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