SPRINGFIELD, MASS., 16th
Jan., 1848.
DEAR FATHER, — It is Sabbath evening; and as I have waited
now a long time expecting a letter from you, I have concluded to wait no longer
for you to write to me. I received the Hudson paper giving an account of the
death of another of our family. I expected to get a letter from you, and
so have been waiting ever since getting the paper. I never seemed to possess a
faculty to console and comfort my friends in their grief; I am inclined, like
the poor comforters of Job, to sit down in silence, lest in my miserable way I
should only add to their grief. Another feeling that I have in your case, is an
entire consciousness that I can bring before your mind no new source of
consolation, nor mention any which, I trust, you have not long since made full
proof of. I need not say that I know how to sympathize with you; for that you
equally well understand. I will only utter one word of humble confidence, — “Though
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him, and bless His name forever.” We are all in
health here, but have just been taking another lesson on the uncertainty of all
we hold here. One week ago yesterday, Oliver found some root of the plant
called hemlock, that he supposed was carrot, and eat some of it. In a few
minutes he was taken with vomiting and dreadful convulsions, and soon became
senseless. However, by resorting to the most powerful emetics he was recovered
from it, like one raised from the dead, almost.
The country in this direction has been suffering one of the
severest money pressures known for many years. The consequence to us has been,
that some of those who have contracted for wool of us are as yet unable to pay
for and take the wool as they agreed, and we are on that account unable to
close our business. This, with some trouble and perplexity, is the greatest
injury we have suffered by it. We have had no winter as yet scarcely, the
weather to-day being almost as warm as summer. We want to hear how you all are
very much, and all about how you get along. I hope to visit you in the spring.
Farewell.
Your affectionate,
unworthy son,
JOHN BROWN.
SOURCE: Franklin B. Sanborn, The Life and Letters of
John Brown, p. 24-5
No comments:
Post a Comment