Feb. 1, 184l.—Rose later than usual—cold, dull, rainy morning. Read in Life of Wilberforce. Defended Nannie with more valor than discretion. This evening the storm departed and the moonlight was more beautiful than ever; and I was so sad and so happy, and the life beyond and above seemed so beautiful. Oh, how I have longed to-day for heaven within my own soul! There has been much unspoken prayer in my heart to-night. I don't know what I should do if I could have my room all to myself—and not have people know it if even a good thought comes into my mind. I shall be happy in heaven, I know I shall—for even here prayer and praise are so infinitely more delightful than anything else.
3d.—Woke with headache, got through school as best I could, then came and curled myself up in a ball in the easy-chair and didn't move till nine, when I crept down to say good-bye to poor Mrs. Persico. Miss L. and Miss J. received me in their room so tenderly and affectionately that I was ashamed. What makes them love me? I am sure I should not think they could.
10th.—I wonder who folks think I am, and what they think? Sally R—— sent me up her book of autographs with a request that I would add mine. I looked it over and found very great names, and did not know whether to laugh or cry at her funny request, which I couldn't have made up my mouth to grant. How queer it seems to me that people won't let me be a little girl and will act as if I were an old maid or matron of ninety-nine! Poor Mr. Persico is terribly unhappy and walks up and down perpetually with such a step.
12th.— … I am sure that in these little things God's hand is just as clearly to be seen as in His wonderful works of power, and tried to make Miss —— see this, but she either couldn't or wouldn't. It seems to me that God is my Father, my own Father, and it is so natural to turn right to Him, every minute almost, with either thank-offerings or petitions, that I never once stop to ask if such and such a matter is sufficiently great for His notice. Miss —— seemed quite astonished when I said so.
16th.— … I've been instituting an inquiry into myself to-day and have been worthily occupied in comparing myself to an onion, though in view of the fragrance of that highly useful vegetable, I hope the comparison won't go on all fours But I have as many natures as an onion has—what d'ye call 'em—coats? First the outside skin or nature—kind o' tough and ugly; _any_body may see that and welcome. Then comes my next nature—a little softer—a little more removed from curious eyes; then my inner one—myself—that 'ere little round ball which nobody ever did or ever will see the whole of—at least, s'pose not. Now most people see only the outer rind—a brown, red, yellow, tough skin and that's all; but I think there's something inside that's better and more truly an onion than might at first be guessed. And so I'm an onion and that's the end.
17th.—Mrs. P.'s birthday, in honor of which cake and wine. Mr. P. was angry with us because we took no wine. If he had asked me civilly to drink his wife's health, I should probably have done so, but I am not to be frightened into anything. I made a funny speech and got him out of his bearish mood, and then we all proceeded to the portico to see if the new President had arrived—by which means we obtained a satisfactory view of two cows, three geese, one big boy in a white apron and one small one in a blue apron, three darkies of feminine gender and one old horse; but Harrison himself we saw not. Mr. Persico says it's Tyler's luck to get into office by the death of his superior, and declares Harrison must infallibly die to secure John Tyler's fate. It's to be hoped this won't be the case. [9]
March 6th.—Miss L. read to us to-day some sprightly and amusing little notes written her years ago by a friend with whom she still corresponds. I was struck with the contrast between these youthful and light-hearted fragments and her present letters, now that she is a wife and mother. I wonder if there is always this difference between the girl and woman? If so, heaven forbid I should ever cease to be a child!
18th.—Headache—Nannie sick; held her in my arms two or three hours; had a great fuss with her about taking her medicine, but at last out came my word must, and the little witch knew it meant all it said and down went the oil in a jiffy, while I stood by laughing at myself for my pretension of dignity. The poor child couldn't go to sleep till she had thanked me over and over for making her mind and for taking care of her, and wouldn't let go my hand, so I had to sit up until very late—and then I was sick and sad and restless, for I couldn't have my room to myself and the day didn't seem finished without it.
It is a perfect mystery to me how folks get along with so little praying. Their hearts must be better than mine, or something. What is it? But if God sees that the desire of my whole heart is to-night—has been all day—towards Himself, will He not know this as prayer, answer it as such? Yes, prayer is certainly something more than bending of the knees and earnest words, and I do believe that goodness and mercy will descend upon me, though with my lips I ask not.
24th.—Had a long talk with Mr. Persico about my style of governing. He seemed interested in what I had to say about appeals to the conscience, but said my youthful enthusiasm would get cooled down when I knew more of the world. I told him, very pertly, that I hoped I should never know the world then. He laughed and asked, "You expect to make out of these stupid children such characters, such hearts as yours?" "No—but better ones." He shook his head and said I had put him into good humor. I don't know what he meant. I've been acting like Sancho to-day—rushing up stairs two at a time, frisking about, catching up Miss J—— in all her maiden dignity and tossing her right into the midst of our bed. Who's going to be "schoolma'am" out of school? Not I! I mean to be just as funny as I please, and what's more I'll make Miss —— funny, too,—that I will! She'd have so much more health—Christian health, I mean—if she would leave off trying to get to heaven in such a dreadful bad "way." I can't think religion makes such a long, gloomy face. It must be that she is wrong, or else I am. I wonder which? Why it's all sunshine to me—and all clouds to her! Poor Miss ——, you might be so happy!