It is very much to be regretted that all of Sarah Grimké's letters to
Angelina, and to other members of her family at this time, were, at her
own request, destroyed as received. They would not only have afforded
most interesting reading, but would have thrown light on much which,
without them, is necessarily obscure. Nor were there more than
twenty-five or thirty of Angelina's letters preserved, and they were
written between the years 1826 and 1828. We therefore have but little
data by which to follow Sarah's life during the five years succeeding
her return to Philadelphia, and before she again went, to Charleston;
or Angelina's life at home, during the same period. Sarah's diary,
frequently interrupted, continues to record her religious sorrows, for
these followed her even into the peaceful home at "Greenhill Farm," the
name of Israel Morris's place, where she was received and treated like
a near and dear relative; and it was but natural and proper that she
should be so accepted by the members of Mr. Morris's family. He was
literally her only friend at the North. Through his influence she had
been brought into the Quaker religion, and encouraged to leave her
mother and native land. She was entirely unpractised in the ways of the
world, and was besides in very narrow circumstances, her only available
income being the interest on $10,000, the sum left by Judge Grimké to
each of his children. The estate had not yet been settled up. Add to
all this the virtue of hospitality, inculcated by the Quaker doctrine,
and it seems perfectly natural that Sarah should accept the offer of
her friend in the spirit in which it was made, and feel grateful to her
Heavenly Father that such a refuge was provided for her.
The notes in her journal for that summer are rather meagre. She
attended meeting regularly, but made no formal application to be
received into the Society of Friends. It would hardly have been
considered so soon; she must first go through a season of probation.
How hard this was is told in the lamentations and prayers which she
confided to her diary. The "fearful act of disobedience" of which she
was guilty in Charleston lay as a heavy load on her spirit, troubling
her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, until she says: "At times
I am almost led to believe I shall never know good any more."
Notwithstanding these trying spiritual exercises, the summer seems to
have passed in more peace than she had dared to hope for. Israel Morris
was a truly good man, with a strong, genial nature, which must have had
a soothing effect upon Sarah's troubled spirit. But before many months
her thoughts began to turn back to home. Her mother's want of
spirituality, from her standpoint, grieved her greatly. The accounts
she received of the disorder in the family added to her anxieties, and
she felt that her influence was needed to bring about harmony, and to
guide her mother on the road to Zion. She laid the case before the
Lord, and, receiving no intimation that she would be doing a wrong
thing, she decided to return to Charleston.
Before leaving Philadelphia, however, she felt that it was her duty to
assume the full Quaker dress. She had worn plain colors from the time
she began to attend meeting in her native city, but the clothes were
not fashioned after the Quaker style, and she still indulged herself in
occasionally wearing a becoming black dress; though when she did so,
she not only felt uncomfortable herself, but knew that she made many of
her friends so. "Persisting in so doing," she says, "I have since been
made sensible, manifested a want of condescension entirely unbecoming a
Christian, and one day conviction was so strong on this subject, that,
as I was dressing, I felt as if I could not proceed, but sat down with
my dress half on, and these words passed through my mind: Can it be of
any consequence in the sight of God whether I wear a black dress or
not? The evidence was clear that it was not, but that self-will was the
cause of my continuing to do it. For this I suffered much, but was at
length strengthened to cast away this idol."
Remembering the fashionable life she had once led, and her natural
taste for the beautiful in all things, it must have been something of a
sacrifice, even though sustained by her religious exaltation, to lay
aside everything pretty and becoming, and, denying herself even so much
as a flower from nature's own fields, to array herself in the scant and
sober dress of drab, the untrimmed kerchief, and the poke bonnet.
Writing from Greenhill in October, she says:
"On last Fifth Day I changed my dress for the more plain one of the
Quakers, not because I think making my clothes in their peculiar manner
makes me any better, but because I believe it was laid upon me, seeing
that my natural will revolted from the idea of assuming this garb. I
trust I have made this change in a right spirit, and with a single eye
to my dear Redeemer. It was accompanied by a feeling of much peace."
Late in the autumn she sailed for Charleston, and was received by the
home circle with affection, though her plain dress gave occasion for
some slighting remarks. These, however, no longer affected her as they
once had done, and she bore them in silence. Surrounded by her family,
all of whom she warmly loved, in spite of their want of sympathy with
her, rooming with her "precious child," with full opportunity to
counsel and direct her, and intent upon carrying out reform in the
household, she was for a time almost contented. She took up her old
routine, her charities, and her schools, and attended meeting
regularly. But a very few weeks sufficed to make her realize her utter
inability to harmonize the discordant elements in her home, or to make
more than a transient impression upon her mother. Day by day she became
more discouraged; everything seemed to conspire to thwart her efforts
for good, which were misconstrued and misunderstood. Surrounded, too,
and besieged by all the familiar influences of her old life, it became
harder to sustain her peculiar views and habits, and spiritual
luke-warmness gained rapidly upon her. With deep humility she
acknowledged the mistake she had made in going back to Charleston,
which place was evidently not the vineyard in which she could labor to
any profit.
In July she was again in Philadelphia, a member now of the family of
Catherine Morris, sister to Israel. Here she remained until after her
admission into Friends' Society, when, feeling it her duty to make
herself independent of the friends who had been so kind to her, she
cast about her for something to do, and was mortified and chagrined to
find there was nothing suited to her capacity.
"Oh!" she exclaims, "had I received the education I desired, had I been
bred to the profession of the law, I might have been a useful member of
society, and instead of myself and my property being taken care of, I
might have been a protector of the helpless, a pleader for the poor and
unfortunate."
The industrial avenues for women were few and narrow in those days; and
for the want of some practical knowledge, the doors Sarah Grimké might
have entered were closed to her, and she was finally forced to abandon
her hopes of independence, and to again accept a home for the winter in
Israel Morris's house, now in the city. It must not be supposed,
however, that either here or at Catherine's, where she afterwards made
her steady home, she was a burden or a hindrance. She was too energetic
and too conscientious to be a laggard anywhere. So kind and so
thoughtful was she, so helpful in sickness, so sympathetic in joy and
in sorrow, that she more than earned her frugal board wherever she
went. Could she only have been persuaded that it was right to yield to
her naturally cheerful temper, she would have been a delightful
companion at all times; but her sadness frequently affected her
friends, and even drew forth an occasional reproof. The ministry, that
dreadful requirement which she felt sure the Lord would make of her,
was ever before her, and in fear and trembling she awaited the moment
when the command would be given, "Arise and speak."
This painful preparation went on year after year, but her advance
towards her expected goal was very slow. She would occasionally nerve
herself to speak a few words of admonition in a small meeting, make a
short prayer, or quote a text of scripture, but her services were
limited to these efforts. She often feared that she was restrained by
her desire that her first attempt at exhorting should be a brilliant
success, and place her at once where she would be a power in the
meetings; and she prayed constantly for a clear manifestation,
something she could not mistake, that she might not be tempted by the
hope of relief from present suffering to move prematurely in the "awful
work."
Thus she waited, trying to restrain and satisfy her impatient yearnings
for some real, living work by teaching charity schools, visiting
prisons, and going through the duties of monthly, quarterly, and yearly
meetings. But she could not shut out from herself the doubts that would
force themselves forward, that her time was not employed as it should
be.
We hear nothing of her family during these years, nothing to indicate
any change in their condition or in their feelings. We know, however,
that Sarah kept up a frequent correspondence with her mother and with
Angelina, and that chiefly through her admonitions the latter was
turned from her worldly life to more serious concerns.
Like Sarah, Angelina grew up a gay, fashionable girl. Her personal
beauty and qualities of mind and heart challenged the admiration of all
who came in contact with her. More brilliant than Sarah, she was also
more self-reliant, and, though quite as sympathetic and sensitive, she
was neither so demonstrative nor so tender in her feelings as her elder
sister, and her manner being more dignified and positive, she inspired,
even in those nearest to her, a certain degree of awe which forbade,
perhaps, the fulness of confidence which Sarah's greater gentleness
always invited. Her frankness and scrupulous conscientiousness were
equal to Sarah's, but she always preserved her individuality and her
right to think for herself. Once convinced, she could maintain her
opinion against all arguments and persuasions, no matter from whom. As
an illustration of this, it is related of her that when she was about
thirteen years of age the bishop of the diocese called to talk to her
about being confirmed. She had, of course, been baptized when an
infant, and he told her she was now old enough to take upon herself the
vows then made for her. She asked the meaning of confirmation, and was
referred to the prayer-book. After reading the rite over, she said:--
"I cannot be confirmed, for I cannot promise what is here required."
The bishop urged that it was a form which all went through who had been
baptized in the Church, and expected to remain in it. Looking him
calmly in the face, she said, in a tone whose decision could not be
questioned:--
"If, with my feelings and views as they now are, I should go through
that form, it would be acting a lie. I cannot do it." And no
persuasions could induce her to consent.
Like Sarah, she felt much for the slaves, and was ever kind to them,
thoughtful, and considerate. She, too, suffered keenly when punishments
were inflicted upon them; and no one could listen without tears to the
account she gave of herself, as a little girl, stealing out of the
house after dark with a bottle of oil with which to anoint the wounds
of some poor creature who had been torn by the lash. Earlier than
Sarah, she recognized the whole injustice of the system, and refused
ever to have anything to do with it. She did once own a woman, but
under the following circumstances:--
"I had determined," she writes, "never to own a slave; but, finding
that my mother could not manage Kitty, I undertook to do so, if I could
have her without any interference from anyone. This could not be unless
she was mine, and purely from notions of duty I consented to own her.
Soon after, one of my mother's servants quarrelled with her, and beat
her. I determined she should not be subject to such abuse, and I went
out to find her a place in some Christian family. My steps were ordered
by the Lord. I succeeded in my desire, and placed her with a religious
friend, where she was kindly treated."
Afterwards, when the woman had become a good Methodist, Angelina
transferred the ownership to her mother, not wishing to receive the
woman's wages,--to take, as she said, money which that poor creature
had earned.
There is no evidence that, up to the time of her first visit to
Philadelphia, in 1828, she saw anything sinful in owning slaves;
indeed, Sarah distinctly says she did not. She took the Bible as
authority for the right to own them, and their cruel treatment by their
masters was all that distressed her for many years.
Like most of her young companions, Angelina had great respect for the
ordinary observances of religion without much devotional sense of its
sacred obligations. But Sarah did not neglect her duty as godmother.
Her searching inquiries and solemn warnings had their effect, and soon
awakened a slumbering conscience. But its upbraidings were not accepted
unquestionably by Angelina, as they had been by Sarah. They only stung
her into a desire for investigation. She must know the why; and her
strong self-reliance helped her judgment, and buoyed her up amid waves
of doubt and anxiety that would have submerged her more timid sister.
In the first letter of hers that was preserved, written in January,
1826, we are introduced to her religious feelings, and find that they
were formed by the pattern set by Sarah, save that they lacked Sarah's
earnestness and sincere conviction. She acknowledges herself a poor,
miserable sinner, but the tone is that of confidence that she will come
out all right, and that it isn't really such a dreadful thing to be a
sinner after all. In this letter, too, she mentions the death of her
brother Benjamin, and in the same spirit in which Sarah wrote of it.
"I was in Beaufort," she says, "when the news of my dear Ben's fate
arrived. You may well suppose it was a great shock to my feelings, but
I did not for one moment doubt all was right. This blow has been dealt
by the hand of mercy. We have been much comforted in this dispensation.
I have felt that it was good for me, and I think I have been thankful
for it."
And further on: "If this affliction will only make Mary (Benjamin's
wife) a real Christian, how small will be the price of her salvation!"
Poor Ben! heroic, self-sacrificing soul, he was not a professing
Christian.
In this same letter she expresses the desire to become a communicant of
the Episcopal Church.
But she did not wait for Sarah's answer. Before it came, she and one of
her sisters had joined the Church. This was in January. Before a month
had passed she began to be dissatisfied, and grew more and more so as
time went on. Why, it is not difficult to surmise. From having been
accustomed to much society and genial intercourse, she found herself,
from her own choice, shut out from it all, and imprisoned within the
rigid formalism and narrow exclusiveness of a proud, aristocratic
church society. The compensation of knowing herself a lamb of this
flock was not sufficient. She starved, she says, on the cold water of
Episcopacy, and, to her mother's distress, began going to the
Presbyterian church, just as Sarah had done.
In April, she writes thus to her sister:--
"O, my dear mother, I have joyful news to tell you. God has given me a
new heart. He has renewed a right spirit within me. This is news which
has occasioned even the angels in heaven to rejoice; surely, then, as a
Christian, as my sister and my mother, you will also greatly rejoice.
For many years I hardened my heart, and would not listen to God's
admonitions to flee from the wrath to come. Now I feel as if I could
give up all for Christ, and that if I no longer live in conformity to
the world, I can be saved."
She then states that this change was brought about by the preaching of
Mr. McDowell, the Presbyterian minister, and that she can never be
grateful enough, as his ministry had been blessed to the saving of her
soul. A little further on she adds:--
"The Presbyterians, I think, enjoy so many privileges that, on this
account, I would wish to be one. They have their monthly concert and
prayer-meetings, Bible-classes, weekly prayer-meetings, morning and
evening, and many more which spring from different circumstances. I
trust, my dear mother, you will approve of what I have done. I cannot
but think if I had been taking an improper step, my conscience would
have warned me of it, but, far otherwise, I have gone on my way
rejoicing.
"Mr. Hanckel sent me a note and a tract persuasive of my remaining in
his church. The latter I think the most bigoted thing I ever read. He
said he would call and see me on the subject. I trust and believe God
will give me words whereby to refute his arguments. Brother Tom
sanctioned my change, for his liberal mind embraces all classes of
Christians in the arms of charity and love, and he thinks everyone
right to sit under that minister, and choose that form, which makes the
deepest impression on the heart. I feel that I have begun a great work,
and must be diligent. Adieu, my dear mother. You must write soon to
your daughter, and tell her all your mind on this subject."
There is something very refreshing in all this, after poor Sarah's
pages of bitterness and self-reproach. At that time, at any rate,
Angelina enjoyed her religion. It was to her the fulfilment of promise.
Sarah experienced little of its satisfactions, and groaned and wept
under its requirements, from a sense of her utter unworthiness to
accept any of its blessings. And this difference between the sisters
continued always. Angelina knew that humility was the chief of the
Christian virtues, and often she believed she had attained to it; but
there was too much self-assertion, too much of the pride of power, in
her composition, to permit her to go down into the depths, and
prostrate herself in the dust as Sarah did. She could turn her full
gaze to the sun, and bask in its genial beams, while Sarah felt
unworthy to be touched by a single ray, and looked up to its light with
imploring but shaded eyes.
In November, 1827, Sarah again visited Charleston. Her heart yearned
for Angelina, whose religious state excited her tenderest solicitude,
and called for her wisest counsel. For that enthusiastic young convert
was again running off the beaten track, and picking flaws in her new
doctrines. But there was another reason why Sarah desired to absent
herself from Philadelphia for a while.
I can touch but lightly on this experience of her life, for her
sensitive soul quivered under any allusion to it; and though her diary
contains many references to it, they are chiefly in the form of prayers
for submission to her trial, and strength to bear it. But it was the
key-note to the dirge which sounded ever after in her heart, mingling
its mournful numbers with every joy, even after she had risen beyond
her religious horrors.
For months she fought against this new snare of Satan, as she termed
it, this plain design to draw her thoughts from God, and compass her
destruction. The love of Christ should surely be enough for her, and
any craving for earthly affection was the evidence of an unsanctified
heart. In a delicate reference to this, in after years, she says:--
"It is a beautiful theory, but my experience belies it, that God can be
all in all to man. There are moments, diamond points in life, when God
fills the yearning soul, and supplies all our needs, through the
richness of his mercy in Christ Jesus. But human hearts are created for
human hearts to love and be loved by, and their claims are as true and
as sacred as those of the spirit."
It was very soon after her first doubts concerning her worthiness to
accept the happiness offered to her that she determined to go to
Charleston and put her feelings to the test of absence and unbiased
reflection. The entry in her diary of November 22d is as follows:--
"Landed this morning in Charleston, and was welcomed by my dear mother
with tears of pleasure and tenderness, as she folded me once more to
her bosom. My dear sisters, too, greeted me with all the warmth of
affection. It is a blessing to find them all seriously disposed, and my
precious Angelina one of the Master's chosen vessels. What a mercy!"