere answer, as now;--one word of real appreciation repays
me for pages of mere fault-finding. Yet a kind fault-finder is the best
of friends.
What is the meaning of “gossip?” Doesn’t it originate with sympathy,
an interest in one’s neighbor, degenerating into idle curiosity and
love of tattling? Which is worse, this habit, or keeping one’s self
so absorbed intellectually as to forget the sufferings and cares of
others, to lose sympathy through having too much to think about?
October 31. I must hurry my mind, when I have to press ancient history
into a three-months’ course, and keep in advance of my class in study,
with rhetoric and mental philosophy requiring a due share of attention
besides, and the whole school to be criticised in composition and
furnished with themes.
November 5. Governor Andrew’s proclamation was a very touching one.
Thanksgiving will be a sad day this year, yet a more sacred day than
ever. I read his allusion to the Potomac, as now a sacred river to us,
since the blood of our soldiers had mingled with its waters; and we
felt that one throb of patriotism unites us all, however we must suffer.
November 7. Frémont is removed! It seems too bad, for none could
awaken enthusiasm as he did, everywhere. And yet military law is all
that holds us up now, and we have to trust blindly that the rulers are
right. It may prove to be so, but to withdraw him when within a few
miles of the enemy seems too hard. We shall respect him all the more,
to see him bearing it nobly for his country’s sake.
November 14. The best news for us since the war began has come within
a day or two; and it is confirmed. Beaufort, S. C., is taken by
a federal fleet, and the secessionists are in real consternation.
All agree that this is a decisive blow, and if we can maintain our
position, the war will end speedily. But after that, there will be the
same question to settle--“Are we one country or not?” We shall not
be any more agreed than we were before, until slavery is abolished.
The idea that the negroes are attached to the “institution” is well
shown up now, when two hundred slaves, the property of one man in the
very heart of slavedom, hasten at once to board our war steamers for
protection; and when their masters vainly try to whip them before them
in their retreat. If now our government undertakes to cultivate cotton
by free labor of colored men, it will be a grand step towards the
general liberation. And if thus the South can be made to honor labor,
we may by and by be reunited in spirit; for that is the element of
separation. We are carried onward in a way we little know, and it is
impossible not to rejoice when we feel ourselves borne by a mighty and
loving Power towards a glorious goal.
November 18. Much of our Christianity is not of a sufficiently enlarged
type to satisfy an educated Hindoo; not that Unitarianism is necessary,
for that system has but a surface-liberalism which can become very
hard, and finally very narrow, as its history among us has often
proved. It is not a system at all that we want: it is Christ, the
“wisdom of God and the power of God,” Christ, the loving, creating,
and redeeming friend of the world, Christ, whose large, free being
enfolds all that is beautiful in nature and in social life; and all
that is strong and deep and noble in the sanctuary of every living
soul. When Christians have truly learned Christ, they can be true
teachers.
November 24. Thanksgiving is over; I have been to Beverly and returned.
I am glad they wanted me so much, for I should not have gone without;
and in this place there is little in harmony with our best home
festival. Our governor’s proclamation was of the true Puritan stamp;
and the day was one to be kept religiously, in view of our present
national troubles, and of the strong Power that is bearing us through
and over them. We are sure that God is on our side; and one of the
things to be most thankful for is that the desire for the liberation of
the slave is becoming universal. Our armies, that began to fight for
Union alone, now see that Union is nothing without freedom, and when
this Northern heart is fully inspired with that sentiment the Northern
hand will strike a decisive blow; such a blow as only the might of
right can direct.
November 25. The first snow! Light and thick as swan’s-down, it wraps
the shivering bosom of mother earth. Last night I went to sleep with an
uncurtained window before me, and the still, bright stars looking in;
I awoke to find the air dim and heavy with snow, and all the treetops
bending in graceful gratitude; and to think aloud the lines,--
“Oh! if our souls were but half as white
As the beautiful snow that fell last night!”
I do not like this vague kind of unrest, and this dissatisfaction with
myself which returns so often. I am willing to be dissatisfied, but I
want to know exactly with what, that I may mend. I believe the trouble
partly is that I do not, cannot, love very much the people that I see
oftenest. Their thoughts and ways are so different from mine I cannot
comfortably walk with them. It seems to me as if we were like travelers
on the same journey, but in paths wide apart; and we can only make one
another hear by effort and shouting. Whether this is wrong, or simply
one of the things that cannot be helped, I cannot clearly see; but I am
afraid that I am too willing to excuse myself for so doing.
November 26. The last day of school; my classes all examined, and
to-morrow we scatter, to gather ourselves together again in two weeks.
I am not sure whether I like or dislike these frequent changes; on the
whole I think I like them; for they break up the monotony, and then
one does get so totally glued to the manner of school life: there is
no better name for the cohesive power that makes us one household for
the time. I do not believe it possible (for me, at least, and I doubt
whether it is for any woman) to have quite a home feeling, among the
many living together, in a place like this. There is not expansive
power enough in me to take in all.
Beverly, December. The two weeks of vacation are nearly over, and I
have done nothing but sew. I had planned to read, and paint, and walk,
and rest; but things are as they are, and one cannot go in tatters. I
like to be somewhat troubled and absorbed in the necessities of life,
_once in a while_; it is rather pleasant than otherwise to feel that
something urgently requires my attention; and then this is the way to
realize how three fourths of the inhabitants of this world live to eat,
drink, and wear clothes.
December 13. Vacation is over; and here I am at Norton again, not so
fully awake and in earnest about school work as I wish I was.
My whole life has lost the feeling of reality; I cannot tell why.
Alike in the city, by the seashore, and here on the levels of this
now leafless flat-land, I feel as if I were “moving about in worlds
unrealized.” I know well enough the theory of life; what principles
must sustain me; what great objects there are to live for; and still
there remains the same emptiness, the same wonder in everything I do.
I feel as I imagine the world might have felt, when going through some
of its slow transitions from chaos into habitable earth,--waiting for
sunshine, and bursting buds, and running rivers. I suppose I am not
ready for full life yet.
December 16. To-day there are rumors of a possible war with England,
on account of the affair of Mason and Slidell, now prisoners in Boston
harbor. It will be an outrage on humanity, a proof that England’s
pompous declamations against slavery are all hypocritical, if this
should be done; for all good authorities have declared that a war on
this account would never be, unless a pretext for war was wanted.
Perhaps Providence intends that this shall be brought out definitely as
a struggle for principles; I think the nation and the army need some
such lesson, and they will not learn it unless it is made very plain.
December 22. I have found what are to be my two books of Bible
study,--my two Sabbath books for the term. They are Neander’s “History
of the Church,” and Conybeare and Howson’s “Life of St. Paul.” I have
commenced them both, and find that satisfaction in them that is only
met with by coming in contact with a character,--gifted, scholarly and
Christian.
How I should like to live a free life with nature one year through!
out in the bracing winds, the keen frosty air, and over the crackling
snowcrust, wherever I would; and then in summer, seek the mountains or
the sea, as I chose; no study, no thoughts, but what came as a thing
of course; no system, except nature’s wild ways, which have always
their own harmony, evident enough when one enters into them, though
understood by no mere observer.
December 28. A pretty table found its way into my room Christmas
morning, a gift contributed from two classes: I was half sorry and
half glad to receive it; I don’t think I appreciate this kind of a
present--it represents so many persons, some vaguely and some clearly
fixed in memory--so much as a simpler token from the heart of one
friend. And yet I feel the kindness which prompted the gift, and am
grateful for it, I am sure.
How ashamed one is obliged to be just now of the “mother country”!
_Step-mother Country_ England ought to be called, for her treatment
of us in our trouble. It is hard to believe that all she has said
against slavery was insincere, and that she would really like to see
the slave-power established and flourishing on the ruins of our free
Republic; but her actions say so.
Yet we are not guiltless; not wholly purged from the curse yet. The
army is not entirely anti-slavery in principles; and we cannot look for
success, nor wish it, but for the sake of freedom.