18th September 1849
The bells of this ancient abbey have tolled the evening hour, and I find myself once more within these hallowed walls, seeking solace from the tumult that rages both without and within my breast. The rain falls steadily upon the stone, as it has these three days past, and I cannot but observe how the water pools in the courtyard, gathering the secrets of heaven and earth into one dark mirror.
I have taken shelter here amongst the brothers, who in their Christian charity have offered sanctuary to one such as myself – a man bearing the weight of recent campaigns and the burden of knowledge I dare not speak aloud. The revolutionaries of the German states continue their desperate struggle, though word reaches us that their cause grows ever more hopeless. Yet it is not their fate that troubles my sleep, but rather the secrets I carry from those bloodied fields, truths that would shake the very foundations of those who sent us forth to quell the uprising.
How readily does envy creep into the heart of man! I observe Brother Francis at his evening prayers, his countenance serene as still water, and I confess myself envious of his peace. He knows not the weight of military orders that contradict one’s Christian duty, nor the anguish of witnessing deeds done in the name of order that would make the angels weep. His secret is but communion with the Almighty, whilst mine are stained with the mud of battlefields and the blood of men who fought for liberty – misguided though their cause may have been.
The brook that runs beside this sanctuary speaks to me in the darkness, its constant murmur like the voices of conscience that will not be silenced. I have watched its waters these past nights, how they carry away the fallen leaves and debris, yet leave the stones beneath unchanged. Would that my own sins might be so easily washed clean.
This evening, as the brothers lifted their voices in vespers, I found myself contemplating what manner of existence mine would be were music to be struck from this world entire. The thought fills me with a dread most profound, for without the hymns of the church, the martial airs that stirred our hearts to duty, or the simple folk songs that reminded us of hearth and home during our darkest hours, what balm would remain for the wounded soul? Music is the language by which the spirit communes with realms beyond our earthly understanding – it lifts the heart above the mire of worldly concerns and speaks to that divine spark within us all.
I recall how the men would sing as we marched through the Rhine valleys, their voices echoing off the ancient stones, and how even the German peasants would pause in their labours to listen. In those moments, the artificial divisions between nations seemed to dissolve, and we were but men acknowledging our common humanity through harmony. Without such grace, I fear we should become as beasts, knowing only the crude communications of necessity and never touching upon the sublime.
The cholera that plagues London and other great cities is said to come from corrupted waters – a fitting metaphor for the corruption that seeps through all human endeavours when we forget our higher nature. Yet music remains pure, a spring that runs clear regardless of the vessel that contains it.
I have heard tell that Mr Tennyson has composed new verses upon the recent death of his dear friend, and though I know not their content, I am certain they shall speak to hearts across this realm and beyond. Such is the power of harmonious expression – it transcends the boundaries that divide us in our mortal struggles.
The abbot has kindly permitted me to remain until my orders arrive, though I suspect he perceives something of the burden I carry. His eyes, when they meet mine across the refectory, hold a compassion that suggests he too has wrestled with the angels, as did Jacob of old. Perhaps all men of conscience must bear their secret waters, their hidden streams of doubt and longing that flow beneath the surface of duty and propriety.
I shall close now, as the night deepens and the rain continues its gentle percussion upon the stones. Tomorrow may bring word from my superiors, and I must be prepared to shoulder once more the burden of service, though my heart yearns for the simplicity I observe in these holy men. May the Almighty grant me wisdom to discern His will, even when the path seems clouded by the mists of human ambition and the treacherous currents of political necessity.
Sergeant Edward Nagle
Her Majesty’s 33rd Regiment of Foot
Set in the aftermath of the 1848–1849 European revolutions, the entry alludes to the suppression of liberal uprisings in the German states and elsewhere by conservative monarchies and their armies. These movements sought constitutional limits on rulers, expanded civic rights, and national unification, but most were defeated by 1849 through martial law, arrests, and force of arms. In Britain, fears of unrest mingled with a severe cholera outbreak, part of recurring nineteenth-century epidemics later tied to contaminated water. Consequences included emigration of “Forty-Eighters,” especially to the United States, and the delayed but eventual unifications of Italy and Germany in the 1860s–1870s, reshaping Europe’s political order.
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