It was quite the custom in the last century and the beginning of the
present one for cultivated people to keep diaries, in which the
incidents of each day were jotted down, accompanied by the expression
of private opinions and feelings. Women, especially, found this diary a
pleasant sort of confessional, a confidante to whose pages they could
entrust their most secret thoughts without fear of rebuke or betrayal.
Sarah Grimké's diary, covering over five hundred pages of closely
written manuscript, though not begun until 1821, gives many reminiscences
of her youth, and describes with painful conscientiousness her
religious experiences. She also repeatedly regrets the fact that her
education, though what was considered at that time a good one, was
entirely superficial, embracing only that kind of knowledge which is
acquired for display. What useful information she received she owed to
the conversations of her father and her brother Thomas, her "beloved
companion and friend."
There is no doubt that this want of proper training was to her a cause
of regret during her whole life. With her, learning was always a
passion; and, in passing, I may say she never thought herself too old
for study and the acquisition of knowledge. As she grew up, and saw the
very different education her brothers were receiving, her ambition and
independence were fired, and she longed to share their advantages. But
in vain she entreated permission to do so. The only answer she received
was: "You are a girl; what do you want of Latin and Greek and
philosophy? You can never use them." And when it was discovered that
she was secretly studying law, and was ambitious to stand side by side
with her brother at the bar, smiles and sneers rebuked her "unwomanly"
aspirations. And though she argued the point with much spirit, unable
to see why the mere fact of being a girl should confine her to the
necessity of being a "doll, a coquette, a fashionable fool," she failed
to secure a single adherent to her strong-minded ideas. Her nature thus
denied its proper nutriment, and her most earnest desires crushed, she
sought relief in another direction. Painting, poetry, general reading
occupied her leisure time, while she was receiving private tuition from
the best masters in Charleston.
At sixteen she was introduced into society, or, as she phrases it,
"initiated into the circles of dissipation and folly." In her account
of the life she led in those circles she does not spare herself.
"I believe," she writes, "for the short space I was exhibited on this
theatre, few have exceeded me in extravagance of every kind, and in the
sinful indulgence of pride and vanity, sentiments which, however, were
strongly mingled with a sense of their insufficiency to produce even
earthly happiness, with an eager desire for intellectual pursuits, and
a thorough contempt for the trifles I was engaged in. Often during this
period have I returned home, sick of the frivolous beings I had been
with, mortified at my own folly, and weary of the ball-room and its
gilded toys. Night after night, as I glittered now in this gay scene,
now in that, my soul has been disturbed by the query, 'Where are the
talents committed to thy charge?' But the intrusive thought would be
silenced by the approach of some companion, or a call to join the
dance, or by the presentation of the stimulating cordial, and my
remorse and my hopeless desires would be drowned for the time being.
Once, in utter disgust, I made a resolution to abstain from such
amusements; but it was made in self-will, and did not stand long,
though I was so earnest that I gave away much of my finery. I cannot
look back to those years without a blush of shame, a feeling of anguish
at the utter perversion of the ends of my being. But for my tutelary
god, my idolized brother, my young, passionate nature, stimulated by
that love of admiration which carries many a high and noble soul down
the stream of folly to the whirlpool of an unhallowed marriage, I had
rushed into this lifelong misery. Happily for me, this butterfly life
did not last long. My ardent nature had another channel opened for it,
through which it rushed with its usual impetuosity. I was converted,
and turned over to doing good."
Up to this time she was a communicant in the Episcopal church, and a
regular attendant on its various services. But, as she records, her
heart was never touched, her soul never stirred. She heard the same
things preached week after week,--the necessity of coming to Christ and
the danger of delay,--and she wondered at her insensibility. She joined
in family worship, and was scrupulously exact in her private devotions;
but all was done mechanically, from habit, and no quickening sense of
her "awful condition" came to her until she went one night, on the
invitation of a friend, to hear a Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Henry
Kolloch, celebrated for his eloquence. He preached a thrilling sermon,
and Sarah was deeply moved. But the impression soon wore off, and she
returned to her gay life with renewed ardor. A year after, the same
minister revisited Charleston; and again she went to hear him, and
again felt the "arrows of conscience," and again disregarded the solemn
warning. The journal continues:--
"After this he came no more; and in the winter of 1813-14 I was led in
an unusual degree into scenes of dissipation and frivolity. It seemed
as if my cup of worldly pleasure was filled to the brim; and after
enjoying all the city afforded, I went into the country in the spring
with a fashionable acquaintance, designing to finish my wild career
there."
While on this visit, she accidentally met the Rev. Dr. Kolloch, and
became acquainted with him. He seems to have taken a warm interest in
her spiritual welfare, and his conversations made a serious impression
on her which her gay friends tried to remove. But her sensitive spirit
was so affected by his admonitions, and warnings of the awful
consequences of persisting in a course of conduct which must eventually
lead to everlasting punishment, that she was made very miserable. She
trembled as he portrayed her doom, and wept bitterly; but, though she
assented to the truth of his declarations, she did not feel quite
prepared to give up the pomps and vanities of her life, unsatisfactory
as they were. A sore conflict began in her mind, and she could take no
pleasure in anything. Dr. Kolloch's parting question to her, spoken in
the most solemn tones, "Can you, then, dare to hesitate?" rang
continually in her ears; and the next few days and nights were passed
in a turmoil of various feelings, until, exhausted, she gave up the
struggle, and acknowledged herself sensible of the emptiness of worldly
gratifications, and thought she was willing to resign all for Christ.
She returned home sorrowful and heavy-hearted. The glory of the world
was stained, and she no longer dared to participate in its vain
pleasures. She felt "loaded down with iniquity," and, almost sinking
under a sense of her guilt and her danger, she secluded herself from
society, and put away her ornaments, "determined to purchase Heaven at
any price." But she found no relief in these sacrifices; and, after
enduring much trial at her ill success, she wrote to Dr. Kolloch,
informing him of her state of mind.
"Over his answer," she writes, "I shed many tears; but, instead of
prostrating myself in deep abasement before the Lord, and craving his
pardon, I was desirous of doing something which might claim his
approbation and disperse the thick cloud which seemed to hide him from
me. I therefore set earnestly to work to do good according to my
capacity. I fed the hungry and clothed the naked, I visited the sick
and afflicted, and vainly hoped these outside works would purify a
heart defiled with the pride of life, still the seat of carnal
propensities and evil passions; but here, too, I failed. I went
mourning on my way under the curse of a broken law; and, though I often
watered my couch with my tears, and pleaded with my Maker, yet I knew
nothing of the sanctifying influence of his holy spirit, and, not
finding that happiness in religion I anticipated, I, by degrees,
through the persuasions of companions and the inclination of my
depraved heart, began to go a little more into society, and to resume
my former style of dressing, though in comparative moderation."
She then states how, some time after she had thus departed from her
Christian profession. Dr. Kolloch came once more, and his sad and
earnest rebukes made her unutterably wretched. But she tried to stifle
the voice of conscience by entering more and more into worldly
amusements, until she had lost nearly all spiritual sense. Her
disposition became soured by incessantly yielding to temptation, and
she adds:--
"I know not where I might have been landed, had not the merciful
interposition of Providence stopped my progress."
This "merciful interposition of Providence" was nothing less than the
declining health of her father; and it affords, indeed, a curious
comment on the old Orthodox teachings, that this young woman, devotedly
attached to her father, and fully appreciating his value to his family,
should have regarded his ill-health as sent by God for her especial
benefit, to interrupt her worldly course, and compass her salvation.
Judge Grimké's illness continued for a year or more; and so faithfully
did Sarah nurse him that when it was decided that he should go to
Philadelphia to consult Dr. Physic, she was chosen to accompany him.
This first visit to the North was the most important event of Sarah's
life, for the influences and impressions there received gave some shape
to her vague and wayward fancies, and showed her a gleam of the light
beyond the tangled path which still stretched before her.
She found lodgings for her father and herself in a Quaker family whose
name is not mentioned. About their life there, little is said; Sarah
being too much occupied with the care of her dear invalid to take much
interest in her new surroundings. Judge Grimké's health continued to
decline. His daughter's account of the last days of his life is very
touching, and shows not only how deep was her religious feeling, but
how tender and yet how strong she was all through this great trial. The
father and daughter, strangers in a strange land, drawn more closely
together by his suffering and her necessary care, became friends.
indeed; their attachment increasing day by day, until, ere their final
separation, they loved each other with that fervent affection which
grows only with true sympathy and unbounded confidence. Sarah thus
wrote of it:--
"I regard this as the greatest blessing, next to my conversion, I have
ever received from God, and I think if all my future life is passed in
affliction this mercy alone should make me willingly, yea, cheerfully
and joyously, submit to the chastisements of the Lord."
During their stay in Philadelphia, she had hoped for her father's
recovery, but when, by the doctor's advice, they went to Long Branch,
and she saw how weak and ill he was, this hope forsook her, and she
describes her agony as something never to be effaced from her memory.
Doubtless this was intensified by her lone and friendless position.
They were in a tavern, without one human being to soothe them or
sympathize with them. "But," she writes, "let me here acknowledge the
mercy of that Being whose everlasting arms supported me in this hour of
suffering. After the first burst of grief I became calm, and felt an
assurance that He in whom I trusted would never leave nor forsake me,
and that I would have strength given me, even to the performance of the
last sad duties. But the end was not yet; the disease fluctuated, some
days arousing a gleam of hope, only to be extinguished by the next
day's weakness. Alas! I was compelled to see that death was certainly,
though slowly, approaching, and all feeling for my own suffering was
sunk in anxiety to contribute to my father's comfort, and smooth his
passage to the grave. And, blessed be God, I was not only able to
minister to many of his temporal wants, but permitted to strengthen his
hopes of a happy immortality. I prayed with him and read to him, and I
cannot recollect hearing an impatient expression from him during his
whole illness, or a wish that his sufferings might be lessened or
abridged. He often tried to conceal his bodily pain, and to soothe me
by every appearance of cheerful piety. Thus he lingered until the 6th
of August, when he grew visibly worse. Many incoherent expressions
escaped him, but even then how tenderly he spoke of me, I ever shall
remember.... About eight o'clock I moved him to his own bed, and,
sitting down, prepared to watch by him. He entreated me to lie down,
and I told him when he slept I would.
"'Oh, God,' he exclaimed with fervent energy, 'how sweet to sleep and
wake in heaven!' This last desire was realized. He clasped one of my
hands, and as I bent over him and arranged his pillow he put his arm
around me. I did not stir; apparently he slept. But the relaxed grasp,
the dewy coldness, the damps of death which stood upon his forehead,
all told me that he was hastening fast to Jesus. Alone, at the hour of
midnight, I sat by this bed of death. My eyes were fixed on that face
whose calmness seemed to say, 'I rest in peace.' A gentle pressure of
the hand, and a scarcely audible respiration, alone indicated that life
was not extinct; at length that pressure ceased, and the strained ear
could no longer hear a breath. I continued gazing on the lifeless form,
closed his eyes and kissed him. His spirit, freed from the shackles of
mortality, had sprung to its source, the bosom of his God. I passed the
rest of the night alone."
And alone, the only mourner, this brave, heart-stricken girl followed
the remains of her beloved father to the grave.
When all was over she went back to Philadelphia, where she remained two
or three months, and then returned to Charleston.
During the season of family mourning which followed, having nothing
especial to do, Sarah became more than ever concerned about her
spiritual welfare. She constantly deplored her lukewarmness, and
regarded herself as standing on the edge of a precipice from which she
had no power to withdraw. The subject of slavery began now also to
agitate her mind. After her residence in Philadelphia, where doubtless
she had to listen to some sharp reflections on the Southern
institution, it seemed more than ever abhorrent to her, but it does not
appear that she gave utterance to her feelings on more than one or two
occasions. Even her diary contains only a slight and occasional
reference to them. She saw, she says, how useless it was to discuss the
subject, as even Angelina, the child of her own training, could see
nothing wrong in the mere fact of slave-holding, if the slaves were
kindly treated.
Her brother Thomas, to whom she might have opened her overburdened
heart, and received from his affection and good sense, comfort and
strength, she saw little of; besides, he was a slave-owner, and among
his numerous reform theories of education, politics, and religion, he
does not seem to have thought of touching slavery. He was a leading
member of the bar, very busy with his literary work, had a wife and
family, and resided out of the city.
Alone, therefore, Sarah brooded over her trials, and those of the
slaves, "until they became like a canker, incessantly gnawing." Upon
the latter she could only look as one in bonds herself, powerless to
prevent or ameliorate them. Her sole consolation was teaching the
objects of her compassion, within the lawful restrictions, whenever she
could find the opportunity. But she began to look upon the world as a
wilderness of desolation and suffering, and herself as the most
miserable of sinners, fast hastening to destruction. In this frame of
mind she was induced to listen to the doctrine of universal salvation,
and eagerly adopted it, hoping thereby to find relief from her doubts
and fears. Her mother discovered this with horror, and, trembling for
her daughter's safety, she aroused herself to argue so strongly against
what she termed the false and awful doctrine, that, though Sarah
refused to acknowledge the force of all she said, it had its effect,
and she gradually lost her hold on her new belief. But losing that, she
lost all hope. "Wormwood and gall" were her portion, and, while she
fulfilled the outward duties of religion, dreariness and settled
despondency took possession of her mind. She writes:
"Tears never moistened my eyes; to prayer I was a stranger. With Job I
dared to curse the day of my birth. One day I was tempted to say
something of the kind to my mother. She was greatly shocked, and
reproved me seriously. I craved a hiding-place in the grave, as a rest
from the distress of my feelings, thinking that no estate could be
worse than the present. Sometimes, being unable to pray, unable to
command one feeling of good, either natural or spiritual, I was tempted
to commit some great crime, thinking I could repent and thus restore my
lost sensibility. On this I often meditated, and assuredly should have
fallen into this snare had not the mercy of God still followed me."
I might go on for many pages painting this dreary picture of a
misdirected life, but enough has been quoted at present to show Sarah
Grimké's strong, earnest, impressionable nature, and the effects upon
it of the teachings of the old theology, mingled with the narrow
Southern ideas of usefulness and woman's sphere. Endowed with a
superior intellect, with a most benevolent and unselfish disposition,
with a cheerful, loving nature, she desired above all things to be an
active, useful member of society. But every noble impulse was strangled
at its birth by the iron bands of a religion that taught the
crucifixion of every natural feeling as the most acceptable offering to
a stern and relentless God. She was now twenty-eight years of age, and
with the exception of the period devoted to her father she had as yet
thought and worked only for herself. I do not mean that she neglected
home duties, or her private charities and visits to the afflicted, but
all these offices were performed from one especial motive and with the
same end in view to avert from herself the wrath of her Maker. This one
thought filled all her mind. All else was as nothing. Family and
friends, home and humanity, were of importance only as they furthered
this object. It is in this spirit that she mentioned her father's
illness and death, and the heroic, self-sacrificing death, by
shipwreck, of her brother Benjamin, to which she could resign herself
from a conviction that the stroke was sent as a chastisement to her,
and was a merciful dispensation to draw his young wife nearer to God.
We read not one word of solicitude for mother, or brothers, or sisters,
not a single prayer for their conversion. She was too busy watching and
weeping over her own short-comings to concern herself about their doom.
The long diary is filled with the reiteration of her fears, her
sorrows, and her prayers. Many years afterwards she thus referred to
this condition of her mind:--
"I cannot without shuddering look back to that period. How dreadful did
the state of my mind become! Nothing interested me; I fulfilled my
duties without any feeling of satisfaction, in gloomy silence. My lips
moved in prayer, my feet carried me to the holy sanctuary, but my heart
was estranged from piety. I felt as if my doom was irrevocably fixed,
and I was destined to that fire which is never quenched. I have never
experienced any feeling so terrific as the despair of salvation. My
soul still remembers the wormwood and the gall, still remembers how
awful the conviction that every door of hope was closed, and that I was
given over unto death."
Naturally, such a strain at last impaired her health, and, her mother
becoming alarmed, she was sent in the autumn of 1820 to North Carolina,
where several relatives owned plantations on the Cape Fear River. She
was welcomed with great affection, especially by her aunt, the wife of
her uncle James Smith, and mother of Barnwell Rhett. (This name was
assumed by him on the inheritance of property from a relative of that
name.)
In the village near which this aunt lived there was no place of worship
except the Methodist meeting-house. Sarah attended this; and under the
earnest and alarming preaching she heard there, together with
association with some of the most spiritual-minded of the members, she
was aroused from her apathetic state, and was enabled to join in their
services with some interest. She even offered up prayer with them, and
at one of their love feasts delivered a public testimony to the truths
of the gospel. Thus associated with them, she was induced to examine
their principles and doctrines, but found them as faulty as all the
rest she had from time to time investigated. She therefore soon decided
not to become one of them. From her earliest serious impressions, she
had been dissatisfied with Episcopacy, feeling its forms lifeless; but
now, after having carefully considered the various other sects, and
finding error in all, she concluded to remain in the church whose
doctrines at least satisfied her as well as those of any other, and
were those of her mother and her family.
Of the Society of Friends she knew little, and that little was
unfavorable. To a remark made one day by her mother, relative to her
turning Quaker, she replied, with some warmth:--
"Anything but a Quaker or a Catholic!"
Having made up her mind that the Friends were wrong, she had steadily
refused, during her stay in Philadelphia, to attend their meetings or
read any of their writings. Nevertheless many things about them,
scarcely noticed at the time,--their quiet dress, orderly manner of
life and gentle tones of voice, together with their many acts of
kindness to her and her father,--came back to her after she had left
them, and especially impressed her as contrasting so strongly with the
slack habits and irregular discipline which made her own home so
unhappy.
On the vessel which carried her from Philadelphia to Charleston, after
her father's death, was a party of Friends; and in the seven days which
it then required to make the voyage, an intimacy sprang up between them
and Sarah which influenced her whole after-life. From one of them she
had accepted a copy of Woolman's works,--evidence that there must have
been religious discussions between them. And that there was talk--
probably some jesting--in the family about Quakers is shown by the
little incident Sarah relates of her brother Thomas presenting her,
soon after her return from North Carolina, with a volume of Quaker
writings he had picked up at some sale. He placed it in her hand,
saying jocosely,--
"Thee had better turn Quaker, Sally; thy long face would suit well
their sober dress."
She was, as we have said, of a naturally cheerful disposition; but her
false views of religion led her to believe that "by the sadness of the
countenance the heart is made better," and she shed more tears, and
offered up more petitions for forgiveness, over occasional irresistible
merriment than I have space to record.
She accepted the book from her brother, read it, and, needing some
explanation of portions of it, wrote to one of the Friends in
Philadelphia whose acquaintance she had made on the vessel. A
correspondence ensued, which resulted after some months in her entire
conversion to Quakerism.
She had now reached, she thought, a resting-place for her weary,
sore-travailed spirit; and, like a tired pilgrim, she dropped all her
burdens beside this fresh stream, from whose waters she expected to
drink such cooling draughts. The quiet of the little meeting-house in
Charleston, the absence of ornament and ceremony, the silent worship by
the few members, the affectionate thee and thou, all soothed her
restless soul for a while, and a sweet calm fell upon her. But she
believed that God constantly spoke to her heart, directing her by the
still, small voice; and the fidelity with which she obeyed this
invisible guide was not only a real detriment to her spiritual
progress, but the cause of much distress to her.
When, as sometimes happened from various causes, she failed in
obedience, her mental suffering was intense, and in abject humility she
accepted as punishment any mortification or sorrow that came to her
afterwards. As a sequence to this hallucination, she also had visions
at various times, and saw and communed with spirits, and did not
hesitate to acknowledge their influence and to respect their
intimations. So marvellously real were her feelings on these points
that her immediate friends, though greatly deploring their effect upon
her, seldom ventured any remonstrance against them. Now, under the
influence of her new belief, the impression of a divine call to be made
upon her deepened, and soon took shape in the persuasion that it was to
be a call to the ministry. Her soul recoiled at the very thought of
work so solemn, and she prayed the Lord to spare her; but the more she
prayed, the stronger and clearer the intimations became, until she felt
that no loop-hole of escape was left her from obedience to her Master's
will. From the publicity the work involved, she intuitively shrank. Her
natural sensitiveness and all the prejudices of her life rebelled
against it, and she could not look forward to it without fear and
trembling. Every meeting now found her, she says, like a craven,
dreading to hear the summons which would oblige her to rise and open
her lips before the two or three gathered there. Vainly did she try to
"hide herself from the Lord." The evidence came distinctly to her one
morning that some words of admonition were required of her; but so
appalling did the act appear to her that she trembled, hesitated,
resisted, and was silent. Sorrow and remorse at once filled her soul;
and, feeling that she had sinned against the Holy Ghost, she thought
that God never could forgive her, and that no sacrifice she could ever
offer could atone for this first act of disobedience. Through long and
dreary years it was the spectre that never would down, but stood ready
to point its accusing finger whenever she was tempted to seek the cause
of her disappointments and sorrows.
Thus, in the very outset of her new departure, arose apprehensions
which followed her continually, robbing her religious exercises of all
peace, and bringing her such a depth of misery that, she says, it
almost destroyed her soul. The frequent letters of her Quaker friend,
though calculated to soothe and encourage her, were all firm on the
point of implicit obedience to the movements of the Spirit; and she
found herself in a straight and narrow path, from which she was not
allowed to deviate.
To this friend, Israel Morris, Sarah seems to have confessed all her
shortcomings, all her fears, until, encouraged by his sympathy, and led
by her longing for a wider field of action, she began to contemplate a
removal to the North. There were other causes which urged her to seek
another home. The inharmonious life in her family, joined to the
reproaches and ridicule constantly aimed at her, and which stung her to
the quick, naturally inspired the desire to go where she would be rid
of it all, and live in peace. In her religious exaltation, it was easy
for her to persuade herself that she was moved to make this important
change by the Lord's command. She sincerely believed it was so, and
speaks of it as an unmistakable call, not to be disregarded, to go
forth from that land, and her work would be shown her. Naturally,
Philadelphia was the spot to which she was directed. When informed of
her desires, Israel Morris not only gave his approval, but invited her
to a home in his family. A door of shelter and safety being thus thrown
open to her, she no longer hesitated, but at once made known her
intention to her relatives. There seems to have been little or no
opposition offered to a step so serious; in fact, her brothers and
sisters, though much attached to her,--for her loving nature was
irresistible,--evidently felt it a relief when she was gone, her strict
and pious life being a constant rebuke to their worldly views and
practices.
Her sister Anna, at her urgent request, accompanied her on the voyage.
This sister, the widow of an Episcopal clergyman, though a defender of
slavery as an institution, recognized its evil influences on the
society where it existed, and gladly accepted the opportunity offered
to take her young daughter away from them. It was necessary, too, that
she should do something to increase her slender income, and Sarah
advised opening a small school in Philadelphia,--a thing which she
could not have done in Charleston without a sacrifice of her own social
position and of the family pride.
There is nothing said of the parting, even from Angelina, though we
know it must have been a hard trial for Sarah to leave this young
sister, just budding into womanhood, and surrounded by all the snares
whose alluring influences she understood so well. That she could
consent to leave her thus is perhaps the strongest proof of her faith
in the imperative nature of the summons to which she felt she was
yielding obedience.
The exiles reached Philadelphia without accident in the latter part of
May, 1821. Lodgings were found for Mrs. Frost and her child, and Sarah
went at once to the residence of her friend, Israel Morris.