I understand that some of the New Englanders dumped their Bibles on their long marches—their knapsacks too heavy. I can see those Bibles, dropped beside a fence post, left underneath a tree, regretfully placed on the side of a corncrib.
For my dear Son, Charles—
love, Mother
I read most of my mother’s Bible. It was a solace and a threat; it was a puzzlement because I could not disentangle legend from fact.
Was there such a city as Zidon?
Was there a Goliath?
My mother’s Bible had a few maps—they led me to travel by camelback, through Egypt and Assyria. At night, in my attic, I imagined the sacred tabernacle, the pyramids. I repeated some of the Song of Songs.
September 20, 1864
The Library