lies buried--atoned for by a four-years' fratricidal war: the
beautiful Southern land is lifting its head from the disgrace of
slavery and the agony of its defense. May its free future days
surpass in prosperity (as they surely will a thousand-fold)
those of its former perilous pride of privilege--of race
supremacy and subjugation.
An extremely interesting and clever book, called "A Fool's Errand,"
embodies under the form of a novel, an accurate picture of the
social condition of the Southern States after the war--a condition
so replete with elements of danger and difficulty, that the highest
virtue and the deepest wisdom could hardly have coped successfully
with them; and from a heart-breaking and perhaps unsuccessful
struggle with which, Abraham Lincoln's murder delivered him, I
believe, as a reward for his upright and noble career.]
LENOX, September 11th, 1839.
Thank you, my dear Lady Dacre, for your kindness in writing to me again.
I would fain know if doing so may not have become a painful effort to
you, or if my letters may not have become irksome to you. Pray have the
real goodness to let me know, if not by your own hand, through our
friends William Harness or Emily Fitzhugh, if you would rather not be
disturbed by my writing to you, and trust that I shall be grateful for
your sincerity.
You know I do not value very highly the artificial civilities which half
strangle half the world with a sort of floss-silk insincerity; and the
longer I live the more convinced I am that real tenderness to others is
quite compatible with the truth that is due to them and one's self.
My regard for you does not maintain itself upon our scanty and
infrequent correspondence, but on the recollection of your kindness to
me, and the impression our former intercourse has left upon my memory;
and though ceasing to receive your letters would be foregoing an
enjoyment, it could not affect the grateful regard I entertain for you.
Pray, therefore, my dear Lady Dacre, do not scruple to bid me hold my
peace, if by taking up your time and attention in your present sad
circumstances [the recent loss of her daughter] I disturb or distress
you.
Your kind wishes for my health and happiness are as completely fulfilled
as such benedictions may be in this world of imperfect bodies and minds.
I ride every day before breakfast, some ten or twelve miles (yesterday
it was five and twenty), and as this obliges me to be in my saddle at
seven in the morning, I am apt to consider the performance meritorious
as well as pleasurable. (Who says that early risers always have a
Pharisaical sense of their own superiority?) I am staying in the
beautiful hill-region of Massachusetts, where I generally spend part of
my summer, in the neighborhood of my friends the Sedgwicks, who are a
very numerous clan, and compose the chief part of the population of this
portion of Berkshire, if not in quantity, certainly in quality.
There was some talk, at one time, of my going to the hot sulphur springs
of Virginia; but the difficulties of the journey thither, and miseries
of a sojourn there, prevented my doing so, as I could not have taken my
children with me. We shall soon begin to think of flying southward, for
we are to winter in Georgia again....
My youngest child does not utter so much as a syllable, which
circumstance has occasioned me once or twice seriously to consider
whether by any possibility a child of mine could be _dumb_. "I cannot
tell, but I think not," as Benedict says. It would have been clever of
me to have had a dumb child.
Have you read Charles Murray's book about America? and how do you like
it? Do you ever see Lady Francis Egerton nowadays? How is she? What is
she doing? Is she accomplishing a great deal with her life? She always
seemed to me born to do so. My dear Lady Dacre, do not talk of not
seeing me again. We hope to be in England next autumn, and one of the
greatest pleasures I look forward to in that expectation is once more
seeing you and Lord Dacre. You say my sister will marry a foreigner. She
has my leave to marry a German, but the more southern blood does not
mingle well with our Teutonic race....
I am sorry the only book of Catharine Sedgwick's which you have read is,
"Live and Let Live," because it is essentially an American book, and
some Americans think it a little exaggerated in its views, even for this
country. A little story, called "Home," and another called "The Poor
Rich Man and the Rich Poor Man," are, I think, better specimens of what
she can do....
F. A. B.
LENOX, September 30th, 1839.
And so, dearest Harriet, Cecilia writes you that my head is enlarged, my
_benevolence_ and _causality_ increased, and that Mr. Combe thinks me
much improved. Truly, it were a pity if I were the reverse, for it was
more than two years since he had seen me; but though I heartily wish
this might be the case, I honestly confess to you that I do not feel as
if my mental and moral progress, during the last two years, has been
sufficient to push out any visible augmentation of the "bumps" of my
skull in any direction.
Your saucy suggestion as to my having conciliated his good opinion by
exhibiting a greater degree of faith in phrenology is, unluckily, not
borne out by the facts; for, instead of more, I have a little less faith
in it; and that, perversely enough, from the very circumstance of the
more favorable opinion thus expressed with regard to my own
"development."
In the first instance, both Mr. Combe and Cecilia expressed a good deal
of surprise to some of my friends here, at their high estimate of my
brain.... Having very evidently never themselves perceived any
sufficient grounds for such an exalted esteem. Moreover, Mr. Combe wrote
a letter to Lucretia Mott (the celebrated Quakeress, who is a good
friend of mine), when he heard that she had made my acquaintance,
cautioning her against falling into the mistake which _all my American
friends_ committed, of "exaggerating my reasoning powers." This was all
well and good, and only amused me as rather funny; some of _my American
friends_ being tolerably shrewd folk, and upon the whole, no bad judges
of brains. But then the next thing that happens is, that I see the
Combes myself for a short, hurried, and most confused five minutes,
during which, even if Mr. Combe's judgment were _entirely_ in his eyes,
he had no leisure for exercising it on me; and yet he now states (for
Cecy is only his echo in this matter) that my disposition is much
improved, and my reasoning powers much increased; and it is but two
years since I was in his house, and this moral and mental progress,
visible to the naked eye, on my thickly hair-roofed cranium, has taken
place since then;--if so, so much the better for me, and I have made
better use of my time than I imagined!
To tell you the truth, dear Harriet, I have not thought about
phrenology, one way or the other, but I have thought this phrenological
verdict about myself nonsense.
Mr. Combe has certainly not been influenced by any signs of conversion
on my part; but I suppose he may have been influenced by the opinion
held of me by my friends here, some of whom are sensible enough on all
other subjects not to be suspected of idiocy, even though they do think
me a rational, and, what is more, a reasoning creature.
It has been a real distress to me not to see more of Mr. Combe and
Cecilia. I have always had the highest regard for him, for his kind,
humane heart, and benevolent, liberal, enlightened mind. Cecy, too,
during my short visit to her in Scotland, appeared to me a far more
lovable person than during my previous intercourse with her: and as
kinsfolk and countryfolk, without any consideration for personal liking,
I feel annoyed at not being able to offer them any kindness or
hospitality. But we literally seem to be running round each other; they
are now at Hartford, in Connecticut, not fifty miles away from here,
where they intend staying some weeks, and will probably not be in
Philadelphia until we have departed for the South. When I saw them in
New York, they were both looking extremely well; Cecilia fat, and
cheerful, and apparently very happy, in spite of her "incidents of
American travel." ...
The heat of the summer while we remained at Butler Place was something
quite indescribable, and hardly varied at all for several weeks, either
night or day, from between 90 and 100 degrees.
People sat up all night at their windows in town; and as for me, more
than once, in sheer desperation, after trying to sleep on a cane sofa
under the piazza, I wandered about more than half the night, on the
gravel walks of the garden, bare-footed,--_et dans le simple appareil
d'une beaute qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil_.
We tried to sleep upon _everything_ in vain,--Indian matting was as hot
as woolen blankets. At last I laid a piece of oilcloth on my bed,
without even as much as a sheet over it, and though I could not sleep,
obtained as much relief from the heat as to be able to lie still. It was
terrible!...
I have been for two months up here, not having been allowed to go to the
Virginia springs, on account of the difficulty of carrying my children
there; but I am promised that we shall all go there next summer, when
there is to be something like a passable road, by which the
health-giving region may be approached....
I have an earnest desire to return to Europe in the autumn--not to stay
in England, unless my father should be there, but to go to him, wherever
he may be, and to spend a little time with my sister.... All this,
however, lies far ahead, and God knows what at present invisible
prospects may reveal and develop themselves on the surface of the
future, as a nearer light falls on it....
My youngest child's accomplishments are hitherto unaccompanied by a
syllable of speech or utterance, and the idea sometimes occurs to me
whether a child of mine could have enough genius to be dumb.
Good-bye, my dearest Harriet.
Ever affectionately yours,
F. A. B.
BUTLER PLACE, October 10th, 1839.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
Your interesting letter of 26th July reached me about ten days ago, at
Lenox, where, according to my wont, I was passing the hot months. I had
heard from dear Mr. Harness, a short time before, that you had suffered
much annoyance from the withdrawal of your father's pension. Your own
account of the disasters of your family excited my sincere sympathy; and
yet, after reflecting a little, it appeared to me as if the exertions
you felt yourself called upon to make in their behalf were happier in
themselves than the general absence of any immediate object in life,
which I know you sometimes feel very bitterly. At any rate, to be able
to serve, effectually to save from distress, those so dear to you, must
be in itself a real happiness; and to be blessed by your parents and
sisters as their stay and support in such a crisis, is to have had such
an opportunity of concentrating your talents as I think one might be
thankful for. I cannot, consistently with my belief, say I am sorry you
have thus suffered, but I pray God that your troubles may every way
prove blessings to you.
Your account of your "schoolmaster's party" interested me very much. [A
gathering of teachers, promoted by Lady Byron, for purposes of
enlightened benevolence.] Lady Byron must be a woman of a noble nature.
I hope she is happy in her daughter's marriage. I heard a report a short
time ago that Lady Lovelace was coming over to this country with her
husband. I could not well understand for what purpose: that he should
come from general interest and curiosity about the United States, I can
well imagine; but that she should come from any motive, but to avoid
being separated from her husband, is to me inconceivable....
I should like to have seen that play of Mr. Chorley's which you mention
to me. He once talked about it to me. It is absurd to say, but for all
its absurdity, I'll say it,--he does not _look_ to me like a man who
could write a good play: he speaks too softly, and his eyelashes are too
white; in spite of all which, I take your word for it that it is good.
You ask after mine: Harriet has got the only copy, on the other side of
the water; if you think it worth while to ask her for it, you are very
welcome to read it. I was not aware that I had read you any portion of
it; and cannot help thinking that you have confounded in your
recollection something which I did read you--and which, as I thought,
appeared to distress you, or rather not to please you--with some portion
of my play, of which I did not think that I had ever shown you any part.
I have some thoughts of publishing it here, or rather in Boston. I have
run out my yearly allowance of pin-money, and want a few dollars very
badly, and if any bookseller will give me five pounds for it, he shall
be welcome to it....
I beg you will not call this a scrap of a letter, because it is all
written upon one sheet: if you do, I shall certainly call yours a letter
of scraps, being written on several; and am ever,
Very truly yours,
F. A. B.
BUTLER PLACE, October 19th, 1839.
DEAREST HARRIET,
I have just been reading over a letter of yours written from Schwalbach,
in August; and in answer to some speculation of mine, which I have
forgotten, you say, "Our birth truly is no less strange than our death.
The beginning--and whence come we? The end--and whither go we?" Now, I
presume that you did not intend that I should apply myself to answer
these questions categorically. You must have thought you were speaking
to me, dearest Harriet, and have only written down the vague cogitations
that rose in the shape of queries to your lips, as you read my letter,
which suggested them; opening at the same time, doubtless, a pair of
most _intensely sightless_ eyes, upon the gaming-table of the Cursaal,
if it happened to be within range of vision.
For myself, the older I grow the less I feel strength or inclination to
speculate. The daily and hourly duties of life are so indifferently
fulfilled by me, that I feel almost rebuked if my mind wanders either to
the far past or future while the present, wherein lies my salvation, is
comparatively unthought of. To tell you the truth, I find in the daily
obligations to do and to suffer which come to my hands, a refuge from
the mystery and uncertainty which veil all before and after life.
For indeed, when the mind sinks bewildered under speculations as to our
former fate or future destinies, the sense of things _to be done_, of
duties to be fulfilled, even the most apparently trivial in the world,
is an unspeakable relief; and though the whole of this existence of
ours, material and spiritual, affords but this _one_ foothold (and it
sometimes seems so to me), it is enough that every hour brings work; and
more than enough--_all_--if that work be but well done.
Thus the beginning and the end trouble me seldom; but the difficulty of
dealing rightly with what is immediately before and around me does
trouble me infinitely; but that trouble is neither uncertainty nor
doubt.
Our possible separation hereafter from those we have loved here, is
almost the only idea connected with these subjects which obtrudes itself
sometimes upon my mind. Yet, though I cannot conceive how Heaven would
not be Hell without those I love, I am willing to believe that my spirit
will be fitted to its future sphere by Him with whom all things are
possible.
It seems rationally consistent with all we believe, and the little we
know, to entertain a strong hope that the affections we have cherished
here will not be left behind us, or forgotten elsewhere; but I would
give much to _believe_ this as well as to _hope_ it, and those are quite
distinct things.
Two conclusions spring from this wide waste of uncertainty; that the
more we can serve and render happy those with whom our lives are bound
up here, the better; for we may not elsewhere be allowed to minister to
them: and the less we cling to these earthly affections, the less we
grasp them as sources of personal happiness the better; as they may be
withdrawn from us, and God, whose place they too often usurp in our
souls, be the one Friend who shall supply the place of them all.
Conjecture as we may, however, upon these subjects, the general
experience of humanity is that of struggle with the _present_, the
_actual_; and could I but be satisfied with the mode in which I fulfill
my daily duties, and govern my heart and mind in their discharge, I
should feel at peace as regards all such speculations--"I'd jump the
life to come."
You speak of the unhealthy life led by the members of the bar in
Ireland, and their disregard of all the "natural laws," which yet, you
say, does not appear to affect their constitutions materially. I
presume, as far as the usual exercise of their profession goes, lawyers
must lead pretty much the same sort of life everywhere; but in this
country, everybody's habits are essentially unhealthy, and superadded to
the special bad influences of a laborious and sedentary profession, make
fearful havoc with life. The diet and the atmosphere to which most
Americans accustom themselves, are alike destructive of anything like
health. Even the men, compared with ours, are generally inactive, and
have no idea of taking regular exercise as a salutary precaution. The
absence of social enjoyment among the wealthier classes, and of cheerful
recreation among the artisan and laboring part of the population, leaves
them absorbed in a perpetual existence of care and exertion, varied only
by occasional outbursts of political excitement; indeed, they appear to
prefer a life of incessant toil to any other, and they seem to consider
any species of amusement or recreation as a simple waste of time, taking
no account of the renovation of health, strength, and spirits to be
gained by diversion and leisure. All that travelers have said about
their neglect of physical health is true; and you will have additional
evidence furnished upon this subject, I believe, by Mr. Combe, who
intends publishing his American experiences, and who will probably do
full justice to the perpetual infraction of his ever-present and sacred
rules of life, by the people of the United States....
Expostulations with people with regard to their health are never
wise--they who most need such admonition are least likely to accept it;
and, indeed, how many of us learn anything but from personal suffering?
which too often, alas, comes too late to teach. I suppose, it is only
the _exceeding_ wise who are taught anything even by their own
experience; to expect the foolish to learn by that of others, is to be
one of their number....
Experience is God's teaching; and I think the seldomer one interferes
between children and that best of teachers, the better. I think it would
be well if we oftener let them follow their wills to their consequences;
for these are always _just_, but they are sometimes, according to our
judgments, too severe; and so we not seldom, out of cowardice, interpose
between our children and the teaching of experience; and substitute,
because we will not see them suffer, our own authority for the
inestimable instruction of consequences.
I do not think I agree with you about the very early cultivation of the
reasoning powers, but have left myself no room for further _educational_
disquisition.
Farewell, dear.
Believe me, ever yours affectionately,
F. A. B.
PHILADELPHIA, December, 1839.
MY DEAR T----,
The expression of one's sympathy can never, whatever its sincerity, be
of the value it would have possessed if uttered when first excited. In
this, above all things, "they give twice who give quickly." I feel this
very much in writing to you now upon the events which have lately so
deeply troubled the current of your life--your good father's death, and
the birth of your second baby, together with the threatened calamity
from which its mother's recovery has spared you. Tardy as are these
words, my sympathy has been sincerely yours during this your season of
trial; and though I have done myself injustice in not sooner writing to
you, believe me I have felt more for you and yours than any letter could
express, though I had written it the moment the news reached me....
That your father died as full of honor as of years, that his life was a
task well fulfilled, and his death not unbecoming so worthy a life, is
matter of consolation to you, and all who knew and loved him less than
you. I scarce know how you could have wished any other close to his
career; the pang of losing such a friend you could not expect to escape,
but there was hardly a circumstance (as regarded your father himself)
which it seems to me you can regret. Poor M---- will be the bitterest
sufferer [the lady was traveling in Europe at the time of her father's
death], and for her, indeed, my compassion is great, strengthened as it
is by my late experience, and constant apprehension of a similar
affliction,--I mean my mother's death, and the dread of hearing, from
across this terrible barrier, that I have lost my father. I pity her
more than I can express; but trust that she will find strength adequate
to her need.
Give my kindest love to your wife. I rejoice in her safety for your sake
and that of her children, more even than for her own; for it always
seems well to me with those who have gone to rest, but her loss would
have been terrible for you, and her girl has yet to furnish her some
work, and some compensation....
If Anne is with you, remember me very kindly to her, and
Believe me ever most truly yours,
F. A. B.
[The little daughter referred to in the above letter became Mrs.
Charles Norton, one of the loveliest and most charming of young
American women, snatched by an untimely death from the midst of an
adoring family and friends.]
PHILADELPHIA, Friday, December 14th, 1839.
DEAREST HARRIET,
... It is perhaps well for you that this letter has suffered an
interruption here, as had this not been the case you might have been
edified with a yet further "complaint." ...
We have shut up our house in the country, and are at present staying in
Philadelphia, at my brother-in-law's; but we are expecting every day to
start for the plantation in Georgia, where I hope we are to find what is
yet lacking to us in health and strength.
I look forward with some dismay now to this expedition, in the middle of
winter, with two young children, traveling by not very safe railroads
and perhaps less safe steamboats, through that half-savage country, and
along that coast only some months ago the scene of fearful shipwreck....
I have already written you word of our last residence there, of the
small island in the Altamaha and below its level--the waters being only
kept out by dykes, which protect the rice-marshes, of which the
plantation is composed, from being submerged. The sole inhabitants, you
know, are the negroes, who cultivate the place, and the overseer who
manages them.... As early as March the heat becomes intense, and by the
beginning of April it is no longer safe for white people to remain
there, owing to the miasma which exhales from the rice-fields....
We shall find, no doubt, our former animal friends, from the fleas up
to the alligators: the first, swarming in the filthy negroes' huts; the
last, expatiating in the muddy waters of the Altamaha. I trust they will
none of them have forgotten us. Did I tell you before of those charming
creatures, the moccasin snakes, which, I have just been informed, abound
in every part of the southern plantations? Rattlesnakes I know by sight:
but the moccasin creature, though I may have seen him, I do not feel
acquainted, or at any rate familiar, with. Our nearest civilized town,
you know, is Savannah, and that is sixty miles off. I cannot say that
the expedition is in any way charming to me, but the alternative is
remaining alone here; and, as it is possible to live on the plantation
with the children, I am going. Margery, of course, comes with me....