January 20, 1861. I have run over the birth-histories of the nations of Europe, in their chaotic rise from barbarism; and have just completed a bird’s-eye view of Italian mediÆval history, with Koeppen’s aid. The present history of Italy interests me greatly, and I would like to be able to link the present with the past. But what a debatable ground it has always been, and how unsparingly it has always been made mince-meat of, by all in authority there!
But all that history has revealed shows no more important epoch than the one in which we are living at this moment, in our unsettled and discordant Union. I hope it will come out plain and positive, as a question of right or wrong for every man to decide. It is so already, yet all will not see. So I hope that the demon of slavery, that “mystery of iniquity,” will make his evil way evident, that we may return to no vile compact with sin.
February 28. The bluebirds have come! and the meadow-lark has sung over in the fields behind the garden, these two or three mornings. I have dreamed of spring these many nights, and now it is coming—coming!What a blessing dreams are! I have heard birds sing, in bluer skies than May could show; doves have alighted on my head; violets, such as cannot be matched in any meadows for perfect tints and fragrance, have blossomed at my feet; have wept for joy at the sublime beauty of Alps grander than any real Alps,—which I would yet fain see, though I shall not, with these eyes,—all this in my winter dreams. Through dreams, we must always believe in a deeper and more perfect beauty than we know. The world is lovely, but there is a lovelier, else we could not see what we do in sleep. The glory of living is that life is glorious beyond all our possible imaginations,—the eternal life,—the “glory that shall be revealed” in us.
March 2. What does cause depression of spirits? Heavy head and heavy heart, and no sufficient reason for either, that I know of. I am out of doors every day, and have nothing unusual to trouble me; yet every interval of thought is clouded; there is no rebound, no rejoicing as it is my nature to rejoice, and as all things teach me to do. We are strange phenomena to ourselves, when we will stop to gaze at ourselves; but that I do not believe in; there are pleasanter subjects, and self is a mere speck on the great horizon of life.
A new volume of poems by T. B. Aldrich, just read, impresses me especially with its daintiness and studied beauty. There are true flashes of poetry, but most carefully trimmed and subdued, so as to shine artistically. I believe the best poetry of our times is growing too artistic; the study is too visible. If freedom and naturalness are lost out of poetry, everything worth having is lost.
March 3. Eternal life and eternal death; what do these words mean? This is the question that comes up again and again. It has recently been brought up by those whom I am appointed to instruct; and the question with its answer, brings new and fearful responsibility with every return. I am more and more convinced that the idea of duration is not the one that affects us most: for here it has proved that those who are least careful about what they are in heart and life, are trying hardest to convince themselves and others that the “doctrine of eternal punishment” is not true. By making themselves believe that to be the all-important question, they draw off their own and others’ attention from the really momentous one,—“Am I living the eternal life? Is it begun in me now?”
And now I see why I have questioned whether it was right in me to express my own doubts of this very doctrine. The final renovation of all souls, their restoration to life in holiness and love, is certainly a hope of mine that is not without a strong infusion of confidence; but I dare not say it is a belief; because both reason and revelation have left it in deep mystery; and the expression of any such belief does not seem to me likely to help others much; certainly not those who are indolent or indifferent regarding the true Christian life.Then the “loss of the soul” is in plain language spoken of by our Lord as possible. What can that mean, but the loss of life in Him? the loss of ennobling aspirations, of the love of all good, of the power of seeing and seeking truth? And if this is possible to us now, by our own choice, why not forever?—since, as free beings, our choice must always be in our own power?
The truth that we must all keep before us, in order to be growing better forever, is that life is love and holiness; death, selfishness and sin; then it is a question of life and death to be grappled with in the deep places of every soul.
March 5. I cannot let this birthday pass without a memorial of its sun’s rising and setting on flower-gifts from these my girl-friends: a wreath hung on my door in the morning, and a bouquet left in my room at night. It brings spring to my spirit earlier than I expected; pleasant it is to receive any token of love; and gifts like these come so seldom, that when they do come, I am sure they mean love. And with them comes the assurance of a deeper summer-warmth,—the arousing of all high and holy feelings in the deep places of the soul yet winter-sealed. “My shriveled heart” shall yet “recover greenness.” I could not feel this “deadly cold” that sometimes pierces me, if incapable of warmth. It may not be in an earthly clime that my nature shall blossom out freely and fully into heavenly light; but the time will come.
Yesterday was the inauguration: we have a President, a country: and we are “the Union” still, and shall so remain, our President thinks. But I doubt whether the pride of slavery will ever bow to simple freedom, as it must, if the self-constituted aliens return. There is a strange new chapter in the world’s history unfolding to-day; we have not half read it yet.
Sabbath, April 14, 1861. This day broke upon our country in gloom; for the sounds of war came up to us from the South,—war between brethren; civil war; well may “all faces gather blackness.” And yet the gloom we feel ought to be the result of sorrow for the erring, for the violators of national unity, for those who are in black rebellion against truth, freedom, and peace. The rebels have struck the first blow, and what ruin they are pulling down on their heads may be guessed, though not yet fully foretold; but it is plain to see that a dark prospect is before them, since they have no high principle at the heart of their cause.
It will be no pleasure to any American to remember that he lived in this revolution, when brother lifted his hand against brother; and the fear is, that we shall forget that we are brethren still, though some are so unreasonable and wander so far from the true principles of national prosperity. Though the clouds of this morning have cleared away into brightness, it seems as if we could feel the thunder of those deadly echoes passing to and from Fort Sumter. But there is a right, and God always defends it. War is not according to His wish; though it seems one of the permitted evils yet. He will scatter those who delight in it, and it is not too much to hope and expect that He will uphold the government which has so long been trying to avert bloodshed.
Another unpleasant association with this day. I went to the meeting expecting and needing spiritual food, and received only burning coals and ashes. There was a sermon (not by our minister, I am glad to say) to prove that Satan will be tormented forever and ever; and the stress of the argument was to prove the endlessness of his punishment. The text was taken from the twentieth of Revelation, a chapter which few have the audacity to explain; but the object was to show that “eternal,” in its highest sense, is not so plainly taught in the Bible, as “eternal” in its lowest sense, that of duration. Truly, “The wisdom of men is foolishness with God!”—the deep and sacred truth of eternal life lies hidden yet in the words of Christ, for him who will understand. It seems to me wrong to preach a theoretical sermon like this to those who are hungering for the bread of life; who are longing to come nearer to the Saviour, and receive His spirit. I think none but a young minister would have preached so; certainly, a warm-hearted Christian could not have treated the subject in that cold argumentative way. As it was, I could only pity one who could so misinterpret his Master’s words; he must be yet on the outer threshold of the heart of Christ, if so near as that, and not, like the Beloved John, leaning on His bosom. And I grieved for the “hungry sheep,” who looked up and were not fed. But if such sermons drive all hearers to the word itself, refusing human interpretations, they may do good. Alas! We grope in darkness yet! Man is blinded to God’s deep meaning everywhere, in thought and in life, in religion and in government. The dark ages are not wholly past; nor will they be, until all fetters of thought and limb are broken.
Yet, through all, the birds are singing with the joy of sunshine after April rain; and earth is beautiful and bright, beneath the promises of spring,—written on soft skies and sweet west winds. The good God sits yet upon His throne of love!
April 21. The conflict is deepening; but thanks to God, there is no wavering, no division, now, at the North! All are united, as one man; and from a peaceful, unwarlike people, we are transformed into an army, ready for the battle at a moment’s warning.
The few days I have passed in Boston this week are the only days in which I ever carried my heart into a crowd, or hung around a company of soldiers with anything like pleasure. But I felt a soldier-spirit rising within me, when I saw the men of my native town armed and going to risk their lives for their country’s sake; and the dear old flag of our Union is a thousand times more dear than ever before. The streets of Boston were almost canopied with the stars and stripes, and the merchants festooned their shops with the richest goods of the national colors.
And now there are rumors of mobs attacking our troops, of bridges burnt, and arsenals exploded, and many lives lost. The floodgates of war are opened, and when the tide of blood will cease none can tell.
May 6. Through the dark and lurid atmosphere of war the light of “Nature’s own exceeding peace” still softly falls on the earth. The violets have opened their blue eyes by the roadside; the saxifrage fringes the ledges with white; and the arbutus, the Pilgrim’s mayflower, blossoms on the hills away from here; we have no hillsides for it to grow upon, but I had some on May-day, from the hills of Taunton. How strange the contrast between these delicate blossoms and the flaring red flower of war that has burst into bloom with the opening of spring!
Every day brings something to stir the deep places of the soul, and in the general awakening of life and liberty it may be that every heart feels its own peculiar sorrow and happiness more keenly. There is a deeper life in every breath I draw; and messages from distant friends seem more near and touching. One day, from one of the most beloved and honored, comes a kind word for my poor efforts at poetry; almost a prophecy of some blessed days of summer life among the mountains by and by,—and a holy benediction, “God bless thee, and keep thee!” that fell upon my heart like the first ray of some new and unknown morning. All life seemed green and glowing with a freshened trust. God is, and goodness is; and true hearts are, forever! There is nothing to doubt, even in these dark days!
Then, the next day, a message from dear Esther (she could not write it herself) to say that she is dying, and wants to hear from me again. And to think that she had been drooping all these spring days, while I have been too full of occupation with the stir of the times to write! But she says my words have always been good for her, and surely few have blessed me by life and thought as she has. Heaven will have one bond for my heart, closer than any yet. I am glad that she can lie down in peace, before the horrible scenes of bloodshed, which only a miracle can now avert, shall be enacted.
May 9. I had set myself to reading Maury’s “Physical Geography of the Sea,” after a long deferring; but now that he has come out as a rank rebel against his country, I cannot feel any interest in his theories, ingenious as they are said to be. Like poor, wise, fallen Bacon, his ideas may prove something to the world, “after some years have passed over,” but one is not fond of being taught by traitors.
May 15. A glimpse into a heart which has always been closed, both to God and man,—what a chaos it discloses! Yet with all the elements of order there, it is like the promise of a new creation. Such a glimpse, such a half-unveiling, one has given me to-day, out of a soul-deep, long-repressed longing for “something to love!” Ah, that sorrowful need of every woman’s heart, especially; yet more joyful than sorrowful, because the longing shows the fulfillment possible,—yes, certain. In the heavenly life, which such aspirations prophesy, there is love abounding, to give and to receive. And I am thankful for one more to love.
May 20. Esther dead! Gone home two days before I heard or dreamed of it! But since she has gone home,—since it is only a glorious release for her,—I will not let a thought of repining sully the gladness I ought to share with her. It is only that one who has always lived near the Holiest One is now called nearer still. I have known her only in Him, and there I know her and love her still.
May 22. They write to me of her funeral, of the white flowers beside her head, and of her own lilies of the valley strewn over her in the grave by one who knew how she loved them. Everything that would have made her happy, had her eyes been open to see, and her ears to hear. They sang the hymns she loved, “Rock of Ages,” and “I would not live alway,” and “Thy will be done.” And my dear friend is free!—her soul has blossomed into heavenly light! I told her once that this book was for only her to see; I do not like my thoughts when I think them for myself alone; and there is no other friend who would care as she cared. Will she read them now?May 27. This is the gala week of spring. None of the early flowers have quite faded, and the apple-trees are in full bloom, while elms and maples are just wearing their lightest drapery of green, so tardily put on. Soft breezes, sweet melody from many birds, clear sunshine, not yet too warm,—all things are just in that state, when, if we could wish for a standstill in nature, we should.
And Esther has been one week in heaven! It seems to me, sometimes, as if some new charm was added to cloud and sunshine, and spring blossoms, since she went away; as if it were given me to see all things clearer for her clearer vision; she would speak to me, if she could.
Lectures these few days on historical women. Paula, Queen Elizabeth, and Madame de Maintenon, thus far. Paula, the friend of St. Jerome, and the woman whom the speaker made to illustrate friendship, pleased me most, as presenting a higher ideal than either of the others. Christianity gave woman the privilege of a pure friendship with man; before unknown, we are told. It is one of the noblest gifts of religion, and I wish people believed in it more thoroughly. But only a truly elevated and chastened nature can understand real friendship,—not a Platonic ideal only, though that is elevated, let who will sneer at it: but a drawing of the noblest souls together, and to the Soul of souls, for the highest ends. This is Christian friendship; union in Christ for all beauty, all purity, all true and noble life, which He illustrated in His own glorious life and death, and of which He is now the inspiring power. “We are complete in Him.”
Yes, I am sure that it is in drawing near to Him that I feel the loveliness of such beauty as that into which the world now blossoms; for is not He the Lord of nature, and also my Lord and Friend? And through His great love for us, I see the ideal of all true human love. “As I have loved you,” He said, “so must we love each other, with tenderness, forbearance, generosity, and self-sacrifice.”
Such friendship is possible, is eternal; and it is almost the most precious thing in the soul’s inheritance.
June 12. I have been free for a few days, and have taken a journey,—a flying tour among some of my friends. How it quieted me, to be with my peace-loving friends in these wild times of war!
There are some friends whose presence is encouragement in all that is good, whom to look upon is to grow stronger for the truth. There are homes, too, over which saintly memories hang, making all within and around them sacred, blending earth with heaven by holy sympathies. How blessed I am, to know such friends, to enter such homes as these! Sometimes I can truly say, “My cup runneth over!”
June 14. Still the same old weariness of study; “weariness of the flesh.” Books are treasures, but one may work among treasures even, digging and delving, till there is little enjoyment in them. And the greater pain is, that, by becoming numb to the beautiful and true, in any form, one does not feel its power entirely, anywhere. So I felt this morning, which I stole from my books. I sat on a ledge in a distant field, all around me beautiful with June, and no sight or sound of human care in sight. I sat there like a prisoner, whose chains had dropped for the moment, but the weight and pain of them lingered still. Yet I began to feel what it is to be free, and how sweet and soothing nature always is, before I rose to return. I think it would not take me long to get accustomed to freedom, and to rejoice in it with exceeding joy.
June 23. Weary, weary, too weary to listen patiently to the heavy Sabbath bells; far too weary to sit in the church and listen to loud words and loud singing. And my brain is too tired to let my heart feel the beauty of this quiet day. I only know that the balm and beauty of June are around me, without realizing it much. But rest will come soon, up among the mountains with friends who love noise and confusion as little as I do. I shall be at peace. A blessing will come to us, among the hills.
July 4. Crackers all around the house at night. Fire-crackers, torpedoes, pistols, and bell-ringing, are enough to make one sick of one’s country, if this is the only way of showing one’s patriotism. I am sure, as I lay last night, nervously wide awake, with every shot startling and paining me as if it had really gone through my brain, I felt more belligerently disposed toward the young patriots than toward the Southern rebels! But if there is no other way of nursing an interest in free institutions among these juvenile republicans, there’s nothing to be done but to endure the “Fourth of July” once a year, for the general good.
August 1. Yesterday I visited the residence of the late Hon. Daniel Webster, at Marshfield. There was much that was interesting to see in the great man’s home; I think the two things that pleased me most were the portraits of his mother, and his black cook, or housekeeper. The latter was a fine painting, the face so full of intelligence, gratitude, and all good feelings; and there was an evidence of the true sympathy and home comfort between master and servant, if it is well to use those words, in the picture itself, the care with which it was painted, as well as the speaking face. The other was simply an old-fashioned cut profile, in black outline, and underneath it the words, “My excellent mother—D. Webster.”
Out of doors, the wonderful old elm was the greatest attraction, with its branches sweeping the ground, and making an arbor and a cathedral at once, before the threshold. Webster himself—but it is not well to call up anything but pleasant memories of the dead; and these do linger about the home he loved. What the nation thinks of him may be recorded elsewhere.
August 2. I visited Plymouth, placed my foot on the memorable “Plymouth Rock,” of the Pilgrims (now so enclosed and covered as to leave scarcely space sufficient for my large foot to rest upon), looked at Mayflower curiosities in the hall, books, shoes, and fans of the olden time, and more especially pewter platters, which, judging from some ancient will I looked over in the Court House, were the most important personal property of the Puritans. John Alden’s well-worn Bible was open at the date of publication, 1620, so he had it new for his westward voyage; I wondered whether it was the gift of some friend left behind, or his own purchase. Miles Standish’s long rapier was scarcely more interesting to me than the big kettle labeled with his name, which might have supplied the colony with dinner, judging from its size. Some old documents relating to the Quakers caught my attention; one especially, wherein Winthrop demurred from signing his name to a report of Commissioners, wherein this troublesome sect were adjudged worthy to be put to death for their “cursed opinions and devilish tennets,”—Winthrop signed, leaving testimony beside his name, that it was “as a querry, not as an act.” Coming back to George Fox’s journal, which I had borrowed for vacation reading, I could not but smile at the difference a hundred or two years will make; I can admire both Puritan and Quaker for their sincerity, and only wish they could have understood each other better. There is no defense for the persecution of the “Fathers,” except the imperfection of human nature, and there is only this for the misguided ways into which the Quakers were led, by mistaking their own fancies for the “inner light.” Better death on both sides (for what each held to be truth) than indifference to truth. And, stepping among the bones of the Pilgrims, on Burying Hill, and looking away over the waves which brought them and freedom to New England, and so to the Union, I could not but contrast the struggle of that day with the present war for liberty against oppression. It is, in reality, the “Old Colony” against the “Old Dominion,” or rather, the latter against the former, aristocracy against the republic. God will prosper us now as then; but perhaps we are to be brought as low before Him as they were, before our cause can be victorious.
August 3. Fishing on the “Indian Pond” in Pembroke half the day, catching sunfish and shiners, red perch and white; my first exploits of the kind. It is a pleasant day to remember, for the green trees and the blue waters, for lilies wide awake on the bosom of the waters in the morning sunshine, for fresh breezes, and for pleasant company.
August 11. At Amesbury,—with two of the dearest friends my life is blessed with,—dear quiet-loving Lizzie, and her poet brother. I love to sit with them in the still Quaker worship, and they love the free air and all the beautiful things as much as they do all the good and spiritual. The harebells nodding in shade and shine on the steep banks of the Merrimac, the sparkle of the waters, the blue of the sky, the balm of the air, and the atmosphere of grave sweet friendliness which I breathed for one calm “First-day” are never to be forgotten.
August 20. One of the stillest moonlight evenings,—not a sound heard but the bleat of a lamb, and the murmur of the river; all the rest a cool, broad, friendly mountainous silence. Peace comes down with the soft clouds and mists that veil the hills; the Pemigewasset sings all night in the moonshine, and I lie and dream of the beauty of those hill-outlines around Winnipiseogee, that I looked upon with so satisfied a greeting from the car window on my way hither. The mountains do not know their own beauty anywhere but by a lakeside. So it is: beauty sets us longing for other beauty; the clouds moving above their summits suggest possibilities that earthly summits, at their grandest, can never attain. And no dream can suggest the possibilities of the beautiful that “shall be revealed.”
August 24. “The eye is not satisfied with seeing, and the ear with hearing,” and one can never tire of the vision of mountain landscapes, and the quiet song of summer rivers. Every day since I have been here in this beautiful village of Campton, I have driven through some new region; sometimes into the very heart of the hills, where nothing is to be seen but swelling slopes on every side, hills which have not quite attained mountainhood, but which would be mountains anywhere but in the “Granite State;” and sometimes out into the interval openings of the river; with new views of “Alps on Alps” on the northern horizon, the gate of the Franconia Notch opening dimly afar with its mountain haystacks piled beside it. It is rest to soul and body to be among these mountains; one thing only is lacking; the friends I had hoped to see here are not with me. But too much joy is not to be looked for; let me hope that they are among scenes more beautiful, and with dearer friends than I. Yet how delightful it would have been, to be with the best friends, among the most beautiful scenes.
August 25. I am enjoying the society of my old friend and former associate teacher. She is more gifted than I, in most ways, and it is pleasant to talk to some one who, you take it for granted, has a clearer understanding, and deeper insight, and more adequate expression than yourself.
August 28. Yesterday a rare treat; a ride to Waterville (to the “end of the wood” as they speak of it here) in a three-seated open wagon. I wish they would have only open ones for mountain travel.
September 5. Why do I not love to be near the sea better than among the mountains? Here is my home, if birthplace makes home. But no, it is not my natural preference; I believe I was born longing after the mountains. And rivers and lakes are better to me than the ocean. I remember how beautiful the Merrimac looked to me in childhood, the first true river I ever knew; it opened upon my sight and wound its way through my heart like a dream realized; its harebells, its rocks, and its rapids, are far more fixed in my memory than anything about the sea. Yet the vastness and depth and the changes of mist and sunshine are gloriously beautiful; I know and feel their beauty. Still, I admire it most in glimpses; a bit of blue between the hills, only a little more substantial than the sky, and a white sail flitting across it; or when it is high-tide calm,—one broad, boundless stillness,—then there is rest in the sea, but it never rests me like the strong silent hills; they bear me up on their summits into heaven’s own blue eternity of peace. But is it right to wrap one’s own being in this mantle of peace, while the country is ravaged by war?—its garments rolled in blood, brother fighting against brother to the death? The tide of rebellion surges higher and higher, and there is no sadder proof that we are not the liberty-loving people that we used to call ourselves, than to learn that there are traitors in the secret councils of the nation, in forts defended by our own bravest men; among women, too: “Sisters! oh, Sisters! Shame o’ ladies!” A disloyal woman at the North, with everything woman ought to hold dear at stake in the possible fall of this government,—it is too shameful! I hope every one such will be held in “durance vile” until the war is over.But will it end until the question is brought to its true issue,—liberty or slavery? I doubt it: and I would rather the war should last fifty years, than ever again make the least compromise with slavery, that arch-enemy of all true prosperity, that eating sin of our nation. Rather divide at once, rather split into a thousand pieces, than sink back into this sin!
The latest news is of the capture of the Hatteras Forts, a great gain for us, and a blight to privateering at the South;—with a rumor of “Jeff Davis’s” death, which nobody believes because it is so much wished. Yet to his friends he is a man, and no rebel. War is a bitter curse,—it forbids sympathy, and makes us look upon our enemies as scarcely human; and we cannot help it, when our foes are the foes of right.
Norton, September 8. Am I glad for trials, for disappointments, for opportunities for self-sacrifice, for everything God sends? Ah! indeed I do not know! How many times, when we say, “Try me, and know my heart,” the answer is, “Ye know not what ye ask!” And I know not why, in some states of mind and body, what seems a very little trouble (or would, if told another), should be so oppressive.
But “little,” and “great,” in the world’s vocabulary, are very different terms from what they are in individual experience; and submission, and grateful acquiescing obedience to divine will, are to be learned by each in his own capacity. Two weeks ago, I was saying over to myself, every day, as if it were a new thought, Keble’s lines,—
“New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.”
And as those words kept recurring, as if whispered by a spirit, I thought I should be glad to have my best treasures to give for sacrifice, to make others happy with what was most precious to me. And as my way seemed uncertain, and for a day or two I knew not whether to move or to sit still, I said, “Lead me! Behold the handmaid of the Lord; let it be unto me according to Thy will,—only let me do nothing selfishly.” And the answer came in the withdrawal of a blessing from me; no doubt with purposes of greater blessing to some one, somewhere and somehow; and I am only half reconciled as yet. Shall I ever believe that God knows best, and does what is best for me, and for us all? It is easy enough in theory, but these great and little trials tell us the truth about ourselves,—show us our insincerity. And now I close this record, which has been my nearest companion for so many months. Esther is gone. Is there any friend who cares enough for me just as I am, to keep it in memory of me? Or had I better bury it from my own eyes and all others’? It may be good for me to read the record of myself as I have been,—cheerful or morbid,—and of what I have read, thought, and done, wisely or unwisely. The “Country Parson” thinks a diary a good thing; and I do too, in many ways, but I would rather write for a friend’s kindly eyes than for my own: even about myself. Therefore letters are to me a more genial utterance than a journal, and I would write any journal as if for some one who could understand me fully, love me, and have patience with me through all. I do not know if now there is any such friend for me; yet dear friends I have, and more and more precious to me, every year. If these were my last words, I would set them down as a testimony to the preciousness of human friendships; dearer and richer than anything else on earth. By them is the revelation of the divine in the human; by them heaven is opened, truth is made clear, and life is worth the living. So have I been blessed, drawn heavenward by saintly messengers in the garb of mortality. So shall it be forever, for true love is—eternal, it is life itself.
September 12. Is it always selfish to yield to depression? Can one help it, if the perspective of a coming year of lonely labor seems very long? No. I shall not be alone; I shall feel the sympathy of all the good and true, though apart from them; and though I cannot come very near to any under this roof, yet to all I can come nearer than I think I can. And by and by these strange restless yearnings will be stilled; I shall quiet my soul in the peace of God. He has said, “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee!” Oh! what is any woman’s life worth without the friendship of the One ever near, the only divine?
Yes, I will make my work my friend. My trials, my vexations, my cares, shall speak good words to me, and I will not blind my eyes to the beauty close at hand, because of the lost glory of my dreams. I wish I could be more to all these young glad beings,—it is not in me to touch the chords of many souls at once, but I will enlarge my sympathies.
October 5, 1861. This first week of October, this month of months, shall not pass without some record of its beauty. Norton woods and Norton sunsets are the two redeeming features of the place; as its levelness is its bane. What is it in us that refuses to love levels? Is it that there is no searching and toiling for anything, up cool heights and down in sheltered hollows?
These splendidly tinted maples before my window would be a hundred-fold more splendid if lifted up among the hemlocks and pines of the mountainsides. Oh! how magnificent those New Hampshire hills must be now, in the sunset of the year!
The place is a level, and boarding-school life is a most wearisome level to me, yet flowers spring up, and fruits grow in both. We are to welcome “all that makes and keeps us low;” yet it seems to me as if it would be good for me to ascend oftener to the heights of being; I fear losing the power and the wish to climb.
Let us say we are struggling to put down slavery, and we shall be strong.
October 8. Yesterday two letters came to me, each from a friend I have never seen, yet each with a flower-like glow and perfume that made my heart glad. And at evening a graceful little basket of fruit was left in my room, and this morning a bunch of fringed gentians, blue with the thoughtfulness of the sky that hangs over the far solitary meadows, the last answer from earth to heaven from the frosty fields.
October 11. Rain: and just one of those dreary drizzling rains which turn one in from the outer world upon one’s own consciousness,—a most unhealthy pasture land for thought, in certain states of mind and body. Just how far we should live in self-consciousness, and how far live an outside life, or rather, live in the life of others, is a puzzle. Without something of an inner experience, it is not easy to enter into other lives, to their advantage; some self-knowledge is necessary, to keep us from intruding upon others; but it is never good to make self the centre of thought.
October 13. George Fox’s journal is a leaf from a strange chapter of the world’s history: from the history of religion. If a plain man should come among us now, asking leave of none to speak, but “testifying” in religious assemblies to the reality of the inward life of light and peace in Christ, his blunt and simple ways might be unpleasing to many, but every scoffer would look on, more with wonder than with anger. Many, I am sure, would welcome such a voice of sincerity and “livingness,” sounding through the outward services of religion. The days of religious persecution can scarcely return again; nor, it is to be hoped, the days of those strange phenomena which so irritated our ancestors; men walking as “signs” to the people, declaring their dreams to be visions from God, and uttering wild, unmeaning prophecies for inspiration. How hard it is to learn what “true religion and undefiled” is! Life is a better word for this universal bond than religion. And we shall see, sometime, that it is only by the redemption of all our powers, all that is in us and in the outward world, that we are truly “saved.” We must receive the true light through and through, we must keep our common sense, our talents, our genius, just the same;—only that light must glow through all, to make all alive. And when home, and friendships, and amusements, and all useful and beautiful thoughts and things are really made transparent with that divine light, when nothing that God has given us is rejected as “common or unclean,” the “new heaven and the new earth” will have been created, and we shall live in our Creator and Redeemer.
The great difference between the early Quakers and the Puritans seems to me to be that the former had larger ideas of truth, deeper and broader revelations, yet mixed with greater eccentricities, as might be expected. The Puritans were most anxious for a place where they could worship undisturbed, as their consciences dictated; the Quakers were most desirous that the Word of Life should be spoken everywhere,—the Light be revealed to all. Each made serious mistakes,—what else could we expect, from the best that is human? And the errors of both were, in great part, the errors of the age,—intolerance and fanaticism.
October 12. How refreshing the clear cold air is, after the summer-like fogs and rains we have had! I love the cold; the northern air is strengthening; it has the breath of the hills in it, the glow of Auroral lights, and the purity of the eternal snows. There is little of the south in my nature; the north is my home; Italy and the tropics will do for dream excursions; I should long for the sweeping winds of the hillsides, if I were there.
October 15. The beauty of this morning was wonderful; something in the air made me feel like singing. I thought my weariness was all gone; but leaning over books brought it back. After school four of us rode off in the wagon through the woods; and delighted ourselves with the sunset, the katydids, and the moonlight.
October 22. I heard Charles Sumner on the Rebellion: my first sight and hearing of the great anti-slavery statesman. He was greeted with tremendous applause, and every expression of opposition to slavery was met with new cheers. He does not seem to me like a man made to awaken enthusiasm; a great part of his address was statistical, and something we all knew before,—the long preparation of this uprising of the rebels; and his manner was not that of a man surcharged with his subject, but of one who had thoroughly and elegantly prepared himself to address the people. At this time we are all expecting orators to speak as we feel,—intensely; perhaps it is as well that all do not meet our expectations. One idea which he presented seemed to me to be worth all the rest, and worth all the frothy spoutings for “Union” that we hear every day; it was that our battalions must be strengthened by ideas, by the idea of freedom. That is it. Our men do not know what they are fighting for; freedom is greater than the Union, and a Union, old or new, with slavery, no true patriot will now ask for. May we be saved from that, whatever calamities we may endure!
The ride to and from Boston has a new picture since summer: the camp at Readville, just under the shadow of the Milton hills. It is a striking picture, the long array of white tents, the soldiers marching and countermarching, and the hills, tinted with sunset and autumn at once, looking down upon the camping ground. Little enough can one realize what war is, who sees it only in its picturesque aspect, who knows of it only by the newspapers, by knitting socks for soldiers, and sewing bed-quilts for the hospitals. I should give myself in some more adequate way, if we were definitely struggling for freedom; for there is more for women to do than to be lookers-on.
October 27. Looking out on the clouds at sunset, the thought of God as constantly evolving beauty from His own being into all created forms, struck me forcibly, as the right idea of our lives; that, like Him, we should be full of all truth and love, and so grow into beauty ourselves, and impart loveliness to all we breathe upon, or touch. Inspiration from Him is all we have to impart in blessing to others.
What is the meaning of these moods and states that fetter some of us so? I have seen life just as I see it now, and been glad in it, while for many months all things have brought me a nightmare-feeling that I could not shake off. I know it is the same world, the same life, the same God; I do not doubt Him, nor the great and good ends that He is working out for all; yet nothing wears its old delight.
October 30. “And with a child’s delight in simple things.” That I have not lost all this, I felt to-day, in receiving a note from an unknown person,—from one who had read some poems of mine in childhood, and now, a woman, bears something not unworthy the name of poet; to hear some new voice speaking to me in this way, as a friend, is pleasant to me. I have written as I have felt, in my verses; they have been true words from my deepest life, often; and I am glad whenever they call forth a sincere answer, as now;—one word of real appreciation repays me for pages of mere fault-finding. Yet a kind fault-finder is the best of friends.
What is the meaning of “gossip?” Doesn’t it originate with sympathy, an interest in one’s neighbor, degenerating into idle curiosity and love of tattling? Which is worse, this habit, or keeping one’s self so absorbed intellectually as to forget the sufferings and cares of others, to lose sympathy through having too much to think about?
October 31. I must hurry my mind, when I have to press ancient history into a three-months’ course, and keep in advance of my class in study, with rhetoric and mental philosophy requiring a due share of attention besides, and the whole school to be criticised in composition and furnished with themes.
November 5. Governor Andrew’s proclamation was a very touching one. Thanksgiving will be a sad day this year, yet a more sacred day than ever. I read his allusion to the Potomac, as now a sacred river to us, since the blood of our soldiers had mingled with its waters; and we felt that one throb of patriotism unites us all, however we must suffer.
November 7. FrÉmont is removed! It seems too bad, for none could awaken enthusiasm as he did, everywhere. And yet military law is all that holds us up now, and we have to trust blindly that the rulers are right. It may prove to be so, but to withdraw him when within a few miles of the enemy seems too hard. We shall respect him all the more, to see him bearing it nobly for his country’s sake.
November 14. The best news for us since the war began has come within a day or two; and it is confirmed. Beaufort, S. C., is taken by a federal fleet, and the secessionists are in real consternation. All agree that this is a decisive blow, and if we can maintain our position, the war will end speedily. But after that, there will be the same question to settle—“Are we one country or not?” We shall not be any more agreed than we were before, until slavery is abolished. The idea that the negroes are attached to the “institution” is well shown up now, when two hundred slaves, the property of one man in the very heart of slavedom, hasten at once to board our war steamers for protection; and when their masters vainly try to whip them before them in their retreat. If now our government undertakes to cultivate cotton by free labor of colored men, it will be a grand step towards the general liberation. And if thus the South can be made to honor labor, we may by and by be reunited in spirit; for that is the element of separation. We are carried onward in a way we little know, and it is impossible not to rejoice when we feel ourselves borne by a mighty and loving Power towards a glorious goal.
November 18. Much of our Christianity is not of a sufficiently enlarged type to satisfy an educated Hindoo; not that Unitarianism is necessary, for that system has but a surface-liberalism which can become very hard, and finally very narrow, as its history among us has often proved. It is not a system at all that we want: it is Christ, the “wisdom of God and the power of God,” Christ, the loving, creating, and redeeming friend of the world, Christ, whose large, free being enfolds all that is beautiful in nature and in social life; and all that is strong and deep and noble in the sanctuary of every living soul. When Christians have truly learned Christ, they can be true teachers.
November 24. Thanksgiving is over; I have been to Beverly and returned. I am glad they wanted me so much, for I should not have gone without; and in this place there is little in harmony with our best home festival. Our governor’s proclamation was of the true Puritan stamp; and the day was one to be kept religiously, in view of our present national troubles, and of the strong Power that is bearing us through and over them. We are sure that God is on our side; and one of the things to be most thankful for is that the desire for the liberation of the slave is becoming universal. Our armies, that began to fight for Union alone, now see that Union is nothing without freedom, and when this Northern heart is fully inspired with that sentiment the Northern hand will strike a decisive blow; such a blow as only the might of right can direct.
November 25. The first snow! Light and thick as swan’s-down, it wraps the shivering bosom of mother earth. Last night I went to sleep with an uncurtained window before me, and the still, bright stars looking in; I awoke to find the air dim and heavy with snow, and all the treetops bending in graceful gratitude; and to think aloud the lines,—
“Oh! if our souls were but half as white
As the beautiful snow that fell last night!”
I do not like this vague kind of unrest, and this dissatisfaction with myself which returns so often. I am willing to be dissatisfied, but I want to know exactly with what, that I may mend. I believe the trouble partly is that I do not, cannot, love very much the people that I see oftenest. Their thoughts and ways are so different from mine I cannot comfortably walk with them. It seems to me as if we were like travelers on the same journey, but in paths wide apart; and we can only make one another hear by effort and shouting. Whether this is wrong, or simply one of the things that cannot be helped, I cannot clearly see; but I am afraid that I am too willing to excuse myself for so doing.
November 26. The last day of school; my classes all examined, and to-morrow we scatter, to gather ourselves together again in two weeks. I am not sure whether I like or dislike these frequent changes; on the whole I think I like them; for they break up the monotony, and then one does get so totally glued to the manner of school life: there is no better name for the cohesive power that makes us one household for the time. I do not believe it possible (for me, at least, and I doubt whether it is for any woman) to have quite a home feeling, among the many living together, in a place like this. There is not expansive power enough in me to take in all.Beverly, December. The two weeks of vacation are nearly over, and I have done nothing but sew. I had planned to read, and paint, and walk, and rest; but things are as they are, and one cannot go in tatters. I like to be somewhat troubled and absorbed in the necessities of life, once in a while; it is rather pleasant than otherwise to feel that something urgently requires my attention; and then this is the way to realize how three fourths of the inhabitants of this world live to eat, drink, and wear clothes.
December 13. Vacation is over; and here I am at Norton again, not so fully awake and in earnest about school work as I wish I was.
My whole life has lost the feeling of reality; I cannot tell why. Alike in the city, by the seashore, and here on the levels of this now leafless flat-land, I feel as if I were “moving about in worlds unrealized.” I know well enough the theory of life; what principles must sustain me; what great objects there are to live for; and still there remains the same emptiness, the same wonder in everything I do. I feel as I imagine the world might have felt, when going through some of its slow transitions from chaos into habitable earth,—waiting for sunshine, and bursting buds, and running rivers. I suppose I am not ready for full life yet.
December 16. To-day there are rumors of a possible war with England, on account of the affair of Mason and Slidell, now prisoners in Boston harbor. It will be an outrage on humanity, a proof that England’s pompous declamations against slavery are all hypocritical, if this should be done; for all good authorities have declared that a war on this account would never be, unless a pretext for war was wanted. Perhaps Providence intends that this shall be brought out definitely as a struggle for principles; I think the nation and the army need some such lesson, and they will not learn it unless it is made very plain.
December 22. I have found what are to be my two books of Bible study,—my two Sabbath books for the term. They are Neander’s “History of the Church,” and Conybeare and Howson’s “Life of St. Paul.” I have commenced them both, and find that satisfaction in them that is only met with by coming in contact with a character,—gifted, scholarly and Christian.
How I should like to live a free life with nature one year through! out in the bracing winds, the keen frosty air, and over the crackling snowcrust, wherever I would; and then in summer, seek the mountains or the sea, as I chose; no study, no thoughts, but what came as a thing of course; no system, except nature’s wild ways, which have always their own harmony, evident enough when one enters into them, though understood by no mere observer.
December 28. A pretty table found its way into my room Christmas morning, a gift contributed from two classes: I was half sorry and half glad to receive it; I don’t think I appreciate this kind of a present—it represents so many persons, some vaguely and some clearly fixed in memory—so much as a simpler token from the heart of one friend. And yet I feel the kindness which prompted the gift, and am grateful for it, I am sure.
How ashamed one is obliged to be just now of the “mother country”! Step-mother Country England ought to be called, for her treatment of us in our trouble. It is hard to believe that all she has said against slavery was insincere, and that she would really like to see the slave-power established and flourishing on the ruins of our free Republic; but her actions say so.
Yet we are not guiltless; not wholly purged from the curse yet. The army is not entirely anti-slavery in principles; and we cannot look for success, nor wish it, but for the sake of freedom.
