Many things about the home life which habit had prevented Angelina from
remarking before, now, since her visit among Friends, struck her as
sinful, and inconsistent with a Christian profession. Only a few days
after her return, she thus writes in her diary:--
"I am much tried at times at the manner in which I am obliged to live
here in so much luxury and ease, and raised so far above the poor, and
spending so much on my board. I want to live in plainness and
simplicity and economy, for so should every Christian do. I am at a
loss how to act, for if I live with mother, which seems the proper
place for me, I must live in this way in a great degree. It is true I
can always take the plainest food, and this I do generally, believing
that whether at home or abroad I ought to eat nothing I think too
sumptuous for a _servant_ of Jesus Christ. For this reason, when I took
tea at a minister's house a few evenings since, I did not touch the
richest cakes, nor the fruit and nuts handed, after tea; and when
paying a visit the other morning, I refused cake and wine, although I
felt fatigued, and would have liked something plain to eat. But it is
not only the food I eat at mother's, but the whole style of living is a
direct departure from the simplicity that is in Christ. The Lord's poor
tell me they do not like to come to such a fine house to see me; and if
they come, instead of being able to read a lesson of frugality, and
deadness to the world, they must go away lamenting over the
inconsistency of a sister professor. One thing is very hard to bear--I
feel obliged to pay five dollars a week for board, though I disapprove
of this extravagance, and am actually accessory in maintaining this
style of living, when I know it is wrong, and am thereby prevented from
giving to the poor as liberally as I would like."
She and Sarah had for several years, when at home, paid board regularly
to their mother, and this was probably one thing which irritated the
other members of the family, several of whom were living in idleness on
their mother, doing nothing and paying nothing. The brothers at least
could not but feel the implied rebuke. As we have seen, she was not at
all backward in expressing her disapprobation, when she found her
silent testimony was disregarded or misunderstood; and her language was
generally rather forcible. This, of course, was trying to those who did
not see the necessity of living according to her standard, and very
trying to Angelina, whose convictions were clear, and whose interest in
her relatives was as tender as it was sincere. Scarcely a day passed
that something did not occur to wound her feelings, shock her religious
prejudices, or arouse her righteous indignation. Slavery was always the
cause of the latter, and for the others ample reason was to be found in
what she styled the vain lusts of the world, and in the coldness and
irritability of some members of the family. Unrestrained
self-indulgence, joined to high-strung and undisciplined tempers, made
of what should have been a united, bright, and charming home circle, a
place of constant discord, jealousy, and unhappiness.
Sarah had borne this state of things better than Angelina could, her
extreme gentleness and kindness disarming all unkind feelings in
others. But even she was forced to flee from it at last. The record is
a most painful one, and it gives another evidence of Angelina's sense
of her own power, and of her reliance on divine help, that she should
for one moment have contemplated effecting any change. But the respite
from those dissensions, and the rest thus given to her spirit by her
visit North, softened the bitter feelings she had once entertained, and
when she returned home it was with sentiments of affection for
everyone, and especially for her mother, from whom she had been
grievously estranged. She prayed that she might not do or say anything
to alienate them further from her; but when she fully realized, as she
had never yet done, the sad condition of things, she could not keep
silent. She felt it her duty to speak, and she did so, kindly and
affectionately, but unsparingly. She relates many incidents proving
this, and showing also how badly her reproofs were received. The
mistake she made, and which in after years she freely acknowledged, was
in excess of zeal. But Angelina was a born radical, and if a thing was
wrong, it was wrong, and she could not see why it should not be righted
at once. Temporizing with a wrong, or compromising with it in any way,
were things outside of her reasoning, and she never would admit that
they were justifiable under any circumstances. It was, of course,
difficult to apply this principle in the desired reform of her mother's
inherited and life-long prejudices. Hence the incessant chafing and
irritation which daily made Angelina feel more keenly her isolated
position, and caused her to turn with increasing longing to the North,
where her beloved sister and many dear friends were in sympathy with
her.
To illustrate what I have said, one or two examples will be sufficient.
She was much troubled because her mother had the drawing-room repainted
and handsomely papered. Mrs. Grimké doubtless selected a paper in
harmony with the house and furniture, and had no suspicion that she was
thereby committing a sin. But Angelina thought it entirely too fine,
and felt that she could never sit in the room. When the work was at
last finished, and some friends were invited to tea, and afterwards
repaired to the newly-decorated apartment, Angelina did not accompany
them, but remained below, reading alone, much disturbed during the
evening by the talking and laughing up stairs. Her mother did not
notice her absence, or ascribed it to some other cause; but Angelina
explained it to her some time afterwards, when, she says, a way seemed
to open for it.
"I spoke to her of how great a trial it was to me to see her living in
the luxury she did, and explained to her that it was not, as she seemed
to think, because I did not wish to see brother John and sister Sally
that I was tried at their dining here every week, but it was the parade
and profusion which was displayed when they came. I spoke also of the
drawing-room, and remarked it was as much my feeling about _that_ which
had prevented my coming into the room when M.A. and others drank tea
here, as my objection to fashionable company. She said it was very hard
that she could not give her children what food she chose, or have a
room papered, without being found fault with; that, indeed, she was
weary of being continually blamed about everything she did, and she
wished she could be let alone, for she saw no sin in these things. 'I
trust,' I said, 'that I do not speak to thee, mother, in the spirit
thou art now speaking to me; nothing but my conviction that I am bound
to bear my testimony to the truth could induce me to find fault with
thee. In doing so, I am acting with eternity in view. I am acting in
reference to that awful hour when I shall stand at thy death-bed, or
thou by mine.' Interrupting me, she said if _I_ was so constantly found
fault with, I would not bear it either; for her part, she was quite
discouraged. 'Oh, mother,' said I, 'there is something in thee so
alienated from the love of Christ that thou canst not bear to be found
fault with.' 'Yes,' she said, 'you and Sally always say _I_ speak in a
wrong spirit, but both of you in a right one.' She then went on to say
how much I was changed, about slavery, for instance, for when I was
first serious I thought it was right, and never condemned it. I replied
that I acted according to the light I had. 'Well, then,' she continued,
'you are not to expect everyone to think like Quakers.' I remarked that
true believers had but one leader, who would, if they followed Him,
guide them into all truth, and teach them the same things. She again
spoke of my turning Quaker, and said it was because I was a Quaker that
I disapproved of a great many things that nobody but Quakers could see
any harm in. I was much roused at this, and said with a good deal of
energy, 'Dear mother, what but the _power_ of God could ever have made
_me_ change my sentiments?' Some very painful conversation followed
about Kitty. I did not hesitate to say that no one with _Christian_
feelings could have treated her as she was treated before I took her;
her condition was a disgrace to the name of Christian. She reminded me
that _I_ had advised the very method that had been adopted with her.
This stung me to the quick. 'Not after I professed Christianity,' I
eagerly replied, 'and that I should have done so before, only proved
the wretched manner of my education.' But mother is perfectly blind as
to the miserable manner in which she brought us up. During the latter
part of the conversation I was greatly excited, for so acute have been
my sufferings on account of slavery, and so strong my feelings of
indignation in looking upon its oppressions and degradations, that I
cannot command my feelings in speaking of what my own eyes have seen,
and thus, I believe, I lost the satisfaction I should otherwise have
felt for speaking the truth."
Though constantly disregarded, taunted, and thwarted, Angelina
faithfully persevered in her efforts at reform, at the same time as
faithfully striving after more meekness and singleness of purpose
herself.
After a while, she obtained two concessions from which she hoped much:
one, that the servants should come to her in the library every day for
religious instruction; the other, that her mother would sit with her in
silence every evening for half an hour before tea.
The servants came as directed, and Angelina made her instructions so
interesting that soon some of the neighbors' servants asked to be
admitted, and then her mother and one or two of her sisters joined the
meetings; and though no very marked fruit of her labors appeared for
some time, she persevered, with a firm faith that the seed she was
sowing would not all be scattered to the winds.
The proposal to her mother to sit in silence for a while with her every
evening was in accordance with the Quaker practices. She thought they
would both find it profitable, and that it would be the means of
forming a bond of union between them. The mother's assent to this was
certainly an amiable concession to her daughter's views, enhanced by
the regularity with which she kept the appointment, although the dark,
silent room must have been at times a trifle wearisome. Angelina always
sat on a low seat beside her, with her head in her mother's lap, and
very rarely was the silence broken. The practice was kept up until the
mosquitoes obliged them to discontinue it. That it did not prove
entirely satisfactory, we judge from several entries in the diary like
the following:--
"I still sit in silence with dear mother, but feel very sensibly that
she takes no interest at all in it; still, I do not like to relinquish
the habit, believing it may yet be blessed. Eliza came this evening, as
she has several times before. It was a season of great deadness, and
yet I am glad to sit even thus, for where there is communion there will
be some union."
Her position was certainly a difficult and a painful one; for, apart
from other troubles, her eyes were now fully open to all the iniquities
of the slave system, and she could neither stay in nor go out without
having some of its miserable features forced upon her notice. In the
view of her after-work, it is interesting to note the beginning of her
strong feelings on the subject, as well as her faithful crusades
against it in her own family. In April, 1829, she writes as follows in
her diary:--
"Whilst returning from meeting this morning, I saw before me a colored
woman who in much distress was vindicating herself to two white boys,
one about eighteen, the other fifteen, who walked on each side of her.
The dreadful apprehension that they were leading her to the workhouse
crossed my mind, and I would have avoided her if I could. As I
approached, the younger said to her, 'I will have you tied up.' My
knees smote together, and my heart sank within me. As I passed them,
she exclaimed, 'Missis!' But I felt all I had to do was to suffer the
pain of seeing her. My lips were sealed, and my soul earnestly craved a
willingness to bear the exercise which was laid on me. How long, O
Lord, how long wilt thou suffer the foot of the oppressor to stand on
the neck of the slave! None but those who know from experience what it
is to live in a land of bondage can form any idea of what is endured by
those whose eyes are open to the enormities of slavery, and whose
hearts are tender enough to feel for these miserable creatures. For two
or three months after my return here it seemed to me that all the
cruelty and unkindness which I had from my infancy seen practised
towards them came back to my mind as though it was only yesterday. And
as to the house of correction, it seemed as though its doors were
unbarred to me, and the wretched, lacerated inmates of its cold, dark
cells were presented to my view. Night and day they were before me, and
yet my hands were bound as with chains of iron. I could do nothing but
weep over the scenes of horror which passed in review before my mind.
Sometimes I felt as though I was willing to fly from Carolina, be the
consequences what they might. At others, it seemed as though the very
exercises I was suffering under were preparing me for future usefulness
to them; and this,--_hope_, I can scarcely call it, for my very soul
trembled at the solemn thought of such a work being placed in my feeble
and unworthy hands,--this idea was the means of reconciling me to
suffer, and causing me to feel something of a willingness to pass
through any trials, if I could only be the means of exposing the
cruelty and injustice which was practised in the institution of
oppression, and of bringing to light the hidden things of darkness, of
revealing the secrets of iniquity and abolishing its present
regulations,--above all, of exposing the awful sin of professors of
religion sending their slaves to such a place of cruelty, and having
them whipped so that when they come out they can scarcely walk, or
having them put upon the treadmill until they are lamed for days
afterwards. These are not things I have heard; no, my own eyes have
looked upon them and wept over them. Such was the opinion I formed of
the workhouse that for many months whilst I was a teacher in the
Sunday-school, having a scholar in my class who was the daughter of the
master of it, I had frequent occasion to go to it to mark her lessons,
and no one can imagine my feelings in walking down that street. It
seemed as though I was walking on the very confines of hell; and this
winter, being obliged to pass it to pay a visit to a friend, I suffered
so much that I could not get over it for days, and wondered how any
real Christian could live near such a place."
It may appear to some who read this biography that Angelina's
expressions of feeling were over-strained. But it was not so. Her
nervous organization was exceedingly delicate, and became more so after
she began to give her best thoughts to the cause of humanity. In her
own realization, at least, of the suffering of others there was no
exaggeration.
Not long after making the above record of her feelings on this subject,
she narrates the following incident:--
"I have been suffering for the last two days on account of Henry's boy
having run away, because he was threatened with a whipping. Oh, who can
paint the horrors of slavery! And yet, so hard is the natural heart
that I am constantly told that the situation of slaves is very good,
much better than that of their owners. How strange that anyone should
believe such an absurdity, or try to make others believe it! No wonder
poor John ran away at the threat of a flogging, when he has told me
more than once that when H. last whipped him he was in pain for a week
afterwards. I don't know how the boy must have felt, but I know that
that night was one of agony to me; for it was not only dreadful to hear
the blows, but the oaths and curses H. uttered went like daggers to my
heart. And this was done, too, in the house of one who is regarded as a
light in the church. O Jesus, where is thy meek and merciful
disposition to be found now? Are the marks of discipleship changed, or
who are thy true disciples? Last night I lay awake weeping over the
condition of John, and it seemed as though that was all I could do. But
at last I was directed to go to H. and tenderly remonstrate with him. I
sought strength, and was willing to do so, if the impression continued.
To-day, was somewhat released from this exercise, though still
suffering, and almost thought it would not be required. But at dusk it
returned; and, having occasion to go into H.'s room for something, I
broached the subject as guardedly and mildly as possible, first passing
my arm around him, and leaning my head on his shoulder. He very openly
acknowledged that he meant to give John such a whipping as would cure
him of ever doing the same thing again, and that he deserved to be
whipped until he could not stand. I said that would be treating him
worse than he would treat his horse. He now became excited, and replied
that he considered his horse no comparison better than John, and would
_not_ treat _it_ so. By this time my heart was full, and I felt so much
overcome as to be compelled to seat myself, or rather to fall into a
chair before him, but I don't think he observed this. The conversation
proceeded. I pleaded the cause of humanity. He grew very angry, and
said I had no business to be meddling with him, that he never did so
with me. I said if I had ever done anything to offend him I was very
sorry for it, but I had tried to do everything to please him. He said I
had come from the North expressly to be miserable myself and make
everyone in the house so, and that I had much better go and live at the
North. I told him that I was not ignorant that both C. and himself
would be very glad if I did, and that as soon as I felt released from
Carolina I would go; but that I had believed it my duty to return this
winter, though I knew I was coming back to suffer. He again accused me
of meddling with his private affairs, which he said I had no right to
do. I told him I could not but lift up my voice against his manner of
treating John. He said rather than suffer the continual condemnation of
his conduct by me, he would leave mother's house. I appealed to the
witness in his own bosom as to the truth of what I urged. To my
surprise he readily acknowledged that he felt something within him
which fully met all I asserted, and that I had harrowed his feelings
and made him wretched. Much more passed. I alluded to his neglect of
me, and testified that I had experienced no feeling but that of love
towards him and all the family, and a desire to do all I could to
oblige them; and I left the room in tears. I retired to bless my
Saviour for the strength he had granted, and to implore his continued
support."
"7th. Surely my heart ought to be lifted to my blessed Master in
emotions of gratitude and praise. His boy came home last night a short
time after our conversation, and instead of punishing him, as I am
certain he intended to do, he merely told him to go about his business.
I was amazed last night after all my sufferings were over, and I was
made willing to leave all things in my Father's hands, to see John in
the house. This was a renewed proof to me how necessary it is for us to
watch for the right _time_ in which to do things. If I had not spoken
just when I did, I could not have done so before John's return. He has
escaped entirely.... Oh, how earnestly two nights ago did I pray for a
release from this land of slavery, and how my heart still pants after
it! And yet, I think, I trust it is in submission to my Heavenly
Father's will. I feel comfortable to-night; my relief from suffering
about John is so great that other trials seem too light to name."
"8th. My heart sings aloud for joy. I feel the sweet testimony of a
good conscience, the reward of obedience in speaking to H. Dear boy, he
has good, tender feelings naturally, but a false education has nearly
destroyed them, and his own perverted judgment as to what is manly and
what is necessary in the government of slaves has done the rest. Lord,
open thou his eyes."
On the 13th of March she says: "To-day, for the first time, I ironed my
clothes, and felt as though it was an acceptable sacrifice. This seemed
part of the preparation for my removal to the North. I felt fearful
lest this object was a stronger incentive to me than the desire to
glorify my divine Master."
There was doubtless some truth in the charge brought against her by her
brothers, that her face was a perpetual condemnation of them. Referring
to a call she received from some friends, she says:--
"An emptiness and vapidness pervaded all they said about religion. I
was silent most of the time, and fear what I did say sprang from a
feeling of too great indignation. Just before they went away, I joined
in a joke; much condemnation was felt, for the language to me
constantly is, 'I have called _thee_ with a _high_ and _holy_ calling,'
and it seems as though solemnity ought always to pervade my mind too
much to allow me ever to joke, but my natural vivacity is hard to
bridle and subdue."
The bond between Sarah and Angelina was growing stronger every day,
their separation in matters of religion from the other members of the
family serving more than anything else to draw them closely and
lovingly together. Every letter from Sarah was hailed as a messenger of
peace and joy, and to her Angelina turned for counsel and sympathy. It
is very pleasant to read such words as the following, and know that
they expressed the inmost feelings of Angelina's heart:--
"Thou art, dearest, my best beloved, and often does my heart expand
with gratitude to the Giver of all good for the gift of such a friend,
who has been the helper of my joy and the lifter up of my hands when
they were ready to hang down in hopeless despair. Often do I look back
to those days of conflict and suffering through which I passed last
winter, when thou alone seemed to know of the deep baptisms wherewith I
was baptized, and to be qualified to speak the words of encouragement
and reproof which I believe were blessed to my poor soul.
"I received another long letter from thee this afternoon. I cannot tell
thee what a consolation thy letters are to her who feels like an exile,
a stranger in the place of her nativity, 'as unknown, and yet well
known,' and one of the very least where she was once among the
greatest."
In one of her letters, written soon after her return home, she thus
speaks of her Quaker dress:--
"I thought I should find it so trying to dress like a Quaker here; but
it has been made so easy that if it is a cross I do not feel the weight
of it.... It appears to me that at present I am to be little and
unknown, and that the most that is required of me is that I bear a
decided testimony against dress. I am literally as a wonder unto many,
but though I am as a gazing-stock--perhaps a laughing-stock--in the
midst of them, yet I scarcely feel it, so sensible am I of the presence
and approbation of Him for whose sake I count it a high privilege to
endure scorn and derision. I begin to feel that it is a solemn thing
even to dress like a Quaker, as by so doing I profess a belief in the
purest principles of the Bible, and warrant the expectation in others
that my life will exhibit to all around those principles drawn out in
living characters."
There is a pride of conscience in all this, strongly contrasting with
Sarah's want of self-confidence when travelling the same path. If
Angelina suffered for her religion, no one suspected it, and for this
very reason she was enabled to exert a stronger influence upon those
about her than Sarah ever could have done. She herself saw the great
points of difference between them, and frequently alluded to them. On
one page of her diary she writes:--
"I have been reading dear sister's diary the last two days, and find
she has suffered great conflict of mind, particularly about her call to
the ministry, and I am led to look at the contrast between our feelings
on the subject. I clearly saw winter before last that my having been
appointed to this work was the great reason why I was called out of the
Presbyterian Society, but I don't think my will has ever rebelled
against it.
"So far from murmuring against the appointment, I have felt exceedingly
impatient at not being permitted to enter upon my work at once; and
this is probably an evidence that I am not prepared for it. But it is
hard for me to _be_ and to _do_ nothing. My restless, ambitious temper,
so different from dear sister's, craves high duties and high
attainments, and I have at times thought that this ambition was a
motive to me to do my duty and submit my will. The hope of attaining to
great eminence in the divine life has often prompted me to give up in
little things, to bend to existing circumstances, to be willing for the
time to be trampled upon. These are my temptations. For a long time it
seemed to me I did everything from a hope of applause. I could not even
write in my diary without a feeling that I was doing it in the hope
that it would one day meet the eye of the public. Last winter I wrote
more freely in it, and am still permitted to do so. Very often, when
thinking of my useless state at present, something of disappointment is
felt that I am as nothing, and this language has been presented with
force, 'Seekest thou great things for thyself, seek them not.'"