To Mrs. David Lane.
SHEFFIELD, Ally 19, 1865.
BE it known to you, my objurgatory friend, that I have finished a
sermon this very evening,--a sermon of reasonings, in part, upon this
very matter on which you speak; that is, the difference of opinion
in the Convention. "Prove all things; hold fast that which is good."
Radicalism and Conservatism. The Convention took the ground that both,
as they exist in our body, could work together; it accepted large
contributions in money from both sides, and it is not necessary to
decide which side is right, in order to see that a statement of faith
should have been adopted in which both could agree. I was glad, for my
part, to find that the conservative party was so strong. I distrust the
radical more than I do the conservative tendencies in our church; still
I hope we are too just, not to say liberal, to hold that mere strength
can warrant us in doing any wrong to the weaker party. [282] To be
sure, if I thought, as I suppose--and--do, that the radical ground was
fatal to Christianity, I should oppose it in the strongest way. But
the Convention did not assume that position. On the contrary, it said,
"Let us co-operate; let us put our money together, and work together as
brethren." Then we should not have forced a measure through to the sore
hurt and pain of either party.
As to the main question between them,--how Jesus is to be regarded,
whether simply as the loftiest impersonation of wisdom and goodness, or
as having a commission and power to save beyond that and different from
it,--one may not be sure. But of this I am sure, that he who takes upon
his heart the living impression of that divinest life and love is saved
in the noblest sense. And I do not see but there is as much of this
salvation in those young men as in those who repel and rebuke them.
There! let that sheet go by itself. Alas! the question with me is not
which of them is right, but whether I am right,--and that in something
far more vital than opinion. It does seem as if one who has lived as
long as I have, ought to have overcome all his spiritual foes; but
I do not find it so. I feel sometimes as if I were only struggling
harder and harder with all the trying questions, both speculative and
spiritual, that press upon our mortal frame and fate.
To Miss Catherine ill Sedgwick.
SHEFFIELD, Dec. 31, 1865.
. . . I AM talking of myself, when I am thinking more of you, and how
it is with you in these winter days, the [283] last of the year. I
hope that they do not find you oppressed with weakness or suffering;
and if they do not, I am sure that your spirit is alert and happy,
and that the bright snow-fields and the lovely meteor of beauty that
hangs in the air in such a morning as this was, are as charming to
you as they ever were. It is-a delight to your friends to know that
all things lovely are, if possible, more lovely to you than ever. Are
there not bright rays shining through our souls,--streaming from the
Infinite Light,--that make us feel that they are made to grow brighter
and brighter forever? Ah! our confidence in immortality must be this
feeling, and never a thing to be reasoned out by any logical processes.
Jan. 1, 1866. I have stepped, you see, from the old year to the new. I
wish all the good wishes to you, and take them from you in return as
surely as if you uttered them.
This year is to be momentous to us, if for no other reason, that K. is
to be married. And we are to be no more together much, perhaps, in this
world. It is an inconceivable wrench in my existence. This marrying
is the cruellest thing; and it is a perfect wonder and mystery of
Providence that parents give in to it as they do.
To Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.
SHEFFIELD, Feb. 20, 666.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I wonder if you can understand how happy I am in my
nook,--you who have so much of another sort of happiness, but not this,
(no nook for you!) with my winter's task done, "with none to hurt nor
destroy," that is, my time, "in all the holy [284] mountain," that is,
the Taghkonic. Dear old Taghkonic,--quiet, happy valley,--blessed,
undisturbed fireside,-what contrast could be greater than New York to
all this! "Ahem! not so fast, my friend," say you; "other places are
blessed and happy besides valleys and mountains." Yes, I know. And I
confess my late experience inclines me to think that, for the mind's
health and sharpening, cities are desirable places to be in, for a
part of the year, notwithstanding all the notwithstandings. Of course,
strong and collected thought works free and clear everywhere, or tends
that way; but it did seem to me that the whirl of the great maelstrom
left but few people in a condition to think, or to form well-considered
opinions, or to meditate much upon anything. Yes, I know it,--"The
mind is its own place," (nothing was ever better said), and it may be
fretted and frittered away to nothing in country quiet, and it may be
strong and calm and full in the city throng. . . . And more and more do
I feel that this nature of mine is the deep ground-warrant for faith in
God and immortality. Everywhere in the creation there is a proportion
between means and ends,--between all natures and their destinies. And
can it be that my soul, which, in its few days' unfolding, is already
stretching ()LA its hands to God and to eternity, and which has all
its being and welfare wrapped up in those sublime verities, is made to
strive and sigh for them in vain, to stretch out its hands to--nothing?
This day rises upon us fair and beautiful,--the precursor, [285] I
believe, of endless days. If not, I would say with Job, "Let it be
darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light
shine upon it; for darkness and the shadow of death stain it." But
what a different staining was upon it this morning! As I looked out
upon the mountain just before sunrise, it showed like a mountain-rose
blossoming up out of the earth,--covered all over with the deepest
rose-color. . . .
Ever your friend,