Letters of Lydia Maria Child, with a biographical introduction by John G. Whittier and an appendix by Wendell Phillips.

LETTERS. 33
TO REV. CONVERS FRANCIS.
NORTHAMPTON, December 22, 1838.
If I were to choose my home, I certainly would not
place it in the Valley of the Connecticut. It is true,
the river is broad and clear, the hills majestic, and
the whole aspect of outward nature most lovely.
But oh! the narrowness, the bigotry of man! To
think of hearing a whole family vie with each other,
in telling of vessels that were wrecked, or shattered,
or delayed on their passage, because they sailed on
Sunday! To think of people's troubling their heads
with the question whether the thief could have been
instantaneously converted on the cross, so that the
Saviour could promise him an entrance to Paradise!
In an age of such stirring inquiry, and of such extended benevolence - in a world which requires all
the efforts of the good and wise merely to make it
receptive of holy influences, what a pity it is that so
much intellect should be wasted upon such theological jargon! No wonder that the intelligent infidel,
looking at mere doctrines and forms, should be led
to conclude that religion had done more harm in the
world than good. The really inward-looking find in
these no language by which they can give even a
stammering utterance to their thoughts and feelings;
yet the incubus of formls, from which the life ha1s departed, oppresses them, though they dare not throw
them off. Something is coming toward us (I know
not what), -with a glory round its head, and its long,
luminous rays are even now glancing on the desert
and the rock. The Unitarian, busily at work pulling
down old structures, suddenly sees it gild some ancient pillar, or shed its soft light on some moss-grown
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