Newburyport, September, 1849
This letter opens very much like any other letter, but it has some
novel things to say — things which affect Mary's and my own coming days, which
are cloud and sunshine as one chooses to see them. We think them sunshine, and
so we hope and trust will you, when you hear the whole.
. . . The discontents
in the parish, created last winter, slumbering through the summer, but not, as
I hoped, dead, have been blown into flames again by the necessity I was
under of speaking my mind on Fast Day, and the consequences are a crisis which
we were — most happily — ignorant of and have only gradually learned, and leave
but one course open for us.
Several of the leading and richest men, who talked of leaving
last winter, are resolved upon it now; minor ones propose to follow; and even
my friends feel grave when they look forward and fancy a gradual procession of
staunch members retiring one by one, leaving at last a dozen come-outers in the
gallery and one more in the pulpit. My (masculine) supporters are in a
numerical minority and a woeful pecuniary minority, and there is a general
opinion that “Mr. Higginson ought to know the state of affairs.” No one was,
however, willing to take that office . . . but kind old Mr. Wood with a heart
divided between General Taylor and me) came at last voluntarily and told the
whole story; which, indeed, had been previously bursting upon us for a day or
two.
It was evident to me at once, on cross-examining him, that the case was
hopeless; that the other storm had blown over, but this would not. . . .
Well — the end of it is that instead of waiting longer to give my
six-months notice, we have resolved to give it .on the anniversary, a week from
next Sunday . . . bid adieu to Essex Street, pack our bulky goods in a loft
till wanted again, and — now comes the sugar!
Take lodgings at
the Mills!
This martyrdom in the nineteenth century, dearest Mother, is a singular
thing; and if you had lived in a narrow street for two years, and just come
back withal from as many weeks at the Mills,1 you would know how singular.
I have no doubt, if you could look into our hearts at this moment, that you
would be indignant at us (even you) for not sympathizing sufficiently in our
own misfortunes. But sincerely, if you knew how I especially have longed
for this release from a life which did not content me; and how unworthy it has
seemed of rational beings to continue living in Essex Street when they could
live at the Mills; and other such things which are very familiar to us, you
would willingly consent to our being, not noble martyrs, but (the much more
commonplace character) contented and merry human beings!
For the year to come, at all events, we feel secure. . . . We two can
float lightly on the stream; and we are sure of as much money as many laboring
families live on, even without doing anything.
Of course I regret the change for the people, for I know how many will
feel it. . . . But whatever influence I have had over the young people will be
a permanent thing, and I shall be able to renew it hereafter.
. . . After all, what is all I have been telling you but one of the
sudden changes of weather to which our climate is liable, and which it requires
but a small development of spiritual health to disregard? Mary and I never
notice the east wind; why should we notice this? We are safe on the moral side,
safe on the material, and why not be contented and happy? We are.
_______________
1 The Higginsons repaired to the refuge at Artichoke Mills, where they
lived for two years before going to the next parish at Worcester.
SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals
of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 19-21
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