A SELECTION OF LETTERS BY SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE, JULIA WARD HOWE, CHARLES
SUMNER, AND OTHERS, 1842-1854
[Samuel Gridley Howe to Julia Ward, summer 1842.] Gravely meditating thereupon,
and thinking I never could go to sleep (for my eyelids were six inches apart) I
fell asleep notwithstanding, and straitway dreamed a dream. I was the loving
subject of a Mighty Prince, and by him ordered to go on an important mission to
a foreign land, about which much was said, but nothing certain known: my orders
were, to go steadily and trustingly on, stopping not for pleasure, turning
neither to the right hand nor to the left for any fear or any obstacle, but only
when an opportunity offered of doing some good to the people through whose
country I might be passing. I started, full of hope and trust, though knowing
nothing of the strange land to which I was bound, except that I could never
return from it, but should there abide always, to have honour and rewards in
proportion to the zeal and fidelity with which I discharged my duty to my Prince
in my journey thitherward: I was heedless then of everything else; I took no
staff, I cared for no scrip; the morning sun was bright before me, the flowers
were blooming around me, the air was redolent of music, and glad young beings
gambolled about my path. I journeyed on through the crowd, but yet alone; for
though the wise councilled me to take a friend for sympathy and support, I
heeded them not, because my heart felt strong and needed it not. I came to a
wild and rugged land, and dangers beset me on every side, but I braved or eluded
them all. Again was I warned against journeying alone, and though would now have
gladly heeded the council, there was none left upon earth who seemed fitted to
join me in my pilgrimage: with a sigh then, but with a still stout heart I held
on my now lonely way. The country became more desert and dreary; the few whom I
saw, seemed reserved and suspicious; I sighed to find that none bade me 'God
speed', as formerly; and I learned for the first time how much of my boasted
courage came from human sympathy. It was noon, and before me stretched a land
utterly barren and desolate; there was not a being, not a house, not a tree to
be seen; and far away over the dim horizon hung dark clouds: my heart sank
within me. I said, 'I cannot go on alone; had I but a friend to protect, but a
little child to grasp by the hand and guide and guard--any thing besides myself
for which to tax my energies and expose my life, I could go gladly forward: I
hesitated, but now, for the first time, felt distinctly that an irresistible,
though invisible power, was pushing me on--that I could not stop: I was
appalled, and remembered the words of the wise: when suddenly a dim form, as of
an angel, appeared in the air, but it hardly seemed human enough for sympathy
with me, and soon vanished. I went on sadly, when again the same spiritual being
appeared; it came nearer to me, took distinctly a human shape, seemed to have
human sympathies, appeared to be animated by the same spirit that I was, and,
perchance, was bound on the same errand: the glad thought flashed across my mind
that perhaps I had found a companion; I eagerly moved forward to join the
figure--but it vanished suddenly, crying gaily, "thou art too late"; I stretched
out my hand to grasp its garments, but I seemed to have seized a robe of
flame--I awoke with the pain, and lo! my hand, which still grasped your letter,
had fallen upon the hot socket of the expiring candle! So, Miss Julie, you have
burned me most dreadfully; and I think it an awful thing, at your time of life,
to be bewildering and burning innocent wictimes, as you do;
JWH to sisters, late Jan 1842 (393). I really believe that my enjoyment here has
been good for me--it is not gratified vanity, wh gives at best a momentary and
feverish pleasure--but it is the gratification one must feel in being kindly and
cordially received, and in finding a circle of society composed of warm hearted,
intelligent people, not cold, carping critics, people who are disposed to make
the best of you, who have sense enough to perceive your good qualities, and
charity enough to overlook and be sorry for your faults. . . . I have had hardly
the least dash of Transcendentalism, and that of the very best description, a
lecture and a visit from Emerson, in both of wh he said beautiful things--and
tomorrow, dont be shocked, a conversation at Miss Fullers,' wh I shall treasure
up for your amusement and instruction--I have also heard, dont go into
hysterics, Dr Channing once--it was a rare chance, as he does not now preach
once in a year. his discourse was very beautiful-
Margaret Fuller to JWH, [1842, probably sometime near the letter above, from
Mary. Mary was no doubt the intermediary; perhaps she wrote after reading what
Fuller wrote. Schlesinger MC272 #23]: I part from this poem with great regret,
and, so far as I am concerned, wish very much that it may be published, that I
may keep it by me. I think I shall frequently recur to it.
It is the record of days of genuine inspiration,--of days when the soul lay in
the light, when the spiritual harmonies were clearly apprehended and great
religious symbols reanimated with their original meaning. Its numbers have the
fullness and sweetness of young love, young life. Its gifts were great and
demand the service of a long day's work to [reignite?] and to interpret them. I
can hardly realize that the Julia Ward I have seen has lived this life. It has
not yet pervaded her whole being, though I can recal something of it in the
steady light of her eye. May she become all attempered and ennobled by this
music. I saw, in her taste, the capacity for genius, and the utmost delicacy of
passionate feeling, but caught no glimpse at the time of this higher mood.
It will always be valuable to me to have seen that the church even now can have
an influence so real, and that its rites and signs still bear their mystic
significance to the willing sense. I had thought only those who had turned their
backs upon the church could see in it a text for pure worship.
I think, however, this can only be spiritually apprehended by those of a
spiritual experience, and that to a superficial reader nothing might be seen in
the poem except the technics of Trinitarianism. But were I the singer! this
would content me well.
I admire the feelings of the prophetic spirit of the Old Testament as much as
that of the purity and infinite love of Jesus. The parts all please me in
various ways. One has a Bunyan-like simplicity, others a soaring sweetness, the
music of all is penetrating. "Preaching"--"Woman"--and "The Beauty of Holiness"
are rich in thought--shall such a mind ever swerve from its balance?
There are slight inaccuracies. Fire is used in several places as a word of two
syllables, the rhythm requiring fi-er.
& much is forgiven to who loveth much, which, to be grammatical should be him
who loveth much--or give an objective in some way to the to.
I am sorry to write such a scrawl, but constant writing spoils my hand just now,
and I have no time for elegance. Looking at the neat copy of Miss Ward, I would
really copy this, did time permit, so much is my emulation fired!
If she publishes I would not have her omit the lines about the "lonely room".
The personal interest with which they stamp that part is slight and delicate.
If the poem be not published I hope it will be sent me again one of these long
summer days. S. Margaret Fuller.
I know of many persons in my own cirlce to whom I think the poem would be
especially grateful.
JWH to Sam Ward, Tuesday morning [Feb 21, 1843] [51M-283(168)] The Chevalier
says truly--I am the captive of his bow and spear. His true devotion has won me
from the world, and from myself. The past is already fading from my sight;
already, I begin to live with him in the future, which shall be as calmly bright
as true love can make it. I am perfectly satisfied to sacrifice to one so noble
and earnest the day dreams of my youth. He will make life more beautiful to me
than a dream. His affection for me, he says, and I believe, has not wavered, has
not been transferred to another--even in concealing it, he acted with a pride
and dignity which I could not but respect. ... Give me, dearest brother, your
fraternal benediction, and let me tell you that, although I have chosen for
myself an older and more experienced guide than yourself, I do not expect to
find any where a kinder friend than you have been to me.
Good bye, my darling. The Chevalier is very presumptuous--says that he will not
lose sight of me for one day, that I must stay here until he can return with me
to New York. The Chevalier is very impertinent, speaks of two or three months,
when I speak of two or three years, and seems determined to have things his own
way--but, dear Bunny, the Chevalier's way will be a very charming way, and is,
henceforth, to be mine. ...
JWH to sisters, 1843 (394). [After marriage to Chev is arranged.] Will you hear
a few words from me, or am I utterly in disgrace? perhaps I deserve to be, but
indeed the Ch begged me so hard that I could not refuse him these two days more.
he was anxious that his friends should see some thing of me, and I am always
anxious to gratify him. I will begin by making you laugh--yesterday I sate with
the Ch, and said to him, among other things: I shall try to please you in every
thing--'what?' said he, 'even to the paring of a nail?' my dear children, you
know the general state of my unfortunate nails--of course, I ran instantly up
stairs and cut them very short, at which he was much pleased.
I cannot write very gaily. I am quite tamed and sobered in spirit. The thought
of what I have undertaken weighs upon me, and I fear to be at home, lest the
pressure of old associations, and the thought of parting should be more than I
can bear--but the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, and the Chevalier is an
angel of light--so all will be well-- ...
Sam Ward to SGH, 4 April 1843, New York (1782). Before dinner today I found
Julia in the library reading letters with a melancholy expression to which her
countenance has long been a stranger. The handwriting appeared to be yours, and
I was at a loss to reconcile the apparent contradiction between it and the tears
it seemed to occasion. Experience coming to the aid of my solicitude furnished a
clue to the mystery and I almost immediately exclaimed "that it could be nothing
but a struggle between the Ideal & the Real". It was not without surprise that
Julia acknowledged the truth of my inference. She then consented that I should
read your letter and afterwards that I should reply to it.
Let me begin by declaring that this is the first time I have come between you &
that I only do so in this instance from a thorough conviction that there is a
reciprocal misunderstanding which can be easily removed. You are both very right
in your respective positions--so far as these are individually concerned--and
both very wrong when I consider the relation you bear each other, which should
modify individualities and produce a system of reciprocal concessions.
An acquaintance of 20 odd years with my dear Sister will justify my claim to
some knowledge of her character and I assure you that a close scrutiny of it
since her return has disclosed to me more essential changes in all its features
of relation than I ever conceived could be effected by the alchemy of any man's
love. In this transformation I instantly recognized with heartfelt joy a
guaranty of her future happiness and of yours.
Therefore I consider the doubts and fears expressed in your letter as unfounded
and groundless. indeed I regret that they should have seen the light and still
more that they should have arisen to produce a ferment in your soul. Not that
they can impair the affectionate interest she feels in the man of her choice or
lessen the devotion with which she cherishes his images and decorates its shrine
with votive offerings and flowers of hope--But such discussions are
metaphysical--the delicate ingredients of a woman's love are too subtle for the
frigid analysis of reason--sympathy is the parent and subsequently the offspring
of mutual affection. It is enough to feel that we are loved and to know, from
the consciousness that we share the sentiment, that we deserve to inspire it.
Allow me to say, then, dear Howe, that you have been tormented by a phantom of
your own imagination--a chimera or as you appropriately term it a demon & an
incubus. My sister's disposition & characteristics will be naturally modified by
her union with you--the love she gives you and the changes that love has already
operated are undeniable proofs of this, which I should hardly think could have
escaped a man of your penetration. So, hereafter, whatever further modifications
may be desirable will gradually & surely occur like organic changes. Patient &
considerate affection will prove more effective than the gutta quae casit
lapidum--for you have softer materials to work upon than marble & granite.
As for a woman's poetical aspirations I should cherish them as I would the
melody of her voice--Would you be jealous of the tambour[?} frame or the Piano
Forte? Our lives are filled up by action and I think it fortunate when
intellectual occupations, strengthening the mind and refining the taste, fill up
those lonely hours, so often consoled by scandal & romances, and render the
woman a fitter companion for the man.
Rest satisfied, then, with the conquest you have made--There is a spirit of
rebellion in human nature which is equally aroused by suspicion or over
exaction--Love has given you authority, let its influence work invisibly--and do
not strive to accelerate the approach of the not far distant day, when every
thought & desire will be stamped by your wishes, by insisting upon a formal
renunciation of tastes & impulses which so far from being rivals will one day
become your cherished friends. A woman cannot have too many qualities. If your
wife drew exquisitely you would be proud to exhibit her album for drawing is
like embroidery, a female accomplishment. And why should not a fondness for
history & philosophy be also an attribute of the mother of one's children--or
poetry be welcome when it gushes from the "wellsprings" of a nature imaginative
yet reasonable, aspiring though gentle? Read George Sand's " Sept Cordes de la
Lyre", Doctor, before you are a week older.
If love were not prone to deraissoner I should lay stress upon an inconsistency
in your letter--at the commencement of which you laud the treasures of your
intended's heart while at the conclusion your very supposition that it may not
be wholly bestowed upon you implies a doubt of it's really being a heart worth
having.
Do you regard it is a small evidence to the contrary that a young maiden reared
in the midst of tenderness & luxury & lacking no desirable comfort of a worldly
order--accustomed for years to the books, the repose and the speculations that
excite your apprehension, should have freely & nobly consented to share your lot
and forsake her friends & native city? Or how can you reconcile the admiration
you avow for her intellectual powers if you imagine them to be inadequate to
foresee the responsibilities and cares that the wife assumes?
If, then, you have sufficient faith in her discernment to feel that she does not
enter upon this new compact without being fully aware of the effect its
fulfillment must have upon her destiny--can you for a moment doubt that you
possess her heart?
Your scruples do honor to your manhood but discredit to your nerves. You have
obtained quite enough to ensure the whole of what you desire & I urge you to
await the result with that calm confidence which distinguishes unhesitating &
disinterested devotion. The church service contains some of those provisions for
which zealous & inexperienced apprehension incites you to stipulate--because the
powers of our canons, with a propoer knowledge of human nature saw that mutual
liking & mutual sympathy were sure to increase when actually existing and would
not fail to engender that reciprocal considerateness which enhances the price of
any sacrifice in the eyes of the party for whom it is made and diminishes the
cost in those of the maker of it.
I therefore implore you to ask no more than has been freely given. There is
every disposition to meet your wishes at any cost and I could cite instances in
proof of this assertion did I not feel assured that the foregoing lines, from
one who claims to have had more experience of women in General and of Julia in
particular than yourself, will entirely allay the misgivings which I deeply
regret you should have had as to you ability to render her happy.
SGH to Sumner, 13 May 1843, Liverpool (884). [a rhapsody about how much he loves
Julia] but never mind, you know what I mean, that is as well as you can be
expected to know--you who know not the delights of love, & who can form about as
good an idea of the glorious light which it throws over our existence as can a
mole of center of the solar system. But I wont tantalize you by talking about
it, nor waste any of my heat upon your anthracite. As for you, dear
Charlie--your forebodings are not realised--the torrent of affection which is
continually flowing from my breast toward the new object of my love diminishes
not by one drop the tide of feeling which ever swells within my bosom at the
thought of thee dear Sumner: I love thee not less because I love her more, but I
am, forever shall be, with all warmth and sincerity entirely yours.
From Julia's notebook "1843 Life is strange and full of change" [51M-283(321)
Box 3]:
The past lives
Hide thee behind the hill, beneath the wave,
Oh thou whose fearful beauty haunteth me,
Fly from this earth, for the heart hath no grave
Deep, wide, and sure enough to bury thee.
Strange was the chance that bore thee to my sight,
Stranger, the power that carried thee away--
All heaven was centred in thy genial light
All heaven departed with its fading ray.
Love found me half unconscious, half afraid,
He lured me onward in the guise of play;
I followed him, then turned to seek, dismayed,
The blissful quiet that was gone for aye.
Say, was it guilty, or was it innocent,
That mingling of my spirit's life with thine?
We touched not, spake not, but our thoughts were blent,
Our souls were wedded in one look divine.
Not for mine own, but for another's peace
I plead, for his who slumbers at my side;
Let then thy daily resurrection cease,
Nor come, at night, to claim another's bride.
May 20th
The present is dead
Fancies and frezies all have passed away,
A wide but level space comes to my mind;
Methinks the soul is ebbing from the clay,
So little of itself remains behind.
I feel my varied powers all depart
With scarce a hope they may be born anew,
And nought is left, save one poor, loving heart,
Of what I was--and that may perish too.
God! spirit! come to me, in any form;
Afflict, arouse, alarm, awake my soul!
I will not dread the lightning or the storm,
Becalmed at sea, the bark nears not its goal.
And thou, my husband, in whose gentle breast,
I seek the godlike power, to keep and save;
Thou to whom I unkind, or fate unblest
These fragments of a scattered being gavem
Come nearer to me, let our spirits meet,
Let us be of one light, one truth possessed;
Tis time, our blended life on earth is sweet,
But can our souls within one heaven rest?
I am content to live, content to die,
For life and death to me are little worth;
I cannot know, through all eternity
A grief more deep than those I know on earth.
June 4th
SGH to Sumner, probably early July 1843: I must have a friend--one dear friend &
you are he: Mann--I saw much of--saw him something as I used to see you, tried
to love him as I did you, but my frightened heart came back to me; you are my
only friend--you and Julia; may I [preserve?] you as long as I live, may you
live to sigh for me when I am gone, for I shall go before you.
SGH to Sumner, 16 Mar 1844, Rome (908). [Begins with account of Julia's gush of
affection for her child--the pleasure she takes in being a mother.] How
beautiful--how wonderful is nature! Only a year ago Julia was a New York
belle--apparently an artificial, possibly to some a heartless one; now she is a
wife who lives only for her husband, & a mother who would melt her very heart,
were it needed, to give a drop more nourishment to her child. To see her
watching with eager anxious eyes every movement of her offspring; to witness her
entire self-forgetfulness & the total absorption of her nature in this new
object of love, is to have a fresh revelation of the strength & beauty of
woman's character, & new proof of their superiority over us in what most
ennobles humanity--love for others. I need not apologize to you, dear Charlie,
for dwelling on what is now nearest my heart, my wife, new relation, & new
development of character; to you it would be interesting even were we not your
friends, for to all that this really beautiful in humanity you are ever
sensitively alive. And, let me tell you, there is nothing more beautiful than
the young affection of a young mother: it is so earnest, so tender, so devoted,
that it is more than saint-like, it is heavenly. This affection has taken deep
root in the heart long before her child is born: all Julia's motions & actions
have been for months regulated with a view to its condition: during the pangs of
her confinement (and oh they were sharp and bitter) she seemed to have but one
fear, lest her child should die; and, the moment after its birth, while her
whole system seemed to be giving way beneath the racking agony which had
convulsed it, when she heard its first plaintive cry she clasped her arms around
my neck, and bursting into tears, sobbed out with joy & gratitude, "oh! my child
is alive! my child is alive!
Yes dear Sumner, doubt as we may, suggest improvements as we may, it is after
all indubitable that the apparently useless inconveniences & pains preceding
nativity are seeds of beautiful and ennobling affections, & contribute much
toward forming the tenderest of all human ties, the mother's love for her child:
who can doubt, when witnessing this love, that human nature has the elements of
God's nature, and, under the most favorable circumstances, may become angelic?
Julia has now but one wish--one thought, one hope--to be able to continue to
nurse her child herself, to fill its veins from her own. The child is dear to
me, very; but I feel that I could make any sacrifice for its good, still my love
compared to hers is as nothing: all woman's affections are stronger than man's,
but all her other affections are weak compared to her maternal ones. I have read
much of this, but, thank God! I have lived to realise this new revelation of His
benevolence & of human nature's beautiful capacities.
The darkest moment
Tears, come to my relief!
Despair, thou art not grief--
A groan is not a sigh;
Shadows depart, but truth cannot pass by.
Tis no unreal want
For which my soul doth pant,
That highest sympathy
Which God Himself to man will not deny.
Hope died as I was led
Unto my marriage bed;
Nay, do not weep--twas I
Not thou, that slew my happiest destiny;
For thou hadst quickly flown
Had thy kind heart but known
That, in thy pure embrace,
As pure a soul had lost on high its place.
The dawning of light
Husband, I do thee wrong;
Noble art thou, and strong;
And in thy blue eye gleams
As clear a flame as fed my early dreams.
We are not born alike,
Yet may our spirits strike
As bright and warm a spark
As comes from stony flint, and iron dark.
Often I turn away
From thee, to weep and pray;
I cannot rise on high,
My sad soul looks to God, and asks him why.
He says: "ye are not akin,
Your union was a sin;
Your natures meet and jar,
And thus, the order of Creation mar.
I weep, and not in vain--
I pray, and turn again;
thou art so good and true,
Regret departs, and love is born anew.
Then am I drawn to thee
By strongest sympathy;
Then grows the demon faint,
I kiss thy feet--thou art my house hold saint.
I do not love another,
Man is to me a brother;
The perilous passion's glow
Thank God is quenched, nor more shall work me woe.
When once I know my sphere,
Life shall no more be drear,
I will be all thou wilt;
To cross thy least desire shall be guilt.
Then, husband, smile on me,
Smile, and smile tenderly;
Pure angel that thou art,
Build up again the ruins of my heart!
(begun in Rome, and finished in England.)
Sumner to SGH, 16 Aug 1844 (67/190). [A report on his illness, from which he
began to recover in July. ] For such a signal recovery another person would feel
unbounded gratitude. I am going to say what will offend you--but what I trust
God will pardon. But since my convalescence I have thought most often whether I
have any just feeling of gratitude that my disease was arrested. Let me confess
to you that I cannot find it in my bosom. If I had been called away it would
have been with the regret that I never had enjoyed the choicest experience of
life--that no lips responsive to my own had ever said to me--"I love you." But
my life has had too many shadows. My childhood & youth passed in unhappiness,
such as I pray, may not be the lot of others. From earliest boyhood I have been
laborious beyond the example of any I know. You have not seen me in this mood.
During our special intimacy I have been blasted by another unhappiness, which
unmanned me, & took from me all interest in labor. As this passed away the
genius of labor again acquired his influence, then comes this illness, which
strikes at my life. Why was I spared? For me there is no future, either of
usefulness or happiness.
Why have I said so much of myself? I intended this letter as a Welcome Home on
landing, to you & yr dear wife. You will deem it, I fear, a sad welcome. ...
burn this letter.
SGH to Sumner, 11 Sept 1844, S. Boston (920). ... in that brief time I have
enjoyed a feeling satisfaction [1 word?] & of happiness unequalled by any I have
experienced in all my journeying. When my heart is full of joy or sorrow it
turns to you & yearns for your sympathy; in fact as Julia often says--Sumner
ought to have been a woman & you to have married her: but I should not agree to
this in any monygamic [?] land, for Julia is my love as a wife.
JWH to Louisa, 4 April 1845 (422): I am grieved, grieved, dear child, about your
little disappointments, but remember, you foolish chick, how few ladies
immediately become mothers--many wait one, two or more years--at any rate, you
may hope every thing from the climate of Italy, and you will perhaps be glad, in
the end, that those cares and responsibilities came more slowly and gradually
upon you. I assure you, it is a delightful, but a terrible thing to be a
mother--the constant care, anxiety, and thought of some possible evil that may
come to the little creature, too precious to be so frail, whose life and well
being, the mother feels, God has almost placed in her hands. If I did not think
that angels watched over my baby, I should be crazy about it.
JWH to Louisa, 7 Aug 1845 (436). [One of many on the eve of & just after
Louisa’s departure to Rome.] Were I one year younger, I should have written you
some poetry, but you know how it is. I do not think that I shall ever write
↑poetry↓ again. But you must not think sadly of me--it looks very dull and
cloudy for me, just now, but God has given me a strong and hopeful nature--with
patience, I may yet be happy. I shall always try to be so. Little Julia will
soon be quite a companion for me . . .
JWH to Annie Saturday 13th [probably December 1845](334). I visited my mother
Otis on Thursday evening, and had a pleasant time. I went alone, Chev being
philanthropically engaged--party being over, I called for him at Mr Mann's, but
they were so happy over their report that they concluded to make a night of it,
and I came home alone. Chev returned at one, quite intoxicated with benevolence.
. . . I am trying to press all the bitterness out of my heart, and to live in a
more gentle and loving spirit. I am grown very hard & selfish, but then, it is
so long since any one loved me. I say to myself, love begets love, and so
determine at least to spread a little of its genial sunshine around me, and to
make some sort of a Paradise out of the world I find a desert. You could help
much to make me better, for you have ever a soothing and softening influence
over me ('cept when you is perverse, & wont think as I do).
JWH to Louisa, 1845 (414). My darling Wevie--The children have been so very
obliging as to go to sleep, and, having worried over them all day, and part of
the evening, I will endeavor to give you what is left of it. When you become the
mother of two children, you will understand the value of time, as you never
understood it before--my days and nights are pretty much divided between Julia
and Florence. I sleep with the baby, nurse her all night, get up, hurry through
my breakfast, take care of her while Emily gets her's, then wash & dress her,
put her to sleep, drag her out in the wagon, amuse Dudie, kiss, love, & scold
her etc etc. From all this, you will perceive that I have returned to S.
Boston--while I was in N.Y. I did nothing but amuse myself and enjoy Annie. her
little maid took the entire charge of Florence, and left me little to do, save
to put myself at her disposal for a few minutes every two hours. Oh! I was happy
in New York, and could be happy anywhere with my sisters, and one or two old
friends--here in S.B. it is lonely and dull, but Chev has promised that i shall
not live here forever. I have agreed for five years, and that will be pretty
hard, but after that, I shall hope to appear once more among human beings, and
to lead a life some what gladdened by friendship, and those best of all earthly
things, sisters. Oh! my dear old fat Wevie! for one good squeeze in your loving
arms, for one kiss, and one smile from you, what would I not give? any thing,
even my box of Parisian finery, which I have just opened, with great
edification. oh! what head-dresses! what silks! what a bonnet--what a mantelet!
I clapped my hands, and cried glory for the space of half-an hour, then danced a
few Polkas around the study table, then sat down and felt happy, then remembered
that I had now nothing to do save to grow old and ugly, and so turned a
misanthropic look upon the Marie Stuart garland, etc etc. You have certainly
chosen my things with your own perfect taste--you never yet did buy or make an
ugly thing, save those slippers for Crodie, wich was hidyus to bee-old. The
flowers and drums are alike exquisite, and so are all the things, not forgetting
Dudie's little darling bonnet--but I fear that even this beautiful toilette will
hardly tempt me from my nursery fireside, where my presence is, in these days,
indispensible. I have not been ten minutes, this whole day, without holding one
or other of the children, and it was not until six o'clock this evening, that I
got a chance to clean my teeth--at meal-times, I have to sit with Fofo on one
knee, and Dudie on the other; trotting them alternately, and singing Jim along
Jose, till I cant Jim along any further, possibly. Well, life is peculiar, any
how. Dudie does not go alone yet. heaven only knows when she will. sunday
evening, I wore the new bonnet and mantelet to church, to-day--frightened the
sexton, made the minister squint, and the congregation stare--it looked rather
like a green clam-shell some folks thought. I did not. I cocked it as high as
ever I could, but somehow, it did plague me a little. I shall soon get used to
it. Sumner has been dining with us, and he and Chev have been pitying unmarried
women--oh! my dear friends, thought I, if you could only have one baby, you
would change your tune. What a foolish mistake these impudent men make. they
think that a woman's happiness is ensured, when she becomes tied for life to one
of them--God knows, one's wedding day may be worse than the day of one's
death--one's husband may prove any thing but a comfort and support. I earnestly
and devoutly hope that your's will continue kind and devoted to you, for on what
else can we hang our hopes for your happiness? Heaven grant, too, that your dear
little child may arrive safely, and gladden your heart with its' sweet face.
What a new world will its' birth open to you, an ocean of love unfathomed even
by your loving heart. I cannot tell you the comfort I have in my little ones,
troublesome as they sometimes are. however weary I may be at night, it is sweet
to feel that I have devoted the day to them. I am become quite an adept in
washing and dressing, & curl my little Fofo's hair beautifully--tell Dongle that
I can even wash out the little crease in her back, without rubbing the skin off.
Tell her too, that Herbert used to spend a day quite often at Annie's, and is a
splendid baby. Annie made him a nice warm cloak, and bought him frocks and a
little hood for the winter. Chev got hold of this letter, and was much grieved
at what I have said about S.B. wherefore I take it all back--indeed, I am going
to have a comfortable winter, and shall hope to enjoy myself as much as my
maternal duties will allow. Poor Chev--he is afraid you will think me
discontented, and indeed, I hope I am not. I should be very ungrateful not to be
satisfied with so kind a husband, and such beautiful children. Farewell, darling
Wevie--God bless you--love to Crodie--Your own own devoted Dudie.
[Continues in Chev's hand.]
My dear Crawford & Co, Julia has gone off sleepy & tired & had me fill up the
blanks in her letter. I would not have you judge her feeling by what she says
just now because she is a little homesick from N.Y. & it is very dark stormy
blue devil weather; generally she is as happy as she is busy & so busy a body
you never saw except it be a mother of four children at a birth who are all to
be attended to at once, & it is rather hard nursing four at a time you know. We
are getting on pretty well, but looking forward to the time when we shall be
better.
JWH to Louisa, 31 Jan 1846 (449). I still live the same subdued, buried kind of
life which I used to live when you were with me, but with some ameliorations. My
voice is still frozen to silence, my poetry chained down by an icy band of
indifference, I begin at last to believe that I am no poet, and never was one,
save in my own imagination. ...
JWH to Louisa, 15 Feb 1846 (450). My babies are all the poetry and beauty that I
can see in life. If I had them not, I should quietly die of inanition. Dearest
Wevie, what is this problem? are we meant to change so utterly? is it selfish,
is it egotistical to wish that others may love us, take an interest in us,
sympathize with us, in our maturer age, as in our youth? are our hearts to fade
and die out, with our early bloom, and, in giving life to others, do we lose our
own vitality, and sink into dimness, nothingness, and living death? I have tried
this, and found it not good--so methinks, I will not hold it fast. But then
again, what shall I do? Where shall I go to beg some scraps and remnants of
affection to feed my hungry heart? it will die, if it be not fed. My children
will, one day, love me--my sisters have always loved me--my husband? May God
teach him to love me, and help me to make him happy. For our children's sake,
and for our own, we must strive to come nearer together, and not live such a
life of separation. We must cultivate every sympathy which we have in common,
and try mutually to acquire those which we have not. He must learn to understand
those things which have entirely formed my character--I have come to him, have
left my poetry, my music, my religion, have walked with him in his cold world of
actualities--there, I have learned much, but there, I can do nothing--he must
come to me, must have ears for my music, must have a soul for my faith--my
nature is to sing, to pray, to feel--his is to fight, to teach, to reason; but
love and patience may bring us much nearer together than we are.
My month in town has some what waked me up--I was in a sort of frozen
sleep--scarce knowing or feeling any thing. save my maternal anxieties
JWH to unknown correspondent, nd (in 1843 diary) [31]I live in a place in which
I have few social relations, and all too recent to be intimate. I have no family
around me, my children are babies, and my husband has scarcely half an hour in
twenty four to give me. So, as I think much, in my way, and nobody takes the
least interest in what I think, I am freed to make to myself an imaginary
public, and to tell it the secrets of my poor little ridiculous brain. While I
am employed with fictions, my husband is dealing with facts, but as we both seek
truth which lies beyond either, we do not get so very far apart as you would
think. At least, I know all that is in his mind, if he does not occupy himself
much with mine. [32] I have nothing but myself to write about, for four months
past I have seen and heard only myself, talked with myself, eaten and drunk
myself, made a solemn bow to myself every morning, and condoled with myself that
I was about to be left to myself for another day. Oh cursed self, how I hate the
very sight of you! do stay away one day and send me somebody else's self to keep
me company!
Longfellow, Friday June 12 1846: Sumner said at breakfast that Julia Howe was
eager to publish a volume of poems; Howe is opposed to it, but does not wish to
exhibit his "inimicitiam [?] in fronte promptam." Sumner advised strongly
against it; and Howe said that Julia has no regard whatever for Sumner's opinion
in poetical matters, and quite as little for mine. ...
JWH to Louisa, 31 Jan 1847 (465). But for heaven's sake, do not undertake
another baby immediately. I, for my part, am quite satisfied with my pair of
monkies, and devoutly hope for an exemption from similar pangs in future. It is
a blessed thing to be a mother, but there are bounds to all things, and no woman
is under any obligation to sacrifice the whole of her existence to the mere act
of bringing children into the world. I cannot help considering the excess of
this as materializing and degrading to a woman whose spiritual nature has any
strength--men, on the contrary, think it glorification enough for a woman to be
a wife and mother in any way, and upon any terms. But I will not trouble your
dear little well ordered head with any suggestions upon the natural inalienable
rights of women. it is to me a subject of painful interest. I will not give you
all my troubled, confused thoughts, dearest Wevie, but will tell you a little
how and where I am. In the first place, I have waked up, for the first time
since my marriage--you know that ever since that event, I have lived in a state
of somnambulism, only half conscious of the world around me, occupied
principally with digestion, sleep, and babies. Thank God, this mist has been
lifted from my eyes, for a time at least. I have again a soul, can again enjoy
music and poetry, can again feel that there is in me something besides the clay
which [is--ms torn] every day approaching nearer to it's mother earth. Oh
dearest Wevie, God only knows what I have suffered from this stupor--it has been
like blindness, like death, like exile from all things beautiful and good. I am
so happy that it is gone, even if it may be for a time only. I pray that I may
suffer, may die, rather than relapse into that brutal state of indifference
which, though partly the result of physical causes, seems to me a sin and a
curse. It is partly, sweet child, the result of an utter want of sympathy in
those around me, which has, like a winter's frost, benumbed my whole nature. Do
not chide me, my blessing, for thus faintly explaining to you what has so long
been cold and heavy at my heart. You cannot, cannot know the history, the inner
history of the last four years. God help me if all my life is to be like them!
He will help me, but alas, heaven is so far off, and earth is so close, pressing
us in on all sides. My sweet child, you have been a dreadful loss to me--you
were for me a sort of connecting link between the abstract, and the living
world, at once a real and a poetical object--sweet Wevie, if I could fly to you,
and sit for hours with my hand in your's, what good would it do me! it would
humanize and beautify all my feelings. I think of you often as a refuge in time
of trouble--if ever dark and stormy days should come for me, and I should find
myself unable to contend against the rough waves of life, I would fly to you,
and ask for leave to die in your arms. But how strangely have I got excited in
writing thus far--dont think me crazy, dear Wevie. I will come down to simple
realities, and tell you how I am getting on in the world.
JWH to Annie, 15 Dec 1849 (500). In these days of darkness and dulness, I have
scruples about bestowing my tediousness upon any one, especially upon those who
rarely give me theirs. I do want to see you, best Annie, and to have a few long
talks ... a spirit of crossness and dulness, insensible to all the greater
influences of life, knowing no music, poetry, wit, or devotion, intent mainly
upon holding on to the ropes, and upon getting through the present without too
much consciousness of it. When the unwelcome little unborn shall have seen the
light, my brain will be lightened, and I shall have a clearer mind. The time
wears on--thank God, that even this weary nine months shall come to an end, and
leave me in possession of my own body, and my own soul----------
I pouted one whole day--Chev had unhappily chosen this day for a long and most
painful talk, and between the two things, I was quite overcome, and cried myself
almost ill. You know how violent my wrath is, and how soon it is over--... My
mind is very dull and inactive, and my temper not heavenly--would to God I were
released from this nine months wonder, and could be myself once more. I cannot
bear to think of the child--do not make it anything--it will be a monster or an
idiot, I fear. God help it! Chev is better than when you saw him, and is most
kind, and very dear to me. I love him truly and earnestly, and feel much
encouraged as to the future. Let no one ever say in your presence that he is not
kind to me--he has claims to my deepest gratitude and affection. Crawford thinks
I am afraid of him, and so I am, inter nos, but that does not keep me from being
tenderly attached to him.
JWH to Annie, Wednesday, September 17, 1851 (513). I am living very quietly at
G.P. enjoying my children, my Swedenborg, and my nocturnal walks around the
house, just as if I had never been away--no, not as if I had not had the relief
of a year of rest and absence. So far, my nerves are steadier and my temper more
tranquil than of old. There is less to try both--my life is simpler than it was.
I am not to attempt housekeeping--we breakfast at seven, dine at two, take tea
at half past six, and I am delivered from all useless contentions with servants,
etc etc. Chev knows that I do not pretend to meddle with any thing--I get no
scoldings, and am in great peace.
JWH to Annie, 1 Oct, probably 1852 (512). [Describing her role in charades at
Newport--] I recited that most difficult scene, in Romeo and Juliet, where
Juliet takes the sleeping potion--read it over, and imagine me going through
with it. I made a very great effort, and was, I believe, quite appreciated by
the best part of the audience, though many of them, no doubt, were more amused
with the nonsense we improvised in other parts, than with this grandiose sketch
of a young girl's feelings, ahem, on so extraordinary an occasion. You shall
hear me recite this, some time. You will not be surprised to hear that I
delivered with all the emphasis of one who felt it, the line: "My dismal scene I
needs must act alone." or that, at the thought of my Cousin's ghost, I went into
such fits as would naturally be suggested by the sight of Henry H. in that
unsubstantial character. ... these little artistic successes were the brightest
touches in the picture--you can imagine that I paid dearly for them--Chev's
sourness of disposition becomes so dreadfully aggravated by any success of mine.
He was miserably sick every time he came to New Port, and fearfully cross--would
not go out any where, and was strangely indignant at my enjoyment of society,
wh[ich] was indeed very moderate.
JWH to Annie, Dec 1853 (548). This history of all these days, beloved, is
comprised in one phrase, ie, the miseries of proof-reading. Oh! the endless,
endless plague of looking over those proof-sheets--the doubts about phrases,
rhymes, and expressions, the perplexity of names, especially, in which I have
not been fortunate. Tomorrow, I get my last proofs. Then a fortnight must be
allowed for drying and binding--then, I shall be out, fairly out, do you hear?
So far, my secret has ben pretty well kept. My book is to bear a simple title,
without my name, according to Longfellow's advise. Longfellow has been reading a
part of the volume, in sheets--he says, it will make a sensation. Chev knows
nothing, as yet. I feel much excited, quite unsettled, sometimes a little
frantic. If I succeed, I feel that I shall be humbled by my happiness, devoutly
thankful to God. Now, I will not write any more about it.
JWH to Annie, 8 Dec 1853 (540). Perhaps you will think it strange, but I seized
upon the publication of my Book as the only help against grief too bitter to
bear--it has helped me. The poems were all written, but the arrangement, &
correcting of proof sheets, etc, has taken up a good deal of time and thought.
It will be a good volume, but I fear we shall not get it out so soon as we had
hoped. . . . I have paid no visits and gone nowhere, since this sorrow came upon
me, save to the wedding of our friends the Russel' daughter. I think I never
before understood the comfort of the commonplace habits of wearing black, and
staying at home, in affliction. One does it to keep as long and as freshly as
possible the fleeting recollections of the dear one gone. Still dear, I have no
right to wear black for my dear friend, and after the 1st of january, I shall
pay my visits as usual-- But oh! my dear--this sorrow departs not from me, day
or night. I always loved him, but I did not know how much until I lost him. God
hears my prayers for him, needless now to their dear object, but comforting to
me. Chev has been much kinder to me since this event--he seems to know how much
I have lost. I go often to see the poor mother, who is much broken--we sit and
are sad together--his beautiful portrait hanging in the room. She will see him
first--happier in this than I.
Hawthorne to William Ticknor, February 17 1854, from Liverpool. Thank you for
the books and papers. Those are admirable poems of Mrs. Howe's, but the devil
must be in the woman to publish them. It seems to me to let out a whole history
of domestic unhappiness. What a strange propensity it is in these scribbling
women to make a show of their hearts, as well as their heads, upon your counter,
for anybody to pry into that chooses! However, I, for one, am much obliged to
the lady, and esteem her beyond all comparison the first of American poetesses.
What does her husband think of it?
JWH to Annie, early 1854 [Feb] (554). Poor changeable Chev has "chopped round"
once more, and New York is further off than ever. He was in such a state of mind
that it would have been unsafe to leave him. I have been able to calm and soothe
him, somewhat, and he now promises that I shall leave on the first of March, for
any length of time agreeable to you, Uncle, and myself. I wrote you a letter
about this on Saturday, but so sad that it would have pained you much to receive
it. Things are better now, but we have been very unhappy. The Book, you see, was
a blow to him, and some foolish and impertinent people have hinted to him that
the Miller was meant for himself--this has made him almost crazy. He has
fancied, moreover, that every one despised and neglected him, and indeed it is
true that I have left him too much to himself. I will not expand upon the topic
of our miseries--he has been in a very dangerous state, I think, very near
insanity, and if I have done best for him and my children by staying here, you,
my darling Annie, will neither regret nor complain of it.